#i never scored a free kick before woo!

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Selma Bacha golazo on FC 25 lol 🤗

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something gained {george weasley x reader}

  words: 13.8k

  summary: you’re a beater on the slytherin quidditch team, so naturally, george weasley is your worst enemy.

   genre: fluff

   notes: masterlist - ask me about commissions! - enjoy my good pals. 

----

  the crowds are loud this morning.

   much too loud for a nine am rise, in your opinion, though you appreciate their enthusiasm. the bellows echo through the changing rooms, rattling the walls, poking at your nerves like a teenager prodding a zit.

    you sit on the floor, your back against the wall. around you, your team buzzes, making battle plans to defeat gryffindor, but you can barely hear them over the paired chorus of the chants outside and your own heartbeat. sweat rushes to your palms, and you gingerly wipe them on your quidditch gear.

    “we’ve got this one in the bag,” marcus flint says for what must be the seventeenth time since you first laid eyes on him this morning. “they’re not getting away this time. if we have to get violent, we will.”

   “and start the season off with a disqualification?” you pipe up. “wonderful game plan. very well thought out.”

    “it’s you who needs to listen up the most, l/n. you’re a beater - i want to see you causing damage.”

   you roll your eyes. “i cause damage every bloody game, flint. you don’t have to tell me how to do my job.”

    flint’s lips curl into a frown, his dark eyes glaring at you. you refuse to meet them, instead picking up your beaters bat from the side and getting to your feet.

    “the match starts in two minutes,” you point out. “are we gonna keep talking shit or are we gonna get out there and beat gryffindor?”

    much to flint’s dismay, it’s your tiny little speech that seems to get the slytherins riled up. they cheer, stampeding from the changing rooms, each giving you a warm clap on the shoulder on their way past. flint stays behind, glaring daggers into your head.

   you nod at the open door. “after you, captain.”

    and so, despite the hidden rivalry you and flint have with each other, you walk out onto the quiddich pitch together. the cold air immediately sets you off, a feeling of dread settling in the pits of your stomach; it’s always been easier to play in the warm weather, when the risk of rain is minuscule and you don’t have to worry about obtrusion's. now, however, the sky is overcast and threatening. frost coats the grass beneath your feet. you have to rub your hands together to bring feeling back into them.

    the gryffindors are already there, as you expected. oliver wood stands tall in the centre of the field, his team crowded around him. they all look so confident, a feat the slytherin team have yet to master; your people walk onto the field with heads held high and shoulders drawn back, but the tension between them is always so tremendously obvious that it takes away from the confident aura they’re always trying to convey. it’s not something you’ve ever tried to fix, because there’s only so much you can do.

   you and marcus wade to the centre of the field, giving each other a brief nod before taking your places, marcus right in front of oliver, and you stood by his left shoulder. 

    madame hooch addresses the two captains, ordering them to shake hands before the game begins. as soon as she blows her whistle, you kick off and soar into the air.

   the cold is immediately a disadvantage. it whips at your cheeks and claws at your throat until your eyes are watering, definitely not a good thing when you have to keep an eye out for a two ton flying ball coming right for you.

   you do what you’ve always done, though, and fight through it, blinking the tears away at any moment you are given. as the match progresses, however, those moments get few and far between, the tension rising between the two teams.

    you stop paying attention to the score board, because you have to. already your mind is racing, focusing on a million different things at once. you have to keep an eye on all the gryffindor players, make sure you know where they are so you can knock them from their brooms - and you do. with the skills of a world cup player, you pummel the gryffindor players into the ground one by one, repeating the process when they clamber back onto their brooms.

    “doing well, l/n!” flint cries, whizzing past you at lightening speed. you give him a thumbs up, distracted for only a second, but it’s a second too long.

   you know of the weasley brothers, the beaters on the gryffindor team. they’re good. they come from a family of decent quidditch players, and their childhood training shows through. you’ve played them a handful of times, and they’ve always been equal competition.

    they take your distraction as an opportunity.

    the bludger is whizzing towards you before you can even drop your hand back to your brooms handle. you hear it, the screech as it races in your direction. you cry, slamming your hands into the front of your broom in any attempt to do a downwards dodge, but the bludger catches the rear end of your broom and sends you spiralling towards the ground. 

    your feet slam into the mud and you stumble. pain spears through your ankles and legs, making you whimper, but the anger and determination chases the feelings away, increased only when lee jordan calls out, “gryffindor scores!” over the loudspeaker. 

    you growl, low in your throat, and remount your broom. you kick off with renewed vigour, heading straight for the weasley twins. they circle the pitch, darting to and fro with a synchronisation you and the other slytherin beater could never emulate. it makes you mad. it makes you so, so mad, because this is a competition, and how are you ever meant to win a competition if your team won’t even cooperate? 

    “oi! goyle!” you yell.

    goyle spins in midair, scowling the minute he meets your eyes. “what the hell do you want? we’re in the middle of a match!”

    “i want you to do your fucking job!” and just to demonstrate your point, you slam your bat into a bludger heading right for goyle’s distracted mug.

   he whirls back around, gets ready to scream at you, but you’re already whizzing towards the centre of the pitch. the crowd is louder than ever now, but you have to ignore them, you have to keep going, you have to do some damage, just like flint told you back in the changing rooms. 

   your arms ache. your ankles throb. your fingers are numb, wrapped around the handle of your broom, but you push past all of it. you become a monster, unrestrained as you chase after the bludgers, catching them with your bat, speeding them at gryffindor flyers with a ferocity you have never before showed in a match. 

     one of the bludgers smacks george weasley right in the face. you hear his nose crunch from halfway across the pitch.

    you punch the air. “take that, asshole! woo!”

    the game continues, brutal by the end of it. your nose bleeds when oliver wood catches you with his arm; you get a free hit for the penalty, though, so you’re not even mad. george weasley’s own nose is broken, dribbling blood throughout the remainder of the match. multiple players have nose-dived into the grass.

   but at the fifty minute mark, lee jordan has to grudgingly call out, “draco malfoy has the snitch, the little pest-”

    and that’s the game over. a win for slytherin - first win of the season.

    you zip to the floor to an immediate group hug. it’s uncomfortable, with none of the slytherin players really knowing how to handle affection, but your own excitement chases away the awkwardness. you bundle draco into your chest, one hand in his hair, the other shoved in the air in a pose of victory that the gryffindors scowl at.

   you meet the eyes of george weasley. he cups his nose in one hand, holding his broom in the other, and never before have you seen such malice in someone’s expression. it sends excitement coursing through you. you give him a grin, a sarcastic little wave. he scowls, turns on his heel, and follows his retreating team back to the changing rooms, where they can wallow in their loss for the rest of eternity for all you care.

    ---

    in all your years at hogwarts, never before have you seen the gryffindors and the slytherins more hostile towards each other than they are after the match.

    you tend to stay out of house confrontations. you don’t see the point in them; you’ll play a little dirty during a quidditch match, but you won’t be caught dead sneering at any other houses on your days off. it’s pointless. it’s a quick way to get into some not needed trouble.

    but things are being taken a little too far now, and you’re struggling to keep your nose out of it.

    everywhere you go, a gryffindor has something to say. a puny little first year will yell insults at you as you walk to class. a third year will throw something at you in the dining hall. fellow fifth years will make it their life’s work to make your days a collage of living hells, just because your team managed to beat theirs during a quidditch match.

    “it’s getting quite ridiculous now,” you say into the fire, the head of your father bobbing up and down within the flames. “the match was a week ago, and the gryffindors still haven’t got over it.”

    “so quidditch is still as competitive as it was back in my day then, eh?” your father says, before breaking into a fit of coughing that you have learned to ignore over the years; he hates it when you bring up his peaked appearance, or the way his eyes sometimes roll into the back of his head without warning.

    “i suppose so,” you mumble. “i don’t know what they want me to tell them; i’m just the beater, for christs sake.”

   “hey,” your dad scolds. “everyone in a quidditch team is important.”

   “yeah, but i’m not the one who handed their arse to them on a plate, am i?”

   “you helped with the process.” your dad smiles, tilting his head a little bit; he looks at you like this sometimes, like you’re holding the world in your hands. you suppose it comes with you being his only child, his last remaining family. he is yours, as well, though neither of you ever talk about it. 

   after your mother died, it was just the two of you. at ten years old, you were too young to do much in terms of helping, but then you aged and got your acceptance letter to hogwarts, and for a long time, you were fully prepared to ignore it, pretend you never received it and get on with the faux muggle life you had been trying to settle into these last few years. however, your father has always been a smart man, and even after he started getting sick, he was always telling you to go ahead and do it - go to hogwarts like you were supposed to, like you had always dreamed. 

   and now here you are, miserable.

    “i miss you,” you say when the silence gets too much. you can hear his heart monitor over the crackling flames, and it puts you on edge. “how are things at home?”

   “oh, the usual,” he replies. “days are boring without you, love, but i’m cheering you on. you’re making me so proud.”

   you smile. “i try, dad, i try.”

    “well-”

   before your father can finish his sentence, however, the door to the slytherin common room bursts open. a group of three stampede into the centre - draco, goyle, and crabbe.

   you frown. “do you lot not see i’m a bit busy?”

    draco spins. his hair stands on end, and black soot covers his face. his eyes are startled but wide with a fury you have seen far too often on the young boys face - it still makes you snicker.

    your dad sighs. “i suppose i should let you handle this.”

   “talk to you later, dad.”

   his face disappears up the chimney, leaving you alone with the three panting boys.

   you stand, wiping your hands on your robes. “what happened to you?”

   “those bloody weasleys!” draco exclaims. “oh, i’ll get them. i’ll get them back, i swear to it!”

   you raise a brow. “the weasleys? you’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

   “well, who else?” draco gestures to his soot-stained face. “them filthy twins think they’re soooo funny with their little jokes, but wait till my father hears about this! they’ll be out of this school before they can even blink!”    

   you raise a brow. “is this about the fucking quidditch match?”

    “yes,” draco snaps. you can see the tethers breaking away, his temper rising as he trails his fingers through his hair, breathes heavily through gritted teeth. “of course it’s about the bloody quidditch match. them gryffindors wouldn’t know fair play if it hit them in the face; they just can’t accept that the better team won.”

    you bite your lower lip. it’s been days of this exact same behaviour, these childish pranks just because the gryffindors are mad that the slytherins finally had a taste of victory.

   it makes you mad.

   you curl your fingers into your palm, gazing down at the three younger boys as they pace back and forth, treading ash in their wake. you’ve never been overly fond of crabbe and goyle, but you’ve always looked out for draco - call it an older sibling kind of thing, but you’re always the one sitting next to him when he has something to rant about, always the one rolling your eyes and putting him in his place, because you’re the only person in the world he will actually listen to.

   your protective instincts flare up before you have a chance to stuff them back down again. 

    “i think i need to have a chat with the weasley twins,” you say.

   draco’s head snaps around. “what?”

    but you’re already grabbing your cloak, dragging it over your pyjamas. 

    “y/n, what are you even going to say to them?” draco demands. when you don’t respond, he groans and grabs your arm. “if they do anything-”

    “they’re not gonna murder me, draco.” you shake him off, offering a warm smile. “i might murder them, though. we’ll have to see.”

    draco doesn’t argue. he watches you go, open mouthed and exhausted. you crawl out of the slytherin common room and into the hallways, thankful that curfew has yet to appear - you can march through these corridors with as much anger radiating off of you as possible, and filch can’t say a damn thing.

   that’s exactly what you do, because your fury only builds the longer you walk. it’s one thing for you to be harassed in the corridors by angry gryffindors; you’re a fifth year, and you’ve been through this many times. it’s a completely different thing to go after draco.

   and you understand, of course, that draco malfoy is hardly someone who needs to be protected, covered in bubble wrap for fear of shattering. he’s a little shit, and you’ll admit that as soon as the next guy.

   but he’s like a little brother to you in the sense that he was the only person in the world who knows about your fathers illness, and he hasn’t told a single soul.

    you round the corner, and that’s when you see him. it’s one of the rare occasions the weasley twins aren’t joined at the hip, because as far as you can tell, fred is nowhere in sight. george stands - alone - at the top of the stairs, waving goodnight to a group of gryffindor girls. there’s a slight red tinge to his cheeks, like he’s been running through wind, and you hate how adorable it looks.

   you push aside this thought, replacing it with the anger settled in your system. you march right up to him, grab his arm, and shove him up against the wall with the strength built from years of being quidditch beater.

    he stumbles, eyes widening a fraction before he realises what’s happening. his hand doesn’t even stray to his wand when he sees you, which just makes you mad; you want him to put up a fight. you want him to do something, anything that gives you an excuse to draw back and punch him in the nose. 

    “l/n,” he sneers instead. “what a pleasant surprise!”

    “you really are a piece of shit. you know that, right?”

    he laughs. it’s so jovial, so easy.

   you hate it.

    you shove his chest, willing his attention back to you. “i’m being serious! why can’t you and the rest of your slimy gryffindors just accept the fact that you lost? just because you’ve been lucky with potter on your team, doesn’t mean you’re exempt from losing.” you lean forward. “which, just to remind you, is what happened - you fucking lost, so suck it up and deal with it.”

    george blinks. that stupid grin is still on his face when he says, “christ, y/n, i haven’t even said hello yet!”

   you groan, stepping away from him to trail your hands through your hair.

   george points, squinting one eye in your direction. “draco does that all the time. is it a slytherin thing?”

    “what’s your obsession with draco?” you spit. 

   “he’s a tit. never leaves my brother alone, so he doesn’t.”

   “and is ron not capable of fighting his own battles?”

   george scoffs. “oh, he is, but being the amazing big brother that i am, i like to take the burden off him sometimes.”

   you scowl. george grins.

    “pathetic,” you grumble. “all of you. absolutely pathetic. when the next quidditch match comes around, you’ll be forgetting all about this one.”

   “ah, but the slytherin’s won’t, will they? you lot will be basking in your only victory in three years for as long as you can.”

    you growl, lunging for him. george laughs, placing his large hands on your shoulders to keep you at arms length, and you’re honestly not even sure what it is you plan on doing - scratching his eyes out? punching him in the face? some muggle fighting tactics you don’t understand?    

    “this is adorable,” george comments, casting a glance over his shoulder to where a painting of Sir Edmund Christo hangs behind him. “isn’t this adorable, Christo?”

    you groan, step away from him, shocked at how angry he can make you in such little time. his eyes glint in amusement as he stuffs his hands back into his robes and says, “finished?”

    “go to hell, george weasley,” you spit.

   his eyes pop open. “oh, look at that! you can tell me and fred apart!” 

    “leave draco alone,” you growl. “or next time i’ll put my hexes to good use.”

    ---

   the threat was idle. you weren’t actually going to hex george, or any of the gryffindors for that matter. you love draco dearly, but risking expulsion for him was not something you were willing to do.

    nonetheless, george seems to take your threat seriously, as he leaves draco - and the rest of the slytherin quidditch team - to their own devices. at one point, you even notice him telling ron to stop glaring over at your dinner table, and ron actually listened.

    “this might be the first time in hogwarts history the slytherin and gryffindors haven’t been at each others throats constantly,” says blaise, taking a seat next to you.

    draco scowls, still glaring over at the gryffindors despite your previous scoldings. “it’s weird. i don’t like it. they’ve got something planned.”

    “okay edge lord,” you grumble through a mouthful of yorkshire pudding. “this is literally why we can’t have nice things; you ruin it with your pessimism.”

   “coming from you, that means nothing.”

   you slap the back of his head. draco swats your hand away.

    “look, we don’t have to worry about the gryffindors any more,” you continue. “it was one quidditch match - they can’t hold a grudge forever.”

    “quidditch is a serious game,” blaise says through a snicker, because he’s never understood the fascination, no matter how many hours you and draco spend explaining it to him.

       “serious, but not enough to start a bloody house war.” you tap draco’s hand. “now stop staring and eat your roasties; you’re starting to look desperate.”

   draco scowls, but prods his fork into a roastie nonetheless.

    but now your attention is caught, no matter how much you want to forget all of it. the gryffindors aren’t worth your time and attention. they’ve done nothing but make your life a living hell these past few days - most of your hogwarts experience, actually - so why give them even the tiniest bit of your attention?

    you glance over to the gryffindor table. george is already looking at you.

   it’s reflex when you scowl. your eyes meet his, and you remember the night before when he was laughing, teasing you for your anger, and with those memories comes a surge of fresh anger, all pointed directly at him. you wonder if he feels the same, if he perhaps shielded his own frustration with humour; you don’t know an awful lot about the weasley twins, but from what you have gathered, that seems to be a common theme. they play pranks, and they tease people, and deep down, they are most likely dying inside.

    dying because they lost a fucking quidditch match.

    you look away when george sends you a grin. “idiot.”

   draco looks at you. “huh?”

    “nothing.” you stand, brushing your hands down your robes. your dinner was finished a long time ago; you were only staying seated to make sure draco didn’t throw himself into further conflict - not after you smoothed things out the night before. “i’m off to the library for a bit. you-” you poke draco in the cheek. “stay out of trouble, alright?”

    draco stares after you; he knows what off the library really means, and you appreciate that he isn’t blabbering the truth to the entire table. you give him one final smile before walking off, heading straight for the slytherin common room.

   it’s empty when you clamber inside. slytherin’s don’t spend an awful lot of time in the common room - that means socialising with one another, sharing pleasantries, and none of you are particularly fond of that kind of thing. you don’t mind, hating the faux pleasantries yourself, but it also gives you free rein to use the fireplace whenever you please.

  you sit on your knees and pull your wand out. it takes a bit of memory power before you can utter the spell your dad has illegally been trying to teach you since you left for your fifth year at hogwarts, but you eventually manage it. your body shrinks - at least, that’s what it feels like - and before long, heat is clawing at your face, and you’re staring into the family living room.

   what used to be the family living room. now, it’s empty besides your dad, curled up in the arm chair, watching the muggle news. he doesn’t notice you at first, giving you the time to analyse his form without him putting on a brave face. 

    he looks sick.

   very, very sick.

    you swallow thickly. his hair is thinner today than it was yesterday, if such a thing is even possible. his baby bird bones are tangled upon the arm chair, covered by an exceptionally thin blanket that makes you hope with every fibre of your being that he has the heating installed, running at full blast. his lips are chapped, and his eyes are bruised from lack of sleep, and just seconds before he turns to see your head bobbing in the fireplace, he coughs blood into a light blue handkerchief.

    his eyes widen when he spots you. he quickly shoves the handkerchief into his back pocket, stumbles from his arm chair and drops to his knees by the fire.

   “y/n!” he exclaims. “goodness, you could have made a little bit of noise. i didn’t even notice you!”

    “hi dad,” you reply quietly. “how are you?” 

    “very well.” he grins, grabbing the thin blanket you suddenly despise. “i’ve been crocheting, finished this a few nights ago. i was thinking of sending it to you, but the owl isn’t back yet, so you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

   you force a smile on your face. it must be a family trait, all these forced smiles. “that’s great, dad. you’re getting good at those.”

    “yes, well, i’ve got a lot of time on my hands now that i’m not running after you.” he scowls, but it lasts only a second before his expression breaks into a grin. “but enough about me; how are things with you? hogwarts treating you good? are those kids still giving you a hard time?”

   “dad, we spoke yesterday. how much do you think has changed?”

   he waves a dismissive hand, dropping his chin upon a shelf made by his interlocking fingers. “each day is a chance for new experiences, my dear.”

    “i nearly got in a fight with one of the beaters from the gryffindor team.”

   your dads eyes widen. “love, what have i said about using violence as a way to solve problems?”

    “i said nearly!” you exclaim, folding your arms across your chest, and even though he can’t see your arms, you know for a fact he is imagining you in this very stance, so familiar from your childhood. “he’s a real pain in the arse, dad, you don’t even understand. he winds me up something shocking.”

   “who is this boy anyway?”

   “one of the weasleys,” you grumble. “george.”

   your dads eyes pop open. for a brief moment, there is a flicker of life back in his body, startling you. “a weasley? goodness, y/n, i remember that family well! molly and arthur were in my year at school!”

    “yeah, well, george and fred are in my year at school, and they’re a set of bastards.”

    your dad chuckles, because that’s what he does when you get like this; he laughs, and he shakes his head, and he pretends you have the potential to be a Hufflepuff, just like he was back at hogwarts. 

    “i’ve never met them personally,” he says. “but i’ve never met a bad weasley in my life; some could be a bit overbearing, but they always had good intentions, and i think that’s what matters.”

    “i don’t think george has ever had a good intention in his life.” you slump forward, propping your chin on your palm. “all he cares about is quidditch and making people’s lives a living hell.”

    your dad frowns. “oh, love, i don’t think that’s true. i think you’re just angry at him. what did he actually do?”

    “he’s been tormenting draco since the quidditch match.”

   “is draco your little successor?”

   you scowl. “draco’s a little shit, and i’ll be the first to admit that, but george and fred are just taking the piss now. the match was a week ago. they need to get over themselves.”

    he hums in response, looking thoughtfully into the fire. “well, i hope you don’t mind me saying, love, but you’re quite competitive when it comes to quidditch, too.” 

    “not that competitive. i’m not a sore loser, that’s for sure.”

    “listen, i’ve never been an avid quidditch player, so i don’t know what it feels like getting sucked into that environment, but i’ve seen you get into some pretty deep dramatics over it. maybe george is just doing the same thing.” he shrugs. “nobody likes losing.”

   you scowl; sometimes you hate your dads ability to make sense, to explain every situation like it’s the worlds fucking philosophy. huffing, you cross your arms and lean your head upon them, staring at your dad with a disproved expression.

    he meets your gaze and laughs, raising his hands in faux surrender. “i’m just saying, love. i’m happy you’re sticking up for draco - god knows that boy needs a friend - but i don’t want to be receiving any owls from your teachers informing me about your expulsion because you’ve got in some fight with a boy in your year.”

     “i can’t make any promises on that, dad.”

    he rolls his eyes, no malice in the action. “whatever. just be a little wise, alright? you’ve got exams coming up, and i don’t want you flunking over something like this.”

    the mention of exams makes your stomach churn; through all the drama taking place these past few days, you had forgotten all about the end of term exams, approaching much quicker than you’re prepared for.

    dad smiles, as if reading your expression. “you’ll do great, love. i know you will.” he glances over his shoulder, spots the clock hung on the wall before turning back to you. “you should get going. it’s getting late.”

    you raise a brow. “will you be alright on your own?”

    “i’ve been on my own for a while now, sweetheart - i’ll be fine.” he smiles, blows you a kiss before swiping his arms through the fires flames, sending you back to the common room before you can even blink.

   ----

    christmas settles amongst the hogwarts students, and exams are dangerously close.

   quidditch must be set to the back burner, a fact that leaves you slightly depressed as you wade through what feels like a hundred hours of classes you have no interest in. revision piles up around you, leaving with you very little sleep and very little patience.

   call it a slytherin thing, but the desperate need to succeed has overtaken your entire being these past few weeks. you haven’t even spared george weasley - or any of the gryffindors - a glance, too absorbed in spell books to pay attention to their continued jeers. 

    george doesn’t go near you.

   you find it weird, of course, but that tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you any time you think too deep into it. you have to remain focused on exams, and exams only, because you have not left your dying father on his own for so long just to come home with no O.W.L’s. you have to succeed for his sake, to show him these difficult few years have not been for nothing.

   you’re in the library with draco on this particular day. outside the high windows, snow drifts pleasantly from the sky, and you can imagine the quidditch pitch in that moment, beautifully blanketed with little snowflakes that you will have no access to, because you’re stuck in the stuffy library with a slytherin fourth year who wouldn’t know the meaning of concentration if it struck him in the face.

    “why are you even here?” you snap, just as draco makes another comment about a passing gryffindor fourth year.

    draco raises a brow. he’s leaned back in his seat, so casual, textbooks open in front of him, though he pays them no attention. you don’t think he’s even glanced at one since he sat down. “what do you mean?”

   “i’m trying to revise.” you tap the front of your potions book to exaggerate your point. “in case you’ve forgotten, our exams start in a week. i don’t have time to sit here and scowl at gryffindors with you.”

    “i never invited you to scowl at gryffindors with me.” he throws a pencil across the room, just missing a distracted first year. “i can do that perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

   you slap his arm down, giving him your customary grimace. “wind your neck in, draco. how many times do i have to tell you you’re not special just because you’re a malfoy?”

    he opens his mouth to respond, but takes one look at your deadly scowl and goes quiet. he huffs through his nose, folding his arms over his chest as he leans over his textbook and gets to reading.

    you join him, tracing your wand over the words that are failing to embed themselves in your mind. why you ever decided to take potions - with snape as a teacher, no less - will forever be beyond you, and one of the greatest mistakes you have ever made in your hogwarts life. nothing he says makes any sense, and although you’re in his house, he still derives great pleasure in seeing you suffer at the hands of-

    “malfoy! are you studying?”

   your head snaps up. draco joins you.

   walking through the doors, and the most likely suspect of the jeer, is george weasley.

   your heart barrels into your stomach, a fresh surge of anger coursing through you at the mere sight of him. he’s done so well keeping himself to himself these past few weeks, and seeing him now - right back to square one - makes you want to punch him in the face all over again.

   because he strolls towards your table with that stupid little grin on his face, the evidence of a smirk taking place upon his face, and you hate that it suits him so well. you hate that you can’t even bring yourself to deny his attractiveness, no matter how hard you try.

    you slam your textbook closed. “let’s go, draco.”

   “what does he want?” draco stands and calls over to the approaching weasley twin. “where’s your dumb little sidekick, weasley? got lost in the halls?”

    “oh, would you-”

   your protest is cut short by george’s laugh. “actually no. he’s got a revision class with professor sprout, so i thought i’d come in here and check on my favourite beater.” he looks at you, smiles. “got a minute?”

   “no.” you scoop your textbook into your arm and stand, grabbing draco’s collar. “let’s go, draco. one more wrong move from you, and mcgonagall might not be so nice.”

    draco thrashes against your grip, grabbing the table to prevent you from dragging him right past the grinning weasley and into the hallway. “what do you want with y/n?”

    george raises a brow. “why would i tell you?”

   “because i’m their friend, and last time i checked, you’ve done nothing but torment them since that bloody quidditch match.”

    you groan. “again with the quidditch match? i thought we dropped that ages ago!”

    “apparently malfoy here holds grudges.” george turns to you again, ignoring malfoy’s disgruntled protestations. “i literally just want to have a chat; no funny business.”

    “no funny business?” draco screeches. “don’t listen to him, y/n. anything he wants to say to you, he can say in front of me.”

    a burst of affection blossoms in your chest. you push it down, turning to draco. “i can handle this, mate. you just go and find pansy or whatever it is you do. i’ll catch up.”

   draco narrows his eyes, going still in your grip. “you’re sure?”

   “when have i ever not been able to handle myself?”

   he pauses. “good point.” giving george one final warning glare, he straightens his robes rather theatrically and strolls from the library like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just made a massive scene on your behalf.

    with draco gone, you and george stare at each other. he’s got these pretty brown eyes, a little wide, a faux play on innocence. you see right through him, though. you recognise the glint of mischief he does nothing to hide, dancing behind those pretty brown eyes.

    finally, he says, “got yourself a little body guard, have you?”

   “draco’s protective.” you gesture towards his discarded chair. “take a seat, i guess.”

   grinning, george sits. you follow his lead, scooching your chair back a little bit; you have no idea what he has up his sleeve, and you’re not willing to find out.

    “what do you want?” you ask.

   “i know you and i didn’t exactly hit it off when we first spoke,” he begins.

    “that’s not my fault.”

   he pauses. “i think it was, but that’s not why i’m here.”

   you scowl, folding your arms over your chest. “you were the one being a dick to draco; you started it.”

    “i started it? you were the one pushing me up against a wall! and not even in a good way!”

    “because you were-”

   “being a dick to draco, yes, i heard you the first time.” george shakes his head, trails a hand through his hair. “now you’ve got me off track and i haven’t even been sat for two minutes.”

    “i don’t want to hear any apology - i know you don’t mean it.”

   george scoffs, glancing at you without entirely looking up, which is a look you never thought you would find attractive, but here you are. “i didn’t come here to apologise. in case you didn’t catch on, i don’t think i did anything wrong.”

    “no, you never do.”

    “but, i did come here to talk to you about something. just something i heard on the grapevine.” 

   you pause.

   george smiles, but it holds none of his usual playfulness. this smile actually looks genuine, maybe even a little soft.

    “so i was walking through the corridors - all on my lonesome - the other night, when i came across the slytherin common room.”

    you blink. you don’t know what else to do, having no idea what he even means. 

   he continues. “the door was left open, which i thought was a little weird; usually them things just close over by themselves, and you’ve got all the passwords and protection spells and stuff keeping peeping toms out, isn’t that right?”

    “what are you-”

    “does anyone else know your dad is sick?”

   you honestly would have preferred it if he had just drop kicked you then and there.

    you stare at him, waiting for a punchline that very clearly does not exist. you can scarcely believe your ears, let alone come up with a decent response to such an obtrusive, confusing question. confusing only because you have no idea how he could have ever found out, no idea how he just managed to peek his head into the slytherin common room when every enchantment claims it impossible.

    george stares back at you, his smile still present. it’s still soft, like he’s trying to test the waters, but you see no kindness in it now. 

   you push your chair back, very nearly stumbling over its legs in your haste to get as far from him as possible. that grin fades, his eyes narrowing as he tries reaching for your robes, but you pull away before he can get too close.

    “you nosy little shit,” you hiss, voice trembling. “you nosy, disrespectful little bastard!”

    “hey, hey, hey!” he stands, palms up in surrender. “i’m not teasing, i’m genuinely curious! you never talk about it, so-”

    “i never talk about it because it’s nobody else’s business. especially not some filthy little gryffindor who thinks he’s owed the god damn world!”

    george’s eyes widen. “that was so uncalled for. i was giving you someone to confide in!”

    you laugh, bitter and harsh. it makes george flinch. “and you think that person should be you? after everything? go to hell, george weasley.” you turn on your heel, not even bothering to gather your textbooks, or your quill - you’ll get them later. “and keep your massive nose out of things that don’t concern you!”

    and before george can say anything, you’re speeding out of the library, trying desperately to halt the tears threatening to pour down your face.

   ----    

    “i don’t understand how he found out. how could the door just stay open?”

    you keep your voice down, terrified of the other slytherins hearing what you have to say; the changing rooms are already packed, people fighting over garments and equipment, marcus already mouthing off about the lack of preparation the team had for this game due to exams.

    draco sits beside you, knees pulled to his chest. he stares out at the open space, kneading his bottom lip between his teeth in that thoughtful way he always does. his brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed.

   “it doesn’t make any sense,” he says at last. “the entrances to the common rooms have enchantments and all that stuff on them. sounds to me like he’s lying through his teeth.”

    “but then how else did he find out?”

   draco hollows out his cheeks and shakes his head. “beats me.” he turns to you then, slaps a hand against your knee. “but we can’t focus on that just yet. we have a match today.”

    you sigh, tilting your head back against the wall; your energy has long since been sucked out of you, a week straight of exams not leaving you in the best state, though the excitement of finally being back on the pitch drives you to stand and join the rest of the team.

    slytherin versus hufflepuff today; should be an easy enough win. 

    you mount your broom and get started as soon as the whistle is blown. 

   soaring through the air, your adrenaline kicks back in. for the time being, you are able to ignore the anxiety throbbing in the back of your head, focusing only on the task you have been given. a few hufflepuff’s are wiped out in as little as ten minutes into the match; the slytherin’s in the crowd are howling their excitement, jumping up and down with fists in the air. 

   you look down, meaning to wave at blaise as he jumps up and down in the stands, but it is not blaise your eyes immediately land on. 

   you spot the shock of red hair almost immediately, sitting in the stands with his eyes trained on you. you’ve seen him at these matches so many times - and why wouldn’t he be? a player on the qryffindor team, an avid quidditch player. why shouldn’t he be watching you play right now?

    despite this, his presence distracts you. 

   “y/n!” draco shrieks, before a bludger whizzes past you. goyle, the god send, just manages to knock it away before it slams into your ribs.

   you spin, gasping. goyle sends you a dark look as draco calls out, “you okay?” you give him a shaky thumbs up, take one final look at george in the stands before whizzing across the pitch, determined not to let your attention slip again.

    but he’s there. he’s there, and there’s no way you can ignore him after yesterday. that smile of his, those big brown eyes, his confusion when you lost your mind and started yelling at him. it just felt like the right thing to do, and even now - after having a bit of time to think about it - you’re still angry. what draco said was right - george was probably lying through his teeth when he-

    “y/n!”

    goyle isn’t on the ball this time.

    you spin just in time to get a bludger straight to the chest.

   it knocks the air out of you, sends your broom spiralling to the floor. your fingers - surprisingly numb - slip from the handle, and you crash into the grass, flat on your back. 

    “mother of god,” you groan, rolling onto your side as madame hooch blows the whistle for a time out.

    draco is first by your side, slipping to his knees. “are you daft?”

   “no, i’m winded.”

    “bloody hell.” he grabs your arm, rolling you onto your back. you stare at the sky, disoriented. “can you keep playing?”

   “yes.”

   “are you just saying that?”

    “probably.” with one hand curled round your middle, you push yourself up. draco helps you to your feet, hands you your broom, and before madame hooch - or madame pomfrey for that matter, who is yelling at you from the sidelines to go over for a check up - you mount your broom and kick off again.

    your entire body screams in protest the entire time, ribs burning, chest tight. it takes everything in your power not to slip into unconsciousness. black dots sneak into the edges of your vision, but you push them away and keep playing.

   you keep playing, but not necessarily well.

    you make a hit for a bludger with your bat, only for marcus to curse you out for nearly taking a swing at his head, instead. your broom spirals in all different directions, you suddenly unable to keep it under any resemblance of control. your hands tremble against the handle, eyes slipping, slipping, slipping-

    the whistle blows again. you open your eyes. you’re on the ground again.

    “someone get them to the infirmary!” madame hooch screeches. “the match will commense with the sub - where’s crabbe? crabbe!”

    “no,” you grumble. “no, i can play. i’m fine.”

   “you’ve just passed out, you idiot.”

   george’s voice startles you back to reality. your eyes snap up, meeting his just as he puts an arm beneath you and hauls you off the floor. 

    and you could protest. you want to protest, because george weasley - of all people - should not be the one carrying you to safety, but your chest aches, and all your muscles are on fire, so you don’t even move. you just flop against him, trying desperately to keep consciousness as long as possible.

   it doesn’t work out that way, though. the black dots take over your vision before you’ve even reached the infirmary, the last thing you see being george’s furrowed brows and worried scowl.

   ----

   you wake up to darkness.

    curtains drawn, a quilt tucked beneath your chin, body comfortable against a soft mattress, you’re half tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep.

   that thought is squashed when you look to your side and spot george sat by your bedside.

   he’s fast asleep, head drooped, arms folded across his chest. he looks peaceful, though his hair is mussed, like he’s trailed his fingers through it numerous times.

   you push yourself onto your elbows and glance around; you’re in the infirmary, your body feeling good as new with whatever spell madame pomfrey put on you. clearly she thought you needed the rest, as it is now pitch black outside, and the curtains around your bed have been drawn to separate you from the other patients.

    you grab your wand from the bedside table and whisper “lumos.”

    george jerks awake.

    his chair screeches against the floor, making you wince with the volume. it sounds particularly loud when you’re in a room with people fast asleep, and apparently george thinks the same way. he squints into the darkness, before his eyes pop open at the sight of you.

    “you’re awake!”

   “what are you doing here?”

    in all honesty, you don’t mean to sound so harsh. it just kind of happens, a reflex when it comes to george weasley.

   he frowns. “i came to make sure you didn’t choke on your tongue in your sleep. i know how you slytherins can get.”

    “what happened?”

   he settles back in his chair, regarding you with a tired expression, though his raised eyebrow and wild hair make him look oddly attractive beneath the pale wand light cast upon his face. “you don’t remember?”

   “i remember. . . bits and pieces.” you wince. “we lost the match, didn’t we?”

    george smiles. “it was bound to happen. hufflepuff still had a full team by the end of it, and i think diggory was using slytherin’s weakness to his advantage.”

   “but we had crabbe as a sub!” 

    “crabbe is god awful. goyle’s on thin ice. you’re the only beater on that team keeping things going.”

    you scowl, slumping back against your pillows. it’s not like you had desperately high hopes for slytherin to win, but the fact that it was you who forced the loss upon them makes you angry - and a little bit embarrassed. 

   you flick a glance at george. “is flint mad?”

    george scoffs. “who gives a shit what flint thinks?”

   “i do. he’s the teams captain.” you close your eyes, throw your head back. “he’s gonna give me such a bollocking when he next sees me.”   

    “you were a little distracted up there.” george leans forward. “what happened?”

    and then you remember.

   that moment, just before the first bludger was barrelling towards you. you’d spotted george in the crowd, that shock of red hair, and his eyes had met yours, and you just zoned out. it was uncontrollable; once it started, you couldn’t drag your mind away from it - the fact he was there, the fact he was looking right at you, the fact you kind of wanted to talk to him.    

    “it was nothing,” you grumble, awkwardly picking at the quilt covering your legs. “i just felt a little ill, that’s all; not really the day for a match, was it?”

    george scoffs. “i’ve seen you play brilliant games of quiddich in blizzards, y/n. don’t sit there and tell me a little wind put you off your game this time around, because i know it’s a lie.”

   you scowl, but make no attempt to correct him. there isn’t really any point when he’s looking at you with that grin on his face, an eyebrow raised, a silent dare for you to go against him right now.

   you look back down at the quilt. “i could have carried on playing, you know. i was fine.” 

   “you fell unconscious when i was carrying you to the hospital wing.”

    “that doesn’t mean anything. my body gave up because the adrenaline stopped, but if i’d have just carried on playing-”

   “you probably would have broken a few more ribs.” george taps your nose. “and we can’t be having that.”

   you swat his hand away, scowling. “i still hate you, you know.”

   his smile drops, and for the first time since you woke up, he actually looks upset. he stares at you, those doe-like, mischievous brown eyes forcing you to look away, because you can’t stand them for very long without getting all giddy. it annoys the hell out of you.

    slowly, he leans back, fingers clasped in front of him. “is it because of what i said about your dad?”

   you close your eyes. “i was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”

   “but that’s it, isn’t it?” he pushes. “you think i was out of line for asking you about it. you think i was teasing you, or something.”

    “it’s not exactly far-fetched though, is it? you’ve dedicated your entire life to taking the piss out of people from slytherin, so why should i think i was any different?” 

    “because you are different.” george grits his teeth, like the words have caused him physical pain to admit. “i wasn’t - christ, y/n, i wasn’t making fun of the fact your dad is ill. i’m not that bloody cruel.”

    “with the way you treat draco? had me fooled.”

   george’s nostrils flare, lower lip disappearing behind his teeth. “are you and draco a freaking couple or something?”

   “no.”

   “then why do you feel the need to stick up for him every two seconds?”

   “because he’s my friend, george, that’s why!”

    george rolls his eyes, like the mere idea of draco malfoy having friends is unbelievable to him. 

   “what?” you push, leaning forward to meet his eyes. “why is it so difficult for you to wrap your head around the fact i’m friends with malfoy?”

    “because you’re so much better than him.”

    he says it like it hurts, teeth gritted, eyes refusing to meet your own. he says it like the walls are crumbling and this is his last chance to admit the truth. he says it like he hopes you don’t hear him.

    you stare, unable to comprehend his words, because they don’t really make any sense to you. “no i’m not.”

    george stiffens.

   you barrel on, suddenly passionate. “no, i’m really bloody not. i got sorted into slytherin for a reason, george, just like you and all the other weasleys got sorted into gryffindor. draco and i, we think alike. we deal with problems the same way.”

    “that’s bullshit,” george scoffs, finally looking up. “you keep malfoy in check, because you know the difference between right and wrong.”

    “i keep malfoy in check because i’m not an idiot. just because i stop him from doing daft things, doesn’t mean i don’t agree with his intentions.”

   george swallows. you watch his throat bob, the emotion slipping into his stomach, forcing that mask upon his face that you saw disappear for only the briefest of moments during this confusing conversation.

   finally, after a moment, george claps his hands to his knees and stands up, not unlike how your dad rises from his arm chair on his particularly bad days. all huffs and puffs, grunts of discomfort, bones creaking from lack of movement.

    “alright then,” he says simply. “i’ll leave you to it then, shall i? you can get back to - i don’t know - plotting doomsday or something.”

    you growl. “grow up.”

   he gives you a wave, sarcastic, over-the-top just to make you mad. you don’t humour him with a response, instead just watching him leave with your arms folded over your chest, anger seeping into every inch of your freshly-healed body.

    it’s crazy how he can do that to you so easily, how he can wriggle his way into your brain, convince you he has good intentions, only to leave you feeling angrier than when he first walked in.

   ---

   you get out of the infirmary that day, having fully healed thanks to madame pomfrey’s magic. you thank her, offering to send some flowers up to her room as soon as possible. she smiles and says, “just like your father.”

    you manage to avoid flint for most of the day. him being the year above you, it’s easy to miss him in the hallways, and you certainly have no classes together. however, you were a fool to think he wouldn’t be tracking you down any time he possibly could, because as soon as you sit down at the slytherin table that evening, he is right beside you in seconds.

    you glare at your mashed potatoes, speaking through gritted teeth. “don’t wanna hear it, marcus. really, really don’t wanna hear it.”

    “and we didn’t want to lose the match, but here we are.” he shoves your tray away; your food lands on the floor. none of the other slytherins look up. “you gonna explain to me what happened?”

    “why do i need to explain anything to you?” you shoot back, before gesturing to your upturned dinner. “get up there right now and get me a new plate, or so help me god-”

   “you’ll what? sabotage another match?” 

   your eyes widen. “sabotage? i didn’t take a bludger to the chest on purpose!”

    “explain your little performance with weasley then, huh?” flint leans forward, so close you can smell the peppermint on his breath. “has he finally got in your brain, yeah? managed to turn you against us. i don’t forget that your dad was a hufflepuff. and what was your mother?”

   you scowl. “keep my parents out of this.”

   “oh yes!” he exclaims. “a gryffindor! funny how that works, isn’t it? i can imagine you have a soft spot for the enemy, growing up with one and all that.”

    fury erupts in your chest. you stand, nostrils flaring, fingers curled into fists at your sides; so easily you could draw back and punch him, flatten him on the ground of the great hall in front of everyone. so easily you could make him pay for throwing your parents into this.

    but you don’t. you’re tired. you remember your dads voice, his silent plea for you to just take things easily this year. he isn’t well enough to handle any more trouble you may bring to his doorstep.

   and so, it’s with hesitance that you step away from the slytherin table. you lean down, lower your voice to an almost deadly whisper when you say, “i’d sleep with one eye open, you little shit.”

    you turn on your heel and start towards the door, starving but you don’t care. you have to get out of there before you lose your temper even further, before you banish the sound of your dads voice and make a mistake.

   ----

    draco finds you a few hours later, because of course he does.

  �� he probably heard all about your little altercation, and you have no doubt in your mind that it’s made him mad. you’re protective of him, but it works both ways, and draco has proved that on multiple occassions.

    the door to the common room bursts open, revealing a brief glimpse of the lunchtime crowd finally emerging from the great hall. you look up from your textbook, squinting at the sudden onslaught of light. draco stands in the doorway, nostrils flaring, eyes firm on you.

    your lips twitch, an attempt at a smile. “hello.”

   “what did he say to you?” draco demands. “if he said anything about your dad, y/n, i swear to-”

    “calm down,” you grumble, slumping into the arm chair. “you know how flint gets; he doesn’t know when to hold his tongue.”

   “yeah, well, he’s going to fucking learn, isn’t he?”

    you look up, because he must be joking. draco might be intimidating to some, but it all comes down to a name at the end of the day; he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried. he certainly couldn’t go up against marcus flint.

    but the rage in his eyes leaves little to the imagination about what he wants to do. he turns on his heel before you can even stand up, fleeing the common room in search of marcus flint.

   “draco!” you stumble up, dashing after him. “draco, stop. what the hell are you even going to do?”

   “have a little chat with him.” he picks up his pace, as if afraid you’re going to stop him. you have to start jogging, pushing past fellow confused students in your haste to grab draco before he does something stupid.

    but the world is plotting against you, it seems, as draco rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with the slytherin quidditch team captain as he makes his way to his next class.

    both boys freeze, and for a moment, you think draco’s respect for the older man might just break through. for a fleeting, hopeful moment, you think draco will come to his senses and turn away before any real damage can be done.

    and then he punches flint right in the face.

   you cry out, stumbling over your own two feet in your haste to get to draco before flint - stunned and confused - can come back around. even draco seems shocked at his own actions, staring at his fingers with wide eyes, face paling.

    “idiot!” you hiss, grabbing his arm and dragging him back, but marcus is already regaining his composure, looking at draco with nostrils flared.

   you raise a hand in marcus’s direction, trying in vain to drag draco behind you. “alright lads, lets calm down, yeah? we’ve got classes to get to!”

    “get out of the way, y/n,” marcus growls.

    “don’t talk to them like that,” draco snaps, lunging forward. you try in vain to keep the smaller boy from doing any further damage, but he’s determined, and you know how draco gets when he’s determined. he fights against your grip like a snarling dog, spitting curse words in flint’s direction, half of which you don’t even pick up on.

   you’re too busy staring at marcus, silently daring him to do anything.

   because, the thing is, marcus knows you just as he knows every person on his quidditch team. you’re the beater that keeps the team upright, the only one of the three beaters he can actually trust to win them a match. you’re the one he’s studied for years as you play the game by his side, and he knows you won’t take any shit.

    but either will he. that’s the beauty of being a slytherin. you know that as well as anyone.

   and that is why you can do nothing when marcus dives forward, malfoy having just called him some awful name, and grabs the younger boy by the front of his robes. he shoves you out of the way, your shoulder crashing into a passing first year. you hastily apologise, stumbling upright, trying to get between them as draco yells and makes a fuss, and marcus keeps so calm and collected, it’s almost scary, a scene you don’t know how to handle-

    marcus is pushed backwards.

    he falls on his back. you hear his wand snap in his back pocket, quills and parchment flying left, right and centre. draco stumbles, gasping for air, pressing a hand to his throat; his eyes snap to you, but you pay him no attention as you stare at george weasley, now standing guard over the younger malfoy boy.

    he glares down at flint, fingers curled into fists at his sides. the crowd stand shocked, some of them whispering “is that fred or george?” but you pay them no attention. your heart is racing. you’re so confused.

    marcus blinks. “what the fuck?”

   “why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” george snarls. 

    “i can handle myself, weasley!” draco barks, and that snaps you out of your reverie.

    you march forward and grab draco by the ear. he cries out, but you don’t pay attention to his pleas as you drag him through the hall, yelling out, “nothing to see here people!” over your shoulder. draco kicks and whines, but you’re furious - furious that he would put himself in such danger, furious that he couldn’t even finish the job he started, because george weasley - of all people! - stepped in to save his ass.

     you push draco into the nearest empty classroom you can find. “you idiot.”

    “he deserved it!” draco exclaims, rubbing the reddened tip of his ear. “jesus christ, y/n, let me help you! why do you let people like him get away with stuff like that?”

    “i don’t!” you bark. “i don’t let them get away with it, draco, because i handle it on my own! you don’t need to protect me!”

   draco scowls, folding his arms over his chest.

   you sigh, running a hand down your face. “you’re like a little brother to me, do you understand? if you get hurt one of these days, i’ll never forgive myself. it’s better if you just let me deal with things like this.”

    “why do you get to protect me all the time but i can’t protect you?”

   “because i can protect myself.”

    “or george weasley will do it.”

    you purse your lips, glancing over your shoulder as if george himself will be stood in the doorway; part of you kind of wishes he was. 

    “i don’t know why he did that,” you mumble. “he hates your guts.”

   draco scoffs. “yes, i’m aware of that. but i think it’s pretty obvious why he decided to step in.”

   you raise a brow, a silent question. 

    “that boy hasn’t stopped gawking at you since the first quidditch match,” draco explains. “don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. and also don’t pretend like he wasn’t the reason you got so distracted during the match against hufflepuff.”

    you blink, heat clawing to your face. of course it’s true - you never denied that to yourself - but hearing draco say it out loud, like it means something, makes your stomach curl. 

    draco chuckles, still rubbing his ear. “i must say, y/n, i’m surprised by your pick, but whatever makes you happy.”

    “george is...” you falter, the acidic adjective balancing on the tip of your tongue, just enough of a lie to leave you hesitant. “george is a. . . interesting character.”

    “all the weasleys are,” draco agrees. “but not all the weasleys have caught your eye, have they?”

   “shut up.” you fold your arms, biting your lower lip. “i don’t feel anything for george. nothing nice, anyway. he annoys me.”

    “he annoys you, does he?”

    “you know he does!”

    “i also know you’re getting very flustered right now.”

   you scowl, quickly turning away before draco can gather any more evidence of your true feelings through your appearance. “go to hell.”

    “tell me i’m wrong. tell me he wasn’t the person who distracted you during that match.”

    you open your mouth, ready to lie. you’re a slytherin. lying comes easily when it works in your favour, but you glance over your shoulder, and you spot draco’s raised brow and amused smile, and you remember that he is a slytherin himself, a slytherin who knows you better than anyone else in this damned school. he can read you like an open book, a skill he is clearly using to his advantage now.

   you grit your teeth, turning back around. “it was an accident. i just wasn’t expecting him to be there.”

    “the weasley twins never miss a game!” draco exclaims, a burst of laughter mingling with the words, like he can’t believe you’re even attempting to lie. “honestly, y/n, who do you think you’re trying to fool? the entire school saw how george reacted to you falling-”

   “how he reacted?”

    draco’s smile fades. “oh, of course.” he shakes his head. “of course, you wouldn't have seen him, probably wouldn’t have heard him, either.”

    you raise a brow, heat crawling up your face again. “what are you on about?”

    “y/n, when you fell off your broom that day, george bolted. he nearly gave colin creevey a bloody concussion, shoving his way through the stands. professor mcgonagall tried to stop him from getting on the pitch, but he wasn’t having any of it. even mcgonagall backed down when she saw his face.”

   oh.

   oh, oh, oh, that wasn’t what you were expecting to hear. not at all.

   the blood thrums through your veins, louder than it has ever been. you can’t respond, can’t even think straight, trying to remember that day and what happened during the moments before you fell head first onto the pitch.#

   but you remember nothing. you opened your eyes, and you were on the floor, and george was stood over you, calm as anything. not once did you think he may have actually went against the rules to get to you.

    “that doesn’t make any sense,” you mumble.

   draco raises a brow. “why doesn’t it?”

    “because george and i hate each other.” 

    and draco laughs. he laughs, head thrown back, loud and obnoxious. you stare at him, but you’re not even angry. you’re still in shock, overcome with a sudden need to find george and ask him about whatever draco has just tried telling you.

    because it can’t be true. george and you don’t get along. he’s the guy who hates draco, the guy who knows about your dad, the guy who does your head in more than anyone else in the world.

    he’s also the guy who carried you to the hospital wing when you were on the brink of unconsciousness.

   he’s also the guy who knows about your dad, yet hasn’t told a single soul.

    he’s also the guy who just saved draco’s ass, and maybe you’re thinking too much into it, but did he only do that because you made it so clear that draco is your friend?

    you swallow thickly, trailing your hands through your hair. “oh, draco.”

   “oh, indeed,” draco replies, still grinning. “here i was thinking you were smart.”

    “i have to talk to him.”

    “yes, well, go ahead.” draco places a hand on his forehead. “i’ll stay in here until flint calms down; i’ll be fine on my own.”

     usually, you would ask him if he’s sure. you might not even leave, instead choosing to sit with draco, sharing sweets, insulting each other’s life choices.

    but right now, you don’t stick around long enough for him to change his mind. you whirl on your heel, pure adrenaline thumping through your veins as you throw open the door and dart out into the hallway.

     george is in class. he has to be in class, because that’s where you’re supposed to be right now.

    you dash down the hallway, no longer caring about the teachers walking back and forth, all of whom are probably wondering what on earth you’re doing out of class right now. you pay them no attention, instead making a direct line for potions, where you know george is currently seated, probably bored out of his mind.

    you halt at the window of the potions classroom and peek over the top of the sill. there he is, seated at the back, chin resting on his palm as he stares at nothing in particular. at the front, snape paces back and forth, slapping a wooden ruler against the blackboard, a noise you are all too familiar with. 

    you grit your teeth, wave your hands back and forth, anything to get his attention. finally, however, it’s fred who sees you, and his eyes - identical to his brothers - immediately widen, a grin appearing on his face.

    you point to george, and fred gets the memo. he nods, gives you a thumbs up before tapping george on the shoulder and pointing in your direction. you make a come here gesture, to which george raises a brow, motioning to snape at the front of the classroom. impatiently, you tap your wrist, signalling to him that this is the one chance you’re going to get to talk to him, and you need to do it now.

    george rolls his eyes before throwing his hand in the air. 

    snape pauses his lecture. “yes, weasley?”

   “can i use the bathroom, sir?”

    “you can wait.”

    “no, sir, you don’t understand. i had one of hagrid’s fish suppers earlier, and-”

   snape slaps his ruler against the desk. “i don’t want to hear it! off you go, but be quick about it. any catching up you have to do can be done in my classroom during lunch.”

    “you’re the best, professor!” george stands and all-but runs to the door.

   as soon as he’s thrown it open, you grab the front of his robes and drag him down the hall, to a place where neither of you will be heard by the potions master.

    george stumbles after you, laughing louder than you’re comfortable with when the two of you are skipping class. you shove him into yet another empty classroom, closing the door and casting a quick spell to lock it.

    you spin, and as soon as you lay eyes on him, the speech you had planned dies in your throat.

    you just stare at him, because that honestly feels like all you can do. you’re struck by how gorgeous he is, those brown eyes you have never ignored, the messy mop of ginger hair, the chiselled cheeks and lanky body. all of it combined makes george weasley him, and it’s enchanted you quicker and more unexpectedly than you’ll ever be willing to admit.

    george raises a brow, folding his arms over his chest. “is this important, or am i risking a detention with snape for no reason?”     

   you blink, suddenly aware that you did not plan this out as well as you probably should have. what do you even want to say to him? what point do you want to get across?

   george tilts his head at your silence, leaning forward teasingly. he’s still got that smirk on his face, the one you refuse to acknowledge, because he’s only doing it to annoy you, and he looks so good whilst doing it. 

   you scowl in response. “you know flint is going to kill you next time he sees you, right?”

    surprised, george recoils. “that’s what you wanted to say to me?”

    “i’m giving you a warning. i know marcus flint really well, and he’s not going to let this slide. you should probably start thinking about leaving hogwarts next year, just to give you a better chance-”

    “y/n, for christ’s sake.”

    you deflate. your shoulders slump, the energy seeping from your body in one clean swoop. you groan, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if doing so will push the stress and confusion from your brain.

    “i don’t know how to do this,” you grumble. 

    “don’t know how to do what?”

   “say thank you.” you drop your hands; george has stepped a little closer. you inhale sharply, ready to recoil, but those brown eyes of his keep you trapped.  

   he raises a brow. “you want to say thank you?”

    “i know you don’t like draco,” you mumble. “you didn’t have to stand up for him back there, but you did anyway. god only knows what would have happened to him if you hadn’t stepped in.”

    “he needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.” george shrugs. “but he’s still the year below us. flint should have handled things better.” 

     you nod, pursing your lips. it’s the gyryffindor mindset, a mindset you will never properly understand, but a mindset you grew up witnessing, because your mother always had the same one. whilst you were usually all for getting revenge, your mother always calmed you down by telling you that, sometimes, it was better to take the high road. sometimes, you needed to protect people weaker than yourself.

    “plus,” george is quick to add. “he pushed you. that was a step too far for me.”

    startled, you look up. “that was a step too far? you don’t even like me, george!”

    george’s smile slips. his brows furrow, pinching in the centre in a most adorable way. outside, students bustle back and forth, class ending; you’ll have to deal with snape, and so will george, but right now, neither of you really care. george just stares at you, and then he starts shaking his head, and then he’s laughing.

    you recoil. “what’s so funny?”

   “you really are daft,” he says. “absolutely daft in the brain.”

    “what are you talking about?”

    but he only continues to laugh, throwing his head back. he turns on his heel, hand inches from the door handle, ready to leave this conversation at that, but your eagerness to know more drives you to stop him. you grab his robes and pull him back, stumbling just enough to push him against the wall, your chest inches from his own.

    his laugh dies, breath catching in his throat as he stares down his nose at you. “not this again.”

    “what are you talking about, george?”

    he smiles. slowly, he lifts his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your heated cheeks. you’re startled by the touch, half ready to pull away from him, but you stay frozen, trapped in his gaze.

    “i don’t hate you, you know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “in fact, i think i’ve actually grown quite fond of you these past few weeks.”

   it doesn’t make sense. none of it makes sense. in your head, you replay the relationship formed between you and george, the constant bickering, the harsh words, the dire need to be as far from each other as possible - a need that was never met, because somehow, you always found yourself drawn to him, even when you convinced yourself he was the last person you wanted to see.

    you swallow thickly, trailing your hands down his robes, flattening the creases you made in the material. he watches your fingers as they graze over the collared shirt he is wearing, lingering just by his stomach before you flinch away and step back, chewing your bottom lip.

    george grins again. he’s always grinning. you don’t want him to ever stop grinning. “you alright there?”

    you nod. “fine. why wouldn’t i be fine?”

    “i don’t know, but you look a little shell shocked.”

   you scowl.

    his grin widens. “there’s that look i’m so familiar with!”

   you roll your eyes. “go to hell, george weasley.”

    ----

     last quidditch match of the season.

   slytherin versus gryffindor.

   marcus is all but foaming at the mouth.

   you and george are making faces at each other from opposite ends of the pitch.

   draco nudges your arm as madame hooch goes through the rules. you glance at him, raising a brow in silent question.

    “stay focused, please,” he whispers, nodding at george who is busy giving goyle the middle finger. “i get you two are friends now, but this match is important to us. get your head in the game.”

    you scoff. “when have i ever not had my head in the game?” 

    draco raises a brow.

    you scowl. “that was one time, alright? i’ve got it this time. them gryffindors aren’t gonna know what’s hit them.”

    and so, the game begins. 

    it’s a dirty game. blood makes an appearance a few times. one of your hands get crushed by a bludger that goyle failed to block, so your knuckles are bloody throughout the entire match.

   and then there’s george.

    he circles you, singing ‘happy birthday’ at the top of his lungs. he smacks a bludger in your direction, but you dodge it and smash it back at him; it hits off the end of his broom, sending him swirling through the air. 

     he rises again, however, and joins your side. the two of you speed the length of the pitch, shoving and grabbing at each other’s brooms, laughing the entire time.

     “just give it up, l/n!” he jeers. “look at the state of your hand! there’s no way you can win this game now!”

    “piss off, weasley!” you yell back, before slamming your bat into an oncoming bludger, sending it straight for harry potter. 

    “oh, you cheeky git!” george exclaims, whizzing after the bludger to direct it elsewhere. you laugh, whizzing as high into the air as you can possibly go before madame hooch blows her whistle and scolds you. 

    the gryffindors start to struggle. you see it in the score board, how fast slytherin are catching up to them. harry is whizzing around like a madman, searching left, right and centre for the snitch that draco is also on the prowl for. you, however, keep your eyes on the bludger, every now and then diverting your attention to the ginger boy who keeps blocking your path.

    “you think this is a kids game, y/n?” he calls, snatching at the bristles on the back of your broom, yanking you back in a way that would usually deliver a penalty, but everyone’s eyes are on draco and harry, so nobody spots the discrepancy. 

    “oh, definitely not!” you yell back. “watch out, georgie; looks like goyle’s put himself into high gear!”

    you do a loop in the air, giving george no time to even process your words before the bludger goyle whacked in his direction crashes into his back, knocking him straight off the front of his broom.

   you would be lying to claim there was not a moment of worry, a moment of genuine contemplation to follow him to the ground, make sure he’s alright. however, that moment is short lived when george gives you the finger, clambers right back on his broom and continues the game with more brutality than you’ve ever seen him possess.

   you’re panting by the end of it, sweat dripping from your brow, seeping into the thin cloth of your quidditch robes. you’ve screamed yourself hoarse, throat aching and raw, but you manage to still scream victory when the final whistle goes off and lee jordan is forced to announce slytherin’s success over the loud speakers.

     you crash to the ground, immediately joining the group hug, draco in the centre.

    “that’s my boy!” you yell, ruffling his hair. “you absolute fucking legend, draco malfoy!”

    draco scowls, shoving your hand away. “don’t know why any of you are surprised.”

    you flick his chin before pulling him back in for a hug. 

    once the team celebrations are over, however, you turn your attention to george. you’ve been doing that a lot more often these days - looking for him in a crowd, wanting to share your joy with him, even when your joy swipes his own from right under his nose.

    you spot him in an instant, because - as always - he’s already looking at you. he’s scowling this time, but that doesn’t stop you from dropping your broom and skipping over to him.

    “we won! we won! we won!” you jeer, grabbing the badge on your robe and shoving it in his face. “see that, weasley? that’s the crest of a winner! that’s the crest of the best house in this fucking school!”

    george folds his arms over his chest, staring as you jump up and down in excitement. 

    he lets you continue until you tire yourself out. you laugh tiredly, pleased to see the tiniest twitch of george’s lips as he glares down at you. 

    finally he says, “finished?”

    “oh, don’t be a sore loser!” you throw your arms over his shoulders, because you’re tired and you don’t really care about anything right now. “tell you what; i’ll celebrate with you later on.”

    george recoils, arms still folded over his chest, making your embrace slightly uncomfortable, though you refuse to let go. “why would i want to celebrate with you?”

   “listen mate, take it or leave it; i have an entire team i could be celebrating with right now.”

     george stiffens. you lift your head, leaning your chin against his chest. he glares down at you, and before you can grasp what his intentions are, he leans down and pecks you on the lips.

    just like that. no explanation, no warning. the kiss lasts no longer than two seconds before he pulls away, breaks out of your embrace and says, “go celebrate with your slytherin friends.”

    he turns, starting up the field. for a second, you just stare after him, shellshocked, but then the scene replays in your head, and you’re suddenly overcome with the need to repay him.

    you dash after him, despite the ache in your legs and the exhaustion in your bones. you grab the back of his quidditch robes, spin him around, and it’s like he expects it - he drops his broom, stretches his arms out and catches you the moment you leap into his embrace and slam your lips to his.

   and it’s so strange, but so perfect, so relieving all at the same time. he holds you tighter, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck whilst you busy yourself with trailing your hands through his thick, messy, windswept hair. 

   behind you, you listen to draco groan out the words, “now?” but it does nothing to deter you from the moment. 

   you pull away first. “i’ve changed my mind.”

    panting, george says, “about what?”

    “you should come celebrate with me,” you reply. “i don’t want to celebrate with my slytherin friends any more.”

     george laughs. in the background, you hear draco telling the other slytherins to just head up to the common room - you won’t be there for another few hours. 

[flyingupward]

critical role - vox machina chapter 4 - attack of the conclave

all sentences taken from episodes 39-56 of the first campaign of critical role. feel free to change pronouns, phrasing etc. to fit your needs!

“All this time, you’ve been trying to kick my teeth in and your true enemy was right over there.”

“That’s good. Moving is not my forte.”

“We’re in a hentai. Make it go away.”

“Not all short people look alike.”

“God, I wish I was not made of farts.”

“We live in a cold, cold world. No one deserves anything.”

“You chose so poorly. It is truly impressive how poorly you chose.”

“Stay away from all men. Forever.”

“I’m glad I came in handy for that field trip.”

“I hate your friends!”

“Little do they know I shop for everything at Home Goods so joke’s on them.”

“It’s just radioactive material in the basement. It’s fine.”

“Somehow the coffee has not been poured on your head. That’s the greatest magic trick I’ve seen all morning.”

“Everything else was dragons. Why wouldn’t it be dragons?”

“Sorry, I was so caught up in the fact that I’m literally going up against death incarnate.”

“You’re a magnificent handsome bastard. Don’t die.”

“Do not go far from me.”

“He’s just a sociopath, that’s all.”

“There are dragons outside and we’re playing rugby with a fucking skull!”

“A simple mind is looking for a simple solution to a complex problem.”

“I’m a firm believer that there’s always a way to victory if we’re smart about it and we’re quick about it.”

“We either stand now or we might as well be dead.”

“We try, we mostly fail, but occasionally we get it right.”

“It was such a bad deal I said no. Can you imagine how bad of a deal it must have been?”

“No offense darling, but you look like shit.”

“If we’re going to be roaming about the streets, I’d like you to not fall open like a can of baked beans if you don’t mind.”

“Let’s not get overexcited about the sudden realization that some of us can be a bit iffy.”

“Thank you for that smattering of applause.”

“I have one of those terrible ideas I get on occasion.”

“This is politics. You’re not supposed to like them.”

“You can talk my fucking ear off in a moment. Shut up for a second.”

“If the parasite hasn’t a host to feed on, the parasite dies.”

“I never forget that when I rule, I rule these people as well.”

“One day, you’re going to stop being afraid of me and I hope that day comes soon.”

“There’s no swinging by, that’s a caper.”

“It will be built back better than before. That’s what we do.”

“We have a lot of Pop Tarts, but not very many gold pieces.”

“This is where I live. What are you doing here?”

“I’m cold and I still haven’t been paid.”

“We’re not trying to score points. We are trying to do right.”

“This is fucking happy fun bunch over here. They bring death with them everywhere they go.”

“And to think I might have briefly missed you.”

“You have to find the no name guy who’s going to help you find the stuff that’s hidden that nobody knows where it is or what it is.”

“What do you want to do? Do you want to stay here while the world burns?”

“World’s always ending, baby.”

“It would be wondrous, after we complete this transaction, that we never meet again.”

“Oh my God, I just buy healing to save my life, what a waste.”

“I’m going to stand over here and fail to stay in character, okay?”

“Let’s all have a toast to the inevitability of the universe.”

“My God, I love other people’s problems.”

“Are we sober yet?”

“I think her foolish impulses are exactly what we’re looking for.”

“Better to die a fool for something than live in regret for doing nothing.”

“I think we want her to do her stupidest.”

“You’re… brooding.”

“I tend to glaze over when he’s talking.”

“Lead the way, shitkicker.”

“A lot of your friends are very weird.”

“I would just like to point out that I’m mostly sober.”

“That’s okay because remember, I’m me.”

“I’d like to stand up, please.”

“I’m scared to death which is why the math is so bad.”

“I’ve met few as unremarkable as you in my travels.”

“Well then, we’re in trouble. I have an attitude about everything.”

“Yeah, there’s like 37 things we have to do before tomorrow so… ”

“She’s not really gonna care about court so much as ripping the bones from your back.”

“I thought you were gonna tell me a dirty joke or something. When you say, ‘Come here,’ that’s usually what that means.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s going to be daylight if we’re underground.”

“I’m really hoping that it’s the worst decision we make because then everything’s uphill.”

“I like who we are together and I think that that’s important.”

“Dying in slow motion over here.”

“Oh good, more darkness.”

“Oh my God, you’re going into a special section of your book. That’s never good.”

“I’m very aware that my greed killed me.”

“Oh, I must have missed it because I was dead. That’s right.”

“Do you have feelings and did that hurt them?”

“I’m pretty tired after dying.”

“I think I love you too. I’m just terrified to allow myself to.”

“We are a city of seasonal affective disorder.”

“So I heard a rumor that you sort of saved my life in a really creepy sort of way.”

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you my Pokemon.”

“Your secret is safe with my indifference.”

“I always fucking hear you in my mind. It’s very quiet in there these days.”

“If it becomes a problem, just raise your hand and scream.”

“Our lives are so bizarre now.”

“Why is my brain tingling? Is someone noodling around up there?”

“You know what? It’s just fire. I will be on fire.”

“Did someone lose an orb?”

“Are we really about to pretend to do CrossFit?”

“Not enough spit takes in the world for this moment in time.”

“Beyond it being an engineering issue, it might be a greed issue first.”

"She's an adult. Deep levels of arrested development, but an adult nonetheless."

“Retroactively, you’ve never been seen in your entire lives.”

“You take everything good away from all of us.”

“It’s not one problem, it’s a very large problem and a massive problem.”

“Those that give a fuck, speak up.”

“We’ve lived half our life in the shadows. You’ve made them your home.”

“I love my reckless brother as much as he hurts my heart.”

“Duck hunt’s a bitch.”

“This is so dumb. Why am I doing this?”

“Congratulations, you’re creepy as fuck.”

“Give me this you fucking hoarder. What’s the matter with you?”

“I will smite you.”

“I was born to shove things in holes.”

“Knowledge is power, for reals!”

“Are we time bandits now? Is that what’s happening?”

“I hate time travel. I hate time travel so much.”

“No worries. I didn’t need to live anyway.”

“Perhaps it’s time to be a better badass.”

“It’s been a traumatic five minutes.”

“Like any good plan, everything will go wrong.”

“Oh well, I’m fucked then.”

“Oh, tiny dancer, you are fucked.”

“He died as he lived: Deeply unimpressed.”

“Don’t you dare die happy.”

“I like that we managed to make solving problems with violence into an ABC afternoon special.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say, ‘At dawn, we plan.’”

“I genuinely don’t understand the place you come from.”

“That is the weirdest coping mechanism I’ve ever heard of.”

“Maybe we should just sleep together and see what happens.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth after you sort of lied to me.”

“Yeah keep twitching, twitchy.”

“We totally planned at dawn!”

“Everything is terrible. Our lives are terrible. They are way worse than they were six months ago.”

“You are a fucking madman, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m fucked. I understand I’m fucked. It’s fine.”

“This was all part of the plan, the hastily smushed together plan.”

“He’s a liar and a bringer of death and he’s smiling at you while he does it.”

“Bravery means nothing. Survival and victory mean everything.”

“Oh shut up, you flying suitcase.”

“You don’t need inspiration, you’re fine!”

“If I move, he’ll kill me. So I won’t.”

“Cursed Lizard! We’re going to give all your gold to the poor!”

“Don’t be so glum you old fool! This is a day of glory!”

“We will all die. It just depends on cost.”

“Oh, wow. You just said a lot of things in a very short amount of time.”

“You are the worst of us.”

“If there’s a dare involved, that’s completely different.”

“I don’t like wanting things.”

“Is it the people or is it the fact that you have finally realized how pointless it all is?”

“I feel like I’ve been lied to my entire goddam life and it’s all crashing down upon me right now.”

“The thing is you’re not wrong and you’re not crazy, but it’s not hopeless either.”

“Even surrounded by friends, I often feel so alone.”

“Thank you for being a friend even though we just met.”

“The terrible woman may have a point.”

“Woo! Good leadership!”

“The awkward woman makes a fine point.”

“It is not about idolizing ourselves, it is about a very long story which we are a very small part of.”

“I’m doing something very stupid now with my friends. We’re going to try to save the world.”

“I admire everyone in our band of misfit toys, but you most of all.”

“You are all kinds of fucked up all the time and that’s why we love you.”

“We’re all all kinds of fucked up and that’s why we all are together.”

“That’s all we can be is ish.”

[mcheang]

Love and hate

A rough draft inspired by 三生三世十里桃花, and because I wanted to do another Mari hates Adrien but he likes her fic.

What if Marinette felt betrayed by Adrien’s decision to pose alongside Lila?

Ok; we all know that Lila framed Marinette. And that Adrien posed alongside Lila for the photoshoot.

But what if Marinette decided to take early action to revoke her expulsion? What if she went as Ladybug herself to clear her name? Technically it’s not just personal reasons when scarlet moth had been involved.

Granted she can’t prove Lila planted the necklace in her locker. But come on, how can she cheat when the test answers were stolen after the exam? The lockers are unlocked. And if Lila had seriously fallen down the stairs she would have more bruises than a knee injury!

In face of a righteously angry Ladybug, who points out the flaws they were too idiotic to see, the principal does what he does when face with influential threats (Chloe calling her dad), he caves.

Marinette is brought back to school with an apology. Lila is called back to school to continue investigating.

Unwilling to let such a useful pawn leave, Gabriel vouches for Lila, unaware that Ladybug had just left, and lets Nathalie disable the security feeds. Again the weak principal gives in.

Lila learns Marinette has already been brought back, but let’s Adrien think she fulfilled her end of the deal.

While Adrien had played a small, inconsequential role in defending Marinette, it did nothing to soothe Marinette to watch him pose with Lila after all he knew about that liar.

Betrayed and heartbroken, the love in Marinette’s heart starts to turn to hatred.

Welcomed back to school, Marinette asks Adrien in private why he modelled with Lila and he says it was part of his job (he doesn’t want Marinette to feel indebted). Lila butts in and insists that it is also because they are friends. Adrien agrees with Lila. Marinette believes Adrien wants to shrug things off again, and move on.

Her hurt confirmed, Marinette ignores Adrien and gives him the cold shoulder. The hatred in her heart has sprout and is growing into a sapling

Adrien can guess the reason for that. He tries to talk to Marinette alone but she wants nothing to do with him. Eventually he manages to convey that he only modelled with Lila to get her to come back to school.

Marinette retorts that he didn’t get her back to school. Ladybug did! And she doesn’t tolerate liars. He had the chance to tell the truth and he blew it.

Normally, Marinette may have been more open-minded but the hatred in her heart has had time to settle.

The more you love someone, the deeper that hatred can grow.

Since Lila didn’t hold up her end of the bargain, Adrien renounces their friendship in public. He admits he made a deal with Lila to get Marinette back but Lila spins a lie that she asked Ladybug to bring Marinette back. Adrien protests that Ladybug herself confronted them that she is not Lila’s BFF. The class doesn’t know who to believe. But since Marinette is clearly avoiding Adrien and still thinks Lila is a liar, it gives Adrien more credibility and makes them wonder if Lila was indeed a liar.

Marinette still hasn’t forgiven Adrien, believing he is only acting up since he doesn’t want to lose any Friend. Her heart is too full of hatred for her head to think clearly.

It pains Marinette to see Adrien but she eventually becomes adept at ignoring his blonde head and presence. Adrien is miserable that he has lost one of his closest friends. Even so, he snaps at the class whenever they listen to Lila’s gossip. Marinette ignores his attempts to protect her.

The rest of the class do not intercede. Marinette has a right to be angry with Lila and she shuts down anyone who asks her to be open-minded and forgive either Lila or Adrien. The class soon learns not to bother, otherwise Marinette shuts them out too.

Tikki tries her best to change Marinette’s mind but Marinette snaps at her to let it go. Tikki relents once she realizes she is only agitating Marinette and making her akuma bait.

Adrien tries waiting outside the bakery, skipping his practises and getting grounded. Marinette had told her parents not to let Adrien or Lila in. Adrien refuses to budge, standing in the heavy rain even when it is clear the bakery is closed and the streets are emptying. The Gorilla eventually tracks Adrien down and drags him home. (I figure Adrien is a romantic and is willing to resort to grand gestures of his determination to see Marinette)

Adrien is sick for weeks. Marinette is happy for his absence but has to hide it behind relief. Alya and Nino have to divide their time.

Adrien recovers and is still miserable. To make matters worse; he has another shoot with Lila. He goes on strike until Gabriel fires Lila.

Tikki heads to Plagg to discuss how to fix their broken relationship. When Adrien opens his locker, Tikki escapes, but not before he spots her fleeing to Marinette’s locker.

Adrien is both elated and horrified to know Ladybug’s secret identity is his former Friend who now hates his guts.

Knowing Marinette doesn’t want anything to do with Adrien, Chat decides to visit her at night.

Marinette initially freaks out because she thinks he knows her identity. But he claims he is just there because he is on a diet and wants to cheat on it.

Marinette tolerates this free loader.

Chat initially wants to smooth over their misunderstanding but learns that talking about Adrien leads to him getting kicked out. So he avoids talking about Adrien and instead tries to get to know Marinette better.

Marinette is annoyed by Chat’s presence, especially since it leaves her sleeping later than usual. But she grows used to it.

Eventually Chat slips up and calls her My Lady. Marinette freaks out again but grows calmer. She says she doesn’t want to know his secret identity. Chat sadly agrees.

Eventually the public thinks that there is something going on with Chat and Marinette. But they deny it. To prevent people from suspecting Ladybug’s identity, Adrien blurts out it was him. He put on his old Chat Noir costume to visit Marinette.

The class squeals at their Romeo and Juliet situation.

Marinette goes along but is furious with Adrien. How dare he play her for a fool. She yells at him from going anywhere near her again, but not before Adrien sees how badly she is hurt emotionally.

Adrien’s absence from her roof is easily explained when Gabriel heard the rumour and confiscated Adrien’s costume.

Marinette is heartbroken yet again because unbeknownst to her; she had fallen in love with Chat.

In her heartbreak, she is reminded she has a score to settle with Lila (it’s a welcome distraction). Ladybug confronts the principal again on why Lila hasn’t been properly investigated. Pressured, the principal does that and discovers Lila’s truancy and health records. He expels Lila in the same public manner he does Marinette. (Ladybug’s status so trumps the recluse designer’s)

At least Marinette has been properly avenged. But she still isn’t happy.

Adrien is depressed. He knows he hurt Marinette again and he never wanted that. That said, the class thinks Gabriel has pulled Adrien out of school, not that Adrien has fallen into depression. He can’t sleep without crying because he is haunted by the image of Marinette crying and blaming himself. Not even the threat of homeschool can snap Adrien out of it, because he knows Marinette would welcome that.

Adrien won’t eat anything until at last Nathalie does something.

She visits Marinette and confesses that she was there when Adrien threatened Lila to bring Marinette back to school.

When Marinette is skeptical, Nathalie points out all the good things Adrien has done for her (most of them as Chat). Why would he do that if he didn’t care for her?

1. He had tried to get Marinette an internship with Gabriel but she had wanted nothing to do with the Agreste brand.

2. Adrien tutored Marinette at night so her grades improved.

3. To make up for Marinette’s free treats, Adrien has burnt his pianist fingers trying to make Marinette a dessert. He never succeeded in every one of his 13 attempts before he nearly burned the kitchen down.

4. He recommended her to other famous designers. Marinette wanted to earn recognition on her own credit, not because of favors. She’s not happy he interfered.

5. He bought her all those expensive fabrics using his own money. Marinette isn’t exactly impressed since she knew Adrien had the money. But he certainly saved her shopping time.

6. He stole his mother’s jewellery to gift them to her (Marinette had told him to stop buying her expensive gifts). Yeah, Adrien was in a lot of trouble for that one but he refused to tell his Father what he had done with the jewels. He had been pulled out of school as a result until Lila brought him back and Adrien admitted he didn’t regret stealing the jewels.

(What Adrien does admittedly pales next to Ye Hua’s sacrifices. But I can’t cut off Adrien’s arm or make him use his life force or whatever. He isn’t a deity)

Anyway; Nathalie points out that Adrien has done so much for her, regardless of how unsuccessful his wooing attempts were, can’t she just visit him once. Seeing her might do him some good.

Marinette takes a moment to think. Perhaps she judged Adrien too harshly and rashly. He was clueless about friendship. And he did try (and failed) to make amends. Maybe she should give him credit for trying, if nothing else. He certainly chose to against Lila in the end.

Marinette visits Adrien and there is definitely a reaction from the apathetic boy. he apologises for hurting her so much. He should have left her alone like she wanted. Marinette also apologizes for not letting him explain his side, even if she did give him a chance to at first. She encourages him to eat.

With Marinette beside him, Adrien does recover.

Nathalie is relieved. She then advises Gabriel to let them be. Bringing Emilie back won’t be as joyful once she finds out their son had nearly died from intentional starvation.

Gabriel agrees to let his Son and Marinette date, which they do slowly, needing to start all over again. Marinette needs time to sort out her feelings. While she may have fallen in love with Chat, it also conflicts with the hatred she bore Adrien. The hatred needs to heal to become love.

Adrien gives Marinette her space and continues to try to be a partner worthy of his lady, mainly by being honest.

[nbatrades]

Charlotte Hornets Acquire Eric Leckner from Sacramento for Two Second Round Picks

On January 29th, 1991, the Charlotte Hornets traded a 1993 second round draft pick (Alex Holcombe) and a 1995 second round draft pick (Dejan Bodiroga) to the Sacramento Kings for Eric Leckner.

The Sacramento Kings originally acquired center Eric Leckner along with guard Bobby Hansen and three future draft picks in a three-team trade that saw Pervis Ellison end up in Washington and Jeff Malone go to Utah. 

Leckner joined a Kings team that had Ralph Sampson at center, but the position would become crowded quickly. Soon after acquiring Leckner, the Kings drafted center Duane Causwell in the first round of the 1990 draft. Next, they traded for center Bill Wennington from the Dallas Mavericks.

The pack of centers would compete for playing time and Leckner oftentimes found himself as the odd man out. Kings head coach Dick Motta preferred a center that could operate from the high post and Leckner’s paint-based style of play clashed with Motta’s vision. Leckner’s lack of playing time would cause a deep fissure in the relationship between coach and player. 

In 32 games with the Kings, Leckner was averaging 2.9 PPG, 2.7 RPG and 0.6 APG in 11.8 MPG. Operating out of the high post was also hurting his efficiency, as he was shooting a career-low 40.6% from the field.

Leckner had wanted to be traded. He was in the final year of his contract, earning $475,000 for the 1990-91 season. Looking to secure a new deal, Leckner was offered by Kings director of player personnel Jerry Reynolds the chance to leave in a trade or stay on the bench the rest of the season. Leckner approved the trade and was dealt to the Charlotte Hornets. The Kings were 12-28 when they dealt Leckner.

Charlotte gave Sacramento two second rounders. One was in 1995 and the other — in 1993 — was conditional. Leckner had to be on Charlotte’s roster a year from the trade for the Hornets to convey their 1993 second rounder to Sacramento.

Charlotte was 13-27 when they acquired Leckner. Relying heavily on veteran center Mike Gminski, the Hornets were often playing smaller players at center and needed a big body to fill the position as a reserve. The team went 13-29 the rest of the way to finish fourth-worst in the NBA with a 26-56 record. Leckner was given an opportunity to play in Charlotte, and showed some signs of development. He had three double-doubles in 58 games with Charlotte after failing to record one in his first 184 games in the league. Overall, the 6-foot-11 center produced 5.8 PPG, 5.2 RPG and 0.3 APG in 18.6 MPG.

The Hornets won the 1991 draft lottery and drafted UNLV star forward Larry Johnson. with the first overall pick. Charlotte head coach Gene Littles moved to the front office and vice president Allan Bristow shifted to head coach in a organizational realignment.

Leckner did not sign a contract with the Hornets until right before training camp. He ended up with a one-year, $618,000 deal keeping him in Charlotte. Under new coach Bristow, the Hornets planned to play 6-foot-9 J.R. Reid more often at center. That meant Leckner would have to fight to receive any minutes on the court.

He suffered, playing less often as many of the center minutes went to Reid, Gminski and Kenny Gattison. Leckner appeared in 59 games (two starts), and recorded 3.3 PPG, 3.5 RPG and 0.5 APG in 12.1 MPG. Charlotte dropped 24 of their first 32 games to start the season. The team would play better behind the efforts of 1991-92 Rookie of the Year Johnson and Kendall Gill. Still, they finished out of the playoffs and in the lottery once again with a 31-51 mark.

Charlotte won the second spot in the 1992 NBA Draft and selected Georgetown center Alonzo Mourning with the second overall pick. Mourning’s addition — plus the presence of Gattison and Gminski on the roster — dropped Charlotte’s interest in retaining Leckner. He was not re-signed.

Leckner was not able to catch on with an NBA team in the 1992 offseason. He ended up heading over to Italy and playing for Panna Firenze of the Serie A2 League in Italy. Leckner ended his Hornets tenure with a stat line of 99 games played, 4.3 PPG, 4.2 RPG and 0.5 APG. He shot 49% from the field and 62% from the free-throw line.

The conditional 1993 second rounder the Kings acquired from Charlotte was conveyed since Leckner played past the 1991-92 season with the Hornets. The acquired draft pick was slotted at 44th in the 1993 draft. Sacramento selected 6-foot-9 Baylor center Alex Holcombe. Considered a raw athlete with an NBA body, Holcombe had a 7-foot-5 wingspan and 9-foot-3 standing reach. Holcombe did not play in summer camp with the Kings because he committed to playing in Europe.

During the 1993-94 season, Holcombe played in Spain (CB Breogán) before becoming homesick. He moved on to the CBA (Grand Rapids Hoops) for the rest of the season. He played with the Kings in 1994 Summer League at the Rocky Mountain Revue. Holcombe’s draft rights were renounced by the Kings in October of 1994.

The 1995 second rounder the Kings had secured in the trade from Charlotte ended up in the 51st spot of the 1995 draft. Sacramento used the pick on Serbian forward Dejan Bodiroga. A 6-foot-8 point-forward, Bodiroga was a unique player. Though he wasn’t the best shooter or quickest player, he drew comparisons to Magic Johnson due to his size and ability to pass the ball.

The Kings attempted to woo Bodiroga to come to the United States, but he passed on multiple occasions. In 1996, the Kings were interested in using their $800,000 exception on Bodiroga, but he never signed. In 2002, Bodiroga was tempted to come, but he never committed.

A star in Europe, Bodiroga played for some of the top teams in the EuroLeague including Olimpia Milano, Real Madrid, Panathinaikos and FC Barcelona. He was well decorated, winning three EuroLeague championships and 2002 All-Europe Player of the Year.

There were a few questions about whether Bodiroga could play the NBA game, but many believed he had the skill. Still, despite all of Sacramento’s overtures, Bodiroga never played in the NBA, retiring professionally in 2007. The Kings waited more than 22 years after drafting Bodiroga before renouncing their rights to the 44-year old Serbian forward.

Eric Leckner on the trade (via the Sacramento Bee):

“Being mad or bitter now isn’t going to change anything so I’m just going to look at this as a great opportunity to start over. I’m going to get to play some serious minutes in Charlotte. I get to go to work now.”

On wanting to leave (via the Sacramento Bee):

“I just want to get out of here. I could go and talk to him (Motta) about it but it wouldn’t do any good.”

On being in the doghouse in Sacramento (via the Charlotte Observer):

“I’m in the front row of that doghouse. That was not about ability It was personality or playing style. Yeah I was in that doghouse — right next to Ralph [Sampson].”

On wanting to prove himself:

“It’s time for Eric Leckner to do something.”

How he brings a different skill set compared to starting center Mike Gminski:

“I bring a contrast to Gminski. He’s a little sneaky with a lot of 10-foot jump shots I’m strictly a back-to-the-basket player. You put a guy 20 feet from the basket and not let him rebound — that's not my style. I spent more time in the paint in practice today than I did the whole time in Sacramento.”

Charlotte Hornets vice president of basketball operations Allan Bristow on acquiring Leckner (via Deseret News):

“Eric will provide us depth inside without sacrificing our immediate future. He will also spell [Mike] Gminski from playing too many minutes and since he is such a young player, we hope to help him reach his promising potential.”

Sacramento Kings head coach Dick Motta on Leckner (via the Sacramento Bee):

“He was so uptight. The high-post, low-post thing is a cop-out. If you want to score in the low post you’ll get there.”

How having four centers was an issue in Sacramento (via the Sacramento Bee):

“We should never have come out of training camp with four centers. We didn’t know that Ralph Sampson was going to be with us for the whole year. It wasn’t fair to us. It wasn’t fair to any of them. Between Bill Wennington and Eric, we felt Bill gave us more.”

On Leckner being nervous (via the Charlotte Observer):

“Every time he got in a game he seemed to be nervous. With four centers here there was no chance for any of them to relax. It wasn’t fair to them or us. I hope he looks at it as us breaking up a logjam not picking on Eric Leckner.”

On how an incident where Leckner kicked a chair out of frustration meant more than just the chair (via the Sacramento Bee):

“When I’m upset with myself I never let anyone know it. That’s my edge. When Eric kicked that chair, I told him the chair would still be there tomorrow and so would the anxiety that had built up inside of him. He had so much anxiety. He never learned to relax and play.”

On the roster glut at the center position:

“You can’t have four centers. I didn’t think Ralph would be here. I had to go with Duane [Causwell] because he needs experience. I want him to play 2,000 minutes this year. Maybe it’s a mistake because he hasn’t earned those minutes, but I’ve got to do it. That left Eric and Bill [Wennington]. I thought Bill gave us more. Any way you look at it, it wasn’t a good situation.”

On Leckner’s dissatisfaction with his role in Sacramento:

“I never try to be friends with my 10th, 11th and 12th men. “You can’t do it. I hope Eric does well. I didn’t mind working with him. We just didn’t have time to keep him around and see what developed. I hope Eric is still playing in the league 10 years from now. I don’t know if I would bet on it. But I hope he has a nice career.”

Hornets center Mike Gminski on the toll playing 36-plus minutes a night was having on him (via the Charlotte Observer):

“I can (play that long) every once in a while but a steady diet of 40-minute nights would have taken its toll on me.”

Hornets guard Kendall Gill on how acquiring Leckner could help them stop a recent losing streak (via the Charlotte Observer):

“You just don’t know how badly I want to win. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m glad we’re getting another low-post player [Leckner]. That’s got to help.”

Image via Getty Images/Rocky Widner

[aintnouseofpretending]

Uncool. University AU, Queen fan fiction. (John Deacon x Tomboy!Reader)

For now, it can be read as a one-shot—as it was originally intended. If someone is interested in this to continue, please let me know! 😊😊

Warning: Cursing, fluff, a bit slow burn?

+ ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— -

It's a fantastic drowse in the afternoon Sunday. Nothing beats hanging out with your friends, smoking, eating pizzas, and tuning to some heavy metal and rocks on the college parking lot; especially, after your midterm exam. It’s not much of being glad the torturing is over, more of you know you nail the exam after studying hard, like the usual. Feels awesome still. But just hanging out isn’t the reason you all here. There’ll be more headbanging later tonight, one of the local metal band is coming to shake the building; whilst waiting, you and your gang are enjoying the quality and fun times together.

“Yo, y/n!”

One of your male classmates came, bringing more foods and forcing three people you don’t know to carry it when both his hands are free.

“How’s it, Dave?” You return the greetings with a handshake and hug. “Care to introduce your new mates?”

Dave points at a girl with long brown hair and purple streaks. She wears black leather spiked jacket atop of her purple tank, complementing her style with tight leather pants and black ankle boots. She also wears thick makeup that makes her face says "fuck you" to anyone it greets. You like her already.

“Jess Gun, call her G. Music student. Jess, this is y/n, our top dog. Mech like most of us.”

“Take a piss, Dave.” But you still take the compliment as you give G a warm handshake.

“How’s it, y/n.”

Then Dave points at a tall and large man. The man proudly showed off his brand new tan, covered in tonnes of tattoos by wearing only thin black sleeveless graphic metal band tee. The common theme of the night; leather pants and black ankle boots. But he’s much more complete with spiked armbands, bracelet, and chain necklace.

“This is Charles C. C stands for Colossal.”

Not surprising that C carried the most out of their raids, so you stopped him when he tries to pass it somewhere or to someone just so he can give you a handshake. Dave tap C’s shoulder, told him to move, uncovering the next new dog for the pack. Someone you didn’t quite expect to look for tonight’s occasion.

“This is John Deacon, Mr D. Ace of the electrics.”

“Just call me, John.” Say the man calmly with a much softer voice. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too…” You return, quite astounded by his symmetrical, handsome, princely features.

For some passerby, it might look like Dave bullies John and force him to carry around his things. And that might be correct, John stands out the most in your group; with his plaid brown shirt, light blue jeans, and a black tight vest. His kind, friendly downturned eyes don’t help either. Feels like looking down at a small puppy as a big black alpha. But lo and behold, he’s also into some deafening and blaring as his past time. Wait, is he?

“Big fan of the Devil’s Fork?” You ask him a bit later after the foods he’s carrying was savaged by your friends.

“Haven’t heard them yet, so I’m not sure. What do you think?”

What begins as your attempt to unfold a bit of mystery surrounding him and following your weird instinct to protect the poor puppy; ends with you blabbering about your obsession over the band—their unique harmonies, intense riffs, and sick styles. You even just noticed that despite his looks that perfectly fit how Dave describes him, he joins you as you power through your Marlboro, leaving nothing for the night. And that was your last pack too.

“Mind continuing whilst we walk to store?” You ask him as you check for your funds. Enough for another pack.

“Okay.”

Nope. The band black van that's showing off their logo on the sides—a small gremlin-like devil holding an oversized red flamming fork in exaggerated art style,—just parked right next to your pick-up truck.

“Well, that’s unlucky.”

“I will run and buy a pack before the gig starts if you’d like.” He says, somehow a bit guilty.

“Nah, mate, I will collect these peasants’ tax. Getting us more of a selection till morning.”

“It's okay. I’m good for today.” He smiles.

From behind him, Dave slaps his shoulder and practically shake the man; he yelped in a very high pitch voice, almost make you burst out laughing. You didn't blame him when he hit Dave's shoulder in return.

“D warmed up to ya’ quick, y/n. As expected.” Dave let out a hearty laugh. “Not many can do that to him. Or maybe that’s because you two are our top rank dweller? Can finally speak in your higher-intelligent language?”

You jokingly kick Dave away and he joins, pretending to be running away from his life, as John—and some that overhear Dave’s remark—laugh at your shenanigan. You hope John didn’t notice you staring at him; amidst the chaos that is Dave munching some arse-whooping from you. You savoured his shockingly cute laugh and face. No. You wish it was forever, so you can admire him to your heart content…

Well, crap.

You just met and you’re crushing hard on him already?

Wouldn't be the first time.

It won’t last long like the others. You assure yourself, tangling your arm on his shoulder as if you’re his old friend. Understanding boundaries and someone else personal space were not one of your strong suits; you get in a whole lot of problems that turn things awkward, but you’ll exploit that fact to get even closer to John.

“But, Dave’s right. You’re gonna have fun with us. And with me, mate.” You say, confidently.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

When you think it’s not possible for a man to be any more charming and stunning, he proved you wrong by just smiling a bit wider.

“I will personally guarantee it.”

***

“Fuck my life.” You sighed after Deacy left your home. You practically let your body fall on the couch as you put your palm on your chest. “What the fuck is going on with me…”

It has been several months since you have attended the best college gig. The same day Dave introduces you to John. You did promise to give John a good time—and it’s a hell of a good time for you and your friends as well. Even John tell you to call him Deacy—or Deaky? He never wrote it down,—the privilege that was only given to you. That might also the reason why your crush now develops into actual feelings.

“Absolutely. Not because he comes here almost every day. All studying together, rocking to music, the fact he makes cool riffs, shred his guitar, and even taught me how to play them…”

You talked to yourself in an attempt to calm down. It works. Partially. You scratch your head furiously and rolled about. Angry that you knew you catch the feelings, but mind goes on thinking it was not a big deal, that it’ll soon be gone. Only when you fall down the couch face first, your decision was made; you will be upfront about it, you will show him your interest. Then, when he returns them warmly, you will do a sneak attack, and ask him to be your boyfriend! Perfect! Maybe then you’ll figure out your feelings more?

“Fuck the tradition.” You exclaimed as you get up. “Says who I can’t woo and pamper my man?”

And so you did. At first, it was very subtle; longer physical contact, purposeful stare, spending more time with him, wearing things he likes, giving him gifts that he likes, listening to even the most curious of his nonsense when he’s drunk. Then it escalates slowly but surely, you have constructed a plan to ask him out to places he likes; arcades, music shop, buy him movies ticket, buy him tickets to concerts. You never fail the dates. And of course, you’re getting even bolder to the point that hugs that used to make your body numb, head empty, heart pounding, feels much too normal now. Occasional holding hands after college or hanging out. Cuddling when watching movies at your house, in front of your friends, even.

But what about him? How does he react? Is it warm enough yet for you to ask him out? You can’t tell. There might be a slight change, but you really can’t see it. It’s always you that initiate physical contacts, even for just a hug. He asks you out to hang, but never to his house, or even special places; just for shopping, to cafes, arcades, library, something very casual. Almost every dates now you try to kiss him, and every time too, somehow, he deflected it as if you purposely closing your eyes and get your face close to him with your award-winning kissy face was just an accident.

“That happens by the end of every date!” You mutter to yourself, burying your face in your palms. “What the hell did I do wrong? Don’t make it clear enough? What do you think, G?”

G stares at you whilst chewing on her gum and smoke at the same time. Now it’s almost on every date too that you drag G and told her your tales of woe. Although you’re paying for her foods, you can clearly see that it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s fed up and well-fed—apparently, she gained a lot of weight because of you.

“Fucking tell him you love him.” Her words came out like venom. “Ask him to be your boyfriend. Stop being a fucking pussy about it. Don’t come to me again if you didn’t do what I said when he’s dating someone else.”

She’s right, you think. Either Deacy is extremely stupid—unlikely for an honour student that beats the crap out of you score wise, or you were never one of the options he wants and simply think your shameless boldness was because you are in fact have zero sense of personal space, and getting used to it fast. Or maybe you're the one that's a wee bit dumber than you thought about not being able to read the atmosphere well most of the times? No other choice but to find out which answer it is.

You’re trying hard to gather your courage, but now you’re still stuck, trying to solve other mysteries instead. As he stares at you, sitting on the other side of the table, eating a giant pile of expensive ice cream quite seriously. Waiting.

You asked him out to an ice cream cafe a week after your date with G, and G said when someone is happy, they tend to give more positive feedbacks, reactions, whatever; because you use that trick and charm her to fatten herself up. It most likely works on him too. Of course, it will be like normal hangout after class, you never miss a day when taking him to places, even if they might be just a small store. It’ll be a hundred per cent chance that he thought today will be normal like thousandth days before. The surprise factor might contribute.

Excellent.

But you’re running out of time; Deacy is powering through the ice cream like it was nothing. If you keep on failing, he might end up like G. Not that it'll affect your feelings towards him.

You took a deep breath.

“Deacy.”

“Yes?”

And there it goes all the courage you have collected for the past ten minutes. Shattered completely as he stopped the scooping mid-way to his mouth.

“See. That’s what happens when you let cats get into your mind. When your guard is lowered, thinking they’re just small creatures that can do you no harm; they took the chance and get your tongue.” He says, then continues eating.

“I am sorry, good sir. But I am willingly and consciously serve my tongue for their enjoyment. Speaks nothing but praise. And they’re very pleased, so they return it.”

He gave out a very monotone gasp.

“They’ve got my best friend under their control. I must go on a journey to find the materials so I can create the machine to reverse the effect of their alien-like ability.”

“She’s your best friend? How sweet, oh, puny mortal. But there’ll be a legion of our army that’ll stop you. By the time your machine is done, she’ll forever be gone. Nothing and no one can save her.”

"A hero will never give up. With the power of friendship, love, and bravery, I will not let anything stops me."

Usually, the odd banter lasts longer and gets weirder by the minutes, to the point that both of you forgot of what you two are previously doing or talking. But this time it doesn't work. What you expected was that you'll just magically drop the L-bomb in between the exchange. Instead, that thought makes you aware of the possibility and suddenly words were lost.

"Y/n? You okay?"

"Yeah. Things get progressively harder to overcome."

"Our made up stories, exam, or something else?"

"Something else."

"What is it?"

You're extremely frustrated by how easy it is to continue talking when it’s just jokes or normal trivial conversations. But when it comes to serious business, you suddenly have no power to speak...

Then you get an idea.

"I got a joke. Knock knock."

"Okay? Who's there?"

"Will you."

"Will you who?"

"Will you be my boyf—."

"There you are! Always leaving us with the dust! Not this time, mate!"

After the initial shock that quite visibly makes you—and Deacy—jumped, you immediately throw your spoons at Dave and his friends that suddenly came. Pouting and fidgeting in your seat in silent anger as they approach you.

“How’s it, mate?”

“Shove those spoons right up your arse!”

It makes you even angrier that no one seems to care about why you’re very angry being disturbed. Not even Deacy himself, as he joins the others and laughs at you and Dave’s yet another antic when you keep hitting him as he tries to sit next to you. You ended up sitting next to Deacy after kicking the other boys that previously sat there.

“That’s his fucking food. I paid it specifically only for him. Shoo!” You yell again at some of the boys that try to put their spoon in Deacy’s ice cream. Slapping them like flies. “The waitress is coming back, buy your own!”

“It’s okay. Do you want some too, y/n? You did pay for it.”

It’s pretty clear that Dave can’t stop staring at the both of you when Deacy keeps on feeding you ice cream before you can even say yes or no. There’s something in the metalhead's eyes that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable. Though you did feel a little bad, he’s used to be the one that receives your attention the most, now you can’t even remember the last time both of you hang in a college gig.

“How long have you two been dating?” Dave asked, almost makes you jump in a surprise.

Deacy answered in lightning. “No no no. We’re not dating. I’m not sure we fit each other. I think I only pair with shy girls...”

There’s a sharp pain in your chest when you hear that. You stare at Deacy that’s not even giving you a side-glance after hearing such question. Does he even think about your relationship at all? It’s not even one year, wouldn’t that makes him question why you seem to not only clingy and protective of him, but also very forward? Or does he thinks that’s just how you really are?

“Not the first time you’re rejected like that huh.” Dave jokes.

“Go fuck yourself, David.”

You try your best to repress people’s laugh when they still think this is just the usual friend-insulting-friend jeer. But when you didn't join, the sounds quickly dies down, replaced with conversation and the sound of clanking. You want to change seat so bad; being too close with Deacy right now is very uncomfortable, after he straight up rejecting—well, softly saying he’s not into you. Eventually, you let the pang of pain in your heart submerged by the busy sounds of people talking, spoons clinking, and bustling streets as you play with your freshly ordered strawberry cheesecake. Never really a fan of sweet stuff, you think.

But I need it. Hell of a rejection.

One spoonful almost makes you cringe, but you chew them anyway, enjoying the sweetness in the now duller ambience. Has it always been this orange-ish brown in this cafe? Huh, this is the first time you noticed how warm this place feels. Maybe that’s why both you and Deacy always the frequent here. Whenever you are here with him, it’s always fun. Would it stay the same once your feeling is gone?

This one will go away too. Not the first time.

You hope it’ll be fast this time. Just another heartbreak. Not a big deal. You’ll move on, and Deacy will be like Dave, one of the lads that reject you from being a tad too tomboyish for their taste. You wonder will the next love ended up the same? You hope not.

***

“You look like shit.”

“No shit, mate.”

The gal just cut her hair short and now fully coloured it purple, as per your suggestion, and she looks great. C also think so and accepted G’s confession. You’re happy for them. Very happy. And wish that it’s just happy, and not incredibly envious feelings about her moving on fast from being rejected by Dave. Because of your misery from last rejection, that’s far before G is forcing you to start hooking her up with Dave. And right now G is about to celebrate her four months relationship with C.

That’s also why you are here. To cover G’s shift in the electronic shop G hook you in. As thanks for helping you get a job when you quit the car repair shop right after you see John flirts with one of the regular customer’s daughter. Cute girl, a wee bit younger, long blonde hair and blue eyes, always wear a bright coloured dress. Well, you have to admit, she’s very gorgeous. And one more thing; she does look like a perfect fit for Deacy. But that’s not what makes you immediately call the manager and formed your magnificent bullshit reason to quit. It was when she calls him Deacy.

“Hello?” G snapped her fingers again in front of you.

“What?”

“I’m going? But now I’m not sure that I should, with you like that taking care of the shop. You’re already on your second warning, y/n. Are you really okay if I leave?”

“Go on ahead, mate. C’s waiting.” You push her out the door. “I will be fine, it was just a couple hours. Worse case I will be zapped dead repairing Mrs Carla’s TV. Have fun!”

You purposely laugh out loud to make sure she buys your bullshit and didn’t stop until she’s out of the shop’s front. You slumped down a chair near the cashier and starts flipping the magazine you just bought; hopefully, it can kill the bore and the sadness. Alas, you bought a guitar magazine, and all you can think is now John. He invades your mind like he owns the place, jumped on the couch and start ordering you to listen on how important he is to your heart and soul. How you’re a queen that sits on a throne of liar for denying the truth that you missed him so much. This is the first time this happens. It was never like this, even with Dave—and you meet the dude almost everyday afterwards,—you moved on from him quick as lightning. But why? Why with Deacy—John?

What the fuck is going on with me?

It’s the same question you asked when you first realised how deep you have fallen for him. And then he rejected you softly, you try to drift a bit apart from him so you can move on and swoon on someone else. A cooler dude, perhaps, that’s just as cute, and as awesome as John when he shreds his guitar. But that never happened. You keep on staring at John and only John. His laugh always makes your heart warmer. A simple gesture like when he asks you out and helps you carry your project to the cafe. It’s not only the good, but the bad part also happens; you’re now very much aware when John uses his softer tone whilst talking to another girl, or how kind he is with them. He might just be friends with them, but it pains you so much to see it. Then you start making more distance, hanging more with your old pack. But then the arsehole Dave says that he saw John hang with this one particularly pretty redhead from another college.

“She’s all shy and cute. They look like a real couple, you know. But when you and D’s hang, you look like you’re bullying him.”

“Piss off, Dave.”

And that might be true. You always force yourself on him. Drags him places. What if all this time he’s saying yes not because he likes spending time with you? That he just doesn’t want to hurt you if he says no? You did say you are bad at reading people and knowing what the hell is going on sometimes. It is almost a year you slowly stopped hanging with John, and not once did John approach you, nor did many—which is a lot—of your mutuals mention John’s looking for you. Even worse, the one time they mention John, it’ll always be about him having a new girl holding hands with him. Maybe all this time you are just delusional?

Even so, you have tried your darndest to forget about him since his rejection. You tell your friends about your sadness—G, mostly, poor her—it doesn’t work. You try to pour it in form of letters and later burn them. As the fire is ablaze, so is your love towards him, so that also doesn’t work. C suggest you to make it into a poem, he said it helps him, he even sang them in gigs and people loves it. And you do it—not the sing in front of people part, just the poem. It’s still a fruitless effort. And your score took the brunt of it. You have been nothing but stressed, even more so knowing the final exam is near. You haven’t been studying.

“Good work today.” Say your coworker. “You know, if you’re sick, you should just tell Gun you can’t cover her shift.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been on autopilot.” Yet another bullshit excuse. “Exam, you know. But I will manage. Thanks for worrying about me.”

“I don’t. But getting you fired when we have many stuff still needs fixing is like shooting oneself in the foot.”

“Aw, geez, May, I’m fine! Don’t kill yourself worried like that!” You slap the lanky man’s shoulder. Damn, he’s tall. “If you keep it up like that, I might fall for you, and that might be a problem.”

“How so?” He challenges.

“One man making me miserable is enough. I can’t have you rejecting me as well. This lady only has one heart after all.”

He fell silent. Whoops, your jokes might go too far, or he simply couldn’t care less. But as you grab your jacket and get ready to be sorrowful again on your way home, May joins you.

“Going to the store?” He asks awkwardly. “You know, all that smokes will kill you someday.”

“It can’t come any sooner.” You joke again as you puff one. “I mean, sure, if you meant by the store is my house as well, you’re very much welcome, mate. Need some witness for my pity party.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, y/l/n. Don’t just give up on love just because of several guys happens to see less agressi—more composed girls.”

“Hah. At least you admit they're not up for the adventure. You’re right, they’re missing out big time; when I am committed to someone, I will love them with the entirety of it. But well, maybe that’s why I’m so bloody depressed right now.”

He looked at you softly. His hands are twitching, but then he put it in his pockets.

“You’ll find there are many men in your life that’s close to you, and the right one for you might just be around the corner.”

“He can’t come any sooner.”

The walk is a bit uneventful from that onwards, just a bit of conversation. You thought he was just bitter and hates fun—the way G describes him, but he’s cool. He knows a couple of good rock and metal bands, attended some, in fact, which makes you a bit curious whether you have met him before or not. Although you thank Brian May for making you forget about John even just for a bit by promising to buy him tea one day and in the end he tells you good luck on your exam. And, hmm, he's a bit cute? And you particularly like his kinky hair.

But as you arrive home, in an instant, your head and heart instantly switches back on thinking and feeling your love for John. The room is cold and empty. How you wish, somehow, John was here, waiting for you as he makes you both teas. Last year, today will be a horror movie night. You’ll play the guitar together, or some scribble, or heck, you’re close with final exam, both of you would most likely studying right now. You will bring home cheesecake from keeping him waiting.

And I did.

It is just a an empty wish for him will be here as impossible it is. But you still bought home two cheesecakes when you can’t even finish one. It was one of his favourite food. It’s too sweet for you, but you will gladly eat one with him. Now what should you do with two cheesecake? Call Dave to come? He used to be in John’s place after all, but it was a very long time ago. May? Even for someone as shamelessly bold as you, you know that’s a bad idea. Or maybe not?

But why? Why can’t I just be alone?

Because you know why, yet you dare not admit how much you miss John. How much you love him. Tears start welling up on your eyes. You know why you can’t forget about him; all the smallest hints that reminded you of him is everywhere. Cheesecakes, cafes, electronics, your house, horror movies, studying... And the acoustic guitar that you bought specifically so he can teach you how to play it, the more excuse for you to invite him to your house. Without you even realised, you grab the guitar and you sit on the terrace. Then you sing. Sing to your heart content. You don’t care how ear wrenching it is to listen to your own voice that breaks everywhere, and not to mention false. But you keep on singing and strumming the guitar with the only notes you’ve learnt. You wish to scream to your heart content.

I have suffered, but the love stays. If I can’t forget, then please, please, allow me to cherish my dreams. For without it I might die. For without it, for without him; I have no more reason to live.

“Please... I still love him... I missed him... I—.”

You are wide-eyed when you see a dark figure standing on the street, facing you. Maybe it’s just someone a bit disturbed and/or petrified by your awful symphony. But, no. It has to be him. Just as wide-eyed as you. Perhaps he has been that way? Or maybe you both spooked each other? Has he been there the whole time? Watching your dramatic blue moment; the snots and tears, voice cracks, and shit guitar skill?

Fantastic. He’s head over heels from the sight.

You wiped your tears with your t-shirt as you put down the guitar. The man is still there, and so you approach him, pretended nothing happened. You always know how to deflect with jokes, so you’re confident.

“O-oh, hi, John. What you got there?”

Not so confident... As you get closer, you can see his appearance clearer; even more handsome than the one in your mind. He wears that particular worn out button up shirt that you bought him as his birthday present long ago, the same dark blue jeans he wore the night you two met, and his school bag. But what caused you to ask is the same carton bag you get when you bought the two cheesecakes just now.

“How’s it?” You ask again, find it a bit rude not asking it after a long time no see. But you say it as you reach the carton bag. He pulled it away slightly from your hand.

“I’m... Good. How are you? Are you alright?”

“Where have you been, D? Don’t get a final exam in your college? Lucky.”

“Ah, every engineering students’ wet dream.” He joins. “It wouldn’t be counted as lucky. My college is on the planet Mercury.”

“Shame. I could not wish more than for your college to give you lots of exams once you get back. But, surely you have seen me. Undoubtedly, a human like me can’t resist the fiery passion, just like everyone else, when it comes to the final exam.”

“I don’t think it’ll be much of a blazing flame for the two of us.” He says as he hides the carton bag behind his back, forcing you to face him.

“Oh, absolutely not! Who ugly cries and screamed like a dying cat that actually is fine from the inside? They do. But certainly not me, excuse me for doing it ironically. How about you, fine sir?” You raised your hands in frustration and also to add to your dramatic statement, at the same time, distancing yourself away from him. Your heart is pounding like mad being that close.

“What happened, y/n? Are you really okay? I haven’t seen you for so long, it’s very worrying.”

“Oh, it’s a perfectly adequate! I have a crush on you, it turned serious. Ask you out, invade your personal space. Turns out I’m not your type. You know, blah blah blah, the common gossip. Now, what you got there? Cake? If it’s not for someone else, might I have it? To be honest, I am very hungry.”

There’s a small victory noise you make when you catch the bag and stole it from him. But as you check what’s inside, you take a peek at him only to find him covering his mouth with his hand; his face is bright red, eyes smiling, and eyebrows sky-high on his forehead. You feel as if your entire being is a firework, blasting through the air and exploding in bright colours when you realise why he’s like that.

“E-exam fried your brain, mate. Your sarcasm detector is rusty.” You say, try not to be too happy; you might be wrong.

“Most definitely. And I will just let you insult your way out of your own fake confession, you know, like a cunt that I am. To keep deflecting your obvious and incredible attempt at seducing a man. Thinking I was too uncool to be your boyfriend. You’re right, just another common fucking gossip.”

Now, you’re actually blasting off. You jumped in surprise when he yells that. He never yelled at you; hell, you never hear him raise his voice, even though he curses a lot too sometimes. But this time he full-blown raise his voice to almost the screaming level, especially when the colour of his face could match a ripe tomato, showing a very visible sign that he’s angry you still can joke about it. About your feelings.

But no words were uttered after that; you’re a silent statue, cheeks red, eyes wide, mouth’s open. Whilst he twiddles about, walking, trying to find something as he covers his mouth still, calming himself down. Hoping there’s a shovel he could use to dig himself a grave. Both of your heart is about to detonate, but you’re used to it at this point.

“Mate, if you’re not serious, know there’ll be consequences. And you wouldn’t like it.” You say with gritted teeth; from holding back your almost spilt feelings of joy.

He takes a quick step towards you, it’s also very clear he’s holding back his smile. He retorts out of habit; “what sort of punishment awaits me if I’m guilty your honour?”

In an instant, you grab his hips and get you body practically touches his; feeling his chest raise and fall, and his heart that’s beating also has hard as yours. You screamed in your mind for not thinking, and now you feel like passing out from the blood that’s rushing to your head.

“I will crush you and kill you with my love, and hugs, and kisses, and cuddles—everything. Don’t make me buy us engagement rings. So, until you plead guilty; that you are absolutely serious.”

John can no longer hold his smile. His eyes’ basically twinkling stars. Cheeks pinkier than the electronic store’s neon sign.

“Then I plead guilty.”

He cupped your cheeks and pushes his lips on yours. You closed your eyes, savouring the sweet taste of his mouth—it taste like cheesecake! He ate one before you that bastard! You punishes him by not letting him let go to breath. After couple more seconds that you wish were forever, you finally part lips.

“You are a demon!” He exclaimed, voice breaking as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. But he’s smiling wide.

“Oh you have no idea, and in fact, I could show you more if you’d like?” You say cheekily as you encircle him like a hungry shark.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“I will personally guarantee it.”

And you both smiled as your hand's links.

End (?).

+ ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— -

Omfg, it’s been long time since I write a reader-insert fan fiction, so writing this kinda makes me blush, especially at the end 😳😳😳😵😵

I really hope you enjoy it! There’s a big potential for this particular Tomboy!Reader’s story to be broadened into a serial, although I’m not sure if I can do it now since I have to study for final exam. But if anyone want to know about it, please let me know! 😉

One more thing! Feel free to request imagines or one-shots! :D

[julia-highstorms]

Play My Game (Tom x F!MC)

Author’s note: after latest ILB chapter, I needed something light and fun, so here we are! I imagine Tom and Julia as the most competitive couple ever and these two goofs are constantly competing over the most stupid things lol

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Pixelberry Studios.

Song: Play My Game - The Donnas

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Tom x F!MC (Julia Vance)

Word count: +2200

I almost broke my highest score

When you walked through that door

I lost my game and you're to blame

I could have been in the hall of fame

“Nooooo!”

“YES!”

Tom laughs maniacally as his Toad passes through a dizzy Yoshi, Julia’s avatar, after throwing a banana at her.

As soon as the green dinosaur stops spinning, the girl presses hard on the button, speeding up towards the finish line.

“Ugh I hate this fucking stupid rainbow road!”

Tom just keeps laughing beside her, his avatar easily gaining on the other competitors. Soon, Julia’s character shows up close to his.

It’s the final turn. The others are long behind. It’s only the two of them now.

She has to do something.

Suddenly, the girl throws the Wii control aside.

“What are you do—” - but Tom is interrupted when his girlfriend almost literally jumps on him, her hands in claws, ready to tickle him. - “STOP. I know what you’re trying to do!” - he says falling on his back, Julia landing on top of him, as he grabs her wrists with both of his hands, avoiding the tickling attack. - “I don’t fall for this anymore!”

“Are you sure?” - she smirks devilishly at him before showering his neck with kisses. Tom burst out in giggles, squirming beneath her. The girl’s fully aware how sensitive her boyfriend is, especially on his neck area.

Taking advantage of the situation, Julia pulls out and finishes the running while Tom still recovers from her attack.

“HA! First place!” - she makes a little dance of victory and Tom lets out a low curse.

“Hey, this wasn’t fair!” - his face still is all flushed.

“You’re such a sore loser, Sato.”

“How can I be a sore loser when you cheated?!”

“This is exactly what a sore loser would say!”

“Oh my God, you’re impossi—”

“I’m going out, kids.” - they are interrupted by Elliot as the boy crosses the living room and opens the front door of the old cabin, used to those two bantering.

“Where are you going?” - his sister promptly asks, forgetting the bickering.

“I’m going to meet Robbie. We’re going to the movies.”

“Okay, call me if you need anything! I can pick you up later—”

“Julia, it’s fine. Don’t worry about me. There are no more crazy cultists after my blood and mad grandma is gone. I’ll text you, don’t worry. You two have fun!” - and he leaves the house.

“When did he grow up so suddenly?” - she murmurs with tears in her eyes, but she soon recomposes herself. - “Anyway, where were we? Oh, right, I just defeated the unbeatable Tomoichi Sato on his favorite video game.”

“You won unfairly.” - he corrects her, but she just rolls her eyes and steps closer, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Well, what’s done is done.” - she states, her face now just inches from his. - “You know, we have the house all for ourselves—”

But before she can kiss him, Tom frees himself from her embrace and stays an arm long from her.

“I’m sorry, but cheaters aren’t allowed to get any of this.” - he points to himself and Julia groans in discontent. - “I claim for a rematch.” - and a devilishly smile spreads on his face.

Let's play ball we don't need a court

Just you and me baby full contact sport

And there's no ref to tell us to stop

So we can play until we drop

“Okay, this is unfair.”

“Why? You agreed on a rematch.” - Tom says, adjusting his glasses, that sly smirk still on his face.

“Yeah, because I thought we were going to play one of your video games again, like Street Fighter or whatever. Not that we were going to do this.” - his girlfriend explains, pointing to where they are and to the orange ball he holds. They’re standing in the middle of an empty basketball court in Swan Park. It’s a pretty sunny day and some people jog around and kids’ laughter can be heard from the playground area. - “You were part of a basketball team during your high school. This isn’t fair.”

“I just played it regularly for like, three years. And I spent one of it on the bleachers.”

“I spend my whole life on the bleachers, Tom.” - he chuckles.

“This will teach you to think twice before tickling or distracting me from my game.” - Julia grunts and they both start stretching out, their eyes locked on each other’s, defiant looks on their faces.

“So, who wins?”

“The one who gets more points, obviously. And just because you’re not used to playing it, don’t think I’m going to make it easy for you. Not after that betrayal.”

“Just shut up and let’s get this started already.”

“Guess you can defeat me?”

She smirks back at him.

“Oh, you’re on!”

After 15 minutes, they’re both panting, their eyes locked, carefully watching each other’s next movement. Tom’s winning, but Julia’s proven to be a great adversary, and she’s not too much far behind him.

“You’re not so bad like you said you are, Vance.” - he says, with the ball spinning on his point finger.

She gives him a sly smirk.

“Maybe beginner’s luck is by my side today.”

“Not for long!”

The game starts again. Tom races toward the basket, skilfully kicking the ball on the floor. She sprints closer, trying to grab the ball, but he’s dodges right on time. He flawlessly shoots the ball through the hoop.

“Damn your stupid... long arms!” - Julia curses, still a bit out of breath because of all that exercise, making her boyfriend giggle. They’ve never felt those 8 inches/20 centimetres height difference between them as much as now. - “What are you doing?!” - she asks as her boyfriend takes off his t-shirt.

“I am hot!”

“I hate you. I hate you so much.” - and mostly she hates how much she enjoys that view.

“Why? Am I too distracting to you, Vance?” - Tom smirks slyly, fully aware of what his bare chest does to her.

“You’re so dead, Sato.”

And without warning, she takes the ball and cross the court running. But soon Tom’s already hovering over her, trying to block her shoot. She can feel his chest bumping on her back as he tries to get the ball from hers.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Picking a full contact sport and taking off your shirt. Who’s playing dirty now, uh?”

“Well, now you know how I feel when you tickle me! Or when you start with all those damn kisses!”

“You love those kisses!”

“Oh, crap!” - Tom curses as Julia takes advantage of her short height, easily ducking underneath his arms and shooting the ball through the hoop. Another point. - “This was a good one.”

Tom’s about to go retrieve the ball, but Julia suddenly pulls him in. It’s all so fast and intense, and she’s far stronger than she looks, and the boy ends up losing his balance.

“Ouch.” -  Tom complains when his back hits the floor, with Julia clinging onto him, showering his neck with those kisses that make his head spin.

The game is already forgotten and he kisses his demanding petite girlfriend back, his arms around her waist, flushing her closer to his chest.

“I’m not gonna apologise for this.” - she stops for a quick second, cupping his face between her hands.

“I know. ” - he grins back at her. And that’s true. He already was half expecting it. That she would in some way turn his game against him, again. And he would end up falling for it, again. He always did. And to be honest, he just pretended to be mad at her. He actually enjoyed it more than he should. - “Although this is the second time you attack me just today. And I hit my back.” - she lets out a mischievous giggle.

“Tom… No… more… games...” - Julia says between pecks on his lips, hovering over him.

“Okay, I guess that’s... enough for today.”

She grins mischievously and leans down, kissing him fully. The kiss gets heated in no time, his hands on her hips, hers on his hair, their hearts beating fast and their breaths quickening…

“Hey, this is a public area! Go find a room!” - they’re suddenly interrupted by a known voice nearby.

They immediately stop kissing and look over to where the sound of whistles and cheers come from, to find their friends there, on the other side of the court’s fence.

“Woo you go, you two!” - Imogen jumps up and down, while Parker chuckles and Danni shakes her head disapprovingly at them. Tom and Julia immediately pull apart, faces flushed.

“Parker, can’t you arrest them for, like, excess of PDA?” - Danni turns to the police officer standing beside her. - “I’m pretty sure this is indecent behavior.”

“Well, they haven’t done anything too explicit yet… and they’re just making out and are in love. Let them live, Danni.”

“I am a hundred percent sure I saw a boob grab.”

Imogen and Parker laugh loudly as the couple stands up and walks toward them.

“Uh, hey, guys! What are you doing here?” - Tom asks, his face burning with embarrassment. He’s already put his t-shirt back on.

“I was taking pictures as usual when these two showed up.”

“Today’s my day off and I like helping the Boy Scouts whenever I can.” - Parker smiles proudly.

“Well… I’ve met with a lawyer earlier today and my head was so full of everything that I needed a bit of fresh air.” - they all smile to Imogen. She surely was the one who suffered the most with all that hell that happened a few weeks ago, losing her best friend, her horse and her parents. Naturally, she inherited all her parents possessions and properties and was having to deal with the legal part of it. - “And today’s such a beautiful day, so I came in here and bumped into Parker and Danni. I was just telling them about this new restaurant that opened nearby when we heard your shouting.”

“That was a pretty intense game, guys. Well played. I didn’t know you played, Julia.”

“I don’t, but someone...” - Julia answers Parker, playfully bumping her shoulder with Tom’s. - “...is a sore loser so we were having a rematch.”

“I’m not a sore loser when you cheated to begin with!”

“So, will you come have lunch with us or what?” - Danni interrupts before they start bickering at each other again. - “I’m starving.”

They both immediately decide to go with them.

“Yay! Follow me!” - Imogen squeals and the group walks together in a relaxed pace, enjoying the shadow of the trees. - “The restaurant is right in front of the park entrance! You’ll love it! They have these killer fries and this pink lemonade—”

“Wait, wait, will we be able to pay it?”

“Of course you will! I don’t eat only on fancy restaurants, you know!” - Imogen chuckles. - “And I can pay your part if you don’t have enough money, Danni.”

“I wouldn’t accept it, but thanks, Genny.”

“Nonsense, we’re friends!”

“Anyway, my wallet thanks knowing that I can pay it.”

“Seconded.” - Parker agrees.

“Thirded.”

“Fourthed.” - Tom and Julia say. He looks down at his girlfriend with a grin, her hand interlacing with his, while he carries the ball on his other arm. They walk a bit behind. - “Guess we’ll have to put our rematch on hold.”

“‘On hold’? I clearly won. Again.” - she smirks. - “Just accept this, Sato: I won, you lost.”

"I guess you hit your head when we fell because I was winning. But what do you say we solve this next? This still isn’t over, Vance.” 

“You’re insufferable. Lucky you that you’re so darn cute and I love you.” - and she kisses his cheek, whose grin widens. - “Hey… do you want any help packing up your things tomorrow?”

The boy feels his heart shattering a little. The summer is almost over and he’s moving out of Pine Springs the next day now that all that supernatural weird stuff is gone. And he wants to spend every moment he has with Julia. And this is why they’ve been hanging out daily with each other for the past weeks, because they already miss each other. And this is why he likes teasing her to keep with that stupid playful competition between them. Because they know they’ll be months apart until they can see each other again.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.”

“No problem.” - she smiles warmly at him, squeezing his hand tighter as they enter the restaurant. - “...But I’ll pick what we’re going to play next.”

“Okay, and what will it be?”

“Strip poker.” - she whispers on his ear and watches with satisfaction her boyfriend’s face turning a shade pinker. She bit back a laugh. - “I’m joking. I don’t even know how to play poker.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.” - he immediately seems more relaxed. - “Can you imagine? What if Elliot came back home right in the middle of the game and found ourselves in our underwear there? I guess I would die of embarrassment.”

“Haha, Elliot would probably just ignore us but lock me out of our room.” - Julia laughs as Danni yells at them:

“Hey couple! If you don’t hurry up there’ll be no seats left for your pretty asses!”

“Jeez, so bossy! We’re coming!” - she yells back before turning to her boyfriend again: - “We’ll continue this later, Sato. And you’ll play my game.”

“I can’t wait.” - he kisses her temple and they join their friends.

Well you can play my game

But I’ll put you to shame

Tagging @littlecrookedheart @pixelburied @mysticgayralsei @breaumonts @christopher-powell @madhattterusagi @noahpologiste @samira-yazdi @mysteli @indiacater @indescribablechoices @emomoustache @choices-fanatic @edgydepressedchoicesthot @violarobics @withoutanyconfidence @tiz-rex @priya-trash @alicegma @thequeenchoices @srta-give-me-my-jax-rl

[urmomsstuntdouble]

whippity woo, it’s chapter 2

you can read it down there too if you’d prefer that

An anachronism is something that doesn't belong to its place or time. To Catra, that definition was redundant. A time was as much of a place as the alley she smoked in or the library she worked at. The only difference was that you couldn't choose your place in time. So really, an anachronism was something alien to its environment. Then again, there wasn't a point in getting worked up over stuff like that. She could always look away from the word-a-day calendar on the principal’s desk. But she was in trouble, and it would be a lot harder to look him in the eye when he scolded her. So she kept her head down, and remained critical of the calendar.

“Ms. Driluth,” He began drawled, “Do you know why you’re here right now?” She shrugged. It could have been anything, although three specific things stood out: The money she stole from Alicia Jordan, the fight with Iggy’s girlfriend, or her foster dad's drug ring. She wasn't sure how any of those had made their way to her principal, but it didn't matter. She was handling things.

The principal sighed. He leaned forward, and picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

“Are you aware of your grades?” She shook her head. “Ah. Allow me to read them to you. In English, a C. In Algebra, a D. In Biology, an F. In History, a C. In Spanish-” He sighed, and set down the paper. “Do I need to continue?”

“Any A’s?”  

“No.”

“Damn, I was really hoping to keep my 4.0 going strong,” She mused sarcastically. The principal did not appear amused.

“This is no laughing matter, Ms. Driluth. If you can't bring your grades up, you’ll be suspended.”

“I never understood the point of suspension,” She said, finally raising her head. “I’m doing bad in school so I don't have to come? What kind of sense does that make? Not that I’m complaining,” She added, “I don't get it is all.” The principal was not amused. His eyes remained focused on Catra, his brows furrowed and his jowls pinched into a frown.

“Don't change the subject.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Getti.”

“Hmm. For now, all I can do is give you detention.” He pulled another slip of paper from his desk and began scribbling all over it. “You will stay for two hours after school every day until Thanksgiving break.”

“What?! That’s not fair!”

“I think its absolutely fair, Ms. Driluth.”

“I have work after school! How am I supposed to do that and detention and bring my grades up?” Mr. Getti shrugged.

“You should have thought of that before you decided to slack.”

“But, Mr. Getti!” Catra could feel the whine slipping into her voice. She hated whining, but she wasn't done talking yet. It was quite the predicament. “That’s so long! Break isn't for another three whole weeks! I can't-”

“Not my problem, Driluth. Take it to someone who cares.” He handed her the detention slip. “You will report to room 205 after school.”

“Come on, Mr. Getti. You have to at least let me do my time on the third floor.”

“That will be all, Ms. Driluth. Now get out of my office, you’re wasting my time.”

“Oh, I’m wasting your time?” Mr. Getti pulled off his glasses and fixed her with a serious look.

“Would you care to make it four weeks?” Catra prepared to retort, and almost started yelling, but managed to reign herself in.

“No, Mr. Getti,” She gritted out, “I’m absolutely overjoyed with my three weeks.”

“Excellent,” He replied. “Now get out of my office before I call security.” Catra stuck out her tongue, grabbed her backpack, and stalked out of his office. She kicked the door shut with as much force as she could muster. She her foot was in the air to kick it again when someone called her name.

“Hey, Catra!” She recognized that voice. As if like magic, her worries faded away. She spun around, a grin on her face.

“Adora!” Down the hall was Adora, her best friend in the entire world. She was tall with blond hair and blue eyes, and could have a career in modeling if she didn't love sports so much. Catra put up a hand and waved- As if Adora would have a hard time spotting her in the empty hallway. “What are you doing here? Isn't it fifth period?” Adora shook her head.

“Nope, lunch just started. I was talking to Mr. Ross. What are you doing here?” Catra shrugged.

“Nothing much, just Mr. Getti fucking hates me.” Adora’s face was immediately sympathetic.

“What happened this time?” Catra held up her detention slip.

“Fucking three weeks of detention is what!”

“Why?” Adora asked, her nose scrunched into a button.

“Apparently, my grades are too bad- Which they’re not, by the way. I swear he has it out for me.” Adora hummed in acknowledgement.

“How are they? Your grades?”

“They’re fine. I’m not, like, failing everything, if that’s what you mean.” Adora hummed again.

“Good.”

“Yeah,” Catra said. They stood in silence for a moment, before Adora shifted her backpack and sighed.

“You, uh, ready to go to lunch? I’m starving.” Catra nodded.

“Yeah, sure.” The pair turned and began walking towards the cafeteria. Catra kept her head down as they walked, trying to align her feet with the tiles of the floor. She didn't actually want to eat lunch, but Adora did, so she’d go too. Most days, she only ate enough that Adora wouldn't worry about her. Adora worried a lot, and sometimes, Catra didn't mind it. At others, Catra would rather Adora stayed in her own lane. Besides, she didn't get it. Catra couldn't eat lunch. She was too fat to eat three meals a day.

“So, I’m just curious, but, like, how are your grades?” Adora asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. “School hasn't been the same without you.” At the start of the school year, Adora got into all honors classes, leaving Catra behind in the world of regular-ness. She’d been badgering Catra about applying for next year ever since she found out she was going to be taking special classes.

“Fine.”

“How fine?” Catra bit her bottom lip, heat prickling at the back of her neck. She always hated this part. It was fact by now that whenever she talked about school, Adora's response made her feel stupid. Adora’s better test scores and neater notes had a remarkable tendency to rain on her parade. So Catra preferred to keep school out of their conversations.

“Not bad, okay? I’m only failing in Bio now, so-”

“You’re failing?!” Adora said, “That’s not fine! Do you need help studying?” Catra shrugged. It was an offer Adora had made before, but one she never accepted. She could handle her shit. She was handling it.  

“I think I’m good.”

“But you always say that, and you’re still failing!”

“Yeah, but I don't have- I can't.  Bio is just harder for me than you.”

“Sure, but-”

“It’s all good in Catra-town,” She said, and slung an arm around Adora’s shoulder. “Now come on. You have to tell me what happened in Razz’s class today.” Ms. Razz was a history teacher, and the least sane woman on the face of the Earth. She was absolutely insane, and many students hated her. Catra didn't have her, but she knew enough people who did to have a good grasp on how insane the woman was.  

“Oh!” Adora perked up, “Not much. Lonnie made a joke about cocaine, then Ms. Razz started ranting about the Opium Wars and Pablo Escobar.”

“Sounds delightful,” Catra said, and pulled her arm away from Adora as they reached the cafeteria.  

“I guess. But, like, none of her classes are ever on the same page. Its so annoying sometimes.” Catra shrugged.

“My Spanish teacher is like that too. I think he’s an escapee from a mental hospital or something.” The expression on Adora’s face was something of a cross between amused and curious. Part of it was natural inquisition, and the other part was that in New York, the rumors were more true than you’d expect.

“Cool,” Adora said, “I’m gonna go get our seats.” She left, running off to their usual table. Catra rolled her eyes. Adora had been doing that exact same thing since the first day of sixth grade. It must've been Pavlovian at this point. Catra qualified for a free lunch, so she got one while Adora found a table. No matter how many other people sat with her, she always made sure to save a seat for Catra. Never once in four years had Catra gone without a seat at lunch. That was nice. Sometimes nicer than others- Like when Catra actually got to sit at the table, rather than on Adora’s lap. But anyway, Catra had stability in her lunch table, which was more than some people could say.

After her mother died, her friends passed Catra around for a few years like in a game of hot potato. The last friend she stayed with had kids of her own. Her name was Ms. Weaver, even to her biological children. It was almost a full year before Catra gave up and sent a letter to Child Protective Services. Two months later, they showed up. They couldn't find anything wrong with the place, to Catra’s dismay, so they left. Later that night, she learned what it felt like to take the clasp of a belt to the eye and what the scar looked like.

But it was fine. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened. And Catra was well aware of the risks- CPS would have had to take them for everything to have been alright. Ms. Weaver also had three more children that she was taking care of. Their names were Esme, Mick, and Luch. None of those were nicknames.  For the longest time, Catra had assumed their actual names were Esmeralda, Mickey, and Lucia, but that wasn’t the case. All three were younger than her, and sometimes it seemed like they had a bond. Other times, Catra feared them. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone. She couldn't be afraid of someone whose head barely reached her shoulders.

After a couple minutes of waiting, Catra was able to get her lunch. Her current foster dad had obscene wealth, although you wouldn't know it from looking at him. He was a tall man with hair dyed blue.  He wore eyeliner, but you usually couldn't see it from behind his red-tinted sunglasses. Parenting was not a priority to him. All he shared with Catra from his life was how to fake tax returns. She was pretty sure he had only taken her in for the benefit of his drug ring. Ever since she moved in with him, her arrest record was filling with drug charges.

After she got her lunch, she made her way over to the table. Adora had, as always, saved her a spot. Also at the table were Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, three people Catra had known since before her mother died. At one point in time, they were her best friends, but such ceased to be true when the three of them switched into honors classes. But it was fine. Catra had new associates in her regular, shitty classes anyway. She didn't need them.

“Hey,” She said, setting her lunch on the table. Lonnie was the first to look up from her conversation with Rogelio.

“Hi,” She said, and immediately went back to talking to him. Rogelio was an interesting person, to say the least. He was tall and bulky, and had a green mohawk. When he was younger, he was a mute, but now, he could sort of talk. The only person who understood him was Lonnie. Their whole thing was super weird to Catra.

“Hi, Catra,” Adora said. She had become distracted with something- Homework, by the looks of it. She ate an apple with her right hand, and wrote with her left, not looking up.

“Whatcha doin, there, Adora?” She asked.

“Oh, this?” Adora glanced up, and took a bite of her apple. “It’s for Spanish.”

“Que interesante,” Catra replied. Spanish was an interesting subject for her. Her mom spoke some Spanish before she died, and Catra heard it at work, but never the kind they taught at school. That was always peninsular Spanish. And boy, were the Spaniards on something. Catra much prefered the sounds of New York immigrant Spanish to the bastardized version of Madrid Spanish she learned in the classroom.

“Verdaderamente!” Adora agreed, and went back to her worksheet. Great. Now that Adora was working, Catra had nobody to talk to. Well, she could talk to Kyle, but, like. It was Kyle. Come on, now. So instead, she ate her soggy, fattening french fries.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to the vending machine,” She announced to nobody in particular. Nobody looked up or acknowledged her. After a moment, she got up anyway. Instead of going to the vending machine, she wandered around the cafeteria. She was virtually unnoticed. She weaved around people and tables, seldom making eye contact with them. A few faces were familiar from class or drug deals, but most were completely foreign. But that didn't matter. She had Adora, even if the other girl was always busy with homework and sports.

As Catra wandered, she caught the eye of someone she recognized. A small girl, her hair braided, and her eyes almond shaped. The girl, along with a group of others, frequented her library. Though they had never spoken, Catra felt tempted to wave or go over and talk to her or something. What kind of conversation would that be? Hi, I’m aware of your existence. Please make me aware of more. That would be super weird. So Catra sent the girl a curt nod and kept walking. She wasn't sure, but she thought the girl nodded back.

When she grew bored, Catra returned to her table. She sat next to Adora, and tried to be quiet, but it wasn't long before she grew bored and time slowed to a crawl. With a groan, Catra grabbed her backpack from the floor. Doing her homework was always an option- And there was that Algebra worksheet she had to do. Doing math in any capacity usually made her hate being alive, but seeing as her grade was- What? A D? She could stand to do some more work. Her foster dad would kill her upon becoming aware of the D in math.

It wasn't long before they could leave the cafeteria. By the time the bell rang, Catra had gained frustration and understood less than she had when she started the worksheet.

“Ready to go?” Adora asked her, and she nodded. Catra was especially ready for gym in seventh period. That was her only class with Adora this year. But she had to slog- Or sleep- through Biology to get there. Maybe that was why she was failing that class.

“Yeah,” Catra responded, “Let’s go.” They walked together for as long as their schedules would allow before parting ways.

“Bye!” Catra called out, as she turned and started going up the stairs.

“See ya, Catra!” Adora yelled back. Catra grinned to herself. She loved the way Adora said her name, even though it was wrong. She fell into the common pitfall of replacing the first ‘a’ with an ‘e,’ but the way she finished the name off was unique. It was something only she had ever said before, and that made it special. The way Adora said her name…Catra couldn't put her finger on it, but it was sort of like a secret only the two of them knew. It was a shame Adora had a phonetic name and the secret couldn't go both ways.

Catra struggled to force herself through the rest of the day. Biology was on brand in levels of tediousness. When seventh period rolled around, Adora didn't even pay Catra any attention. She was too busy talking to some other girls from her fancy smart classes. Well, that was fine with Catra. She wasn't stupid. She understood that sometimes Adora had people besides Catra who wanted to talk to her, and she couldn't talk to Catra all the time. It was also annoying. Adora was her best friend, not Lonnie’s, or whoever else she was hanging out with.

Though she never joined the conversation, Catra eavesdropped all class. She caught little snippets, mostly from Adora. The other girls she was walking with had softer voices- Although Catra was pretty sure one of them was talking about her dad leaving. Which, by the way, she needed to grow up. Getting stuck up on shit like that only made it worse. And the girl seemed very stuck up on it. She had her hair dyed blue and everything. Heh. Probably part of her rebellious phase or whatever. As soon as her dad started paying child support, she’d be fine, back to being complicit in rich girl world.

When school was finally over, Catra did wind up staying for detention. Even though she talked a lot of shit, she needed to keep herself out of trouble right now. Her foster dad was losing his patience with her, and any more big screw ups would get her sent right back to the home. Or worse, Ms. Weaver’s apartment. She shuddered at the thought.

Despite not giving a shit about her, her foster dad was actually decent as foster parents went. He usually didn't hit her, and he wasn't very mean to her- if not blunt sometimes. He wanted her to do well in school, but didn't every parent? He was nowhere near being a parent, but he kept her safe and gave her money, and that was alright with her.

After her detention was up, Catra had to run to the library. She almost didn't make it in time for her shift, but that was sort of okay. Her job wasn't super important. Most of what she did was shelving books and putting labels on new ones. She made four dollars and hour doing it, and often saw people from school milling around. That day in particular, she spotted the girl she had seen at lunch. The girl was with a group now, who may or may not have also been at school. They hung out between shelves, made lots of noise, and didn't appear to care that they were in a library.

They stayed throughout her entire shift. When Catra was on her way out, she one of the actual librarians stopped her and brought into a side room.

“I’m sorry to hold you up, Catra, but we need to talk,” She said, as though she was talking to a child.

“Okay. What’s going on?” Catra asked slowly, only a little scared of the answer. The librarian sighed, and pinched her nose.

“This is hard to say, but…We’re broke. The library is out of money. We’re going to have to either close our doors or get rid of some employees.” Catra’s heart sank. She couldn't afford to lose this job! Where was she supposed to go after school? And what was she supposed to do about money?

“O-Okay,” She mumbled, glaring at her shoes.

“Its pretty unfortunate. I tried to convince my bosses not to fire anybody, but they didn't listen. So, Catra, I’m sorry to say this, but…You’re done here.”

“I understand,” Catra growled. Her life was over.

“I’m so sorry,” The librarian told her, “But we just can't afford to keep you on, and you’re in a low level position and everything. Its not an ideal situation.”

“It’s okay,” Catra said, composing herself. “I get it, man. No money, more problems, you know?” The librarian looked somewhat relieved.

“Yeah, totally. Its been super rough here the past few months. I’m sorry, though. That’s the first time I’ve ever had to fire anybody.” Catra had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Why did this librarian care so much? She didn't even know the woman’s name. “Oh, and, um. We’ll still send you your paycheck for November at the end of the month.”

“Thanks,” Catra nodded shortly, and then left the room. She took off her name tag and spiked it into a nearby trash can. “Fuck me,” She mumbled, and grabbed her backpack from behind the main desk. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” She kept mumbling as she went on her way. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“Yo, you okay?” Catra was tugged from her thoughts by a somewhat familiar voice. She glanced around, and eventually noticed the girl from school. Instead of responding, her first instinct was to wave. She almost did before putting her hand back to her side.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got fired,” She said, a little bitter.

“That’s rough,” Said the girl. She left her spot leaning against a bookshelf and approached Catra. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I’m, uh, I’m good,” Catra said as a reflex.

“Oh, good. I don't know shit about talking feelings,” The girl said, and ran a hand through her hair. “Me and my girls were about to hit up this party down in Soho. You wanna come?” Catra shrugged. She should be getting back home. Her foster dad might want her to make a run tonight. Then again, fuck him. Wasn't that supposed to be someone’s actual job? He could get another drug mule whenever he pleased.

“Yeah, sure,” She said on a whim, “Let’s go.” She left with the girl and her group of friends, not knowing a single one of their names. By the night’s end, she learned a couple names- Tamari, Johnny, Matea- but likely couldn't pin them to faces. The music at the party had been okay. Nothing she particularly loved. But more important was the exorbitant quantity of alcohol present. The party was in a storage unit owned by some kid who went to Catholic school, with almost enough beer and Franzia to make Catra wonder if they were okay. Then again, she drank enough to make herself wonder if she was okay.  

She remembered that night in flashes. When they arrived, she was one of the few people in the room who looked like her. Most people wore tight shirts and baggy jeans, or tiny shorts with fishnets, or their hair like Madonna. Catra was anachronistic in her shredded black jeans, dark flannel, and Yankees cap. She felt the urge to find Adora and cling to her side, but Adora wasn't there. Adora was at home studying or something, like the good girl she was.

Catra clung instead to the group she had come with. They didn't pay her much attention, except to ask if she wanted a drink or a joint. She never turned anything down. At some point along the way, her goal turned from having a good time to losing the ability to think. She couldn't remember why; she was overcome by a horrible wave of sadness around ten and replaced it with alcohol. Then came the realization that being drunk was really fucking fun. She was a better dancer and singer, and she was funny.

When she woke up in the morning, Catra learned that the amount of fun one had while drinking was proportional to the amount of suffering the next day. When she woke up, Catra thought she might actually be dying. It was the equivalent of a biblical apocalypse inside her body. Locusts, floods, the whole nine yards. And that was only the headache.

“Oh, fuck me,” She tried to say, but her voice was so hoarse it came out as more of a whisper. She blinked in the bright light of the early morning, and brought a hand up to rub at her eyes. Shortly after, her greasy skin and tangled hair came to her attention. “Shit.” She glanced around her surroundings, and found herself in an apartment. She had no idea whose, but it wasn't the one they had started off in. That was a little strange, but it wasn't the worst place she'd woken up.

The first thing she noticed about the place was the carpet. It was soft under her fingers, and for a minute, she laid there and ran her fingers across the floor. She wasn't sure why, but the softness of the carpet gave her hope. Maybe because the person who lived here had a nice carpet, which meant it was possible for someone like her to have a nice carpet. At that point, what was stopping her from  having a nice carpet? But then again, she drank so much last night she struggled to remember getting drunk. So she didn't know if the owner of the carpet was like her at all, and she was back at square one.

Sitting up turned out to be a mistake. Catra’s vision went dark and she would have collapsed, were it not for the couch behind her. Her headache was not helped at all by sitting up; in fact, it increased tenfold.

“Oh, shit,” She mumbled.

“Shuddup,” A voice groaned from behind her, and a hand fell down onto her shoulder. Catra yelped in shock, and jumped to her feet. Also a mistake, but she was too busy paying attention to the adrenaline to notice that she wasn't ready to jump yet.

Laying on the couch was a girl- Catra believed her to be one of the people she had gone to the party with. The girl was face down, although she hadn't changed her clothes. She wore a denim skirt and a leather tank top, and had tightly coiled hair. Probably tight enough to fit a finger, but that was an experiment for another time.

“Tamari?” Catra guessed. The girl shifted her hand, dangling off the couch. She held up one thumb, and Catra wasn't certain, but she thought there was a small grin on the girl’s face.

“That’s me,” She sang. Catra nodded.

“O-Okay, great. Um, where are we?” Tamari shrugged.

“I ain’t remember, man,” She said, and shifted on the couch to face Catra. “I’m fucking tired,” With a giggle, “I’m still drunk.”

Catra grunted in response. She cursed herself for going along with a group of people with a similar distaste for sobriety. Tamari groaned, and shifted into a different position. Facing Catra, she was able to squint around the rest of the apartment and see what she could see.

“This looks like, uh…Matea’s place. Well, it ain’t belong to her, it belongs to her parents, but, uh…” She trailed off. “Shit, man, this couch is fuckin comfortable.” A corner of Catra’s mouth twitched.

“Is it soft?” She asked.

“No shit,” Tamari responded. She pulled her knees into her chest, leaving the other side of the couch open. “You can sit if you want.” Catra did. She more curled into the armrest bit, as she was finally free of the tremendous effort of standing while hungover. The couch was a haven, and so soft. Not quite as nice as the carpet, but also not far off. If only she could have slept on the couch last night too…

In a couple hours, almost everyone else had woken up. This was, indeed, Matea’s place. Matea was a small, Eastern European girl who spoke with a heavy accent and had a mouth full of dying teeth. She claimed not to be rich, but her family had more money than Catra would know what to do with. As it turned out, daydreaming of infinite wealth got boring after you fixed all your problems. Even so, drowning in money never did sound all that bad.

“Anybody want eat something?” Matea asked, her voice low and gravelly. Catra shook her head, even though she was hungry. She sat with the group of strangers while they ate, and attempted to recall their names. It wouldn't be long before she remembered what day it was.

“It’s Thursday!” She shouted, jumping to her feet, “Shit, what time is it?” She glanced around wildly for a clock. There wasn't one in the room she was currently in, so she ventured off to look for one. Nobody followed her, and she eventually found one in a bedroom. It was ten thirty two, and she should've been to be in English right now. She didn't even know where she was, let alone how to get all the way back to school! Oh, this was all too much. Her foster dad was going to kill her when he found out she missed school.

“Yo, Catra!” A voice called out, snapping her back to the moment. “Where you at?” She stepped out of the bedroom, trying to compose herself.

“Over here,” She said, trying to keep her voice lower than it actually was.

“Yo,” A boy said, turning the corner. “What’s your deal?”

“What’s my deal?” She echoed, “It’s Thursday, dude. I need to be at school.”

“Chill, bro. We're skipping today.”

“I can't skip,” She said slowly, “My dad-”

“Man, fuck your dad,” The boy said, “What’s he gonna do to you? You got a job, right?” Catra shook her head.

“No, dude, I got fired last night. That’s the whole stupid reason I went with you to that party!”

“Alright, chill. My bad.” The boy scratched the back of his head. “But you still got some money, right?” She nodded. “A’ight, so what exactly are you so afraid of?” Catra opened her mouth to respond, but found that she didn't know. She blinked a couple times, trying to think of something. All her foster dad cared about were her grades and selling drugs, so if she could keep her grades up, who cared about her attendance? He only hit her when she deserved it- And she could take it anyway. So, yeah, the boy was right. There wasn't anything to be afraid of.

“Actually, yeah. You’re right,” Catra said, “Son of a bitch doesn't care about me anyway.”

“Yeah, see, you’re fine,” The boy said, “Now come on. You needa eat something, for real. You’re skinny as hell.” Catra held her tongue on arguing with him, even though he was wrong. It wouldn't lead them anywhere.

That was the first time Catra missed school. It was a sort of definitive marker in her life, although she wouldn't remember it. She would only remember that it started when she was a freshman. It wasn't long before she started showing up to school drunk, too. Those were the best days. Everybody loved her when she was drunk. Adora thought she was hilarious, and actually paid attention to her when they talked at lunch. By the time her detention was up, Catra had learned a whole new way of living.

There was only one downside to drinking and smoking and partying like she did. Her foster dad didn't like it. And yeah, he hit her a couple times, but there was nothing wrong with that. Nothing that she could see, at the very least.

Not once did it ever occur to Catra that she would develop an addiction. It was always just this once, or just for fun. But that was the thing about becoming an alcoholic or a drug addict. You say just this once, then twice, and the next thing you know, you’re addicted. And she didn't even realize it. On a subconscious level, she was able to better understand why her foster dad sold drugs. He got his highs from selling, and Catra got hers from using.

As the school year progressed, Catra grew further and further apart from Adora. From the outside, it was quite natural. Everybody thinks childhood friendships are parallel lines, but that couldn't be further from the truth. They each fell in with their new friends and people. Unfortunately, Adora found her people while Catra was left behind with people she couldn't force herself to love. All the while, she watched Adora get everything she ever wanted without even trying for it. They still spoke, but not as much. It was over Christmas break that Catra realized she wasn't Adora’s best friend anymore. That revelation was about all she remembered from that week, actually. She found herself blacking out more and more lately. Who could blame her? She was watching herself slip away from everybody she cared about, and there was nothing she could do about it.

By the time spring rolled around, the Catra most people claimed to know was dead and gone.

[randomredneck]

What’s In Store

Some time ago, I asked the very nice @corvusiel if I could write a fic based on their grocery store Mabifica pics. I thought they just never answered. Turns out this hellsite ate the goddamn answer notification and I just found out they said yes. Anyway, here it is. I hope you enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------

“Farewell happy fields, where joy forever dwells: Hail horrors, hail infernal world...”

That quote was a bit of an exaggeration given the situation it was being mentioned in. An average grocery store. But the blonde girl standing behind the counter wasn’t average. No, she was rich...or, she used to be.

“I’ve never even been to one of these places, and now I’m working here. Why me?”

This was Pacifica Northwest. Daughter of the formerly prestigious Northwest family. Formerly, because as of a few weeks ago, they were flat broke.

“Me, working in a grocery store. I could have bought this place if I wanted to. Now I’m working for...what is that thing regular people make...minimum wage? Yeah, that’s it.”

She sighed, trying not to dwell on her previous life of luxury. That just made the monotonous boredom of her new situation all the more maddening.

“How people don’t go insane from the dullness is beyond me. I wish something would liven this place up a little...”

She was about to get her wish and then some. She was broken from her moping when two hands slapped down on her counter.

“I need your glitteriest paint!”

She jumped near a foot at this. Though the surprise quickly changed from startling to intriguing. Cause her newest customer was cute.  Short brown hair, a cheesy shirt reading ‘You make my heart meowlt’ and a general air of peppyness to her.

“I’m sorry, but we only sell food here.”

That did not seem to put a dent in her attitude.

“Do you have edible glitter?”

Pacifica suddenly realized this girl may have been a little...off.

“I am fairly certain that’s not a thing, miss.”

That caused the other girl to giggle. Said giggle strangely made Pacifica feel a lot less bored.

“Kind of weird to call someone the same age ‘Miss’, isn’t it? Let’s fix that. I’m Mabel.”

She extended her hand, Pacifica giving the expected shake.

“I’m Pacifica.”

Mabel’s ears perked up at that name.

“Pacifica, Pacifica...Northwest? Oh, I know you! I saw your family on the news. You were super duper rich and went totally broke when your dad invested in a bunch of startups that went belly up and also got sued to heck and back cause he embezzled from them, right?”

The annoyed glare Pacifica was giving her indicated yes, that was them.

“Yes. Thank you for reminding me of my situation. I’d almost forgotten...”

Mabel didn’t quite seem to grasp the sarcasm there.

“You’re welcome. Anyway, I have to go find that paint. You never know when you’re gonna need glittery paint. Ta-ta!”

She bounded out of the store, Pacifica shrugging.

“Weird girl.”

Well, the weirdness wasn’t over. As she found out the next day at work. When a walking pile of snack foods and 2 liter soda bottles waddled over to her register. Setting her veritable buffet down on the counter, the face of Mabel was revealed.

“Oh, hey! I forgot you worked here.”

Pacifica looked from her, to the mountain of snacks and whatnot before her, and back again.

“Are you stocking up for doomsday or something?”

She shook her head.

“No. Me and my brother prevented that last week...well, he did. I was on a date with this super cute girl...til it turned out she was working with that horde of 9th dimensional ghost Sasquatches my brother was dealing with...”

Pacifica rung up her items in a flash, lest this story get even weirder.

“Anyway, I’m stocking up for a party. I’m not sure who it’s for or what it’s celebrating, but my party sense has been tingling lately. I have a party sense you know. Ever since this time with a gnome and...”

Pacifica cleared her throat, motioning to the other customers waiting behind her.

“Oh, my bad. I’ll tell you some other time. Bye!”

She hauled her party supplies out the door, Pacifica taking one specific thing from that conversation.

“...She likes girls. Huh.”

Lo and behold, she was back the next day. Her booty this time was a 6 foot party sub.

“Where are you getting the cash to afford all this food? I was rich and even I think this is crazy.”

She set the sub down on the counter.

“Oh, I got struck by magical lightning from a Centaur wizard. Fun side effect is I know every sports score for the next 10 years. So when I need a little capital, I make a tiny bet. Piece of advice: American Samoa is gonna shock you at the next Olympics. Don’t tell anyone else.”

As she prepared to leave, she stopped for a second.

“Say, are you free this weekend? Cause this party I’ve been planning is this Saturday. You look like you could use a little fun.”

A party with a super weird, super cute girl she’d known for 3 minutes intervals for the past 3 days. Any sane person would say no.

“Sure. I guess it’s better than staying at that cheap rental house we’re living in right now.”

Mabel’s eyes lit up.

“Sweet. I’ll pick you up this weekend.”

She ran out with the sub in tow, Pacifica feeling a small blush filling her cheeks.

“...Huh. There it is again.”

The weekend approached way too slowly for Pacifica’s tastes. Standing outside the store, she waited for her chariot of fun to arrive. 

“Hey, perspective pal of mine!”

Yet again, she jumped near a foot at the sound of her voice.

“Mabel, jeez. I didn’t even know you were here. Where’s your car?”

Mabel giggled.

“Who needs a car? I get here with this.”

She pulled a little slip of paper out of her pocket.

“Let’s go. Tropelet .em eus .Yrots acifibam tsal ym morf ekoj lleps sdrawkcab eht gnisuer m'I!”

In a flash, the two vanished from the store. And reappeared in the party area of some run down shack.

“Man, that’s never not fun. How was your first teleport spell?”

Her response was to run to the nearest trashcan and paint it with the last thing she ate.

“Oh, right. First time is always a little rough on the old tummy. But hey, now there’s room for all the party food. Happy birthday, Pacifica!”

Pacifica lifted her head from the trashcan.

“Wait, what?”

She glanced around the shack, laying eyes on the banner. And there in glittery paint was ‘Happy late birthday Pacifica!’

“Wait, how did you know when my birthday was?”

She laughed.

“Wikipedia. I saw that story about your family going broke. Then I Googled you cause the picture of you was super pretty. And I noticed you went poor a day before your birthday. That couldn’t have been a fun day. That’s when my party sense kicked in. And here we are!”

This almost complete stranger, who was also magic somehow, had just teleported her across who knows how far a distance to throw her a late birthday party based off an internet article. Pacifica should have been pissed off/weirded out/a little scared that magic existed. Instead, she actually started crying.

“This has been the worst few weeks of my life! I lost all my stuff, my house, my friends ditched me when the money,left and I had-”

Mabel quickly silenced her with a hug.

“Come on, now. A lady shouldn't cry at her party. Everyone is here for you. Now let’s party!”

Pacifica looked around, wiping her eyes.

“Uh...we’re the only ones here.”

Mabel looked around too, reading the paper again.

“Whoops. Threw a little time travel in there. We’re a few hours early. Hang on.”

One backwards incantation later, and the two popped into the right time frame, the room now full of people.

“There we go. Let’s party!”

And party they did. Mabel broke away from the crowd, covered in silly string and having a good time.

“Woo, I throw a good party.”

Pushing through the celebration, her brother leaned against the wall next to her.

“So that’s her, huh?”

Mabel nodded.

“Yup. The girl I saw myself married too when I accidentally jumped into the future by accident.”

Dipper scratched his cheek in worry.

“...Seriously though, Grenda? Would it be wrong to try and change the future.”

Mabel chuckled.

“I’m not changing mine for the world.”

[ssportsnews]

Brazil advances to the finals for the 22nd consecutive time... 28 World Cup tickets left

토토 사이트, 카지노 사이트, 파워볼 사이트, 온라인 카지노, 토토먹튀,파워볼먹튀,카지노먹튀 

 [anchor]

It's not just the Asian qualifiers. Each continent is pouring out spectacular goals in a fierce battle to win a ticket to Qatar a year later. Brazil, which was the first in South America to qualify for the finals today (12th), also set a record for all World Cup openings in history.

This is reporter Jung Jae-woo.

[reporter]

< Azerbaijan 1:3 Luxembourg｜World Cup European Qualifier >

I didn't expect to see a goal like this in the match against Azerbaijan, last in Group A, and Luxembourg, who didn't enjoy their fourth match.

Rodriguez, watching the opposing defender's header, flew into the sky as soon as he received the ball with his thigh.

[Local Broadcast: I am a really exceptional finisher!]

< Uganda 1:1 Ghana｜World Cup Africa Qualifier >

An absurd goal appeared in the African qualifier.

Kenya took the lead with a header following a free kick.

With one minute left before the game ends, the goalkeeper runs out of time like a jog without handling the ball.

Then, Bayo of Uganda, who was running, pushed the ball back to the starting point.

Uganda retained their second place in group stage with a draw.

The Kenyan goalkeeper's clumsy behavior made soccer fans suspicious of match-fixing, saying, "It doesn't look like an honest mistake" and "It's an absurd situation."

< Brazil 1:0 Colombia | World Cup South America Qualification >

Brazil, who threatened Colombia's goal several times, received a pass from Neymar in the 26th minute of the second half and Paqueta eventually scored with his right foot.

Brazil, who has never lost in 12 qualifying matches, has also set a record for the 22nd time in the World Cup, without any exceptions.

< Germany 9:0 Liechtenstein｜World Cup European Qualification >

A penalty kick, through the crotch, and through the head, and even an own goal of the opposing team.

Even after qualifying for the qualifying rounds, Germany enjoyed the victory by scoring nine goals in the match against Liechtenstein.

After the host country Qatar and Denmark, there are 28 tickets left for the finals, and the World Cup fever continues with these tickets until next year.

[seventeen-scenarios-blog]

[SCENARIO REQUEST] Hufflepuff!Seokmin x Hufflepuff!Reader

Written for: @puffyamieyumi

Okay, so this is a Hogwarts AU written for admin Seokminned’s friend, and she was in the Hufflepuff house, so I’m sorry to other Seokmin stans out there that belong to other houses! But it was really fun writing this out and I hope you guys enjoy it anyway!

If you would like some more speculations between more pairings from different houses, feel free to request for them when our requests are open ^^

wooed<3

Half blood from his father’s side, he discovered his powers after a bike crash left him floating in mid-air when he was seven

Wand: springy, unicorn hair core, alder wood, 12"

Patronus: An Australian animal called the Quokka. Seokmin loves it because it’s always smiling like he is

SUCH. A. SWEET. STUDENT.

Fell in love with charms on the first day of class. His eyes just sparkle whenever he does a successful spell, and his amazement and enthusiasm at everything magic just makes him so loved by the professors

Also has a flair in potions. He's known to improvise and experiment (sometimes leading to rather disastrous results), but he never gives up until he finds the combination that gives the most potent results.

He and his best friend Mingyu would often stay behind in the potions room after class to try out these concoctions.

Tried out for quidditch as a beater once but quit out of guilt because a particularly strong hit from him knocked a Slytherin seeker Jihoon right off his broom

He was cured in like, 5 seconds because, well yunno, magic

But it left Seokmin so scarred he never wants to get on a broom ever again

Precious child ;;

Also has a saw whet owl that he LOVES SO DAMN MUCH. She stays perched on his shoulder all the time instead of staying in the owlery.

It’s not allowed, but who would dare tell the cute boy off?

The owl's also too small to be delivering actual packages. His friends point that out on more than one occasion and Seokmin just gasps, reaching over his shoulder to cup his buddy's ears

"Shh don’t listen to them you’re perfect okay?"

You and Seokmin have been pretty close friends since you first met. He sits next to you during the welcome feast

He normally sits next to you in potions. More often than not he has to help you with brewing the concoction at the right temperature

You also represented Hufflepuff as the quidditch team seeker for a year, the same year as Seokmin's first, and last.

He’s saved you from a raging Quaffle more than once during the season, and you’re grateful for that

But you only start getting REALLY close to him during the Christmas of year five

For some reason, neither of you could go home to celebrate that year

Mingyu had his own celebration together with the other prefects, leaving Seokmin feeling lonelier than ever

To be honest Seokmin has already been feeling distanced from his best friend ever since Mingyu became a prefect and got a girlfriend

After lunch, you entered the common room only to see Seokmin sitting by the fire staring blankly into space

"You didn’t go back home for the holidays?"

“Nah..." he sighed.

He explained to you that his muggle side of the family was over for the holidays and his dad wrote to him, asking him to stay away from home a bit because they weren't exactly... receptive

You frowned a little, but understood his issue.

Seokmin has always been such a bright sunny kid, and seeing him looking this forlorn makes you unsettled

“Hey, you wanna play a game of exploding snap?"

You had pretty sharp reflexes as you had been a seeker, after all, but you would think a beater like Seokmin would fare pretty well too?

But no?

You keep laughing as the cards explode in his face

“How are you so bad at this?” “Cards never explode like this back at home!”

You both quickly move on to wizard chess when he accidentally singed his temple

He even teaches you his native muggle games (your favourite one was ddakji and surprisingly Seokmin’s also hilariously bad at it)

The night passes like this. Mingyu and his girl join you with pints of butterbeer afterwards, and the four of you had a blast

Easily your favourite Christmas of Hogwarts

Needless to say, Seokmin and you got reALLY close after this.

You both start walking each other to classes.

He offers to carry your books and parchment for you, but eventually it evolves into a playful game of wingardium-leviosa-hohoho-try-to-catch-your-potions-notebook-nawh-you’re-so-short-it’s-really-endearing

"LEE SEOKMIN YOU’RE DEAD MEAT"

You tackle him in an attempt to wrestle the wand out of his hand but this only causes him to trip

You both fall backwards screaming

Seokmin catches you before you could land badly, but this also leaves you staring at him dead in the eyes

Dammit he’s so frickin adorable

Your books crash-lands at who-knows-where, but you both cant care less

But of course, the moment had to be ruined by someone.

"... AND SEOKMIN SITTIN' IN A TREE. K-I-S-S-I---"

"KIM MINGYU."

But anyway everyone basically knows by now that you and Seokmin have a thing going on

And Seokmin finally confesses to you on Valentine's’ Day.

Whether the flush in his cheeks was due to the February chills, or his embarrassment, you couldn’t really tell.

But either way, you throw yourself onto him with an eager “OH MY GOD, SEOKMIN, YES!”

It comes as no surprise to your friends when you announce that you’re dating him, and tbh everyone is lowkey jealous because you’ve scored the sweetest boi on earth

LIKE OMG IMAGINE

Being really great in Charms, Seokmin gets inspired by the Howler and makes his own spinoff AAAAAAA

You first receive your first ‘Singer’ waking up a week before final examinations, Seokmin’s owl watching you with its adorable, beady eyes.

A WEEK. BEFORE. FINAL EXAMINATIONS. Seokmin had done all this for you!!!!

You open the letter up curiously and imagine your delight, instead of hearing the usual screaming, the letter starts singing in Seokmin’s melodious voice

“I wanna be your morning baby, from now on it’ll be alright~”

You’re melted, you can’t move. RIP you.

After examinations end, you bring him out to the quidditch field to fly, even though Seokmin swears up and down that he’ll never mount a broom again.

“Seokmin, relax, there’s nothing here that can hurt me.”

You eventually coax him to sit behind you on your trusty Starsweep, his larger body spooning yours as you kick off into the air

His grip on your waist tightens as you shoot up towards the sky, and his face is pressed between your shoulder blades.

“Seokmin, I’m fine! You’re fine! Open your eyes!” you yell above the wind as you soar around the school.

And he does, and you’re both greeted by the picturesque sight of the sun dipping beneath the lake

His trepidation eventually melts into exhilarated laughter, and his hands coming to clasp over yours. You loosen your grip on the broom ever so slightly, letting Seokmin take control.

He flies the both of you to a secluded spot between the school towers, and you’re both left to busk in each other’s presence

You had your first kiss suspended in mid air, and to this day you still feel like you’re walking on air

LATE NIGHT ESCAPADES TO THE KITCHENS (bless Hufflepuff’s common room location)!!!!!!

One night when you’re both staying up late to study, you start feeling peckish

Seokmin senses it and gives you a playful grin. “Wanna head down to the kitchens?”

YES

The house-elves recognise you and let you into the kitchen with a lot of knowing smiles

They love the both of you so much tbh. One time, you both nearly get caught by the caretaker on patrol, but the house-elves leap in to save your skins by conjuring up a whole freaking cabinet for you both to hide in

“Was this cabinet always here”

“WHY OF COURSE, SIR. NOTHING SUSPICIOUS HERE.”

Sometimes the elves leave your favourite food out, but at other times Seokmin offers to cook for you instead

And BOY HIS COOKING IS SO DAMN GOOD

It ranges from simple cookies to full-out bubbling, spicy, savoury stews. And you’d sit in a circle feasting together with the house-elves

Mingyu comes in to steal some food occasionally, Seokmin shoos him off. But eventually the two start cooking side by side while you and his girlfriend hang about awkwardly at the table.

Year seven arrives and you both become STRESSED AS HECK

Seokmin really wants to start his own business with his special charmed romantic gifts. They were already in pretty high demand throughout your school after the students discovered his ‘Singer’.

You had your own ambitions too, but you’re most definitely ready to spend your future with Seokmin.

Your dates become a lot less frequent but neither of you minded that much

I mean, you have your whole lives together ahead of you.

That doesn’t mean he stopped giving you gifts and showering you with so much affection every time he sees you

And that also doesn’t mean you stopped checking on him to make sure he’s healthy and happy and that he’s not overworking himself too much

If anything, it just means that your relationship is much stronger than ever.

STUDY DATES FT. YOUR MONTHLY HONEYDUKES STASH

Seokmin makes sure to feed you a piece of your favourite candy every now and then while you’re busy burying your head in books.

From chocolate frogs to sugar quills, both of you’d eat them all

You both take a break once Seokmin unwraps a box of Bertie Botts with a glint in his eyes

“Lee Seokmin, don’t you dare.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

It ends with you happily chewing on a cinnamon bean while he chokes on his earwax-flavoured one.

Essentially, Seokmin would make sure you’re always happy with him

Your NEWTs arrive and a whole month of stress ensues

But that only makes the end of the examinations all the more rewarding

Especially when your beloved boyfriend pulls you out of the great hall once the final exam was adjourned to celebrate, both your delighted laughters ringing through the school.

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (38/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: I’d like to take this moment to apologize to all the sports teams I absolutely trash in this story. I have very strong feelings about my teams and even stronger feelings about not my teams and that’s probably obvious in every single word, but I care a lot about the New York Rangers. That being said, let’s trash on Pittsburgh some more. And have some in-game moments, which is always so much fun to write since that’s, you know, my job normally and I’m real proud of the actual game-play in this story. As always this is nothing if you guys don’t read it and even more nothing without @laurnorder, @beautiful-swan & @distant-rose (who is the real MVP and has listened to me this entire week during the week from absolute real-life hell).  Also on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

“You have to get up,” Emma mumbled, kicking back slightly.

“Nope,” Killian argued. “I’m not going.” “You have to go. They’ll fine you otherwise. I can’t believe you guys didn’t leave yesterday, actually.” “Trying to get rid of me, Swan?”

His arm tightened around her waist and his bed really was way more comfortable than hers, but he had to leave early and she needed to stay in the city and there’d been some sort of unspoken agreement about coming back to her apartment this series.

It was definitely athletic-based superstition.

They won after Emma found him on 110th, a shutout on Garden ice and Killian had star’ed and Soyer got dropped down to the fourth line, only a few minutes and a handful of shifts. Roland was the first one to point it out, shouting about ice time and Killian scoring in back-to-back games as soon as they’d shown up at the restaurant after post.

So they just kept doing it.

And Killian’s bed was comfortable, but Emma would have been lying if she didn’t get some sort of something whenever she woke up next to him in her own space.

She was probably growing as a person or something.

“The opposite,” Emma mumbled, realizing rather belatedly she hadn’t actually answered the question. “Did we not prove that already?” They’d left the restaurant early – or earlier than they probably should have if they were still trying to do anything even remotely resembling under the radar. They weren’t. They’d made Page Six again that week.

Ruby tried to hide it. Elsa e-mailed her the link.

And it almost didn’t matter – Emma hadn’t checked any subReddit's in days – but it hadn’t been an easy series, losing the second game at the Garden and Arthur’s post-game presser afterwards had reached some kind of viral sensation status.  

So as soon as they’d forced a Game Seven and they didn’t leave for Pittsburgh right away, there were a few glances and a few more hands lingering on her back and the curve of Emma’s neck and they left before finishing a full plate of onion rings.

“I’m not opposed to some sort of repeat performance,” Killian said and Emma swore she could feel every single letter.

That might have just been his hand.

“Some sort of repeat performance,” Emma repeated slowly, raising her eyebrows and that kind of smirk on his face should be illegal at whatever godforsaken time it was that morning. It was definitely early.

“Was that not what you were implying?” “You’re taking all the romance out of this.” The smirk got bigger. Ass. “Swan are you implying that you’re trying to woo me? I’ve got a game to focus on.” “Ah, well, that’s fine then,” she sighed and she couldn’t quite stop the yelp she let out when he grabbed her as soon as she tried to start moving. “Jeez, you’re going to break one of my bones.” He almost looked affronted, but the smirk was still there and still stupid and, well, she couldn’t really tease when neither one of them was actually wearing clothes.

“I would never let any of your bones break,” Killian said. She wasn’t quite prepared to dive into the deep end of serious, but his voice was even and intent and he didn’t blink when he stared at her, hand feeling unnaturally heavy on her hip.

“No?” Emma asked and he shook his head before the word was even out of her mouth.

“No,” he said again. God, his eyes were blue.

“That’s cheating,” she accused, twisting around so the sheets were wrapped around her and in between them and maybe they were going to break one ofhis bones because there was no way his wrist was actually supposed to bend like that.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Swan.”

“You’re doing that thing with your eyes.” “Looking at you?” “Yeah,” she mumbled and he was absolutely laughing at her, fingers still trailing over her hip. That was cheating too. “Exactly that.” “I could not look at you.” “That would mean you’d have to actually get out of this bed and get on a flight for Pittsburgh.”

“It barely counts as a flight. And they should have let you gone too.”

Emma scrunched her nose. She hadn’t travelled at all this series, some reason from Zelena that almost made sense about setting up fan events across the city and Rangerstown is in New York, Emma, that’s just the way it works and, well, it did almost make sense.

It didn’t make it any less frustrating to not be at games and she wished she’d been in Pittsburgh when they’d won Game Five if only to see the look on Soyer’s face when she walked through the hallways of the Paints.

“I’ve got that thing in Bryant Park tomorrow,” Emma said. They’d been over this, the plans and the blur of a few hours that had mostly just been signing forms and getting that band from opening night back and if it rained, Emma was going to lose her mind.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Killian sighed. She tried not to groan when he moved his hand, pulling it away from her hip to run over the front of his face. “I’d just rather you were there.” “You know that sounds decidedly clingy, Captain.”

Killian laughed, pulling the sheets away from her to tug Emma back up against his side. They probably should have put more clothes on at some point. The lack of any sort of cotton-based barrier made it very difficult to remember all the reasons he needed to get out of her bed.

“Yeah, it might be,” he agreed. “Or it could also be decidedly romantic.” “Which one do you think it is?” “Well, you’ve already accused me of cheating and staring and now clingy so I’m not sure we’re really moving in any sort of romantic-type direction.”

“I never once said staring ,” Emma argued, nearly jumping up when she moved to knock her knuckles against his chest. “I said you were looking at me.”

“And that’s cheating somehow?” Emma rolled her eyes as soon as he started smiling at her. “A distraction,” she muttered, pushing her fingers into his hair and she didn’t remember moving until she was practically on top of him, legs on either side of his hips.

“That word, Swan.” “Yeah, well this time it isn’t coming from the internet. And you are...” She waved her hand through the air, not entirely certain what she was trying to point out. It seemed kind of silly to actually say the words ridiculously good looking when she was practically straddling him.

“You ever going to finish that thought?” Killian asked, fingers tracing up her side until Emma’s breath caught in her throat and he lifted his eyebrows.

“Figure it out.” “I’d much rather hear you say it though.” “You’re very frustrating, you know that?” Killian hummed, lips pressed together like this was an even remotely serious conversation. “And apparently a distraction. Correct me if I’m wrong, love, but I don’t think you’re the one with a flight to catch.” “Just a million and two forms to sign,” she said and the words weren’t quite as even as his were. That was probably because he wasn’t trying to focus on letters and coherency with a hand in between his legs and Emma was having a hard time not simply collapsing on top of him. He’d planned on that – of course.

That smirk was stupid.

“Ah, you’ll figure it out, Swan,” Killian said and the idea of doubting him was as stupid as that smirk that wouldn’t leave his face. “You have all season.” “This is bigger than that, though. What if it rains?” “People will get rained on.” “They won’t like it.”

“They won’t care if we win.” Killian chuckled under his breath and she’d stopped even trying to sit up straight anymore, hand pressed flat on the tiny bit of mattress by his shoulder as she started trailing kisses along the curve of his jaw.

He stopped laughing almost immediately, shoulders rolling back into the pillows and maybe Emma was a distraction. “We don’t have time for this,” she whispered, but she’d closed her eyes when his hand moved again and she hadn’t actually stopped kissing him yet.

“I don’t care.” “You have to go win a game.” “You don’t know that’ll happen, love,” he said softly and Emma pulled her head up to meet his gaze. He looked as nervous as he sounded, that moment on a park bench uptown echoing in her memory and they had to win.

This had to work.

“Yes, I do,” Emma promised.

“That’s quite a lot of faith you’re putting in me, Swan,” Killian said. His voice kept shaking. He didn’t look away from her.

“I know. But there’s a reason for it.” “Yeah?” Emma nodded, thumb brushing across his face and he desperately needed to shave. He couldn’t shave. Bad luck and sports-based superstitions and it scratched against her cheek when he kissed her.

She liked it.

“Because this is going to work,” Emma continued, not entirely certain she was actually proving her point. Her mind was a convoluted mess of belief and certainty and she hadn’t been ready for any of it, hadn’t been entirely prepared to find Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, sitting on a bench on 110th Street, but if anyone was going to believe in him then she was going to make sure it was her.

“You’re sure of that?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah. I am.” “Why?” “Because I’m choosing to see the best in you,” Emma answered. “And that’s not the face of the franchise or even that enormous cardboard cutout they’re going to put in front of the fountain in Bryant Park. That’s everything else. That’s saving my events and Henry’s house and did you know you lift Roland up every single time you see him?” Killian quirked one eyebrow and his eyes flashed up towards her, something she could only define as want flickering in his gaze. “I hadn’t,” he said softly. “Just instinct. Or something.” “Exactly.”

He tugged her down back towards him, hand pushed into her hair and around the back of her head and it was slow and meaningful and he kissed her like they’d already won Game Seven. He kissed her like he believed her.

“Did you say something about a cardboard cutout,” Killian mumbled. She hadn’t moved yet, could feel his lips move against hers when he spoke and Ruby would probably notice the red on Emma’s cheeks from the playoff beard that afternoon.

Absolutely horrible at under the radar.

“I did,” Emma laughed. “They’re going to put them out so people can pose with them.” “Oh my God.” “It’s almost cute.” “What happens with them when you’re done with your event?” “Well, we’ll probably use them for the Cup Finals.”

“If.” “When.” Killian smiled at her, right hand toying with the ends of her hair while his left kept tracing up the line of her spine. “You could keep it here,” he suggested, widening his eyes when he moved again and Emma had to bite her lip so she didn’t actually groan at the feel of him against her.

They didn’t have time for this.

She didn’t care.

“Here?” Emma repeated and breathing was absolutely overrated, an unnecessary requirement that she couldn’t bring herself to be concerned with when Killian’s hips moved again.

“Well, where else would you put it? Insert something about how you can have me around all the time or whatever.” “Somehow, I don’t think that’s quite the same,” she stuttered. Her head bounced on one of the few pillows she’d actually bought in the last two months and Killian was, somehow, above her, hips still moving and hands still moving and Emma’s whole body felt like it was on pins and needles.

It kind of felt like waiting for Game Seven.

It was, easily, the dumbest, most sentimental thing she’d ever thought in her life.

“Ah, that’s true,” Killian continued, muttering the words into her ear before trailing his lips across her neck and the hollow between her collarbones and every inch of her was probably going to be red by the time this was over.

He hissed in his breath when she wrapped her hand around him and maybe they were on more even footing than Emma had originally thought. They were, after all, still decidedly undressed.

“What are the rules about trimming this?” she asked, tapping one finger against his jaw.

“You don’t like it?” Killian laughed. “It’s good luck.” “I didn’t say that. It’s just long. And scratchy.” He should probably smile like that all the time, Emma thought. Ah, that was the most sentimental thing she’d ever thought in her life.

She twisted her wrist and Killian squeezed his eyes closed, lips sinking into his lower lip and Emma felt something shoot through her that might have been want or need or maybe just a distinct amount of belief.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled.

“We’ve been over this. I don’t care.” Killian rolled his hips again – like that proved that – and muttered something about quick and it wasn’t exactly the most romantic thing he’d ever said, but it didn’t really matter. He groaned when his body met hers and Emma gripped his shoulders tightly, meeting him movement for movement and kiss for kiss and there wasn’t much finesse to any of it, but he kept mumbling words in her ears and her own name echoed in the room as soon as she shifted a very particular way.

And it was as fast as it had to be, and just a bit desperate, but so was a Game Seven, the inability to get out of that bed in the apartment she still couldn’t quite think of as hers without him there, but it still didn’t matter.

She closed her eyes again, the sound of his I love you, Swan lingering in the tiny bit of air between them and tried to remember every motivational-hope speech Mary Margaret had ever given, anything she’d ever believed in when she was a kid and getting shipped from house to house and state to state and she couldn’t.

She couldn’t remember believing in anything as much as this.

As much as him.

No, she corrected herself quickly, as much as them.

Sentimental fool.

“I love you too,” Emma whispered. “And I’m not bringing a cardboard cutout back here.” Killian laughed and the nerves weren’t quite as palpable anymore, eyes not leaving her face as he did his best not to crush her. “That’s fair.”

“I mean,” she continued, words falling out of her mouth without her explicit permission. “You’ll be here, right? That seems kind of better.” “Kind of?” “Well, I didn’t want to assume.” He bent his head and kissed her quickly, squeezing her hip. “I’ll be here, love.” “Good.” “We’re going to win,” he said and Emma wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“I know you are. No jinx.” “No jinx,” Killian repeated, smile wide and eyes still on her face and she was probably blushing now in addition to whatever kind of red trail he’d left behind on her neck.

He blinked once and hooked one of his fingers through her laces, tugging lightly until she started to grumble about ripping them. “Although,” Killian added. “They are fairly well-rested now on the other side.” “Look who’s jinxing who now.” “I’m just saying. A five-game series in the west is a lot different than a seven-game series here in some sort of rivalry matchup.”

“Yeah, well that’s because LA doesn’t actually have any real rivals. Because they’re a dumb team in a dumb city with an ugly color scheme.”

Killian barked out a laugh and his lips ghosted over her temple as he kept his fingers trailing up her spine. “I don’t intend to let you down, Swan,” he said softly and Emma bit her tongue so she didn’t do something dumb like cry.

Or buy her own goddamn ticket to Pittsburgh.

“You won’t.”

The text message came four hours after he walked out her door and Mary Margaret asked why Emma was smiling like an idiot in the corner of her couch. She didn’t use those words. David did. Mary Margaret flicked her fingers on his shoulder.

Made it to Pittsburgh. No turbulence. Scarlet yelled anyway. I love you, Swan. Your place tomorrow night, win or lose.

It didn’t rain – which was good since they couldn’t actually bring tents into Bryant Park.

There were, however, a sea of fans and people and slightly confused tourists who couldn’t understand who these guys in uniform were.

“You’d think they’d never even heard of hockey before,” Emma grumbled, Merida on her heels with a clipboard and a schedule and they were both wearing headsets.

This event was questionably enormous.

She tried not to think of all the ways they’d have to, somehow, top this if they made it to the Finals. When. When they made it to the Finals.

“Well,” Merida reasoned and she was jogging now to try and keep up with Emma. “To be fair, some of them probably haven’t.”

“Yeah, but they’re not trying to bid on signed merch.” Merida shrugged. “They might.” “What time is it?” Emma asked, ignoring that particular brand of positivity completely. She didn’t have time to linger on the possibility of tourists bidding on a ridiculous amount of signed merch. That was another reason she was glad it didn’t rain. They didn’t have anything to cover the merch with.

God, this event was half a moment away from disaster.

“We’re fine, boss,” Merida promised, just barely avoiding Emma’s back when she stopped suddenly to find half of the cardboard cutouts knocked over in front of the fountain.

“God damnit,” she mumbled, grabbing the first one she could and putting it upright. “And that didn’t answer my question.” “We’ve got twenty minutes until puck drop.” “Ok,” Emma said, only turning around when a cardboard version of August Booth was standing back upright. “And the alums are here?” “Taking pictures with people who actually know what hockey is already.” “Good, that’s good.” “It’s going to be fine, boss.” “Sure it is,” Emma answered distractedly, spinning when she heard her name.

David was wearing a jersey and Mary Margaret actually had a hat on, the brim bent a little bit and her class had probably told her she had to wear it that way. Emma’s smile was instantaneous and Merida might have started to breathe a bit easier as soon as she stopped demanding updates on how much time they had left before puck drop.

“Hey,” Emma said, walking towards both of them. David looked like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and he laughed loudly when he noticed the cardboard cutouts. “You guys made it.” “Emma, you sent a car,” Mary Margaret said reasonably.

She had. An appropriate use of team resources. She didn’t really care. She wanted her friends there if this didn’t go the way she wanted it to.

Mary Margaret totally knew. It was probably why she’d worn the hat – to distract her or something. David would have been too busy screaming at the TV.

Or the giant movie-type screen thing they rented. It wasn’t really a TV.

“Anyway,” David said pointedly, nodding towards the admittedly loud crowd that was already scouting seats in front of the screen. “This is going to be awesome. God, how many permits did you have to fill out to get that thing in here?” “More than I knew existed,” Emma admitted, throwing a grateful smile Merida’s direction. “Did you guys honestly bring chairs?”

“Where else would we sit? On the grass?”

“I don’t know. I figured a blanket.”

“We brought that too,” Mary Margaret said and Emma hadn’t noticed the folded up patchwork tucked underneath her arm. “You know, just in case you had two seconds to sit down.” “You were going to make me sit on the blanket while you guys got chairs?” Emma laughed. “I’m not actually your kid.” “We only had so many chairs, Emma,” David said quickly, brushing over whatever apology was on the tip of Mary Margaret’s tongue.

“I understand, Dad. Henry and Rol will probably want to sit on your blanket anyway.” “They’re here?” Emma nodded, eyes darting to the alumni booth around the corner to find Roland Locksley directing fans into single-file lines and photo ops with an ease that didn’t surprise her as much as it probably should have.

“There were apparently game-day rules I wasn’t aware of,” Emma explained. “Some kind of schedule that’s been set in stone since the dawn of time and they couldn’t go to Pittsburgh because it would jinx it. I don’t think Rol or Henry cared much. They were more than happy to just start running around the park as soon as they got here.” “Where’s Regina?” Mary Margaret asked, head on a swivel as she tried to find a well-tailored pantsuit or the tell-tale signs of heels clicking on sidewalk.

“Pacing somewhere,” Merida said. “Last I saw she was reading Post stories on her phone and creating some kind of ditch on 42nd Street.”

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue sympathetically, staring at Emma like she was knew she wanted to start pacing on 42nd Street as well.

She didn’t have time.

“Boss,” Merida continued sharply, tugging on her shirtsleeve. The cardboard cutouts had fallen down again. Or knocked down.

Emma groaned, head rolling back between her shoulders and the cardboard cutouts were more trouble than they were worth. “Maybe we should just take them down,” she suggested as a particularly enthusiastic fan kicked at Phillip’s cardboard counterpart. They were wearing a Pens jersey. “Oh my God,” she sighed.

“I got it,” David said before Emma could even think about moving. He was gone half a second later, yelling something she couldn’t quite understand and Mary Margaret looked torn between impressed and something that might have been proud.

The guy stopped kicking cardboard immediately, shoulders slumping and Emma’s jaw was practically on the concrete.

Ten minutes until puck drop.

David said something else and the guy nodded slowly, glancing down towards his shoes. He ran away – actually ran.

“Did you just flash your badge at that guy?” Emma asked when David came back, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Maybe.” “David. You didn’t have to do that. We’ve got security.” “From a park,” David scoffed.

“And some of the 17th precinct. We are not without protection, Detective.” “Your cardboard cutouts would beg to differ.”

Emma twisted her lips, but she couldn’t even start to feel frustrated, just a bit stunned that Detective David Nolan had actually flashed his badge at a Pens fan to stop beating up her outdoor decorations.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Mary Margaret might have been crying. “I saved you a spot.” “Wait, what?” Her head snapped up at the genuine surprise in his voice and Mary Margaret was definitely crying, soft sniffles audible even over the already-chanting crowd packed into Bryant Park. “Well,” Emma started, shrugging like this wasn’t the big deal it absolutely was. “I wanted to make sure you could see the TV and we maybe, sort of, blocked off a spot. Over there.” Henry was jumping up and down, waving his hand in the air like they couldn’t see him – or hear him, shouting about David’s jersey. He wasn’t wearing a Jones jersey.

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, nearly knocking her over with the force of her hug.

“This is not that big of a deal, Reese’s. We blocked off some grass.” “Did you put tape up?” David asked incredulously and they’d somehow become some kind of six-arm’ed hug monstrosity.

“We had to make sure you had space,” she mumbled. Her face was pressed up against Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“Five minutes, boss,” Merida said.

Emma nodded again and David’s hand had worked its way around the back of her head as the three of them tried to pull themselves apart.

“Go get your space,” Emma said, nodding towards Henry and a patch of grass. Mary Margaret sniffled again and David squeezed her shoulder so tightly she was surprised his badge number didn’t just shift to dad automatically.

“We’ll find you for the third period?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be mostly done by then.”

“Thanks, Em.”

She didn’t stop moving for the first two periods, she was certain. The Pens fans came back and they did actually have to move the cardboard cutouts because a whole horde of kids had started trying to actually play hockey with them.

There were giveaways organize during intermission and, at one point, the sound wasn’t perfectly matched up on screen and Emma was terrified the entire park was half a moment away from rioting.

Her feet were blistered – Emma was positive.

She didn’t stop moving.

She was pacing and they were losing. Or, at least, not winning. Tied. 1-1 game and they’d just dropped the puck in the third period and every single one of her muscles felt like it was tightening.

She couldn’t stop moving.

Emma tugged on the ends of her hair and if Regina had been walking some kind of ditch into 42nd Street, then she was practically digging out a trench in the middle of Bryant Park. She heard someone hit off the crossbar or maybe the post.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t stop moving. The crowd groaned. That didn’t help her figure out who was actually scoring the puck.

God.

“It wasn’t Killian,” David said, catching Emma around the wrist mid-pace.

“What?” Emma snapped and she still hadn’t looked at the screen. The crowd cheered. It wasn’t a goal. “Wait, what’s going on, why are you here?” “You didn’t show up for your spot on the blanket.” “I’ve been kind of busy.” “And visibly nervous.” “I’m not nervous.” “Emma,” David laughed, letting go of her wrist only to put both his hands on her shoulder and level her with a very specific type of stare.

“I’m sorry I missed curfew,” she muttered and she sounded every inch the teenager she was pretending she wasn’t.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” “Did you just leave Reese’s sitting by herself?” David scowled at her and the look was a bit of a glare now. “Of course not. I left her with Henry and Roland. They were far too busy yelling at the game to realize I’d even gotten up.” “Reese’s too?” Emma asked skeptically. “When did that happen?” “About the same time you guys clinched a playoff berth. She cheered when Scarlet fought Soyer in the second game of the series.” “That can’t possibly be true.” “Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. Although,” David added, tapping on the curve of her shoulder, “that would mean you’d have to get closer to the screen and then, eventually, you might have to watch the game.” “I’ve watched the game.” “While you were pacing?” Emma grumbled and she couldn’t come up with an argument – called out in the middle of Bryant Park. The crowd made noise again and her head snapped up instinctively, eyes going wide and lip in between her teeth and they’d scored.

They were winning.

“Wait,” she said quickly, half shouting the word at the screen like that would, somehow, pull up a replay immediately. “What happened? Who scored?”

“Play the replay,” David shouted, glaring at the screen instead of Emma.

It worked for him.

It wasn’t Killian – at least the goal wasn’t – and for as many turnovers in the goddamn neutral zone as he’d had that season, he was also, apparently, very good at causing them. Soyer didn’t even seen him coming, skating across center ice and towards the boards and a loose puck and Killian didn’t slow down.

The headlines would probably read steamrolled the next morning.

Soyer looked like he flew before he landed on the ice and Killian barely even stopped skating long enough to get the puck on his stick, let alone worry about the Penguins player laying in front of him. He flicked his wrist and Robin was half a step ahead of the nearest player, just barely onsides as Booth trailed the play and worked his way in front of the net.

Booth scored.

And it sounded as if the entire city of Pittsburgh was jam-packed into that arena, all of them groaning collectively as soon as the goal light went off.

“Soyer won’t be able to skate for the rest of the night,” David laughed. He still had his hand on Emma’s shoulder.

“Good,” she said quickly and that only made him laugh more.

“Good pass too.” “He’s good at that.” “You read The Post today?” “I thought we came to some sort of understanding. We weren’t going to talk about media reports or speculation about what happens after anymore.” “No, no, I know,” David muttered. “But this might be a good thing.” Emma turned on him, eyebrows lifted and the questions written on her face. “The Hart rumors have started again,” he said.

She tried not to groan. It didn’t really work. She groaned and crossed her arms tightly over her chest and no wonder Killian was so nervous the day before, nothing about this stupid sport or its media reports could stay consistent.

“That flipped quickly didn’t it,” Emma hissed, falling into defensive immediately. David grinned at her. “Two weeks ago they were ready to run him out of town and the internet hated me. Now he’s on the fast track to the Hart.” “Well,” David shrugged, “he’s been on some kind of point streak now this series.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but it was true – seven games and points in six of them – and she’d been doing her best not to think about post-season awards when there was already so much riding on now, but that, apparently, was impossible.

“It’d probably help him sign somewhere if he did win,” David continued and Emma groaned again.

“You want to do this now? Right now? In the third period of an away Game Seven?” “Yeah, well, you don’t ever want to talk about it. Mary Margaret said you deflect every time she tries to bring it up.”

“That’s because she thinks I should have moved into Killian’s apartment.” David rolled his eyes and she was half a step away from pacing again. Ten minutes left in the period. A perfect time for some kind of life-changing conversation.

“She said Killian’s been spending a lot of time at your apartment,” David countered and she couldn’t figure out if he was actually arguing with her or just pointing out facts.

“Yeah, that’s true. How that’s any of your business is something else entirely.” “Don’t do that.” “What? What are you trying to ask? If he’ll move into my apartment if he doesn’t sign with the Rangers? Or if he’ll still spend time at my apartment if he signs somewhere else? I don’t know. I don’t. There is no answer. There’s only now and the next,” she glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen, “nine minutes and twelve seconds. Give or take.” David stared at her for a beat and Emma’s shoulders were heaving by the end of her mini speech. He smiled. “Good,” he said simply and tugged her flush against his chest, hand around the back of her head and it felt like he kissed her hair.

They watched the next nine minutes and twelve seconds of game-time together, David’s quiet presence by her side doing something to calm Emma’s nerves and she didn’t try to start pacing once. She stopped tapping her toe instead and he started laughing at her.

The Penguins pulled the goalie with two minutes on the clock and Emma wasn’t certain she breathed the entire time – Soyer coming onto the ice as the extra skater – and the puck was in the Pittsburgh zone for an eternity.

Emma moved behind David once they hit a minute, forehead pressed against his shoulder. He kept laughing at her.

“Em, you can’t hold my arm that tightly,” he muttered.

She hummed against his jacket, grip bordering somewhere close to vice-like as the crowd she couldn’t actually see started making noise.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh you want to know what’s going on now?” “Obviously. I just don’t want to watch it.”

David’s body shook against hers, but he silenced quickly when, presumably, something bad happened. “They need to get out of the zone,” he said, sounding like he was muttering the words more to himself than to Emma. “They’ve been in there forever. Scarlet can hardly skate.” “That’s because he’s only got one fully functioning leg.” “True,” David agreed. He winced and Emma could hear the blocked shot as easily as if she were in Pittsburgh and standing in between the benches.

“Who was that?” “Killian.” Emma sighed and David’s gasp was probably because of her hand on his arm and not anything that was going on in the game. “How much time?” she demanded. “Did they change yet?” “You know, you can watch the game, Em.” “David!” “Twenty-four seconds.”

There was a whistle on the ice and, she hoped, a faceoff, and that would, at least, get them off the ice and get a new shift on. She didn’t move away from David’s back.

“They won the faceoff,” he said, narrating whatever Emma refused to look at. “Out of the zone. Ah, shit, they iced it.” “See, good thing you came over here, Reese’s would have clicked her tongue if she heard you say shit.” “I can still revoke your maid of honor duties.” “Please,” Emma scoffed. “I might as well be your best man, too.” David didn’t argue and Emma smiled against his shoulder blade. “Time update, Nolan.” “Nineteen seconds.” “Fuck.” “Wash that mouth out with soap, young lady,” David laughed, prying her fingers off his bicep. “They won the faceoff. Oh, that’s smart.” “David, if we’re going to do this, you need to be more detailed. Time update, again.” “Twelve seconds. They’re just skating around at center ice. Jeez, that’s dangerous. They just passed it back in the zone.” He practically cackled, the noise attracting more than a few curious stares by the tourists who didn’t entirely understand what was going on. “Soyer missed the cut-off. He tried to lunge towards the puck and he didn’t get his stick down in time.” “You’re supposed to keep your stick on the ice,” Emma mumbled. “No matter what.” “Why do I feel like I said that?” “You did, that’s why. The first game we watched. Someone missed a pass and their stick wasn’t on the ice and you complained about it for the rest of the night. Reese’s had to tell you to stop talking about it.” David made a noise in the back of his throat and Emma couldn’t quite believe she remembered that. She was probably losing her mind. And this game had to almost be over.

The crowd started chanting – they’d reached ten seconds – and every single second was the longest second in her entire life.

“They’re back in the zone,” David murmured. “Five, four, three….”

“Two, one,” Emma finished.

The crowd exploded and Emma’s whole body sagged as David spun on her, hand around her waist and smile on his face as he tugged her up. “We won,” he shouted and all she could do was nod, a mess of emotions and belief and something, finally , going the way she wanted.

There were chants and cheers and Let’s go Rangers echoing across that tiny bit of grass in the middle of Manhattan.

Emma, finally, got her feet back on the ground and she stared at the screen, eyes tracing across it like she was willing it to show her what she wanted – he was leaning up against the boards, helmet off and that, that, was the smile she’d been waiting for, the one she’d seen in her apartment the morning before and, God, she was happy.

They’d won.

Killian didn’t touch the trophy during the post-game presentation, but the smile was still on his face when they made him pose for photos and Emma’s stomach might have flipped. She might have been the one crying now.

David didn’t say anything about that. She’d have to mention that in her maid of honor speech as well.

She nearly jumped when her phone started to ring and Emma shrugged when David glanced questioningly at the sound. Everyone she knew was in that park or on the ice in Pittsburgh.

“Hello?” she asked, not even bothering to glance down at the name on the screen.

“Emma?”

“Liam?” David’s eyes were almost dangerously wide and Emma shrugged again. “What? How did you get this number?” “Did they win?” “What?” “The guys. Did they win?”

“Yeah,” she answered automatically. “2-1. Wait, why weren’t you watching the game? Where are you?”

There was noise on the other end of the line and Emma pulled her phone away, eyebrows pulled low when she saw Elsa’s name on the screen. “Liam,” she continued. “Where are you? Is El ok?” “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. “Tired, but ok.” It took two seconds for everything to click, Emma’s hand back on David’s arm – mostly so her knees wouldn’t give out. “Did you guys…” “Absurdly early this morning,” Liam interrupted and she could hear the smile in his voice. “She was...well, amazing, honestly. But there’s no 4G in this entire goddamn hospital and no NBC Sports and it’s the most ridiculous problem I’ve ever had, but…” “El wanted to know, didn’t she?” “Demanded more like it.” Emma’s jaw was going to crack, she was smiling so wide. Bryant Park might be her new favorite place in the entire city. “And Lizzie is ok? Isn’t it kind of early?” “Perfect, she’s perfect. Nearly six pounds, no hair to speak of. And only two weeks. That’s what the bed rest was supposed to prevent, but, Elsa’s Elsa and Lizzie, I guess, was just fairly determined to see a Cup run.” “They won,” Emma whispered, like she was giving up some sort of government secret.

“They did. How’d he do?” “Second assist on the game-winner and, from what I was told, some kind of game-clinching block in the zone.” “He lunged, Liam,” David shouted from a few feet away. “Jeff totally wouldn’t have made that stop. Saved the whole game.” “Relax, Detective,” Emma mumbled, but Liam was laughing on the other end and David’s enthusiasm was catching. “Although it was a good block.” “That’s not really his thing.” “He wanted to win.” Liam made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and Emma was glad he didn’t start saying something absurdly sentimental – she was already far too emotional. “Thank you, Emma,” he said.

Well, there went sentiment.

Emma’s vision went misty and she blinked quickly so David wouldn’t see her actually crying over hockey in the middle of Bryant Park.

She absolutely wasn’t crying over hockey.

“Congratulations, Liam,” she muttered. “Send pictures, ok?” “Consider it done.”

He hung up and Emma’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, some kind of physical reminder of what exactly was going on – everything, all at once.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret shouted, walking towards her and David with Henry half a step behind. Roland’s hand was wrapped up between hers and Regina’s, skipping across the sidewalk like he’d scored the game-winner.

“Hey,” she said quickly, trying to brush the tears she totally wasn’t crying off her cheeks. “Sorry I never made it back.” “That’s ok. I think we’ve found a ringbearer anyway. And maybe an usher?”

Henry and Roland nodded enthusiastically and this wasn’t even fair anymore. This kind of thing didn’t happen in the real world.

The real world was dark and lonely and an entire NHL team shouldn’t be able to feel like a family. That same NHL team didn’t seem to care much about any of that.

“Anyway,” Mary Margaret continued and she totally saw the tears. “Ariel is, apparently, getting Eric to open up later tonight when the guys get home and we’re going to head up to help. You want to come?” Emma couldn't even be surprised. Of course they were going to open up the restaurant.

“I can’t,” she sighed. “I’ve got to finish breaking down here and get some social media things out.” “Well,” Regina said. “They won’t be home until some God-awful hour anyway. You’ve got some time.”

Emma nodded – Merida already making her way towards her with a schedule for the end of the event and they were absurdly over-planned. “I’ll meet you guys up there?”

“Sure.” It didn’t take long – there was a schedule, after all – but Emma didn’t make it to the restaurant until after midnight. Roland was already asleep, curled up in the corner of a booth with Henry blinking blearily next to him.

And the New York Rangers organization must have been the most efficient group of human beings in the entire league, banners hanging and everyone already sporting Eastern Conference champ mech and Emma was forced into a hat before she even entirely realized what was happening.

David handed her a glass without a word and Mary Margaret called her into the corner of the bar, pointing at the grilled cheese she’d already ordered for her. There was talk about the game and the final two minutes and how much Pittsburgh absolutely sucked , but the conversation died down the longer they waited and they seemed to wait forever.

Her phone vibrated on the bar and Emma’s eyes snapped open, wider than they’d been all night. She’d nearly fallen asleep at the bar.

We won.

Weird, I noticed that.

Are you home? No.

Where are you?

Why, Captain, are you trying to tell me you want to see me?

If you’re trying to woo me again, Swan, it’s completely unnecessary. I’m in a cab uptown and Robin seems to think there’s some kind of plan that I don’t care about and I am very interested in kissing you.

Emma was suddenly very awake, stomach flipping several times to prove it.

Regina’s phone went off and Emma’s eyes went to the door out of instinct, voices just outside and Roland mumbled a bit from his spot in the corner.

She nearly jumped off the stool when the door swung open, feet hitting the ground as soon as she heard Killian’s grumbled I just want to go home. And Emma barely gave herself a moment to register that he’d just told her he wanted to kiss her.

Like she was home.

David chuckled softly when Emma all but sprinted across the restaurant, arms around Killian’s neck as soon as she collided against him.

He grunted softly, but he didn’t move her away from him, just wrapped his arms around her waist and caught her lips with his and there was something to be said for emotion, apparently. Emma had to press up on tiptoes to reach him, fingers finding their way into his hair and he still smelled like celebratory champagne despite the post-game shower she knew he’d taken.

Killian’s hand tightened, gripping the fabric of her shirt and the whole restaurant could have been crumbling down around them and Emma was convinced neither one of them would have noticed.

It felt a little bit like Tarrytown – important and meaningful and something that might have been life-changing.

There was an entire NHL team around them still.

“God,” Will muttered, kicking at their feet when he walked into the restaurant. “Get a room. There are kids here.” “Roland’s been asleep since we got here,” Emma mumbled. Killian smiled and they hadn’t really moved away from each other yet.

“And that might have been my original plan,” Killian added.

“Are you ok?” she continued, hands ghosting over the front of his jacket. “That was a heck of a block.” David scoffed from the back of the restaurant and Killian tilted his head in question. “Or at least I was told it was.” His smile grew even more and his thumb traced over her wrist. “Could you not watch, Swan?” “I was super busy all night.” “I’m fine,” Killian promised. “Bruised to hell, but fine.”

“Did you talk to Liam?” Will groaned again, grabbing one of Emma’s onion rings from the plate still sitting at the bar. “Oh, jeez, now you’ve done it, Emma. He wouldn’t stop talking about it all night. The entire plane ride, shoving his phone in people’s faces like it was something any of us actually wanted to see.” “Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian hissed, but it didn’t hold quite enough venom to be actually threatening. “Did you see, Swan?” Emma nodded. She’d already shown Mary Margaret twice. “She’s perfect.”

“We won.” “We did,” she said and kissing him again just made sense. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Killian nodded once, fingers lacing through Emma’s as he tugged her back through the door and into a cab and they fell asleep wrapped up in each other almost as soon as they landed on her bed.

[nemoofoz-blog]

"Hamlet As Told On The Streets" by Shel Silverstein

Now Francisco and Bernardo, they was guardin’ the castle, Leanin’ on their spears, not lookin’ for no hassle, Havin’ themselves a brew or two, When out in the night they hear woo-wooo-wooo. And here comes this ghost, lookin’ ragged and rank, In a rusty suit of armor, goin’ clank, clank, clank. They say, "Hey, Mr. Ghost, are you our dear departed king?" But the ghost don’t say one motherfuckin’ thing. He goes, "Wooo-wooo-wooo." They say, "Hey, we better split, And go tell Hamlet about this shit." So they run find Hamlet, they say, "Hey, sweet Prince, Your daddy’s ghost been seen runnin’ hither and hince. He’s all full of maggots and he’s grizzly and grim, Somethin’s rotten in Denmark and -- whew -- we think it’s him." Hamlet say, "Oh, are you sure it’s my pop? Did he have matty gray hair with a bald spot on top? Did he have bright blue eyes that never know fear And a tattoo says GERTRUDE FOREVER right here?" They say, "Hey, the thing just flittered by our station, We didn’t give him no physical examination. And we don’t know for sure if your daddy was the one, But we do know a motherfuckin’ ghost when we see one." Hamlet say, "Show me where you spied this spectral klunk So I see if it’s my pop, or if you was both drunk." So they bring ol’ Hamlet to the spot, and then They wait five minutes and wooooo --- Here he comes again. He got gray skin, black teeth and hollow eyes, Beckonin’ like this -- young Hamlet cries, "Hold, spirit of darness, are you a ghostly apparition?" "No," says the ghost, "I look like this from malnutrition. Of course I’m a ghost, but sone, don’t be scared, And I’ll tell you some shit that’ll fry your hair." He says, "You got two relatives, I won’t say which, But one’s a bloody murderer and one’s a faithless bitch. Why, I was takin’ a nap in the garden right here, When my ambitious brother pours some poison in my ear. And before my body’s even cold he’s wearin’ my pajamas, Layin’ up in my bed with my crown on his head, Doin’ somethin’ sinful to your momma. And the terrible thoughts of what they’re doin’ up there Is more than a poor old ghost can bear. So you gotta revenge me on this harlot and this knave Or else I’ll never rest in my motherfuckin’ grave." Well, this information just flips Hamlet out. He starts walkin’ like this, with spit hangin’ out his mouth. His eyes are all bleary and his tongue looks worse, And he’s talkin’ in couplets and blank fuckin’ verse. I mean the dude is indecisive, He don’t know how he’d like his eggs, And he’s got no opinion on tits, ass or legs. He can’t decide which horse to play at the track, And when they ask him what suit you wanna wear today? He say, "Ah…um…gimme the black." He calls his uncle a murderer, Calls his momma a whore, And he can’t get it up for Ophelia no more. Oh, and Ophelia? She’s tryin’ her best To make him feel better, Wants to polish his crown jewels, But he won’t let her. "Stead of sayin’ yea, the fool says nay, And the whole court’s figurin’ he must be gay. Well, then in come Hamlet’s oldest friends, Rosenstern and Guildencrantz, They say, "Hey there, Ham, you gloomy Gus, Get up – get down – and party with us. We brought you some actors, Some tunes and some lyrics To put on a play to boost up your spirits." Hamlet says, "Hey – songs and skits, That gives me an idea that could stir up some shit. We’ll put on a play – "N" that could be just the thing To catch the conscience of the king, If there is a conscience in the motherfuckin’ king." So Hamlet calls all the actors, he say, "’Fore this drama starts, I’m gonna tell you suckers how to play your parts. You gotta speak the speech like I pronounced it – Don’t rush it, don’t milk it, don’t drag it, don’t bounce it. I mean, do it trippingly on the tongue, Or else I’ll see your thespian asses strung up and hung. And don’t saw the air with your hands flappin’ wild, "N’ don’t go mouthin’ my words in some method style." Then the lead actor says, "Hey – are we alive? Or just some talking meat that’s gotta listen to this jive? I have read this thing you call a script And it ain’t too bad, it’s got a few little dips. But with some new dialogue and a few minor edits – Hey, do you mind sharing writer credits? But this part about the king? -- poisoning his brother? I play this wile the real king’s watchin’? Sittin’ with your mother? You must be out of your cotton-pickin’ mind. He’ll cut out my tongue, he’ll gouge out my eyes, He’ll boil me in oil and send me to hell." Hamlet says, "How about double scale?" – The actor says, "Well… "I want my name above the title, three percent of the gross, I want that tall brunette as my dialogue coach. I want approval of director and a juicy per diem, And if there’s changes in the script, I got to see ‘em. I want a dresser, and undresser and a hairdresser, too, And I gotta-gotta-gotta have the biggest dressing room. I want an escape clause that lets me out in a month, And the first thing I insist is that you fire that cunt. I want transportation to and from every show, I want complimentary tickets for everybody I know. I want my brother and my cousin hired to play in the band, And don’t go tryin’ to sneak in any extra matinees. And next time you wanna speak to me, Check with the director first. Now will you please go away and let us rehearse?" So Hamlet slinks off, lookin’ for a backer, Mutterin’ how he’ll never ever talk to another fuckin’ actor. And him and Horatio, they walk down a ways, Till they see some clown diggin’ a mouldy grave. Hamlet picks up a skull, he says, "Who was this sucker?" They say, "Yorick." He says, "Yorick? I knew the motherfucker. He used to be court jester. Hey, Yorick, show us how You used to make them funny faces – Why ain’t you laughin’ now? I’ve kissed these lips, I know not how oft." And Horatio quips, "Hey, let’s not announce how oft you kissed them lips. I mean people already talkin’ ‘bout the way you walk, And the fact that you ain’t givin’ Ophelia no nook." Oh, and speakin’ of Ophelia – Polonius, her daddy, Says, "Hey, that prince is drivin’ my little girl batty. Got her runnin’ all night and sleepin’ till noon, God knows what else he got her doin’. But he’s our royal prince, lord of earth, sky and water, But he’s also a horny little pimply-faced shithead Trying to hump my daughter." So Polonius calls Ophelia and says, "Listen, darlin’ daughter, I hope you and Ham ain’t doin’ things you shouldn’t oughter, ‘Cause you let ‘em touch an ankle and they wanna grab a knee, And they never buy nothin’ that you let ‘em have for free." Ophelia says, "Hey, Pop, I know the score, You think I wanna wind up another palace whore? I got the dud sendin’ me letters and babblin’ ‘bout the moon, I really do think his bells are out of tune." "Well, don’t you go dingin’ his bells," says Polonius, "’Cause if he throws you in the grass, I’ll get your big brother Laertes to kick his royal ass." Now Laertes overhears his name bein’ bandied about, He says, "Hey, Pop, you signin’ my ass up for somethin’ My head don’t know about?" Plonius says, "Son, it’s Hamlet, that loony tune, Been fed all his life with a silver spoon. He’s in my face and on my neck, I mean the dude ain’t playin’ with a full damn deck. He’s bumblin’ around twirlin’ his crown, And callin’ me a fishmonger all over town. And he’s charmed your baby sister with his rhymes and his riddles. Hey, you think she’s puttin’ on a little weight around the middle?" Laertes says, "Hey, Pop, she ain’t no baby, She got a set of jugs tha’d drive any prince crazy. Now that’s just a natural fact and not lust or incest, And if she shakes ‘em right, she could be a princess." "That’s right," says Ophelia. "That’s my scheme, And the way kings been dyin’ ‘round here, I could wind up queen." "Enough," says Polonius. "That Pince has ruined my day. Now we gotta see his fuckin’ play within a play. Hell, the place’ll be drafty, the seats won’t be com’fa’ble, I wouldn’t go at all but these tickets ain’t refundable. Prob’ly full of symbolism, I won’t understand it, Shit, I hope it rains and all the critics pan it." So they go to the play and everybody’s there. They got diamonds on their doublets, They got ribbons in their hair. Lords, ladies, dogs, babies, all in attendance, The marquee says MURDER, DECEIT AND VENGEANCE. ONE OF YEAR’S TEN BEST. DO NOT MISS IT. So everybody figures it’s another piece of shit. And they’re bitchin’ ‘bout their seats, buckin’ the line, Scalpin’ tickets and sippin’ wine, Rattlin’ their programs, twistin’ in their chairs, Tryin’ to catch if any celebrities are there. Then the play begins – and ooh, looky here – It shows the king puttin’ poison in his brother’s ear. And King Claudius is watchin’, and -- ooh -- is he pissed. He says, "I know who’s responsible for this." He calls, "Hey Gertie, come here, hon. What the hell’s the matter with your jive-ass son? I give the kid room, board ‘n’ remedial education, And he calls me a murderer, and other wild accusations. Hell, I’d sue him for libel for implyin’ that shit. But the libel laws ain’t been invented yet. Just ‘cause I’m bangin’ you, he’s givin’ me hell, I think he wants to hump you his own damn self." Queen Gertrude says, "I think he’s goin’ through An Oedipal rejection, seein’ his uncle Replace his father in his momma’s affection." "Oedipal?" says the king. "The punk is givin’ me some shit. I’ll send him where I sent his pop if he don’t quit. So you tell him it’s better to leave some things unsaid, Or he’ll be puttin’ on his crown without his motherfuckin’ head." So the queen runs to Hamlet, she says, "Oh listen, son, Y’better suck up to the king before some foul deed gets done. It’s true he wears black socks and Hawaiian shirts, But that ain’t no reason to treat him like dirt, Because he is your uncle, and I do wear his ring, And most of all, he is the motherfuckin’ king." "Don’t say mother-fuckin’ king," says Hamlet. "Please, Somehow that phrase makes my blood freeze. My daddy was a handsome dude with dignity and class, And this fat fool got hair on his back and boils on his ass. Can anybody get you in their goddamn bed Just ‘cause they got a crown on their goddamned head?" His momma says, "Hey, before you go off the deep end, There’s some things about women you gotta comprehend. "Now milkmaids and queens, we all have filet mignon dreams, But when the steak is gone, you will eat the beans. And when you’re out of beans, you’ll chew the shoes off their feet, But you eat. Just picture me – a sweet young thing, Then boom – my husband’s dead – and this sucker’s king. So it’s ‘heat the meat and act real sweet’ Or wind up with my ass out in the goddamned street. I got cellulite, I got varicose veins, I got a hip gets stiff every time it rains. And -- this -- is what nursing a baby can do, "Course, honey, I’m not blamin’ you, Though you were such a hungry child, But life goes on and a queen must smile." Then hark – just then Hamlet hears a sound From behind the curtain – like a mouse skitt’rin’ ‘round. But it’s really Ophelia’s daddy, spyin’ for the king, Listenin’ and takin’ down everything. Hamlet yells, "A rat!" and he stabs at the place, And kerplunk, out falls Polonius on his eavedroppin’ face. Hamlet sees it ain’t the king, he says, "Oh shit, Y’finally do take action and this is what you get. Now I killed my girlfriend’s poppa and I’m covered with his blood, How do you explain this to someone you love?" Then here comes Ophelia, callin’, "Daddy, Daddy dear, Hamlet, is my daddy in here?" Well…he is… and he ain’t – but someone should have told the cat Y’don’t wanna get stabbed, don’t make noise like a rat. She cries, "Oh, my daddy’s dead and I can see You stuck it in him like you stuck it in me. I can’t believe the shit you done to me. You used to want all – now you want none of me. Is this your perverted way of makin’ fun o’ me?" Hamlet says, "Hey then, get thee someplace… Maybe a … a nunnery." "Get me to a nunnery?" Ophelia moans, "Now that you ate the chicken, you wanna try and hide the bones? With your poetry and promises you messed up my brain, You are a dirty dog – and not a great Dane." "Please," says Hamlet, "I’m in a crazed condition. Can’t you see I’m torn by indecision? To be or not to be? That’s the fuckin’ question That’s givin’ me migraines and indigestion. Should I take arms against a sea of trouble, Or just walk around goin’ gubble-gubble-gubble?" Ophelia says, "Hey, you don’t fool me a bit, You’re fakin’ all this psycho shit, ‘Cause if you’re insane you don’t have to kill the king, Or marry me or do any damn thing." Ham says, "Hey, go bake a cake, or give your booty a shake, Or take a jump in the motherfuckin’ lake –" Well, that’s where he made another fatal mistake. Y’see he didn’t really mean for the bitch to do it, But she’s gone like a flash, and run, jump, splash, She’s floatin’ and bloatin’ ‘fore anybody knew it. "Oh, when it rains it pours," says Hamlet, "Ain’t no doubt, Here’s another thing I gotta feel guilty about." Well, they have Ophelia’s funeral and everybody’s there. They got diamonds on their doublet, they got ribbons in their hair. They’re rattlin’ their beads and twistin’ in their chairs, Tryin’ to catch if any celebrities are there. And it’s a pleasant event, until into her grave Leaps her brother Laertes and he rants and raves. He’s shakin’ his fist and pullin’ his hair, Gettin’ his ass tangled up in his underwear, Jumpin’ up and down in a frenzied fit, Meanwhile stompin’ her body to shit. He cries, "FEE-FO-FI, if I find the guy who caused her to die, I’ll slice him like a pie. I’ll cut out his heart and send it to Peru, ‘N’ I’ll c.o.d. his balls off to Timbuktu, Ship his dick to England in a registered letter, And then let him try to get his shit back together." Then the king pulls his coat, he says, "Harken to this, Hamlet’s the dude who fucked up your sis. And he also stabbed your daddy, too, And all you do is boo-hoo-hoo? What kind of brother and son are you? If it was my family I know what I’d do, I’d be on him like a damned tattoo. Now… there is a sword with a poisoned tip. It’ll send any sucker on a one-way trip, ‘Cause all it takes is one itty bitty scratch… Hey, Hamlet, how about a little fencin’ match?" Well, then the whole fuckin’ place caves in, Hamlet stabs Laertes, and Laertes stabs him. Then Hamlet turns around and stabs his uncle, too, While the queen drinks some poison the king had brewed. So she dies, he dies, Hamlet dies, Laertes dies On top of where Ophelia lies, Right next to where Polonius died. And before you can wink, blink or turn your head, Chop-stab-slice -- every motherfucker’s dead. Then in walks this cat Fortinbras, he says, "What – is -- this? I have never seen such a fuckin’ mess. You got skulls and swords, you got guts and gore, You got bodies piled up from ceiling to floor. You got broken glass, y’got tangled hairs, You got blood and wine runnin’ down the stairs. You got dented armor and ripped up gowns, You got bent-up crowns just rollin’ ‘round. Y’got a punctured king, y’got a poisoned queen, Y’got a sweet prince dyin’ on the mezzanine. And behind that curtain there’s another dead duff, And a body from the fishpond just floated up. Y’got a stiff in the garden with some gunk in his ear, And a tattoo says GERTRUDE FOREVER right here, And two guards on the gate tower drunk on beer. What the hell’s been goin’ on here?" Well, that was the end of our sweet prince, He died in confusion and nobody’s seen him since. And the moral of the story is bells do get out of tune… And you can find shit in a silver spoon… And an old man’s revenge can be a young man’s ruin… Oh – and never look too close… at what your mamma is doin’.

[paigewritestrash-blog]

Terrible Things - Kagami Taiga x OC

This is my first post on this account woo! This au was inspired by the song Terrible Things by Mayday Parade.

Warnings: angst

"By the time I was your age, I'd give anything To fall in love truly, was all I could think That's when I met your mother, the girl of my dreams The most beautiful woman, that I'd ever seen." Another usual and exhausting day at practice. Or so I thought, when I saw her walk in with coach. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and it stopped at the middle of her back. Her bright green eyes caught me off guard, and I had to do a double take. She's gorgeous. I feel a sudden pain in my head, and the basketball bounces to the floor. "Kagami-kun, what is your problem?" Kuroko asks. But he follows my gaze to the girl, and sighs. He jabs me in the side. "Go talk to her." I punch him in the side. "No way! Who do you think I am?" I cry out. She's out of my league. The thought of talking to her makes my stomach do flips. I've never been this nervous, not even during basketball games. "I'm too nervous, anyways." I sigh. Kuroko wears a small grin. "That's a shame." I raise a brow. "She's coming over here." Kuroko pats me on the shoulder and smiles. "Good luck." "Oi, Kuroko! Wait-" He walks over to Kiyoshi, leaving me a sweaty mess as the beautiful girl walks over to me, wearing a smile that makes my heart race. "Riko tells me you need help learning how to use your left hand." Her voice is like music to my ears. I can feel my face getting hot. "Um, y-yeah, I do." I scratch the back of my neck nervously. She smiles. "It's nice to meet you, Kagami. I'm Felicity." Her American accent slips through when she says her name. "You're American?" I ask. Felicity nods. "My dad and I moved here in middle school." She picks up a basketball on the ground and spins it on her left hand index finger. "I played a lot of basketball there." She winks. "Thus why I'm going to teach you to use your left hand better." Felicity dribbles the ball and then dribbles it back and forth between each hand. She then turns to face the other half of the court from where we stand, at free throw line. She shoots with her left hand, yet I can't watch the ball. I can't take my eyes off of her. 

"She said, "Boy can I tell you a wonderful thing? I can't help but notice, you're staring at me. I know I shouldn't say this, but I really believe, I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me." Now, son, I'm only telling you this Because life can do terrible things."

She looks at me and flashes me a smile. My heart flutters and I feel hot. "Can I tell you a wonderful thing?" She asks. I nod, not sure what to expect. "I can't help but notice the way you're staring... I know I shouldn't say this, but I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me." I think my heart stopped beating completely. My face is burning up and I can't say anything. Felicity simply smiles at me again, her cheeks red too. "It's okay if you are. I don't mind." She winks and runs off to the other side of the court to get the ball she shot. I run my fingers through my hair and heave a sigh. Get it together, you're being too obvious. I'd be lying if I said Felicity isn't a good teacher. She made me play a game of one on one only dribbling with my left hand, which she dominated me at. As she predicted, that made me work harder. By the end of the night, even after everyone had left hours before, she had taught me how to switch hands in the air when I dunk. "You did great today!" Felicity exclaims. "Once you learn something, you perfect it very easily." She takes her hair out of her ponytail and shakes it, her long hair flowing to the waistline of her skirt now. I give her a shy smile. I can't stop staring at her. Every time I look at her and then look away, I want more. I can't help but be entranced by every movement she makes. Every word that comes out of her mouth is beautiful and I have to tell myself to snap out of it before I become a flustered mess. No one has ever made me feel this way... "Thank you." I say. "It helps when I have an amazing teacher, too." Her cheeks get red and she smiles. "Since I worked you pretty hard, what do you think about me buying you dinner?" I smile. "Dinner sounds nice. But you don't have to pay." I can't make her pay for my meal, what kind of gentleman would that make me seem like? I may not be good at romance, but I do know that the guy usually pays for the girl. Or at least that's what I learned watching romantic comedies with Alex. "Now, most of the time we'd have too much to drink And we'd laugh at the stars and we'd share everything Too young to notice, and too dumb to care Love was a story that couldn't compare."

After that night, we went on many dates afterwards. After our sixth date, we shared our first kiss, and I determined in that moment, I wanted to marry her. I wasn't one who cared about any of that, but Felicity... I want to call her my wife. And I will one day. We lay on our backs on her roof passing back and forth a bottle of alcohol. She's more of the smoking type, but due to the basketball team's drug tests, I can't. It takes a lot for me to get drunk though, and Felicity is what most would call a lightweight. Although, I don't need to be under the influence of anything to feel good when I'm around her. When she says my name, I feel at peace. "Taiga, what would you do if you won the lottery?" I think hard. "I could eat anything I wanted... And I could have all the shoes I wanted, too." "Shoes and food, that's all you care about?" She laughs. "And you, of course." I say. The longer we date, the more comfortable I get with flirting and being romantic. She moves her head to lay on my chest, and I wrap an arm around her. "If I won the lottery... I'd buy a beautiful house. One with a basketball court, a big, indoor pool..." She trails off. I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'd buy a really nice car. But one I can drive all year around, of course." She stays silent for a minute, thinking. "Oh! And I'd want my house to be fit for children." "Hm, you want kids?" I ask. I've never thought about having children, seeing as I'm only seventeen. I guess girls are different. "I do." She sighs. She doesn't have to be looking at me to tell what I'm thinking. "Don't worry, Taiga." She lets out a small giggle. "I don't want them anytime soon." Her index finger trails up and down my chest lightly. She takes a gulp from the bottle and sits up to straddle my waist, sitting on me. "I love you." Felicity smiles with her words. I know she's drunk, but I guess a drunk mind speaks the sober truth. "Saying it just makes me feel so good. I love you, Kagami Taiga!" She shouts, thrusting both hands in the air. She flops forward and her face is inches from mine. "I. Love. You." She kisses me after every word, and it makes my cheeks turn red. I laugh and swallow hard. I'm slightly buzzed, making this easier to say. "I love you, Felicity." A smile spreads across her face and she hugs me tight. She doesn't let go, she just lays on me with her arms wrapped around me. I don't question it and wrap my arms around her, too. In that moment I hold her as tight as I can. I don't want anything to happen to her. "I said, "Girl, can I tell you a wonderful thing? I made you a present with paper and string. Open with care now, I'm asking you, please. You know that I love you, will you marry me?" Now, son, I'm only telling you this Because life can do terrible things You'll learn, one day, I'll hope and I'll pray, That God shows you differently."

It's the fourth quarter of the winter cup championship game. I'm a third year now, and after this, I'll retire from basketball. After high school I'm going off to school in Tokyo with Felicity. She wants to be a teacher, and I want to become a professional basketball player, and the best player in Japan. This game is going to determine my future, and I feel the pressure as the opposing team continues to score on me. My jumps can overpower them, but it's hard when their players won't even let me jump. After walking back onto the floor after a time out, I hear a familiar voice from the silent crowd. "Kick their ass, Taiga! I believe in you!" My girlfriend waves her arms in the air, wearing a giant smile. That easily brings a smile to my face as I give my team mates one last look before taking my place on the court. The thrill of winning the winter cup again is enough to make me overflow with joy. But when I see Felicity running down the halls to congratulate me, I could burst with happiness. I feel the box in my pocket shift as she jumps onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I hug her back with as much force as she uses. "I'm so proud of you! Congratulations!" She smiles wide down at me and gives me a sloppy kiss, grabbing my face in her hands. "That last play you made, oh my God!" She exclaims. I'm not sure why, but when she watches me play it makes her... Excited. I set her down on the floor and intertwine my fingers with hers. "I know just how to celebrate. I'm treating you to dinner, and you can order as much as you want." She smiles up at me, swinging our arms as we walk. "Felicity, you don't have to-" "Taiga, don't argue, okay? You deserve this. Treat yourself." As we walk the box in my pocket keeps nagging at me. I'm so happy in this moment, I don't want to wait... I was going to do this tomorrow, but I can't help myself. I stop walking, causing Felicity to give me a confusing look. "Is something wrong?" "Of course not. Can I tell you a wonderful thing?" I let go of her hand and swallow hard, pulling the box from my pocket. Her face twists into a smile. I hand the box to her, which she stares at. It's wrapped in a bow that took me a tedious amount of time, and tries, to tie perfectly. "This was supposed to be for your birthday tomorrow, but I can't wait." "Taiga..." She whispers. "Open it with care, because I'm asking you, please," I wait for her shaky hands to open the box and reveal the ring inside before I get down on my knee. "You know that I love you so much," I try to speak strongly, but my voice falters with my nerves running wild. "Will you marry me?" She doesn't speak, she just nods rapidly through her tears and pulls me to my feet to hug me so tight air escapes my lungs. My heart still beats rapidly as I put the ring on her finger. "Oh, Taiga. You just made my night- No," She shakes her head. "My... My life! I'm so excited, we don't have to rush a thing. I'm just so happy to wear this! It's beautiful-" She talks a mile a minute, her hands around both of my arms, squeezing me tight. "I love you so much, fiance!" Felicity stands on her tip toes to kiss me. I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer to me. This moment is one I've only thought of a million times... Being able to say that I'm going to marry this girl, it makes me so happy words can't explain. Tears are welling in my eyes just thinking about this. My life at this moment is perfect, and I couldn't ask for anything better. "She said, "Boy can I tell you a terrible thing? It seems that I'm sick and I've only got weeks. Please, don't be sad now, I really believe, You were the greatest thing that ever happened to me."

It's been about a year and a half since we graduated high school and went off to college. We may have had a change of plans... Instead of going to school, Felicity agreed she would stay home to raise our child. She hasn't been feeling well lately, though, so the three of us bundled up to face the cold winter weather and go to the doctor. I was forced to stay in the waiting room while she got the results. Our son sleeps soundly in carrier, and I lay my head back against the wall. I hope it's nothing serious... That's all I can think about. When the door opens, I shoot my head to look to my wife, so wears a straight face. "Can I tell you a terrible thing?" Her voice is almost a whisper. My heart stops. I don't want her to say anything else, but she does. "It seems that I'm sick and I've only got weeks... Please don't be sad," She rushes over to me to cup my face in her hands so I look her in the eyes. Her face is blurred with tears that have already formed. It feels like someone dropped a two hundred pound weight on my chest and it's making it hard to breathe. "You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me." I shake my head, biting my lip. "Taiga, it'll be okay..." I shake my head again, sniffling as tears wet my cheeks. I bury my face into her torso, clutching her shirt as I let out muffled cries. "Taiga, please... I love you." Her fingers run through my hair and she rubs my back. "Let's make the most of this month. Do that for me, please?" She asks, her voice shaking as she sniffles. I nod, letting go of her to finally look at her face. I take in everything about it I can. Her beautiful black hair and sad, green eyes that usually twinkle with life. "Of course." I manage. "Let's go home." "So don't fall in love, there's just too much to lose If you're given the choice, then I beg you to choose To walk away, walk away, don't let her get you. I can't bear to see the same happen to you. Now, son, I'm only telling you this Because life can do terrible things."

I finish my story, sitting across the kitchen table from my son, who's now thirteen years old. He's asked me for years about her, and at first I ignored it, and told him I'd tell him when he got older. "So is mom in Heaven?" He asks with tears in his eyes. It breaks my heart to see him sad, but after years of giving him short answers, I realized there is no better time than now. I want him to know his mother, as I did. Remembering her as she was when we were together, it brings back that hole in my chest I felt the day she told me she was sick. It aches and makes it difficult to breathe. I nod, biting my lip. "She is. And you know where else she is?" I ask. "Where?" "She's in our memories, too." I bite my lip and exhale shakily. "She's watching both of us, and she's always with us. Remember that." He nods and gives me a small, reassuring smile. "You don't have to feel sad now, dad. It's just like you said, she's watching both of us. Plus, you always have me. We're a family." His red eyes seem solemn. My sadness has affected him all of these years. I give him a sad smile. "You're right." I sit back in my seat and heave a sigh. "I'll try to be better from now on. For you." The dull ache in my chest isn't as dark and brooding. She's always with us.

[itstheiratepirate]

Holy cow upload culture is difficult. Or Chapter 4 in my poorly constructed fanfic!

Chapter 4: In Which Rosalie Bravely Belittles a Bravadoing Bravo, whilst a Bravo Basically Begets a Brutal Beating

 When we went to that one bar and met Bernard and Robespierre you’ll recall I stayed after. They and I chatted for some time about the matters of Versailles, and really Paris as a whole. I mentioned my experiences in Paris and they asked all kinds of questions, such as my experiences in my “caste”, the families in my old circle people and my relationship to the Jarjayes family. Of course I avoided discussing my newer…hmm… habits, but otherwise they seemed to really like hearing my own plight and the plight of Paris. The hours passed, and Robespierre left, leaving Bernard and I to talk.

 He was sharp, to be sure. While he may have seemed like a drunken lout, when he was at work, he knew his way with words when he asked his questions. The night progressed, and eventually we got on topic of the noble. What did he do to you, he asked, and I explained my anger with the nobility. Nobles killed my mother, nobles killed that child, a mere child for God’s sake, and for what? No repercussions, no change in status quo; we were simply the Others, we didn’t matter. Through working out descriptions we figured out the man’s identity, which was good enough for me. As for revenge though, there were some problems. Namely, I couldn’t demand a duel, because I was a woman. But, he knew this man, and if “he” wanted, he could find out the man’s patterns, schedule, and if someone were to say, exploit his vices, we could get him. There was still the issue of gender, Bernard suggested a second, or a merc in my place.

  This annoyed me to no end, to think that I couldn’t defend the honor of my mother and the people of Paris, I was livid. I excused myself, but he resolved to find my information by a weeks’ passing, and resolved to find a decent Second.

 As the week passed I learned more under the tutelage of your family. Already I was beginning to learn how to fence, and it was hard work to be sure, but you’ll recall I was resilient, and, well, my instructor didn’t let me take shortcuts. On my off time I learned the turf around me, got to know the servants, and, well, my ins and outs just in case. I found a gap in the surrounding fence that seemed ignored by everyone in the manor, covered by brush, it worked for me. I worked in order to be ready for the following week, kept myself distracted. As for my thieving? Well, I certainly had that itch, but I remembered where I was, and where I wasn’t, so I couldn’t actually act on my wants. The stealing came about later.

  I almost rushed to the bar the next week, and had to work to contain my excitement. Bernard was there, chatting with the waitress when his eyes drifted lazily to me. I went to his table trying my best to act professional. When I sat he laid out everything. The man was a minor noble, no one would notice he was gone if he met with an “accident”. He was a heavy alcoholic as well, and couldn’t resist a woman, but had a reputation for being excessively cruel. A real stand-up individual.

 “As for this Second I’m ‘required’ to find”. I spat.

 Bernard slid something towards me, never lifting his hands off of it, “Alas, I could find no one, though I did find a good place to lure this noble, somewhere quiet, out of the way.”

 I sighed, “Well it’s a start.”

 “I’m one to think you should find your own Second Rosalie.” He said, wearing a knowing smile.

 “Who would I ask to do this? This is my task, and I’d rather not get anyone involved.” I snapped back.

“Easy now,” He grinned. “I leave such a decision in your own capable hands.” With that he grabbed my hand, stuffed something in it. When I started to unfold my fingers around this cloth object, he hastened to close them again. “Not here, when you’ve better time to…Contemplate your choice. I’ve some writing to do, we’ll meet up again tomorrow, and work this thing out some more. With that he left the bar, and I left for the manor.

 I didn’t uncurl my hands until I got back to my room, and when I did, I was looking into the empty eyes of a cloth domino mask. The clever bastard.

 The next day he took me from the bar to our set up, a narrow affair cluttered with discarded barrels, detritus from garbage and other refuse, and a dead end. “By the by, did you decide on your second?”

 “You’re a madman.” Was all I could respond back.

 “Hmm? Why I haven’t the foggiest about what you’re on about,” He said with thick sarcasm. “I simply suggested a Second picked by your own hands and eyes. Were I to pick, the effect would be dreadfully diminished!”

 “Ah yes, you’re right, how silly. Yes, my pick, of course. So what’s the plan?” I asked.

 “Well I think we use the cover of Her Majesty’s Balls to lure him here. A little drinking perhaps, a debaucherous night upon the town? His appetite and lust are easy picking really.”

 “And you can get him here?”

 “No problem at all.”

“What am I doing, waiting here?”

 “Nay, your Second will be here waiting.”

 “Of course.”

 “The Second will be waiting for my signal. When we arrive, the second shall initiate the duel.”

 My heart raced at the prospect. I was on the path to avenging the child, my mother, I was on my way. If Bernard had this planned like I thought he did, everything would turn out fine. We rehearsed the approach, my appearance, my dropping the gauntlet, from then on my fate would be decided on my skill and dedication alone. After we met up I decided to use my remaining money to buy my outfit. A black doublet and knickers to go with it, and I may have “borrowed” gloves and a pair of poniards, my weapons of choice. The night arrived, and you may remember I made an excuse not to go to the Ball. In all honesty I was off to settle a score.

  I waited, as the sun began to set. Bernard had left a lantern behind for me to light before he arrived. My heart pounded in my chest, and what were mere seconds felt like millennia. I think the worst part of the night was the waiting. I waited and waited, and except for the occasional rat getting curious of my presence I was alone with my own thoughts. What if Bernard was telling me off to the noble? Why is this taking so long? Who takes this long to drink? I forced myself to calm down, and breathed in and out. Then I heard voices.

 “Oh monsieur you must stop this nonsensical talk!” Said a voice loud as day, approaching. “Mustn’t spoil our fun tonight on words. I’d quite prefer the…action personally.” The voice sounded…off. It sounded like it was cracking at all the wrong times, attempted to be feminine, but wasn’t. From my spot I saw walking in a lady dressed in a blue dress, hair done up, concealed under a matching blue hat with colorful plumes. I had no idea who this person was, but I recognized immediately the man behind her. The man from the streets of Paris, who shot a child in cold blood, whom he accused of stealing.

 “Mademoiselle Persephone, you shouldn’t be so coy, I’m simply giving a preview into the magical night ahead.” He responded lecherously. I was confused, was this part of the plan. “Where is your place anyways? Here? This is a dump!”

 “Oh, you. But this is so much like my time in Paris! How I wish to be there once more.” She exclaimed before clearing her throat.

 Was this really the signal? Bernard was dressed as a woman, wooing the nobleman, dress and hair done up, make-up, even a matching handbag. I was now incredibly curious about his nightlife. But the mission came first. I began creeping my way from my hiding place, and crept behind the man. I drew one of my poignards, and tapped his shoulder with the tip and withdrew a white glove from my pocket.

 “Hey what gives, who thinks—“ He turned and eyes widened.

 I dropped the glove to his shoe. “Monsieur, on behalf of the child whom you shot and killed a year and some days ago, I challenge you to a duel!”

 “Aieeeeee” ‘Persephone’ fake screamed. “Oh me oh my, please do not hurt me, I’ve no business here with you”.

 The man grabbed at his sword on his belt, drawing it and held its point towards me. “Hmph, very well. When I’m through with your pathetic self yet another Parisian soul to burn in Hell, and yet my conscious will remain clear.” He grinned, assuming a defensive stance.

 “We shall see”. I growled. I backed away, drawing my second poignard before doing the same.

 He immediately attempted to wrest control of my right weapon, as it was closest. His feet moved rapidly towards me as well, as he attempted to close distance. Upon feeling his blade binding mine I took the other weapon and dropped it under his, deflecting his point to the side and freeing mine before throwing myself forward towards him, right weapon aimed right at the jugular. My attack was stopped short when he crossed his legs backwards, granting him some distance and dropping into a lunge stance, his blade extended, closing his line. I stopped in time and reassumed my en garde stance, and he did the same.

 “Hmph, a two on one fight hardly seems fair” the noble taunted.

 “It’s all about how you use it monsieur. Given the length of your weapon I’d wager you’re compensating.” I retorted. I couldn’t believe I just said something so vulgar like that. But that was the power of the mask, the anonymity, the dual identity that reflected nothing upon me. And I learned from the best, that a good duel is nothing without a solid one-liner.

 He growled and started forward again, but I noticed he was tensing up. He was nervous as all Hell, so when I saw he was coming for me again I simply baited a lunge from him. He went, but fell an couple centimeters short. In that instant I bound his blade and drew his point to the left, and with my right weapon slammed the forte into his blade, the force of which knocked the blade out of his hands. I drew my weapons to bare, kicking his sword to the side.

 “Have mercy” he groveled. “I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want? Money, wine, women?”

 “I want you to eschew amassing large sums of wealth for the benefit of yourself alone.” I demanded. “You will never spend frivolously, you will donate to the churches all around France, and put money towards education and the betterment of society. Swear to me you will do these things, and I shall spare your life.”

 He crawled on hands and knees, “I swear, I repent, I’ll never pursue wealth over the bettering of people. I’ll clean up France to the best of my ability!” he began trying to kiss my boot, but I drew it back.

 “On your feet worm. You disgust me. Go on then, get out of here!”

 He took off his moneypurse and dropped it to the ground. And with that he ran, never bothering to retrieve his sword.

 Bernard, literally fanning himself sauntered up to me, “We should probably get out of here, he’s probably calling the guard as we speak.” Through the alleyways we ran before stopping in another secluded area.

“Give me your weapons.” Bernard said.

 “What the Hell is with your disguise?” I asked back, chuckling, handing him my poignards.

 I turned my eyes as I saw him hiking his skirt up, “Long story short, anything for a good story”.

 “You’re not reporting on this.” I ordered.

 “No, but a crazed nobleman will go to the press and demand people be on the watch for this masked vigilante, but some journalist will do a sloppy job covering the story, and no one will pay attention.” He responded. “You can look now.”

 “So you bought the dress…for this plot?” I asked sheepishly.

 “No, no, as I said, sometimes I go to great lengths for a good story.” He sighed.

 My eyes wandered invariably to his chest, and he cocked an eyebrow. “Apples. You want one?”

 “Pass,” I said disgusted. He and I laughed.

 I removed my domino mask and shoved it in my pocket and grabbed his arm. “Well then, the night is old and I tire. Come on.”

 “What’s this about?” He asked.

 “Well a proper gentleman will be leading you home tonight, mademoiselle.” I said snidely.

 “Well now” he laughed.

 And so we went, we made a stop by the manor to deposit the weapons and extra gear, and then made our way to his flat. I left him there and returned to my room. And no one was the wiser.

[netherwar-rpg-blog]

Welcome to the Wardens, Bo! Your application for ROGUE OC has been accepted with an Emilia Clarke FC.

I think we can all honestly say that we are super excited to have a Rogue/Bard in the group! I love how Belladonna is this clever, creative but sly woman - a celebrity in some ways! - and she is as dangerous as she is talented in her cunning ways. There is definitely a playful side to her I think, especially in the RP sample, which will be so interesting to see with the other Wardens! I think her talents with knowing the noble circles and the political pressures in Highwing will be called upon frequently by the Wardens, so she will become an essential source of information at times. She’s wonderfuly described and written; I can’t wait to see how she evolves during the hardships and battles the Wardens will have to endure!

The application can be found under the cut. You have 48 hours to create a roleplay account (cannot be a sideblog) for your character and we will be updating our opening date soon!

O O C - I N F O

Name: Bo

Age: 21

Timezone: CST

Activity Level: On a scale of 1-10, I can be about a 6. With my RPH and my schoolwork, I’m fairly busy. Sometimes there will be times where I’ll have to be gone for a whole day for maybe a jazz band concert or when the play I’m putting on is going on.

Extra: Any flashing gifs? Not necessarily a trigger, but I would prefer them tagged!

C H A R A C T E R - I N F O

T H E - B A S I C S

Name: Belladonna Tabris

Gender: Female

Age: 30

Class: Rogue; Bard

Faceclaim: Emilia Clarke

C H A R A C T E R - D E T A I L S

Nationality: Northern Regions (Siften)

Appearance:

Belladonna is a very aristocratic looking woman. Despite her humble beginnings, she was blessed with clear skin. However, she did have a bit of back acne, so she’s got a few acne scars on her back. As far as scars go, she’s got a small scar on her eyebrow from a stray rock when she was 10, and she’s got a larger scar on her stomach from an assassination attempt later in life. Despite Emilia’s frame, Belladonna is a bit chunkier than Emilia though not by much. She’s not itty bitty, but she’s not as large as her mother.

Personality:

Positive: Clever, Freethinking, Imaginative, Virtuoso, Principled, Realistic (though sometimes pessimistic), Youthful, Undogmatic Negative: Conceited, Criminal, Demanding, Domineering, Haughty, Irritable, Power-hungry, Sly

C H A R A C T E R - B A C K G R O U N D

History:

From the beginning of her life, Belladonna loved to sing. She adored the act of singing, hearing, and learning music just like her own mother. Often, she would sit in taverns with her mother and listen to her sing to the patrons and occasionally steal the coin purses right off of their belts.

Bell’s mother was a bard, and often she would sell secrets to lords and ladies of courts and places where she played. Bell’s mother taught Bell these tricks in due time through her life starting from age 5 (where she would wait for her mother to seduce men so Bell could slip behind them and cut their purses) to age 18 when her mother finally passed away. She taught Bell to woo a man or woman to get information and how to properly eavesdrop in a room full of patrons in a tavern. Many of Bell’s talents are thanks to her lovely mother, someone she still thinks of fondly of today.

Throughout her teenage years, she grew closer to her mother in the small village they lived in. Bell rarely talked to people in her village, opting instead to speak to travelers in the taverns where they would stop to resupply. Most of them told stories of the capital—Sorvin of its beauty. But the place she truly desired to be was Highwing. More than anything in the world, Bell desired to go to Highwing and sing for the King and Queen of Eldris. Her mother would always frown at Bell’s mention of this and move on from whatever they were talking about. Her mother was very vocally against Bell ever doing anything in Highwing or anything away form their small village in Siften. Never meeting her father, Bell assumed it was because her father was from Highwing. Her mother’s wary looks when a traveler would speak to Bell was proof enough. Bell was sure her father had broken her mother’s heart. But, she never learned the truth of that.

One fateful day (on her 18th birthday in fact), her mother was caught stealing and murdered by the man she stole from. Later on that night, Belladonna killed her first man, taking revenge for her mother’s death. When the guard came for her, she left Siften. She ran as far away as she could, all the way to Highwing, dodging the guard to the Siften border and then stealing to eat and live after that. She only got caught a few times when she just starting out, but by the time she got to Highwing, she was getting so much better. She’d leeched talents with her learned observing nature. Her mother taught her from the beginning to watch and learn and then watch and learn again.

She started off singing in local taverns, begging at some, and eventually got discovered by a young noble’s son who was in one of the upper class taverns with his father. She almost didn’t score that gig that night, almost getting flat out rejected for her appearance before she sang for the owner. The young noble demanded his father buy Belladonna for his use and singing, and for the low low price of 7 gold marks. The price of a person can be so fickle sometimes. Desperately in need of money, Bella took the gig, and for 5 years, she sang and tangled with the handsome young noble.

She was free to do as she wished when she wasn’t singing, so she explored the city as much as she could. She had money now, more money than she could believe. She had a salary! She had money to buy real clothes! She experienced a taste of a good life, and she never wanted to let it go. When she had money to actually live, she never wanted to be poor again, and she never wanted to feel helpless again. So, she made connections. She made friends. She got connections between sets, and she became quite the underground hit with most of the nobles. Before she knew it, other nobles were asking to hire her for a few nights (hiring her obviously through her current employers). She was happy, and she was popular.

When her young lord got married, she refused to “sing” for him anymore and used the connections she made over time and began to sing for the Highwing opera house. She sang; she danced. She became quite the soprano. By the time she was 28, she was one of the most sought out singer in the capital. She sang for a whole slew of people, poor and rich. Her face was on every poster and the like. And for 2 years, she was living in the lap of luxury. Golden silks and jewelry dangling from every surface. She was loving it. Until reports of the undead began to surface.

Then, she got worried. Her way of life was threatened! And when the opera house started to decline due to the political climate and the lowered financial glory, Bella knew she had to do something. So, she took the training she’d honed over the years, her roguish ways with a lock and key and headed for a group she knew would be able to help stop the wave of terror that would inevitably reach the capital—The Wardens. So, she headed as fast as she could to where they were rumored to be—Miwor Town—to join up, and she refused to leave until she was accepted. She was, in fact, so insistent that Sally Derry nearly kicked her out for sheer impertinence. But, she was accepted with reluctant gusto.

Reason for joining the Wardens:

Ever the gray area, Belladonna thinks the Wardens can help. If they can fix the whole “undead” thing, then she’s in. She wants to feel safe again, and she wants her life back again where she can just sing and be happy and rich. She’d never been rich before, and she wants that back. With the opera house closing for the time being, she wants to feel safe again, and she knows she can’t without defeating the big evil she used to only sing about.

Desired Connections:

The Stalker: Belladonna met The Stalker on her trip to Highwing, and they rescued her from an attack of wolves. She vaguely remembers them, but by the time she woke up the next morning, they were gone. She regrets never being able to say thank you.

The Leader: Belladonna has seen the Leader at various noble events in the capital. They know of eachother and Belladonna was as surprised

R O L E P L A Y - S A M P L E

Screams and shouts rouse your character from an afternoon nap in the busy town. A rough looking thief is dashing through the crowds, huddling a bag of jewels to his chest, and the soldiers are too far to act. What does your character do?

…Sitting in her dressing room, Bell stared out of the window and out at the streets of Highwing. She yawned quietly and sipped quietly at her tea. It was cold by now, but she didn’t mind, waking from blissful sleep to hear the sounds of the city around her. She gazed out with vibrant and bright eyes towards the streets where she saw a man ducking and running through the streets with a thick sack of gold and such. A few gold crowns slipped from the bag as he bumped into a very large man walking down the marketplace. He muttered a quick apology and continued to run while guards, bringing up the rear, chased after him. Thoroughly interested, she left her room to move through the crowd after him. She followed behind enough to see him actually give the guards the slip. So, he turned towards home, or what he called a home. She watched him finally slip inside and lock the door behind him. Bell glanced around to notice where she was in Highwing and grinned to herself, turning around and marching back to her dressing room.

-

She pulled her hair up out of her face, tying it back with a leather tie. She pulled her hood up to disguise her unique white gold hair and adjusted the black leather bodice she wore. A black silk scarf hid her face as she slipped out into the night where the silent marketplace hung in suspense. Her feet were light as a feather, dancing against the cobblestone of the street all the way to the thief’s house.

Slipping past guards to avoid suspicion (all persons in all black were inevitably found suspicious), Bell made it back to the thief’s house. It was easy to slip inside. Bell made quick work of the lock and slipped inside, tiptoeing across the dirt floor towards the sleeping thief. He looked so peaceful. She grabbed parchment and scribbled out a brief note before searching through nook and cranny for that bag of jewels.

Beneath a pile of hay, she found the sack, filled with rubies and amethysts and emeralds (her favorite). She snatched the bag, leaving one gold crown on the note she’d written.

‘You make a poor thief.

xoxo, a better thief’

-

She crept over a guard, eyes half lidded from lack of sleep. Two bags in her hand, she dropped on at his feet before disappearing into the night. The other bag, she tied to her belt, carrying it back to her dressing room. She’d be damned if she gave up those emeralds to the law. And a few gold crowns… And maybe one or two rubies. The rest, well, she’d return that stolen property. But, she always had her finder’s fee. Besides, the emeralds would look better on her.