#if this is his hand those would just be sharpie doodles on his palm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hazelandglasz · 5 years ago

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Until You Draw Me - Klaine Soulmates AU

Inspired by this post https://lilyvandersteen.tumblr.com/post/140742002854/princess-tuna-let-gavin-free-soulmate-au

On AO3

Kurt always wakes up with his skin tingling, and thus, he always wakes up with a smile on his face, even before he opens his eyes.

Because it’s not just a tingle, but a Tingle. Which means that his soulmate is awake as well, and started doodling.

Which means that Kurt’s day will be filled with doodles on his skin.

It started simple enough, as far as designs go—simple, yes, but with an elegance that Kurt enjoys. The flowery pattern remains, in time, but evolves.

On Valentine’s Day, Kurt always “receives” a bouquet on his wrist or hand. With each passing year, the talent of his soulmate grows and Kurt caresses the delicate petals on his latest “gift,” taking almost all of his forearm.

“Thank you,” he scribbles on top of it, stopping himself from writing more.

And more does he want to write!

Kurt wants to tell his soulmate that his drawings, from the simplest stick figure to the more elaborate design covering all of Kurt’s arm and hand, have given him the strength to get back from the worst of days.

That he loves him without needing to meet him.

But that he wants to meet him.

Kurt doesn’t know why he fears bringing that up—maybe because his soulmate never offered, either?

As it is, his hand tingles and he looks down, as a very neat cursive appears on his skin.

“Wait until I give you real ones :) Happy Valentine’s”

Kurt’s cheeks hurt from the width of his smile at that promise. Bringing his hand up to his lips, Kurt presses a small kiss to the last written word.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you too,” he whispers, before getting up to get ready for his day.

---

From the moment Blaine got his first mark through the Bond, he understood a lot of things about his soulmate.

The biggest take-away from the notes Blaine finds on his forearm, his hand and, on one particularly ticklish occasion, his knees, is that his soulmate is either nervous about forgetting to do stuff or really bad at keeping his schedule.

Oh, there are a couple of scribbled notes in response to Blaine’s drawings and messages, sure, but most of the notes that come Blaine’s way are about appointments, meetings’ times and places, and grocery shopping.

The one time Blaine exploded in a burst of laughter in the middle of a nude class because “BUY MILK”, underlined three times, appeared on his knee, was memorable.

It’s… It’s endearing, that’s what it is, if Blaine is being completely honest.

He likes that there is something about his soulmate that he gets to know and keep to himself, especially something that feels like a window opened to his soulmate’s, well, soul.

Blaine wonders if he should suggest that they meet—they should, shouldn’t they?

But then again, if his soulmate didn’t ask, maybe it’s too soon?

Maybe his soulmate likes to have Blaine and his doodles in his life, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into wanting a romantic relationship with him. After all, plenty of soulmates are not romantic partners…

Blaine takes a deep breath before his thoughts can spiral.

He shouldn’t build assumptions on someone else’s thoughts just because of his dark thoughts, like Dr. Snyder always says.

Speaking of which, he needs to hurry if he doesn’t want to miss his appointment.

---

It’s not that Kurt doesn’t own Post-Its. It’s just that they somehow always evade him when he needs them.

Like, when he’s on the phone with his professor and he needs to write down a book reference.

Or when he’s on the phone with his doctor’s assistant and needs to keep track of his appointment, and since his schedule is in his phone…

Perhaps he should buy a proper, old-school pocket planner. Given his track record with his Post-Its, chances are his planner would manage to disappear too.

(Maybe he really does have a troll stealing his shit. He’ll look into it.)

It’s messy, but it works—so far, ever since Kurt got to New York, he never missed an appointment or arrived late to a meeting.

(He does run out of milk and eggs, though, because he writes it down in his palm in the morning and it just… fades away to the point of illegibility.)

“You’re early,” Dr. Snyder’s assistant tells him when he opens the door to the practice. “She’s still in session with her 3 o’clock, and then it’s her 4 o’clock.”

“It is 4:45.”

“I know,” she replies, rolling her eyes at him over the rim of her glasses. “Hence my comment on how you’re going to have to wait. Or,” she adds, the hint of a smirk appearing on her lips, “you could go with Dr. Delmonico?”

“No!” Kurt exclaims, walking backward to the waiting room. “No. I’m fine waiting. I have, uh, lots of things to do on my phone. Thanks but no thanks.”

Beatrix snickers, returning her attention to her screen and keyboard. “Thought so.”

Kurt slides into the waiting room, briefly nodding to the people waiting there—he wonders who is Dr. Snyder’s other patient, if only because then he could deduce who are the unfortunate souls getting treated by Dr. Delmonico.

(He had exactly one session with the petite, blonde woman before making the executive decision that, out of the two of them, she was the one in need of mental help.)

There is one guy doodling in a notebook, sitting quietly in a corner with earphones on, who catches Kurt’s attention.

He’s cute, his navy and red wool jacket opened nonchalantly, with his hair gelled away from his face in classy waves.

Really cute. Handsome even.

The way he doodles makes Kurt think of his soulmate, and he pushes his sleeves up to look at today’s flowers once again.

Since it’s the end of the day, the drawing has faded to a blurry watercolor, but the flowers are still there, making Kurt smile before he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts scrolling.

Some noises come from the corner of the room, but Kurt doesn’t look up.

And then his wrist tingles.

---

Blaine knows how to occupy himself while he waits for Dr. Snyder to catch up with her schedule.

If anything, her waiting room is as good a place as any to do some people-watching and take inspiration from the waiting patients’ clothes and attitudes to sketch a bit.

An exclamation from behind the door makes him look up, but he aims to return to his drawing when the door opens and closes on a young man.

He’s gorgeous, and he has such poise that Blaine already flicks to a new page to steal glances at him and capture his attitude.

The man took off his jacket and he quickly rolls up his sleeves, smiling down at his forearm before taking his phone.

Now hold on a minute.

Blaine knows those colors and shapes.

He knows them intimately, since he drew them this very morning as a present for his soulmate.

Could it be?

Could Fate have brought them together in this waiting room, on the very day when Blaine wondered whether he was going to ask his soulmate to meet?

The pencil in his hand doesn’t mark his skin, and he scrambles to find a proper pen in his pockets—he manages to find a red sharpie he had completely forgotten about.

Blaine proceeds to write in block letters on the back of his right hand.

“THERE YOU ARE”

And looks up to see his soulmate’s reaction.

---

The block letters appear on Kurt’s hand and it takes him far longer than he’s willing to admit to completely process those words.

“There you are”, what does that even mean? Not to mention, it’s slightly threatening, too.

“There you are”?

Kurt looks up with a frown.

His eyes land on the Cutie in navy and red, who smiles at him with a wave, a red sharpie in his fingers.

Oh.

Kurt needs to be sure, though, before making a fool of himself.

So he picks up his pen and writes “There I am” under the red statement, and quickly looks up.

Cutie looks down at his hand, and the softness of his smile alone could melt Kurt’s heart.

Kurt wastes no time in picking up his coat and moving seats to be next to, well, his soulmate. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Cutie replies. “I’m Blaine.”

“Kurt.”

They look into each other’s eyes for a moment that could last between a couple of seconds to the rest of eternity, before looking away with a blush on both their faces.

“This is…”

Kurt lets out a nervous chuckle. “Unexpected?”

Blaine looks at him sideways. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I have a great way with words.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Blaine replies. “I have seen it first hand.” He wiggles his left hand, covered in Kurt’s handwriting.

“Oh my God,” Kurt says, taking Blaine’s hand without thinking to look at his notes and scribbles, barely legible. There, right under Blaine’s knuckles, is the note about today’s appointment.

Blaine’s fingers close around Kurt’s hand. “I could get used to this,” he says softly.

Kurt’s heart rushes in his chest, and he would have probably done something stupid if Dr. Snyder hadn’t just appeared in the doorframe.

“Mr. Anderson?” she calls softly, getting Blaine’s attention.

“Oh. Right.” Blaine looks back at Kurt. “This is me,” he says, and Kurt doesn’t know what to do with himself now that his hand doesn’t have Blaine’s warmth anymore. “But I could wait for you at the coffee shop downstairs?”

And just like that, the warmth is back without them even touching. “I—I’d love that.”

“See you then,” Blaine says, his smile returning as he stands up and follows the doctor into her office.

Kurt is left stunned, fingers brushing Blaine’s words.

It may be Valentine’s Day, but he didn’t think his day would turn out like this.

---

Blaine is restless as he waits for Kurt to open the door.

How is it possible that today, of all days, he met his soulmate?

In his therapist’s waiting room?

Just the thought of Kurt makes Blaine grin at his now almost empty cup.

He’s giddy and nervous and elated and, and…

And speechless with happiness.

Hence his inability to stop himself from beaming at Kurt when he opens the door and crosses the coffee shop to get to their table.

There is something very attractive in that walk—there is something very attractive about Kurt, period, but that walk, determined and assertive, does something for Blaine, making him sit straighter.

“Hi.”

Kurt sits down, hands on the table and twitching every now and then, as if he forces himself to keep them in their spot.

Blaine slides one hand on the table, closer to Kurt, and his soulmate immediately latches on, closing his fingers around Blaine’s.

There is an immediate relief in the line of his shoulders, Kurt visibly relaxing at the touch.

“I wasn’t ready for us to meet,” Kurt starts, “but when you left, I found out I wasn’t ready to let you go.”

Blaine can feel his face heating up but he shares Kurt’s sentiment wholeheartedly. “If the doctor hadn’t interrupted us, I don’t think I would have been able to say goodbye to you.”

Kurt sighs happily. “Now what?”

“Now we take it slow?”

Kurt nods.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Blaine continues. “I’m Blaine Anderson, coffee addict and living in New York for the past two years.”

“Kurt Hummel, coffee addict as well—but I hate the taste of coffee, go figure—living in New York for the past three years.”

“Originally from Westerville, Ohio.”

Kurt quirks one eyebrow. “From Lima, Ohio.”

“Oh.”

“Hi-ho.”

The poor pun makes Blaine snort nonetheless.

“A pun aficionado, then,” Kurt comments, voice as soft as the skin against Blaine’s.

“A puncionado, yes.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but his smile keeps his fondness.

“Come on, Kurt, your turn to confess a terrible yet endearing trait.”

Kurt looks down at their joined hands. “I am terrified of being tardy.”

Blaine nods, squeezing Kurt’s hand. “I promise to never be late to our meetings.”

“Duly noted.”

---

For the next three hours—until the baristas tell them gently but firmly that they have to leave now, please—they talk and really get to know each other.

The more Kurt learns about Blaine, the less he wants to let him go.

There is more than his gorgeous face and his gentlemanly manners; he’s a generous, artistic soul, and Kurt feels like if they are together, they can move anything standing in their way.

As they stand outside, Blaine frets and hesitates. Kurt comes closer, sliding his arm in the crook of Blaine’s elbow.

Blaine looks at the gesture and under Kurt’s fingertips, relaxing into their position. “Can I interest you in breakfast for dinner?” he offers.

“Odd proposition, but sure.”

“It’s just that there is this diner, next to my place, that serves breakfast food 24/7, and—”

“I know it,” Kurt interrupts before he can stop himself, “since it’s really close to my place.”

“No way.”

“I’m on Lynden and Cypress.”

Blaine’s eyes widen. “Menahan and Wickoff!”

Kurt squeezes Blaine’s arm as they start walking toward the subway. “The Fates really wanted us to meet, huh?”

Blaine covers Kurt’s hand with his free one. “I can’t say that I mind.”

It may be the 21st century, but Kurt properly swoons at that. “You flirt.”

Blaine chuckles. “Just stating the truth, Kurt.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop, either.”

“Second promise, then,” Blaine says as they reach the station. Kurt starts climbing the stairs, but Blaine holds him back, staying one step away. “I promise to always tell you the truths that make your eyes shine like they do right now.”

“And the other truths? The less comfortable ones?”

Blaine tilts his head to the side. “I’ll write them down in hidden places.”

Kurt can’t resist then, stepping down to press a small kiss to Blaine’s lips. “Tell them to me too,” he says, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s neck and pressing their cheeks together, “and keep the written notes to love ones.”

“I promise,” Blaine whispers, before capturing Kurt’s lips in a deeper kiss.

#sometimes i write #klaine au #soulmates au #written mark soulmates bond #fluff

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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gold coloured prisms of light, chapter one (branjie) - holtzmanns

His older sisters talk about soulmates with hearts in their eyes, about the boys at school whose arms they keep checking for matching Sharpie marks. Because, they say to him, it runs in families. Not everyone finds their soulmate, not everyone can write and have it show up on their soulmate’s skin.

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 5059

AN: This fic wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it. Hope you enjoy! Only thing to note is that their age difference is two years, rather than five, but other than that nothing is different. Aside from the soulmates part, that is. Writ is the best beta and cheerleader and I love them <3

Brock learns about soulmates when he’s four.

His mother shows him a scribble on her arm, matching the one that his father has just drawn on his own forearm with a marker.

Brock doesn’t understand how it works, how drawing on his own arm doesn’t make anything appear on anyone else’s. He doesn’t get the idea of a soulmate - two people that are made for each other.

Brock supposes his parents must be soulmates, from the way that they often turn towards each other, having conversations without words with just a glance, just a slight touch.

He wonders what it would be like.

But some people have some extra help in finding theirs.

There’s the librarian in his school, Mrs. Chen, who always wears long sleeves whenever Brock goes at lunchtime to read there to be away from the other kids because they’re too loud, noisy. She always grabs the books from the top shelves for him, hands them to him with kind eyes as if she knows a lot of things about the world and wants to share them. But even when he sees the ink peeking out from her sleeve by her wrist, the ever so changing marks, he never has the courage to ask.

Maybe Brock doesn’t even have one. It’s okay, because he likes being by himself. He can’t imagine having someone else to spend time with forever, like his parents.

Brock is five and lying on his bed when scribbles appear on his arms.

They’re haphazard, no recognizable letters or numbers, or even pictures. They’re drawn with an unsteady hand, ink bleeding along the surface of his skin in a multitude of colours that grow and grow and grow.

He pulls on a sweater because he doesn’t know what else to do.

His sister tugs on his sleeve when he comes down for lunch and is about to eat a bite of Mac and cheese. “What are those?”

“What?” Brock is defensive as he scarfs down another bite, because he himself doesn’t know what is happening and how is he going to wash it off and-

“Did you draw those?” His sister doesn’t give him a chance to answer, pulling him up from his seat and rubbing her fingers on his ink stained skin and looking to see if the colour transfers. She lets out a gasp when she sees that it doesn’t.

“Mom! Dad!”

Brock shrinks from their gaze when they come bounding down the stairs, along with his other sister. He crosses his arms, tucking his hands underneath so that they can’t see but then his mother points at his neck.

“There, look.”

Brock runs to the bathroom, and gasps when the scribbles have seemed to grow even more.

“Must be a toddler, or another kid, from these scribbles.” Brock’s mother’s voice is soft as she comes up behind him with his dad, looking at Brock in the mirror.

“I don’t want a baby.” Brock is five. He’s not a little kid anymore.

“She’s not going to stay a baby forever. Nor will she always have free range with a bunch of markers to draw on herself like this.” Brock’s mother flips his hand over, looks at the purple webs drawn on there. “She’s quite the little artist.”

“Why does it have to be a girl?” Brock grumbles. The girls in his school are weird, and one told him that he was too tall.

“That’s the way things are.”

Brock doesn’t get it, but he supposes it’ll make sense later.

The marks start to fade while he’s getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth. They disappear fast, as if someone is scrubbing at them, before his skin is completely ink free as he climbs into bed.

He wonders if his soulmate’s mother was angry about all of the scribbles.

Brock is seven before another drawing appears on his arm.

It makes him gasp, pull down the sleeve of his sweater. Part of him had started to believe that the scribbles had been a dream, made up by his subconscious after hearing so many stories about his parents and the tales woven by his sisters.

He had started wearing t shirts again, no longer fearing that a wayward scribble would appear on his skin, not after it had been two years since his arms and neck and chest had lit up in rainbows. He’d supposed that his soulmate’s parents had stopped letting them near any markers.

Until now, because he’s pulled up his sleeve and now there’s a smiley face on his wrist and a messy star beside it, and it doesn’t hurt, but he feels like he’s electrified, his heart beating faster and faster while his teacher, Mrs. Paul, is trying to teach them about what photosynthesis is.

He still doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter, because the drawings have stopped, and now he’s staring at them under his desk and seeing how his soulmate’s drawings have changed. They’re no longer scribbles - now, the small doodles are drawn with an unsteady hand like one would expect from a kid like him, or maybe younger. Brock wonders how old they are now.

He rifles through his desk, a wave of disappointment washing over him when he realizes that he’d leant his markers to his friend Sean at lunchtime, who still has them in his desk. He pulls out a gel pen that his sister had given him earlier in the year, wonders if it’ll work.

It’s worth a shot.

He draws a smiley face next to the one already on his arm.

Waits.

Another one appears, right beneath his elbow.

Then one by his palm.

Then Brock’s teacher calls on him and he stutters because he didn’t hear the question, then his classmates are laughing at him and he’s turning red and sinking in his seat, wishing to disappear.

But when he looks down, he sees a flower. One by his wrist.

It makes Brock feel better, somehow.

It’s another six months before there’s more than just drawings that show up on Brock’s arms.

He’s doing his homework at the kitchen table with his sisters, ignoring the way that his parents are arguing in the den (the door is closed, but he can still hear them, and he’s sure that his sisters can too). He pulls up his sleeves like he’s become used to doing in the past few months, looking for more art upon his skin.

This time, there’s a star, and four letters. Four haphazardly drawn letters that Brock can make out if he squints.

J o s e

They’re messily written, with shaky hands. Brock’s not quite sure if it says ‘Tose’ instead, but ‘Jose’ sounds like a name and he’s sure that there’s someone named Jose in the class above him, so it must be a name.

The words show up again on his skin, underneath the original letters. Then again, until his wrist is covered and all Brock can see is the name Jose Jose Jose.

Is that his soulmates name? Brock wonders if he’s practicing writing it.

He interrupts the writing, grabbing the Sharpie from the cup of pens on the table and writes down Brock.

The writing stops.

Then, in shaky letters-

B r o c k

- and a smiley face.

He wonders what his soulmate thinks of his name.

Brock’s arms become a mosaic of letters from A to Z, interspersed with the stars and smiley faces and flowers that are ever changing. There’s words sometimes, words like cat and sat and mat and hat, but most importantly, Jose and Brock.

The writing becomes more self assured over time, neater, less shaky. Then, eventually, he sees-

Brock nearly scrambles off of his bed to grab the Sharpie that’s taken up permanent residence on his desk to write a response back.

Brock has barely dropped his Sharpie onto his bed when more words start to appear.

My nam is Jose

I know

My name is Brock

I know

Jose. His soulmate’s name, his actual name, is Jose.

At least, Brock thinks that Jose is a boy. He’s never met a girl named Jose before.

His mother is wrong, maybe he does have a boy soulmate.

It makes him feel better than it should.

Brock becomes great at deciphering Jose’s handwriting. The letters that would look like scribbles to anyone else trying to read them are like a lifeline to him.

Brock’s lying in bed, having just woken up and he needs to get ready for school, by the way his father has already slammed the door, already left for work, and the way his mom is yelling up the stairs to his sisters to get out of the bathroom.

He pulls on a sweater, ready to cover up the marks like he does at school, after a classmate of his had pointed at them and asked what they were in second grade. He doesn’t want anyone else to see them, because they’re just his and Jose’s, just theirs.

Playing soccar todai :)

He wonders where Jose lives. Right now, as he looks out the window, it’s December and it’s snowing and he knows he’s going to have to wear his winter boots and his snowpants and his giant jacket if he doesn’t want to freeze.

That sounds fun

Ya I’m relli good

I want to play soccer too

It’s not true, not exactly. He doesn’t really like gym class, or when soccer balls or basketballs come his way, because he’d rather duck instead of having them hit him. He doesn’t want to get hurt, even if it makes his gym teacher yell at him every single time.

But maybe it would be fun with Jose.

Wat are you doing todai?

School then dance

He’d begged and begged and begged his mom to let him take dance classes the way his sisters do, and his mom had relented, letting him take some jazz classes. Except he still wants to take ballet, like his sisters do in their pink leotards and the buns in their hair.

Brock is nervous about mentioning dance to Jose, because the boys in his class had teased him for it, even though some of the girls from his class are at the studio, too. Would Jose make fun of him, too?

I like dance too

Brock gasps, his heart filling with something akin to hope, lightness.

You take dance classes too?? What kind? I do jazz

I dunno I just dance

Brock lets out a little laugh. He wonders what it would be like to meet Jose in person, if everything he said would delight Brock the way his words always do.

Brock’s mother sees the words on his arms one night when he’s nine, as he rolls his sleeves up to wash his hands before dinner.

“Is she finally writing to you now?”

Brock yelps, pulling down his sleeves because what if she sees Jose’s name and their conversations? He catches his breath once his arms are covered, safe.

“Yeah.”

It bothers Brock, the way his mom says ‘she’. The way she can’t possibly fathom that he could have a soulmate who is also a boy. What’s wrong with it?

He doesn’t know, because they don’t mention soulmates at church. Nor does he know why his mom muttered under her breath when they passed two guys on the street holding hands, even though Brock had thought it looked quite nice to do. He had wondered whether Jose would hold his hand like that.

“Can I see?” His mother reaches out for his arm and Brock dodges her grasp, crossing his arms.

“No.” His voice comes out more panicked than he wants it to, but he doesn’t want her to see and be mad at him for it.

He’s afraid that she would be.

Brock pulls his sleeves up past his palms as they eat dinner, and it’s good, really, that his mom and dad are arguing again because now it means that his mom won’t want to look at the writing on his arms anymore. Even though the yelling is loud, and his sisters are both texting underneath the table, tuning it out. Brock doesn’t have a phone, so he can’t do that, but he does have-

Jose.

Brock draws a smiley face on his arm. His and Jose’s way of alerting each other when they want to talk.

It’s two, three minutes before Jose draws one back, with its tongue sticking out.

Brock smiles, despite the way his dad slams his fist on the table, making his fork clatter against his plate. It startles him, just for a second, because Jose starts to write.

I’m eating pizza 4 dinner

Wat about you

Casserole

Ew what’s that it sounds gross

Brock has to stifle a laugh as he writes back.

It IS gross

Yuck

How are you doing????

I’m ok

Brock doesn’t want to talk about how his dad has stormed off to his study, how his mom is eating in silence, how his sisters are too. How this has become the norm, more often than not.

Brock had previously thought that soulmates never fight. Now, he guesses that it’s not true.

He wonders what would happen if his father drew on his arm again, if anything would actually show up on his mother’s skin the way that it used to.

Brock

Brock’s eye catches on his wrist when he sees the words appear, tossing the pencil he was using to do homework to the side in favour of his Sharpie.

He’s twelve and middle school is a place that he does not want to be, because the other kids in his class are mean, teasing him about stupid things and he wishes that he didn’t have to go.

He wishes that Jose went to his school, because at least he would have a friend there.

Yeah?

My abuela

She’s in the hospital

We’re in a waiting room

My mom is crying

Brock can feel his stomach turn. Jose talks about his abuela all the time, about how she always whispers in Jose’s ear that he’s her favourite grandson, that he’s going to be a star when he grows up. About how her hugs feel the softest.

Oh no

I’m sorry Jose

He wishes he could teleport to wherever Jose is now, hug him in real life, because he feels useless right now, so far away and unable to do anything or make anything better.

I dunno what to do

How can I help

Can you tell me a story

And so Brock does. He weaves a story about two friends who live far away but are penpals, talking all the time and it’s soft and familiar, covers him like a warm blanket. Jose draws smiley faces and hearts around the words that Brock writes, and it feels like he’s holding his hand.

Brock does the same thing a week later during Jose’s abuela’s funeral.

Brock is fifteen and has gotten into the National Ballet School, something he knows will surprise his mother and his father and his sisters when he tells them, but most of all, it surprises himself. It makes him giddy, makes him feel like maybe he’s good at something.

He writes to Jose in the bathroom after the audition, after his name has been called and he’s gotten a place at the school for the upcoming fall, because he wants to tell Jose first. He shuts himself in a stall, drawing a smiley face and then a star until Jose draws them back to him.

Hi hi hi

I DID IT

AHHH

YOU GOT IN

I TOLD YOU

YOU DID

YOU WERE SCARED

But you’re the BEST at dancing

You’ve never even seen me dance

Don’t need to

Brock smiles to himself, tracing over Jose’s words with his finger. He pauses, realizing something.

I’m going to have to wear short sleeves when I start ballet school

Because of the uniform for dance

Brock pauses, because he doesn’t want Jose to think that this means that he wants them to stop talking, and he’s about to write more when-

Look at your chest

Brock wrinkles his nose before writing back.

What?

Just do it

So he does, pulling his shirt up because he’s still in the stall and he gasps, because Jose’s starting to write along his ribs all delicate and he can see goosebumps rising up on his skin beside them.

This better? More sneaky

Brock’s not sure that he’s imagining the shiver that runs down his spine as the words appear, because this feels different from the writing on his arm. He feels more exposed even though he knows that Jose can’t see him, that Jose’s just looking down at his own chest and writing on himself.

He wonders, for a second, what Jose looks like right now, before pushing the thought from his head, away to the corner of his brain where he pushes most thoughts like that these days.

Yeah. Better. For school.

The Sharpie tickles on his ribs as he writes and it feels so novel, so new, as if they haven’t been doing this for years and years and years already.

Jose always manages to surprise him somehow.

Brock doesn’t start at ballet school for a few more months, but Jose keeps writing to him on his chest, along his ribs, above his hip bone, and it makes him shiver every time. Like it’s his secret, his secret that he shares with Jose and no one else, and he wonders if first kisses feel like this, enough to make his head want to spin.

He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like, where Jose lives. He knows that Jose is two years younger than him and also likes science and dance like him but really likes soccer, which Brock doesn’t. He knows that Jose loves his mom more than anyone in the world, and that his brother is older than him and that he doesn’t have sisters like Brock, but he wishes he that he did.

He wants to know more. He wants to see how Jose laughs in person, if he’s as loud like Brock expects him to be, from the way he loves to write in big capital letters when he’s excited.

Jose writes to him one evening, their customary smiley face scribbled on his hand, and Brock shovels his dinner so that he can go write back.

I kissed someone today

The words are etched onto Brock’s shoulder in black ink, bleeding into his skin and Brock draws in a breath, not quite sure why his heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his chest.

Because it doesn’t matter, right? Just because they’re soulmates doesn’t have to mean-

It was a girl

It was weird

Brock’s never mentioned that he likes boys because he hasn’t wanted to ask Jose himself, but he’d thought that if his soulmate was another boy that it would mean-

But it doesn’t matter. Soulmates don’t always get together, in the end.

It’s not like Brock has been thinking about it, letting himself hope that one day, one day, he’ll find Jose in real life and they don’t have to write to each other anymore and that things will suddenly be perfect.

But that’s not how things work.

So it’s okay, really, because Jose can kiss girls if he wants to.

Brock realizes that he hasn’t written back and so he pulls his Sharpie out from his bedside table, scrawls with shaky hands.

Okay

What else can he say, really?

For the first time he wants to scrub Jose’s words off of his body, wishing that he didn’t have to see them anymore because Jose kissed someone else and why is it making him feel upset for no reason?

He pulls on a sweater on top of his t-shirt so that he doesn’t have to look at his shoulder anymore, doesn’t have to see what Jose responds with.

Brock is getting out of the shower the week when he sees Jose’s writing on his side in the mirror.

He’s been trying not to look, trying to give himself some space because thinking about Jose is making his heart flip in his chest and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel even more out of control than he already is.

But the words that show up now make him pause.

Brock

I think I like boys

Brock looks down, trying to crane his neck to see if it really says what he thinks it’s says and it draws all the air out of his lungs when he realizes that it does.

His Sharpie is on his desk, as always, the ink blurring slightly on his wet skin.

You do?

I don’t like kissing girls that much

I don’t wanna kiss them

So why did you?

It was spin the bottle, everyone did

And then that girl tried to kiss me again later and I was like ew

Brock cracks up, despite himself. He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like but he can picture a look of disgust that mirrors his words easily.

How do you know you like boys?

Brock’s heart is beating faster and faster, and he’s not sure how long it can go on for before it gives out, trying to pump oxygen when he feels so out of breath.

Because I wanna kiss boys

The next words that appear on Brock’s skin make him gasp.

I wanna kiss you

He’s frozen, his towel around his waist and his skin is starting to dry off from the shower and Jose wants to kiss him.

Brock?

Sorry I shouldn’t have said that

Brock scrambles to write back because Jose needs to know-

I want to kiss you too

It’s true, when Brock thinks about it, so true because he’s never even met Jose in real life but he feels like he knows him better than anyone else in the world, because Jose is his best friend and he really really is-

His soulmate.

Jose draws a heart below his ribs and Brock wonders what it’s like to fall in love.

Brock is eating breakfast at the kitchen table when he’s seventeen and his mother turns to him. He can see they way she’s peeking down at his arms, even while trying to be discreet.

Jose only writes to him on his shoulders and chest when he’s at home now, just in case. Brock didn’t have to explain himself, because Jose got it without him having to.

“Brock.”

He doesn’t want to look up, because he can’t tell anything from his mother’s tone of voice. He’s not sure if he really wants to know.

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

So he does, reluctantly looking up from his cereal and his mother looks tired, worn down.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Words bubble up in his chest but he can’t say them, he can’t make things worse and he knows that his mom probably knows and wants him to say it too, but he can’t-

“No, there isn’t.”

“Brock, your soulmate-”

He escapes from the table and goes up to his room (‘gotta go, I have homework’) as his mom sighs, and he realizes as he climbs the stairs and passes their old family pictures on the walk that his dad hasn’t been home in awhile.

He doodles a small smiley face on his wrist, enough for Jose to notice, then continues above his hip bone.

Does your mom know?

Know what?

You know

He doesn’t want to say it, because he hasn’t even said the words to himself, and if he does then it means that it’s all real and that his mom will hate him and-

She knew since I was a kid and kept stealing her dresses and makeup

Brock laughs a little, trying to picture a five year old strutting around in his mother’s heels.

Me too, I did that too

And she doesn’t know??

I think she does

She asked me if I had anything to tell her

Today

Yikes

You think she’ll be mad?

Yeah

I don’t want to tell her

No one says you have to

If you don’t wanna right now

Okay

If you end up doing so, I’ll be here to cheer you on

Jose draws a stick figure that’s grinning above his belly button and Brock can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter.

Brock is eighteen and drunk at a party and kisses his friend Kyle and all he can think about is Jose.

He doodles on his thigh when he gets back to his room, after his friends drop him off and he flops onto his bed and thinks about what Jose’s lips would taste like.

It’s like 3 am

I’m trying to sleep

Brock squints as he fumbles with the Sharpie, trying to write clearly.

I wanna kiss you

I missssss you

He draws little stars all over his leg while he waits for Jose to write back.

You’ve never met me

But I wannaaaaaa

Why do you live in Alska

Alaksa

Alaska

Brock tilts his head. He can never tell if things are quite spelled right when he’s drunk.

That’s a weird way to spell Florida

So you don’t live with polar bears :(

Definitely not

We have gators, though

No that’s scary

How drunk are you

Soooooooooooooooo drnk

I want a polar bear

You should sleep

Wanna cuddle with you

Jose doesn’t respond and Brock’s drunk brain pauses for a second, wondering if he’s said too much but what does it even matter, when Jose’s his soulmate and he love love loves him, even if he doesn’t have a polar bear?

Maybe we can do that. In the future

YES

Drunk you is bananas

You better not wash these off I want you to see this when you’re sober

Sober Brock can eat it

Let’s see what you say about that tomorrow

A thought comes to Brock’s mind, one that sober him has been pushing down, down, down, because it’s felt too much to ask, too personal, but fuck it, he’s gonna do it because why the heck not?

I wanna see you

Your face

I wanna see

It’s kept him up at night, distracted him during dance class. Wondering what Jose is like, what he looks like, and Brock isn’t shallow, per se, he’s just curious. Curious as to what his other half looks like.

Bold

Pleaseeeeee

There’s a pause, and then-

Write down your phone number

Brock does so, breathlessly, waiting for his cellphone to buzz as he flips it over in his hands, when a picture pops up from an unknown number.

Jose is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. He has a backwards cap on and he’s raising his eyebrows at the camera with a facial expression that’s saying really?

Brock grabs his pen to reply but keeps his phone in his hand, open on the picture because wow Jose is perfect and he can’t stop staring.

Wow

You never told me you were HOT

Omg

Sure, sober Brock is going to hate him but Brock can’t help it, who cares about inhibitions or self control when his soulmate is absolutely perfect? His dimples and his jawline and his eyebrows and Brock gets how easy it is to fawn over someone, because he’s head over heels for Jose.

Now send me a picture of you

Let’s make it even

Brock fumbles with his phone and grins into the camera and it’s probably blurry and he’s a bit stubbly because he didn’t shave today and he’s still in his clothes from the party and looks like a mess, but he sends it anyway.

A minute ticks by, then another, and Brock’s wondering if he’s made a grave mistake, maybe Jose’s changed his mind-

You never told me you were hot, either

Dork

Brock wakes up with a massive headache and a dry mouth. His thighs are covered in his own scribbles and he groans, because it’s almost 11 a.m. but he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

He grabs his phone, opens his texts and freezes when he sees an unknown number, a picture of himself and then-

Jose.

It all comes rushing back to him, flooding his memories and oh god he had texted Jose.

He writes on his stomach because it feels like the most right thing to do.

Oh god I’m sorry I’m sorry

I shouldn’t have done that

Shouldn’t have made you send a pic

I’m sorry

Please don’t hate me

Brock feels like he’s going to cry, because shit shit shit, he’s probably gone and ruined everything between them and he’s never, ever going to drink again.

It’s okay

Wanted to see your face for awhile anyway

You did?

Tell me you weren’t curious too

I clearly was

My drunk self took over and did that

I’m glad it did because I was too scared to

Me too

Brock lets out a breath. Maybe Jose isn’t mad at him, and things aren’t falling apart just yet, and they’ll be okay.

Now I can imagine your cute ass face when we write

Brock lights up, because Jose actually thinks he’s cute. Jose’s seen a picture of him, and instead of being uninterested, Jose thinks he’s cute.

You’re cute

Real cute

He wishes he could say more without sounding too pushy, too forward, too expectant. He wants to tell Jose that his eyes are brighter than the stars and the photo he sent is still making him smile, even now. He only as of last night knows what Jose looks like, but he feels like he’s known his entire life.

Brock’s phone buzzes again and it’s another picture, and this time Jose’s blowing a kiss to the camera and Brock finally knows what all the movies mean when they talk about love at first sight.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #canon compliant #soulmate au #holtzmanns #gold coloured prisms of light

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kawa-boru · 5 years ago

Text

KanaTyy collaboration

KawaBoru Week: Day One

Prompt: Pranks

Rating: T (for language)

Work count: 4,700

War

Boruto yawned as his history teacher dragged on about some ancient psycho queen. No matter what the topic was or what time period they covered, history in general was just so boring to him. He would rather be out in the world making his own history than hearing about a crazy woman that got off on other people’s pain. The blond couldn’t even be bothered to take notes, his cheek resting in his hand as he fought to stay awake. A light snore from right beside him revealed that Kawaki had long given up that battle. He was out cold and probably dreaming about something way more interesting than this.

It was unfair, that bastard had left Boruto to suffer alone while he got some shut eye. Wanting to teach him a lesson, an old school prank crossed his mind. He dug into his pencil pouch until he found his black sharpie. It was time to turn history class into art class and the blond was feeling inspired. There was no waking Kawaki once he was out, not until he was good and ready to get up. Boruto took advantage of the fact and reached over to start doodling on his boyfriend’s face. By the time class was over, his masterpiece was complete and looking utterly ridiculous. It was difficult not to burst into laughter right then and there.

Kawaki woke up and palmed his face, it felt a little tingly, as if it had been tickled with something light like a feather. Class was finally over, so he leaned over to grab his bag and then got to his feet, though not before he noticed Boruto snickering. The blond was still in his desk, covering up his face and trying to contain his laughter. The way he was avoiding Kawaki’s general direction was enough for him to know Boruto had done something that was going to make him mad. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“What the hell did you do this time?” Kawaki asked, slamming his palm down on Boruto’s desk and leaning over him threateningly.

The action only caused the blond to shake harder, soon laughing uncontrollably. “I-I can’t, hahaha, fuck, don’t look at me!”

Kawaki moved his free hand to grab Boruto by the scruff of his shirt and yanked him until he was forced to look at him. “I’m not playing around, Boruto.”

“I know, I know, but . . .” He trailed off, chuckling. It was just too good. “It’s impossible to take you seriously like that.”

“Like what?” Kawaki hissed, leaning even closer. So close that their noses nearly touched.

Boruto grinned at him before closing the distance, placing a quick peck on his lips. “Nothing, dear. I was only making sure you had your face mask on while you got your beauty rest.”

After shoving Boruto away with a growl, Kawaki dug his phone out of his pocket and checked himself with his camera. The sight he was met with had his blood running cold and his head twitched as he turned to look back at Boruto who was already running out of the classroom.

Payback was going to be so sweet.

Kawaki had no choice but to leave school after finding out Boruto had drawn all over his face. He didn’t want to be seen at all, so he went straight home and scrubbed his face until it was raw and he had to take a break. He still hadn’t gotten the marker off completely, which only irritated him more. While he was furious, he was also bound and determined to get his boyfriend back for his little stunt. So he fumed and brooded until he decided what he was going to do.

Luckily for him, his boyfriend was soft to a fault. Even if he was a little devil at the same time. Kawaki knew just how to play him, and he planned to do something to get the blond really really upset. It wouldn’t be hard, but if he could do well enough, he could effectively end the prank war before it really began. This wasn’t the first time they had gone at each other, though it had been a while.

Kawaki could be a little ruthless when he was feeling petty and even though Boruto should have known better, he was sure he’d overreact and not think things through properly. So he sent him a text, which held the prank itself. It was simple, two words to start it off, but they were harsh enough to hopefully get his point across.

‘I’m done.’

‘With what? Pouting? Come on, you have to admit it was funny.’ Boruto responded seconds later.

Kawaki laughed, because it was funny. Not getting his face marked all over, but the turmoil his boyfriend was about to experience.

‘I’m done with you.’ He texted back after a couple moments, wanting to make him wait for it.

‘??? What? You’re not really that mad about it, right? It was just a prank.’

Kawaki could feel his panic already. ‘Not mad. Just done. I’m going through your shit now, I’ll drop everything off with you tomorrow.’

The next response wasn’t as quick as the others. ‘Quit messing around, you don’t mean that . . . do you?’

He almost felt bad, he almost gave in right then and told Boruto he was just kidding. Instead, he kept at it. ‘Yeah. I do. I’m done. I’ll have your things to you by noon tomorrow. I’d appreciate it if you could pack my things up too. I want my hoodie back.’

‘Wait a second, I didn’t mean it! :( Kawaki, we can talk this out.’

Kawaki didn’t respond. If he wanted to make it seem real, he had to play the part and he couldn’t sit around texting him. So, he went around his room and really started packing up everything he had of Boruto’s. There were some of his clothes here and there, lots of notes he’d given Kawaki over the years, pictures and keepsakes and gifts. Everything, he packed it up.

‘Don’t ignore me, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, honest.’

When Kawaki noticed the other text, he decided to reply. Just a quick, ‘It’s too late. It’s over.’ and then he returned to packing everything away. He was going all out to pull this off.

The next day Boruto was waiting for Kawaki to arrive, having gotten himself all worked up. He tuned out his sister’s constant questioning and kept trying to get another response from Kawaki, but he had stopped answering altogether yesterday. Breaking up over a prank? He just couldn’t believe it and yet the bastard had talked about taking his hoodie back. The hoodie that the blond had finally stolen after many attempts, the one that he couldn’t wait to wear during fall and when it got cold. It was his favorite one and there was no way he was giving it back.

In fact, there was no way he was going to let Kawaki break up with him. Especially not over a fucking sharpie. Despite knowing how the other boy felt about him there was still a voice of doubt. Maybe this was the last straw, maybe he really was tired of dealing with him. Boruto was beyond nervous and he hadn’t packed a single thing. He refused to because that meant he was accepting that they were finished. He jumped from the couch when he heard a car pull into the driveway and went out the front door, blue eyes widening at the sight of his things in Kawaki’s backseat. He was really trying to give them back to him . . .

Kawaki got out of his car, slamming the door shut and purposely avoiding the sight of the blond who was now outside. He opened the rear door and grabbed the box he had and the few bags, able to carry everything at once. After closing the door, he schooled his features and made his way over to Boruto. Boruto didn’t like the look on his face at all and it hit him like a punch to the gut. The air of indifference made it feel too real and for a moment he was frozen still from the shock of it all.

“Don’t you dare bring those in my house.” He told him, blocking his way. “I’m not taking them.”

“Yes you are. I can carry them in and get mine in return.” Kawaki said, brushing past the blond’s smaller frame easily and heading towards the door.

“No, wait! Don’t do this.” Boruto pleaded and hurried after him. “I don’t want to be over, please just stop and listen, okay?”

Kawaki almost smiled, but he fought the urge and turned around to glare at his panicked boyfriend. “Go ahead, talk, Boruto. It won’t get you anywhere.”

The blond nearly flinched at the glare and swallowed hard. “If I had known it would have made you this upset then I never would have done it.” He had never gotten this angry before, enough to want to end things with him. They had pranked each other plenty of times. “Give me one more chance, I-I’ll do better. I can prove it to you.”

“Prove it? How?” Kawaki pressed, already ready to tell Boruto it was all a prank.

“I promise not to mess with you anymore.” Boruto started off with, but that wouldn’t be enough. Kawaki was really mad at him. “I’ll make you lunch everyday, I won’t bother you when you’re studying . . . and . . . and I’ll even stop dragging you to that burger place every weekend!”

Nothing or nobody could come close to rivaling Boruto’s cuteness. He was so adorable that the taller boy couldn’t prevent himself from smiling any longer. “So, no more pranks? Lunch everyday and you’ll stop being annoying? Wow… I don’t know… I think I’d kind of miss going to your favorite burger place every weekend…”

Boruto was thrown off by the sudden change in mood, but wanted to take it as success. “Then . . . then what?” Would he give him another chance?

“I was just fucking with you. Karma is a bitch, huh?” Kawaki smirked.

He was . . . but he . . . it was all a . . . “Huh?”

“It was just a prank.”

Boruto was stunned into silence for a few seconds, hoping he had heard wrong. “ . . . . excuse me?”

“You heard me. I didn’t stutter.” Kawaki huffed and walked past Boruto again, on his way to his car.

“You . . . you . . . you bastard!” The blond yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Kawaki snorted as he opened the back door and returned all the items inside. He closed it again and reached for the door handle to the driver door. “See you.”

Boruto’s jaw dropped. After all that he had the nerve to just drive away? Oh no, no no no. He needed to sit down before he hurt himself, he was so ticked. He watched as the other boy backed out of the driveway and then turned on his heel to go back inside. If that was how Kawaki wanted to play it then fine, so be it. He wasn’t going to let him get away with a stunt like that.

When Kawaki made it back home, he returned all of Boruto’s things to their rightful places. His phone was dry, which meant Boruto was more than likely still pouting over the revelation. It amused Kawaki to no end and he didn’t even feel bad. It was all worth it as long as Boruto didn’t try anything like that again. Kawaki could be drastic if he ever wanted to be--though Boruto was the one who’d made the word all that it was.

After a few hours, Kawaki took a shower and then decided to send a few pictures to his boyfriend in hopes of cheering him up. He couldn’t sulk forever and Kawaki was hoping to see him again that night, so he hoped Boruto would act right. Boruto didn’t take long at all to open the messages, but he didn’t send a response. If he wanted to be a big baby, Kawaki would make him regret it. He tossed his phone on his bed and went into his closet, grabbing a pair of jeans and his favorite black vest. He got dressed and ready, stepping into his boots when he finally prepared to leave his home.

Once he was in his car, he took another picture of himself, making sure to show off his open vest. ‘Wanted to take you out. I’ll take myself instead.’ He sent the message with a tongue emoji at the end and waited.

‘Good, I hope you get used to it.’

Kawaki rolled his eyes and set his phone down to get on the road. He thought he would pick up Boruto, go to Thunder Burger and spend the rest of their Saturday together. He supposed he couldn’t really blame his boyfriend for being upset, but Kawaki knew him well enough to know that he would still be upset later in the night, possibly even more so than he was currently.

He ended up at Iwabe’s, a safe enough place, though his friend was older, a few years older, and he normally had things going on at all ours of the day and night. Kawaki wasn’t surprised when he arrived to find several other people already there, socializing. Iwabe made his way over to him just a few seconds after he walked through the door.

“Where’s Boruto?” He asked instead of greeting Kawaki properly.

Kawaki shrugged a shoulder. “Didn’t want to hang out with me tonight. I pissed him off a bit.”

“Really? On a Saturday? Damn…” Iwabe sounded impressed. “I don’t think it will help that you know who is here.”

Oh. “No, it probably wouldn’t.” Kawaki chuckled, already knowing who he was referring to. If Kawaki was smart, he would turn around and leave right then… but he wasn’t. “Oh well, it’s his own fault. Besides, I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” Iwabe muttered and Kawaki rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t defend his relationship or put anyone in their place who dared try to intervene or cause any problems.

Still, it was risky. So, just to be safe, he texted Boruto along with sending a picture of himself. ‘Came by Iwabe’s.’ He sent, deciding to break it to him slowly. When no reply came though, he followed with, ‘Inojin’s here…’

‘I see how it is . . . well go ahead, dig yourself into a dipper hole. I wonder how far you’ll get before you can’t get out of it.’

Kawaki huffed at the message, not liking it one bit. ‘Don’t go threatening me. I tried to spend my night with you instead, but you acted like a little prick. Bye.’

‘Me?! You’re the one who faked a break up, you dick! Mission fucking acomplished, I won’t be pranking you anymore.’

‘Damn right you won’t.’ Kawaki replied, frowning in annoyance. ‘I’m not arguing with you and I’m not sitting home bored on a Saturday night.’

‘Fine, I’ll leave you to your fun.’

Returning his phone to his pocket, Kawaki turned back to Iwabe with a sigh. “I’m going home.”

“What? You just got here?” Iwabe frowned.

“Bye.” Kawaki called, already on his way out. Boruto really knew how to make him feel like shit so even though he didn’t want to, he would go home and be bored all night. Maybe he’d go to sleep early.

Boruto was already in bed, staring daggers at his phone. Kawaki was so stupid. He was really going to hang out with Inojin, knowing how Boruto felt about that handsy flirter? It made him sick. Deep down he knew Kawaki would never cheat on him or anything like that. Even still, his boyfriend wasn’t careful enough and knew how to piss him off. The bastard just didn’t get it. The blond understood the whole point was to put a stop to their pranking altogether before it turned into a big mess. Again. They both could get carried away.

However a sharpie wasn’t nearly in the same league with what he had done, he crossed a line and Boruto wasn’t going to let him sweep it under the rug. He got the message loud and clear. No more pranks, period. Now it was time for Kawaki to learn not to joke about their relationship. Boruto wasn’t going to fall for his seduction or his attempts to make him jealous and lonely. Thinking he was actually done with him, it hurt. It was scary to think they could fall apart over something so idotic and having Kawaki act like that towards him was his worst nightmare.

The blond liked him more than he had ever liked anyone, but it irritated him when he tried to use his own anger against him. When he tried to make him give in and get over it because he wanted him to. Yeah, he was mad alright, but he was serious too. He was going to pout and sulk all he wanted and there was nothing the other boy could do about it. He went to sleep that night, sticking to his resolve and not giving into his urge to go to Iwabe’s party. He would wait and see what their relationship meant to Kawaki.

When Kawaki woke up the following morning, he was still groggy from sleeping too much and didn’t want to get out of bed. He did though, checking his phone which had no messages from Boruto before he went to take a shower. After his shower, he dressed in a pair of shorts and played some music on his phone as he wandered through his home, heading for the kitchen. He couldn’t believe Boruto hadn’t texted or called or anything. It really pissed him off.

While he ate some simple toast, Kawaki sent him a text. ‘Still ignoring me and acting like a baby?’

‘That’s right.’

Kawaki scoffed and shook his head to himself as he chewed a bite of bread. ‘You ruined date night. Thanks a lot.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Kawaki scowled at his response and set his phone down, rolling his eyes. He would not follow that up with any response. If Boruto wanted to pout and act childish, then he would let him.

‘ . . . . did you have fun last night?”

‘Yep.’ Kawaki replied as soon as he read the text, annoyed that Boruto had the audacity to ask him such a thing.

‘Hmph.’

Having nothing to say to that, Kawaki finished up his toast and then walked into the living room, realizing by now that he was alone at home. That was nothing unusual. He sat on the couch and turned on the tv, but kept the volume down since he wasn’t really going to watch it. He was far more interested in his music. Now he had a whole day to do nothing and all thanks to a stupid prank war.

Boruto was in a similar state, holding up in his room and watching romcoms in his boyfriend’s hoodie. So he had fun hanging out with Inojin? The blond wanted to punch something. Not only that, but it seemed that Kawaki couldn't care less. This was the worst weekend ever. The pair continued to be stubborn and ignore each other until they were right back where they started. Sitting in his desk, the blond tried to mentally prepared himself for whatever his history teacher had planned for the day. He pointingly didn’t look at the desk right beside him and for once in his life had the intention of taking notes.

Kawaki was watching Boruto blatantly ignore his existence until he began to wonder if they actually had broken up without ever coming to the decision aloud. Maybe he had taken things too far, but Boruto started it and he shouldn’t have been acting like this. They should have spent their Saturday together, going for burgers and hanging out until midnight as they usually did. However, that hadn’t happened. Kawaki had been in bed before nine and that had never happened in his life. Boruto didn’t even text him, he was bothered, but he was being silent and that wasn’t like him at all. He wasn’t falling for any of Kawaki’s moves and Kawaki didn’t like that one bit.

He wanted to call Boruto out, right in the middle of class because it was eating him alive. He wouldn’t though. Not a chance. Despite his determination in the beginning, Boruto couldn’t fake interest in what the teacher was saying. His paper was as blank as always and he inwardly groaned. He curiously looked over at Kawaki to see how he was holding up, but cursed himself for giving in and turned back around soon after. He was still upset even if he did miss his stupid face. Those eyes weren’t going to work on him, no way. The blond started moving his hand to make himself write something only to end up drawing in his notebook.

By the time class came to an end, Kawaki was furious. Just who did Boruto think he was? Ignoring him? Ha! It was completely laughable and yet, Kawaki wasn’t laughing. He was torn between losing his mind and unleashing his frustration out on his maybe boyfriend, or storming off and never speaking to him again. The decision to confront the blond seemed to be the best route to take.

“I’m not joking anymore with you. Now I’m really pissed.” Kawaki snapped at him as soon as they were in the hallway. Boruto had tried to just walk away but Kawaki wasn’t having it. He’d been quick to grab his wrist and pin him up against the nearest lockers.

“But not the least bit guilty.” Boruto said, but didn’t try to break free. He knew he wouldn’t be able to.

“I can see that you’re not.” Kawaki huffed. “You should be apologizing already.”

“Me?” He had lost his mind. “For what?”

“For ruining our whole weekend, asshole! For ignoring me! Hell, the list goes on…”

Boruto narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re the one that was being a jerk and then drove away as if nothing happened! So what, it’s only a problem if you’re the one who’s angry?”

“I planned to go back and pick you up, you idiot.” Kawaki growled, glaring down at the blond. “Once the pranks were over, you should have let them go, but you didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter, since you had a great time.” They weren’t getting anywhere and Kawaki was only becoming more frustrated by the second, so he forced himself to take a step back and distance himself. Maybe they just needed some time.

“I did let them go, what do you think this is? What do you think I’ve been doing?” Boruto asked, having to spell it out for him. “This isn’t some fucking prank. You’re not allowed to say we’re over no matter what. I don’t care if it’s a joke, I don’t care if you’re trying to teach me a lesson. I don’t want to hear you say it . . .”

“At least I wasn’t serious. I could have been—after what you did to me in public. And now, look at us. What the hell is this?”

Boruto didn’t have to look around, he could feel the stares and the judgement. But that wasn’t important. “I thought you were and that’s my point . . . it wasn’t funny at all . . . and I already said sorry. I’m sorry.” He said, though perhaps they had caused enough of a scene for the day and he was done arguing. That’s not what he wanted. In the end, he started walking away so he wouldn’t have people gawking at him.

The look on Kawaki’s face as he followed Boruto was enough to have other people scurrying along and minding their own business like they should have been doing to start with. He walked next to his boyfriend for a few minutes and eventually sighed.

“I’m sorry too, Boruto. It wasn’t easy for me to go through with that prank, but you almost act as if you wish it were true. If we’re not going to be together then are we really even together at all?”

“Of course I don’t wish it were true.” The blond told him, holding his books to his chest. “But I didn’t want you to think something like that was okay . . . I didn’t want you to brush me off. I want to be together, but I want you to understand my feelings too.”

“I understand all of that. But what about my feelings?” Kawaki asked, speaking a little softer now. “I missed you all weekend and you didn’t even care.”

That was how Boruto had wanted it to seem. “I did care and I missed you too. I don’t ever like being mad at you, Kawaki, and I couldn’t even ignore you properly either. I still gave in and looked at every text message and responded to most of them.” He said and then added under his breath, “not to mention that party . . .”

“What party?”

“The one where you had fun at. With Iwabe and . . . and him.”

Kawaki snorted and shoved Boruto with his elbow as they walked down the hall. “You’re so stupid. I never even saw him and I left right after you texted me that last time…”

Blue eyes looked up at him. “Really?”

“Really.” Kawaki sighed again. “I was hoping to coax you into meeting me so we could do something together… but that was a major fail.”

“I thought you just wanted to pretend like it never happened.” Boruto confessed and laid it all out there. “Like the prank didn’t hurt my feelings. . .”

“I know it did.” Kawaki smiled and wrapped his arm around Boruto’s neck. “I’m sorry, but you should blame yourself. You think I’d ever leave you—let somebody else have you? Not ever.”

Boruto blushed at his words, looking away again. “It’s not my fault you were putting on some Broadway performance. Trying to take my hoodie . . .”

That made Kawaki laugh. “My hoodie.” He corrected. “If it was yours, you probably wouldn’t even care.”

“It’s my hoodie that was given to me by you after I stole it.” Boruto said, getting the facts straight.

“Did I ever say that you could have it though?” Kawaki asked, cocking a brow.

“Maybe not in words,” the blond admitted as they stopped around a corner, “but yes. Definite yes.”

Kawaki hummed, knowing he had never agreed to it, but was unable to take it away from him either—even if it was so big on him. Kawaki liked it. “You’re right. Since you’re so cute, I may even give you another one.”

Boruto was quick to jump on the offer. “I want the blue one.”

“Then it’s yours.”

Boruto grinned, stepping forwards to lean his head against Kawaki’s chest. “In return, I’ll make you lunch everyday and only bother you sometimes while you’re studying, but we have to go to Thunder Burger and . . . and I’ll give you a free favor.”

“Boruto, you’re full of shit. I’ve heard all of this before. Except… this favor, I’ll believe it when I see it. Thunder Burger is a given and you know it. You’ll never let me study in peace if you’re around and I’d be lucky to get lunch once.”

“Wow. No faith whatsoever.” He rolled his eyes, but was still grinning. “It’s totally different from what I’ve said before, Kawaki. And I’ll show you, just you wait.” He was going to make him so many boxed lunches that he would get sick of them. “As for the favor, name it. Any time, any place, anywhere.”

Smiling fondly, Kawaki ruffled Boruto’s hair. “Alright then, I’m looking forward to it.”

A/N:

Tyy: Kawaki and Boruto are ridiculous, but I love them. Had a lot of fun writing this! I can’t imagine these two pranking each other a lot more. It was funny and dramatic, kept me rolling my eyes and laughing. Don’t write high school kawaboru often, so it was also refreshing! XD

Kana: High school idiots still working out their relationship and each other. The smallest things turned into the biggest problems in their little world just like it does for other people at their age. It was fun, but frustrating too because they were both so hard headed, hahaha. They were troublesome, but still cute and perfect for each other.

#kawaboru #kawaboruweek #kawaboruweek2020 #kawaboruweek2020d1 #kawaki #boruto #kawaboru fanfiction

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up-sideand-down · 6 years ago

Note

Some combination of Angeal/Genesis/Sephiroth for the soulmate prompts, #16. the one where anything written on your skin appears on your soulmate’s skin as well.

Angeal sighed against Genesis’s cot, completely exhausted.

“Your beside manner is terrible,” Genesis said.

“You try running around casting Cures for 8 hours straight,” Angeal mumbled. Genesis patted his head awkwardly with his unbroken arm.

“You did good,” Genesis said, “especially considering how much higher my MP is compared to yours.” Angeal forced a tired laugh out. Even injured Genesis would take the opportunity to brag.

“I’m not the best choice for medic,” Angeal said bluntly.

“But you were the only choice,” Genesis said, “and you pulled through.” They were quiet together for a moment, tired and ragged breathing of other injured men surrounding them.

“Ange?” Genesis’s voice broke through the quiet, “Ange!”

“Mmm?”

“He’s here,” Genesis said. Angeal looked up, confused.

“Blood Type O Neg, 1 shot epi, skull fracture, multi stab…” Genesis trailed off, “gosh he got the shit beat out of him.” Angeal looked at Genesis’s shin and saw their usual field assessment written clearly in black sharpie, just below Gen’s own assessment. He stood up, then pulled up his own pant leg. Written there too. He felt a bit of relief with that.

“Angeal go find him before he fucking dies!” Genesis said.

“He’s not gonna die,” Angeal said, but Gen was right, he was hurt pretty bad.

He stepped out of the tent, searching for the new arrivals. He was technically off duty but he kept his Materia on him just in case. He had no MP left whatsoever, so he didn’t know what he would do in that case.

He practically jogged along the triage line, trying to fine the description. He stopped at one with three medics around it.

“I’ll be fine,” the young commander Sephiroth said, “go help someone more wounded.”

“Sir you are the most wounded,” the surgeon said, “and you need to lie down.” Sephiroth made a move to lie down, but Angeal stepped in.

“No, no, no,” Angeal said, “stay down.”

“Hewley I thought you were drained?” another medic said.

“This is a special case,” Angeal said. He pulled off Sephiroth’s left glove, revealing a Banora White Tree doodle that Genesis had drawn on Angeal’s own left hand and hour ago. Angeal showed Sephiroth the original. He slumped back, staring at it.

“I didn’t think those were real,” he said.

“I mean,” Angeal said, “I have your field stat on my shin, but it isn’t as pretty.” Sephiroth just went quiet. Angeal took hold of his hand.

“And you really are in bad shape,” Angeal said, “so for my sake, and for the sake of our other soulmate…let the nice doctor look at you.”

“There’s another one!?”

“Yes,” Angeal said, “and once you skull fracture gets taken care of, I’ll show you how to write secret messages to him.”

Genesis kept checking his palms, waiting for either Angeal or the new one to tell him everything was okay.

“My name is Sephiroth,” slowly was inked in to his right hand. And he breathed a sigh of relief.

#sephiroth #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos #soulmate!AU #my writing

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dashielldeveron · 6 years ago

Text

Cedere Nescio, or, Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Tom Holland/Reader. College AU.

Warnings: dealing with mental health in a Big Way, extreme thirst, language (Latin), and swears. But that’s college, I guess. Notes: Tom’s a theatre major, and you’re a theatre minor.

_______________________________________________________________________

i Maybe you gave off a gay vibe? You really didn’t know. Would that the perception of your sexuality were as clear as those of Achilles and Patroclus.

You sit on the edge of the stage, taking a break from building sets. Tom’s up in the grid, adjusting lights and putting in gels, and his sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, by the grace of God. Even from this distance, his biceps ripple. His eyebrows are furrowed, lines drawn between them, as he bites his lower lip and sticks out his jaw very slightly.

You pop off the cap of a sharpie and hold it between your teeth, never letting it get wet, as you idly doodle perfututum onto the inside of your arm, covering some parallel lines you made with something a little sharper. Perfututum—it’s Latin for totally fucked. And it’s you.

Tom Holland’s untouchable, you know? Everyone, in the theatre department and out, wanted to be his friend; everyone wanted his approval or to impress him, and his genuine approval wasn’t easily earned. He dances through his classes with panache; everything is easy for him, a delight. His laughter reverberates off the walls of the arts building, and good night, did you want to be the cause of his laughter. Sometimes you were, when you gathered enough courage to speak to him, to have a legitimate conversation instead of his instructions to you in scene shop.

He calls down to you to stand centre stage; he’s trying to aim a light in the right direction. You push up on your knees and jog over where he wants you. You would go anywhere he directed you, do anything he wanted, and he didn’t have a clue—that oblivious bastard.

A curl falls across his forehead as he bends over the PAR-can, and you, squinting, hold a hand over your eyes when he swings the light your way. He’s too bright for you to look at.

ii The two of you are practising monologues due for class later that day. You’re alone in a hallway and holding his monologue in front of you. He’s sitting at your side and desperately running his hands through his hair as he strives to remembers the exact words.

“I am the dog,” you prompt him. His profile sharpens when he puckers his lips in concentration.

His eyes light up as he stares determinedly at the top of the lockers, not really seeing them. “I am the dog,” Tom says, bouncing his leg up and down and tapping his fingers on his knee, “Oh, the dog is me, and I am myself—”

He’s fidgeting too much. What you do in rehearsal determines what you do in performance, and this monologue isn’t a fidgeting sort of thing. He won’t stop fidgeting. Why’s he so nervous? Hector wasn’t even this nervous when he walked into battle and to his death. Tom is never nervous, so why is he now?

Hector, however, had verse upon verse written about him posthumously and a hero’s pyre, and Tom wasn’t a legend. You’ll make him one, and even if you don’t, you know he’ll be one some day.

“You’ve got to stop fidgeting,” you say, “Let’s find you something to hold instead of fidgeting.” Both of you glance to your sides in the hallway, but your backpacks are still in the scene shop. Nothing’s around. Inwardly, you beat your chest, fortifying all courage as Hector did for his troops—you roll your eyes in an exaggerated way and, in a stroke of rare brilliance, you say, “Here, hold this.”

You hold out your hand.

Tom’s face breaks into a grin, his even teeth showing, and he glances down at his lap before turning to you, crinkling his eyes in a different kind of smile, a closed-mouthed, tight-lipped thing of beauty that shows acceptance and gratefulness. Tom takes your hand, immediately lacing his fingers with yours, and he squeezes it firmly as he continues his monologue. His focus is no longer casually on the lockers but swops between your hands and your reactions. Tom tries to make you laugh, and he wrinkles his nose in triumph when he does.

When you move onto your monologue, Tom lazily twists the ring on your thumb between his own and his index finger. It’s not a purity ring, but it might as well be (it’s the one from Lord of the Rings). Tom doesn’t know that right now, this moment, is the farther you’ve ever gone with a guy, that this instance of holding hands is the most intimate you have ever been.

You’ve never dated, never been kissed—watched as your friends loved and lost, went on rampages, and downloaded tinder. It’s not that you don’t want these things; on the contrary, according to a BDSM test you made everyone take, you’re the kinkiest piece of shit you know. You hear stories and read a lot of fanfic about one night stands, sex before romance, and loads of kinky shit—things you’d never do in your actual, real life for a couple of reasons, the primary one being that since you got overly attached to cars you drove behind for more than ten minutes, who knows what would happen to you if someone ate you out and never spoke to you again? So, it wasn’t entirely intentional, but you were (fuck, you hated this about you and yet couldn’t bring yourself to compromise [and fuck, you hated this phrase]) waiting until marriage.

Tom slides the ring down to your knuckle. The skin where it usually sits is paler and softer than the rest of your thumb.

iii

Tom’s got bags under his eyes in scene shop today. His hair is dishevelled, roughed up like bed-head, and he’s got grey sweatpants hanging loosely around his hips. And he’s pissed.

When you ask him why, Tom says he had a tough voice lesson, but as the afternoon drags on (and you’re repairing an ancient piano with a staple gun), he, miraculously, allows himself to be vulnerable. He’s not doing okay, and it’s tearing him apart. His relationship with his parents is in an unfamiliar, rocky stage, and he’s lonely, so lonely; he’s secretly a ball of rage that he never shows (you wonder if you annoy him, especially when you talk about Greek culture). So much of Tom is hidden, because he’s insecure about it. He’s the only person you’ve ever met who can rival you in terms of self-deprecation, even though, in everyone’s eyes but his own, he has no reason for it.

Tom is furious at a lot of things, mostly himself, and you want him to be mad at you, in a safe, consensual bedroom sort of setting. He already was dominating socially in the scene shop, since he was more than capable at construction had to teach you, with unconditional patience, how to do anything, seeing as you had never picked up a power tool before this semester. Tom would order you about, and each time punched you in your stomach as you thought about taking commands up a notch. Aut futue aut pugnemus: either we fuck or we fight.

His insecurities mirror your own, save for where he is rage, you are sorrow. Two sides of the same coin, down to your side effects of depression. Loneliness reigns.

At some point, he catches himself, climbs down from the ladder, and grabs both of your hands, grazing the ring on your thumb. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes wide (eyelashes dark against his skin), gripping your hands tighter to show his earnestness, “for listening. I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you; you don’t deserve that. I usually don’t—I’m sorry. You’re very kind. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say, your fingers curving into the bend of his palms, “I like listening to you. You have worthwhile things to say, and everyone needs to be heard. Don’t feel like you’re burdening me—” You say this, because you worry about it yourself. “—I want to be involved in what you’re going through.”

iv In one of the dreams between pressing snooze on your alarm and actually waking up, Tom wraps his hand around your wrist and leads you up the ladder to the grid, high above the rest of the stage. At the centre, where anyone could see, were anyone in the room, he releases your wrist, links his index fingers through the belt loops of your shorts, and yanks you close to him, his hipbones poking you briefly. Tom’s got your shoulder blades pressed on either side of a pipe holding up stage lights, and his tongue is between his teeth when he grins at you in the moment before.

Who was wearing strawberry chapstick? It doesn’t matter. His lips are pressed to yours, needy and wanting; you feel the crease of his brow through the kiss—don’t, you want to tell him, please relax, for one damn minute. He doesn’t bite but nibbles at your lower lip, and your tongue is on the inside of his teeth when he moves his hands from your belt loops to grip your waist, toying with the hem of your shirt. Your fingers curl into his hair, and you pull at the wisps at the nape of his neck. His breath hitches. Tom breaks the kiss, calls you my girl with a dark inflection, and shifts to kiss your neck, once, before he drags his mouth down your chest, stopping to press his lips at the spot beneath your naval where your shirt has ridden up.

And he’s thrown your shorts somewhere across the grid; your underwear’s been tucked into his back pocket. Tom’s bottom lip is firm as he pushes it up underneath your clit (he’s got friction around all of it now); he sucks on it just barely, and after testing how sensitive you were with the underside of his tongue, he smirks as he swops to the rougher topside. Your hips twitch. Tom holds you achingly still for too long; it doesn’t take the oracle of Delphi to know that you’re close—

But Tom keeps going after you’ve come, and you don’t want to chicken out for fear of what he’d think. With a shaking jaw, you keep your gaze on the ceiling, trying to zone out, because this is too much, all at once, and you can’t ah, ouch, that’s a lot. Your thighs are quivering, and yikes, please, no, stop, even though you still—

“I know it’s intense,” he says, the sound of an air pocket breaking in the second he pulls an inch away, “but you can take it.” Tom kisses your clit and reaches up for one of your hands, the one with the ring. “Be good for me.”

When your alarm goes off, your underwear is soaked, and when you wipe the rheum out of the corners of your eyes, you repeatedly snap the elastic against your skin as you debate whether or not taking a cold shower is worth it.

v The final rehearsal before the show opens, you and Tom are alone backstage. He’s in the lead (and an argyle sweatervest), and you’re one of the minor ensemble characters. You’ve had a hell of a day and are on the cusp of a panic attack, and Tom notices. He guides you over to a private spot and leans on a stack of crates, resting his forearms on top. You copy him, and your shoulders touch.

“How do you do it, Tom? How do you manage to keep it together all of the time? You never seem to crack.” You don’t count that day he vented to you. It wasn’t quite the same.

Tom laughs through his nose and leans close to you. His breath hits your ear and the back of your neck as he says, “To be honest, I’m cracking right now.”

He’s got to be. Rehearsals running until past midnight every night with hundreds of lines in Shakespearean verse, long afternoons building sets, being on duty as an RA, not to mention classes and keeping up with his friends. Oh, and sleep, you suppose. He’s had to shove everything he feels down so that he can deal with the next task. He hasn’t had time to think, and frankly, neither have you.

Tom insists he doesn’t want to talk about himself, because he’s been thinking a lot about that time you spoke to him about holy listening, how most people only wait for their turns to speak and how listening, genuinely, to help and to understand, was a gift that everyone deserves but hardly anyone receives. So, Tom takes your hand (again. It’s become practise for when it’s just the two of you, and you’re unsure how to handle this uncharted territory) and listens.

And thank God someone finally is.

You’re facing him as you speak softly about how you essentially act as a therapist to everyone in the department (even though you are newly learning healthy behaviours yourself), because you want people to have someone who will listen. You check in with people who are going through hard times, and you usually end conversations by asking the person how he’s going to take care of himself later that day. Tom knows this. He’s been watching.

What he didn’t know was that no one listens to you back. Whenever you pry yourself open in a half-hearted attempt to be vulnerable, everyone clams up. They shut down. No one notices when you’re having a hard time—he nudges you at this, and you make a stupid noise, dismissing it. When you mention that no one’s noticed the burn marks on the inside of your forearm near your elbow, he could, for the first time, make out the small, circular burns in spite of the dark, blue light. Tom slumps against the crates, and he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb.

“I’m tired of taking care of everyone,” you say, “I want to be taken care of.”

You’re breaking your chains that protect you from being vulnerable. You can’t watch the shadows on the wall any more. You’ve got to walk out of Plato’s cave and let the sunlight blind you, even though you don’t have a word for sunlight yet, for all you’ve known is a tame fire.

Tom wraps his arm around your bare shoulders (your costume isn’t as modest as you’d like, but for now, you’re grateful). He presses a kiss to your temple and holds it there, and an alarm goes off in your head, as if you’re not the one truly experiencing this. When Tom removes his lips, his furrowed brow goes to their spot. “You’re safe with me,” he says after a bit, “I hear you, and I want to take care of you.”

Both of you jump when other actors start channelling behind you to get to their places. Tom has the first line, but he tightens his grip around your shoulders and quickly prays aloud for you.

vi Closing night, the cast and crew goes to IHOP, and it’s a lot of overstimulation all at once. When they kick you out around one o’clock, your original driver is going home for the weekend, so you hitch a ride with Tom back to campus.

Tom is at a stop sign, his turn signal blinking to drive into the parking lot of your dorm, when you say, “I will pay you ten bucks to keep driving past the school.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Please. I can’t go back there right now.”

With a wry smile, Tom flips off the signal and keeps driving into the night. The city is quiet but still awake, still shining. He cranks up his music and points out his favourite restaurant to you, saying he’ll take you there soon. Next week, you decide. Urban decay increases the farther you get away: flickering street lights, crumbling buildings, a lone shopping cart, that one vape shop that no one goes to unless you feel like getting shot. Neon lights bleed together through the car window, and the stars blur and mumble under his 90s hip-hop.

You take backroad after backroad, curving around trees and into the valley, just going without knowing where, and eventually, you park near an overlook into the valley, showing the city teeming with a quiet energy, with a cemetery behind you in the trees.

You thank him again for how he’s been treating you during the run of the show; it’s incredible to have someone to depend on. To trust. He shrugs it off, and you talk about the show, how things could have gone better, how he did that one gesture just perfectly in the moment, how hey, you didn’t get all of your stage makeup off; let me get that for you, and Tom’s kissing you, lightly, barely, and he swipes some of your hair behind your ear. His nose prods yours when he breaks the kiss so that you open your eyes—he knows it was your first; he wants to make sure you’re okay. You nod, your mouth quirking upwards.

When you’re on his lap and his hands are in your hair (turns out you were the one with the hair-pulling thing, so die mad about it), neither of you are the strawberry chapstick ideal. You both taste like makeup remover, and sweat drips down between his shoulder blades and down your neck. Neither of you was performing for once. It was just the two of you, simple and vulnerable. You made Tom laugh when you pulled away to yawn, and you laughed yourself when you made him gasp at a simple kiss on his neck (muttering “Peccavi,” and refusing to tell him what it meant, even when he threatened to…he couldn’t think).

It should’ve been much too early to do this, let alone ever consider it, but it was Tom Holland, who understood. Courage, dear heart. You’re not ready, but you can promise. He probably knows what it means by now; he’s clever. He’s probably guessed. Just do it. Your cheek is pressed against his when you say, “It’s yours—” You twist your ring off your thumb and slid it onto his middle finger. “—if you want it.”

Tom shifts to kiss your cheek. “Not now. But someday, if you’re ready. If you want me to.” He smiles, and this time, you let the light blind you. “C’mon, love. Tell me what you want.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Peccavi -- I have sinned.

here’s the link to the BDSM test, if you’d like to take it.

#tom holland #spiderman #tom holland/reader #tom holland x reader #fic #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #DASH IT ALL

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mindless-self-pudding · 6 years ago

Text

Secret Secrets

this is just me farting out an idea ive had for a while lmao; i hope its coherent

TW SMOKING; TW UNDERAGE DRINKING

(while both characters r 18 they still cannot legally drink; also ooooo colored font C8)

---

Mondo was jostled awake at 2 a.m. by the incessant, shrill ringing of his phone. As he rubbed his fingers over his still exhausted eyes and cursed himself for picking the most irritating ringtone on the planet, he grabbed the device and briefly glanced at the caller I.D. Surprisingly, it was Ito Mitsuo. Mondo knew all too well that his friend hated talking on the phone...something must be up. His worried heart woke him more as his thumb tapped on the screen to answer the call. "Ito...?" he mumbled, voice hoarse and soaked with sleep.

"Heeeeyyy, Ōwadaaaa..."

Well, Ito didn't SOUND like he was in trouble. In fact, it almost seemed like he was sort of giddy. Mondo couldn't keep the sigh in his mouth from coming out. If this was some kind of crank call, he'd be pissed. "What're you doin', callin' me this fuckin late...?"

"I gotta...like...I gotta ask a biiiiig favor."

"Which is...?"

"Can y'come pick me up? I ain't seen a cab inna min'."

A cab? "Jesus Christ, what are you doin' out?" Mondo said with a start, sitting bolt upright beneath his sheets. They weren't supposed to be outside the campus at night, especially not this late, and if Ito was anything, he was afraid of getting caught breaking the rules. He heard his friend huff on the other end in response.

"Nunya. Now, please...can you, like, super-de-duper hurry? It's starting to raaaain..."

Shit, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't just let his friend be stranded somewhere in town. "Fuck, fine. Just text me the address." He swore he heard Ito giggle before the line went dead.

Mondo let out an annoyed grunt as he wildly slapped his hand on the bedside table in search of a hair tie. This really wasn't like Ito. Mondo, personally, had snuck off campus more times than he could count, but he was close enough to his friend to know that this was really, really uncharacteristic.

As he slipped his loafers on and swiped his motorcycle key from the table drawer, his phone let out a text tone. Then another. And another. Tonight was certainly going to be at least interesting.

-------

The building was a step above a shack, probably one of the oldest izayakas Mondo had ever seen. He could almost taste the liquor in the air around it. From the looks of the one guy outside, though, it wasn't grimey enough to keep patrons away. His motorcycle came to a halt right in front of that person, whose hoodie was drawn over their head. Their sneakers were soaked from rain and a cigarette dangled from their lips.

The green strands of hair floating from the inside of the cowl were enough to give their identity away before they lifted their head to release the smoke in their mouth.

"Ito? What the fuck are you doing at a bar?!" Mondo's shout garnered Ito's attention very quickly, the man nearly jumping at the sound. His reply, though, was indignant. "I-I already, like...y'know, I like, TOLD you, nunya." Ito wobbled on the balls of his feet and nearly fell backwards, despite only standing in one place. As Mondo dared to step closer, the stench of cheap sake and tobacco filled his nose. He could feel bile churning in his stomach. Was straight-lace, anxious Ito really...

"Holy shit, are you drunk?"

"What, you gonna fuckin', uh, call my dad on me?" He punctuated himself by taking another long drag off his cigarette. This was worrying, to say the least. It felt like Mondo was exploring uncharted territory; some of the guys in the Crazy Diamonds pulled this kind of shit, but Ito?

Mondo grit his teeth behind his lips. "God, you fuckin' reek of booze, dude...and put that shit out, it smells damn awful." The drizzle around them picked up a little more, but the rain did nothing about the vice between Ito's fingers. Suddenly, that vile smoke was being blasted in his face, and Mondo let out a vicious cough. "Feels fuckin' gooooood..." Clouds billowed from Ito's mouth as he spoke.

Alright. That was enough. He was too tired and too worried to keep putting up with this shit. Mondo ripped the cigarette from his friend and crushed it in the palm of his hand. The burn from the still-lit tobacco felt like nothing on his calloused palms. "Hey, man! What the fuck?!" Ito slurred in protest, still gawking from the display, "That was, like, my last, uh...my last one!"

"Your lungs are thankin' me. Now, come on, get on the damn bike. I wanna go back to bed." Mondo stared Ito dead in the eye as he dusted the black remains from his hands...or, well, as much as he could stare into the eye of someone who's drunken vision was glazed over. His friend wobbled a little more and tried to glare, but ended up looking like a pouting child.

At last, he relented. "Fine..." With a huff, and a slump of his shoulders, Ito stumbled to the motorcycle. Finally, a little progress.

------

It wasn't a long drive back to the campus, but it sure as hell felt like it, what with the rain pelting them like bullets. Mondo always hated biking in the rain; the water would ruin his hair and undo all the hard work he put into it. Now, though, with his curled top tied back, the stuff was just shooting him straight in the eyes. He felt a little envious of Ito. His friend's face was buried into his back, safe from the onslaught from the clouds.

His long, spindly arms were wrapped around his waist, and Mondo thought he was secure until he felt his grip slumping, nearly falling off his chest. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. He was dozing off. Thinking as quickly as he could, Mondo reached one hand behind him and slapped Ito's leg with a whip crack. His friend squawked and his grip returned with a vengeance, nails digging into his sides as he held on for dear life.

"Hey, don't fall asleep back there!" Mondo shouted above the rain, "You let go a'me, and you'll fuckin' crack your skull open on the street." Shit, Ito really was drunk if he wasn't yelling at him for that slap.

Instead, Ito just nuzzled deeper into his back, his lips moving against him as he mumbled, "M'kay..." The sensation of his friend's warm breath against the cold, wet skin beneath his soaked tank top sent tingles shooting up his spine. Mondo found himself about to protest but the words were strangled in his throat.

This is fine. He's probably just an affectionate drunk. It's harmless. Mondo chanted that three sentence mantra in his head over and over as he felt Ito's grip loosen. His safety hold on Mondo's torso was quickly evolving into some kind of embrace, and he felt more of those tender, warming sighs on his spine. As it got more and more difficult to concentrate on the road, the mantra only got louder in his brain.

------

As they left the school storage shed as silently as a sober babysitter and a drunk person could, Mondo saw Ito dig into the pockets of his jeans and his hoodie. He looked semi-panicked. Oh, God, what did he do now?

"Oh shit...oh shit, dude."

"What?"

"I lost my fuckin', like...my KEY."

Mondo swore he could feel a migraine blossoming in his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "You lost your God damn key, of course." Well, what now? Ito couldn't get into his dorm, and it's not like Mondo could just abandon him here. There was only one solution he could think of.

"Alright, whatever, you can crash in my dorm tonight. I think I got a sleepin' bag somewhere." Suddenly, a pair of long, skinny arms were thrown around his neck, and Ito became the world's most intoxicated necklace as he dangled gleefully from Mondo's neck. "Fuck yaaaay, slumber party with my bestest best bud, Ōwada!" Ito squealed as his legs kicked in the air. The volume of his voice was enough to make Mondo wince. "Jesus Christ, keep it down, you moron! Everyone's asleep!" he hissed.

Ito released him and dropped to the cement with a wet thunk. "Whoopsie doodle..."

The rain got worse as they made a perilous trek to the dorms, and it was extremely difficult to see where they were going, but somehow, eventually, they made it inside. It was difficult to minimize the tracks of water across the building floor, and Mondo prayed that they'd be mostly evaporated in the morning. Luckily, though, they didn't have too far to go, and in the blink of an eye they were in his dorm. Thank God, he was itching to get out of these dripping wet loafers.

"Alright, well, here we are. Just don't make too much of a mess, capiche?" Ito just seemed to wobble in a circle like a bobble head, a stupid grin on his reddened face. "Oh hot damn, I'm in Ōwada's room...where all his unmen'chibles aaaare..." He started to wander across the room when Mondo grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, man, at least get yer shoes off. Don't track mud all over the fuckin' place."

Ito blinked at him, and then sheepishly looked to the floor. "F-forgot."

"Yeah, I know you 'forgot' your key, dumbass---"

"NO. I forgot...I forgot how t'untie my shoes."

Mondo stared at him incredulously, his mouth hanging open in shock. "...oh, my fuckin' God." They must've served him some kind of memory-erasing cocktail. Or maybe he really was that far gone.

Ito gave him another wide grin. "C'mon, I'll give ya a biiiig kiss if y'help meee!" Fuck, yeah, he was completely gone. Mondo sighed as he pushed him to the bed. "Just...sit down," he ordered, exasperated, "Sit down and don't move." Ito did as he was told and plopped onto his sheets, peering down at Mondo uselessly while he undid the sopping knots of his shoes. Immediately when he got the first shoe off, all five of his senses were assaulted with the scent of a combination of nail polish remover and sharpies. "Fuckin' A, did you pour sake down your socks or somethin'?!" Jesus, if Ito wasn't gonna hurl by the end of this, Mondo would.

"Can't remember. Probsablyly."

Another irritated groan escaped through his grit teeth. Was this how Daiya felt when he was a kid and stepped in some shit and they had to get his sneakers off? At least Mondo had an excuse, then, for not knowing how to untie his shoes. Ito was just a damn idiot.

When his shoes were finally off and tossed by the door, Mondo rose to his feet. He should probably get him something, right? The pipes were probably still off for the night...he had a water bottle on the table. It was probably still good. Probably. "Alright. Okay. Alright," Mondo uttered, desperately trying to get some kind of mental hold on the situation, "Please tell me you remember how to drink before I get you some water." Ito scoffed and bounced himself off the bed so he could stand. "Oh, baby, I'm th'fuckin'...BEST at drinkin'."

Great. Mondo couldn't help but roll his eyes as he grabbed the water bottle. He took Mitsuo's hand and manually wrapped his fingers around the plastic, because God knows if he didn't, he might drop the fucking thing. "Here. Drink all a'this 'fore you do anythin' else."

Ito promptly ripped the cap off and swung it back, sucking down huge gulps of water at a worrying pace. Mondo balked as he witnessed this, helplessly protesting, "Holy shit, you don't need to chug it!!" But it was too late. His friend had gulped down the entirety of the contents in seconds.

"You wan'that kiss I promised ya...?"

That question came out of left field and smacked Mondo in the face.

"Wh...huh?"

He was frozen where he stood as Ito inched closer to him. "I been told I'm real good at kissin'...y'wanna fiiiiind out...?" His hair was down and a mess, and his glazed brown eyes were burning holes into his body. As drunk as he was, the way Ito was looking at him, his sight seemingly drinking in every part of him...it was almost sort of sexy---

Mondo immediately stopped his train of thought in its tracks and backed up a good three feet. No. No, no, no. "Okay...shit. Slow down, there, cowboy, you're...you're way too fuckin' drunk."

As Ito hobbled closer, the side of his hoodie sliding off his shoulder, Mondo brought his hands up, prepared to shove him if he needed. He needed to get him to sleep pronto.

"Y'wanna know a secret, Ōwada? Like a secret secret...?"

"...what?" Fuck, why did he answer? He shouldn't indulge Ito when he's like this! But it was too late.

"When I'm with y'like...like right now, my heart goes..." Ito's intoxicated brain seemed to struggle to find the right words. "...it does like a boom boom boom in my chest, y'know...? Like, so hard I feel it."

"Uh..."

"It's doin' it again...I want YOU t'feel it."

Before Mondo could even properly react, Ito's hands were curled over his arm and bringing his palm to rest over his heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was like someone was knocking into his hand. The knocking, the thudding, the beat...whatever it was, it made Mondo release a sharp exhale, and his mind felt like a warm cloud had settled inside it. His heart. Ito's heart felt like it was beating for him. Mondo's body quivered at the thought even crossing his mind, and suddenly, he became aware of his own dull thudding in his rib cage. He wanted to hold him closer, just a little bit. Enough so maybe they could feel their hearts beat together. And Ito's pulse was so close; if his fingers trailed to his neck, maybe he could feel---

His senses came back to him violently with whiplash. Mondo nearly jumped back against the wall as Ito's flesh suddenly became a red-hot iron. Don't. No. He couldn't. What was wrong with him? "Okay. Shit, fuck, that's enough. Lemme find the sleeping bag, and---"

When he looked and saw Ito's face again, tears were streaming down his cheeks. His shoulders were shaking as he hiccuped, and his eyes were lined with red. Oh. Oh, no. "Oh, God, Ito, you good?" Mondo tried, daring to step a little closer.

"You're not...never gonna...I'm..."

His garbled speech was muddled and slurred, and Mondo could barely understand what he was saying.

"Hurts...hurts a lot...I just...all the time, I...you...you won't..."

Something was hurting him? "Ito...?" Mondo didn't know what to do. He could deal with lost keys and forgetting lessons from kindergarten, but he didn't know how to help him with this one. Mondo wanted to pull Ito into a hug, but God, who knows what would happen after that. Shit, he couldn't even figure out what was making him cry. And apparently, neither could Ito, because he promptly stopped crying out of nowhere, returning to his previous wobbly state.

Well, he must've forgotten what was wrong, which was alright in Mondo's book. As Ito absentmindedly wiped his snot on the back of his sleeve, he gave the biker another doofy grin.

"Mmm, sleepy..."

Sleepy was great. All Mondo wanted for the wildest 15 minutes of his life was for Ito to go to sleep. Now he just had to find that sleeping bag. As he opened the doors to his closet to search, though, he heard the rustling of his sheets. Mondo turned his head to find Ito crawling into his bed, still fully clothed and soaked to the bone.

"Fuck, come on, man, that's MY bed..." Mondo grumbled just as his hands found his sleeping bag. Ito didn't respond in the slightest, instead choosing to nuzzle his face deep into his pillow. Mondo swore he heard him mumble something as he curled into himself beneath his sheets...something about smelling? He wasn't sure, and right at this second, he was too burnt out to care.

"Fine...fine. I'LL take the sleeping bag. Jesus..."

When the bag was unfurled, he shucked his sweats off and crawled inside. Mondo's polyester surroundings weren't the most comfortable, but hey, better than nothing. He especially didn't want to risk crawling into bed next to Ito. At least, not when he's drunk...somehow, within minutes of him thinking that, Mondo was asleep for the second time that night.

------

Mondo was wrung from his slumber on the floor in his bedroom by the sound of someone being extremely sick in his bathroom. From where he was, he could turn his head to see his impromptu guest hunched over his toilet holding his own hair back. Oh. Cool. So it wasn't just a super bizarre lucid dream.

"Ito? Hey, you alright?"

Weakly, Ito flushed the toilet and rested his head against the side of the bowl. "I feel like I got hit by a fuckin' train, but I'm alive," he ground out.

Mondo couldn't help but chuckle as he pulled himself from the sleeping bag. "That's the important part."

Mondo watched as Ito crawled on his hands and knees out of the bathroom before he came to a stop beside his bed, wincing at the sunlight streaming in. Ito looked like hell, but at least he was safe on campus and not waking up in some alleyway.

"Hey...Ōwada, I didn't, like, do anything weird last night, right...? Besides losing my key..."

"...you stole my bed, but other'n that, nah. You're good."

"Awesome."

It was probably better this way, him not knowing. Shit, if Mondo pulled half the crap he did, he'd probably be so embarrassed he'd die.

Ito's eyes slipped closed, like he was taking a break from the light. His hair was disheveled, and his lips parted to let out an exhausted sigh. He was...fuck, he looked pretty, like this, even though the smell of the bar and the cigarettes still hung on his clothes.

Ito abruptly stood, then, and almost limped to stuff his feet into his shoes. Mondo didn't really want him to go.

"Well, I'm gonna get outta your hair," Ito announced, "Either gonna try to call maintenance for a new key or pass out in the library...I'll decide on the way."

"Yeah, good luck, buddy."

Ito gave a tired wave back to him, and was about to open the door when he suddenly stopped. Mondo couldn't deny his heart jumping a little. His heart...fuck, his heart.

"Oh, hey, Ōwada?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. I...I owe you one."

"...anytime."

Ito gave him another smile, before finally, he walked away, out into the hall. The door clicked shut when Mondo stood up. He was...sad to see him go. But why? Why was he thinking all this weird, fuzzy bullshit? Especially after last night...he should think Ito was gross, at least.

Mondo flounced on top of his bed, still damp from Ito's body. If he breathed in deep enough, he could smell the faintest bit of him lingering.

#self insert #self ship #self shipping #oc x canon #self insert x canon #corn boy #danganronpa #bikes and berninis

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kpop--fics · 7 years ago

Text

Soulmate!Eunwoo

[Soulmate AU: Whatever mark you get on your skin, your soulmate gets it too.]

Word count: 1.826

---

You were sitting in class, when suddenly, a smiley written in blue sharpie appeared on your skin. “Y/n, are you drawing on yourself?” Your seatmate, Jinwoo, asked. “No? Where did you get that idea?” You replied, having no idea what he was even talking about.

Grabbing your wrist, he held up your right arm so you could see too. “Oh. That’s… weird.” Was all you said, resulting in a face palm next to you. “Y/n, don’t you get what this means? Everything that your soulmate writes on his skin, will appear on yours too! That means your soulmate is also having this on their skin!” He excitedly told you.

“Y/n! Don’t talk when I am teaching you something!” Your biology teacher yelled through the classroom. “Yes, sir…” You said, pissed because you technically did nothing wrong.

“This always happens. Can’t you shut up during classes once?” You asked Jinwoo when the lesson had ended. “Sorry, but I just had to say it.” He grinned, seeming content with himself. You rolled your eyes at the sight of it.

“But anyways what were you saying again?” You questioned, interested in what he was talking about. It was something about soulmates, after all. “Well, if your soulmate gets injured of writes on his skin or does anything that leaves a mark basically, it shows on your skin, too. Simple as that.” He shrugged.

Interesting. That meant your soulmate was currently drawing happy faces on his arm? Reaching in your backpack, you grabbed a black sharpie and drew a sad face just beneath his happy one. “What are you doing?” Jinwoo asked, confused by your behaviour.

“Well, if what you just told me is correct, he will be able to see this one too, right? Let’s see if he can!” You sang and started walking home.

“Hey, Y/n! Wait for me!” Jinwoo yelled while running behind you.

That night, just before going to sleep, you felt something itching on your arm. Looking down, you saw there was being written beneath your sad face.

“Not feeling well?”

Well, you did write it while being in your least favourite class, so you were anything but happy.

“Just bored. What about you? Why that happy face?”

You wrote back. It took some time, but a while later you finally got a reply back.

“I won something… important to me. But that aside, do you know why this keeps showing up on my skin?”

“Well one of my friends recently told me if we were connected like this, we are soulmates.”

Again, there was this kind of… awkward silence almost hanging between you two. Maybe it had to do with the fact that you both didn’t know who you were talking to, you figured.

You looked down again, and you still hadn’t gotten any reply. “Well, let’s just go to sleep then.” You concluded, and started getting ready for the night.

You stepped in the shower, and started washing off all the marks that were spread across both of your arms from the previous conversation. Your writings washed off almost immediately, but his… no matter with how much pressure you rubbed over it, they just wouldn’t leave.

Turning the shower off, you quickly grabbed anything that could write and was within reach in the bathroom. You ended up getting eye liner. “This will do for now.” You shrugged, and started writing angrily.

“Hey! Use a non-permanent sharpie next time! Thanks in advance.”

After that, you slipped on your pyjama and went to sleep, not willing to think more about it.

It was now a week later, and you were always looking forward to class now. “Y/n, you seem happy to be visiting biology. It’s creepy, stop it.” Jinwoo said, a bit scared by your 360 turn in behaviour. You just chuckled, looking forward to the conversation.

The past days, you had been occupied by talking to your soulmate. You both agreed that if you were indeed soulmates, it couldn’t hurt to get to know each other better, so that was what you were going to do.

Five minutes in the lesson, and you were already bored as hell. Could this teacher make it any more sleep-inducing? Yawning, you wished for the hour to be over. Suddenly, you got this feeling of a funny itch on your arm again.

“Grcs @ 4p”

Weirded out by the letters on your hand, you tried to make sense of it, but to no avail. “What’s that?” Jinwoo whispered. Or at least, tried to whisper, because your teacher shot you an angry glance again.

“No idea, it must be something my soulmate didn’t want to forget or something.” You shrugged. To be honest, you were really curious what it could possibly mean. So, the only option was to ask him.

“What’s this?” You wrote, with an arrow pointing to the weird text. It wasn’t long before you got a reply back.

“I need to remember going to do some shopping this afternoon, otherwise my band members will totally kill me”

“Band mates? You’re in a band?”

“Yeah, but we’re not that big of a deal, really…” He answered. It was almost like he was shy talking about this subject. So, you decided to talk more about it.

“My best friend is in a band! Maybe he knows you :)”

“Well, you don’t know which band I’m in, have fun explaining :)”

Great. After that, the conversation died a bit, resulting in just doodles you both received and altered. In your last lesson of that day, you looked down and saw a drawing of a minion on the inside of your left palm.

Chuckling quietly so the teacher wouldn’t hear, you gave him weird classes and a moustache.

“HEY DON’T GO ALTERING MINIONS LIKE THAT”

“Wow all caps… you just don’t appreciate my beautiful art”

“Whatever, I’ll just draw more!”

Sure enough, before class was over that day, your whole arm was covered in drawings of minions. “Y/n did you really think math is that boring?” Jinwoo teased you. “Hey, I didn’t draw these! How would I even reach my elbow!” You yelled at him, covering them all up in a long sleeved jacket.

“That aside, do you want to join me and the boys for dance practice? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The boy asked, setting up his puppy eyes. “You don’t have to beg silly, you know I can’t say no to that!”

So, there you were, in front of the Fantagio building. Out of nowhere, your right hand started hurting like crazy. “Shit! Jinwoo, I think I have to sit down for a bit, this really hurts.” You told him while you were dropping to the ground. “Y/n, what’s wrong?” He asked all worried. All you could do was point to your hand while trying not to scream your lungs our from the pain.

“I see… your soulmate must have touched something sharp. It’s a wound, but it isn’t that deep. Should I bandage it?” He asked, finally acting like a best friend to you. “I think I can handle it. I’ll walk there myself.” You answered, not wanting to rely on him for everything.

“I’m sorry. It must hurt, I’m so sorry.” Appeared just after you went inside the building.

“It’s fine, really. Try to stay uninjured from now on! Are you alright?”

“Yea, don’t worry about me!”

Relieved, you put your sharpie back in your pocket. Yes, you always carried a non-permanent marker to write on your skin at all times. Dropping the subject, you went to look for some bandages. “Where do they store those things?” You muttered, starting a hunt for them.

Having bandaged your hand, you walked over to the practice room. Knocking three times, you opened the door. “Look who we have here!” MJ let out, happy to see you again after what must have been at least a year. Sanha came running from the other side of the room and engulfed you in a big bear hug. “Hey, looks like you will outgrow me if you keep growing like this!” He said, looking at you from head to toe. “Hey, If I’m older than you, I can be bigger too!” You said while ruffling his hair.

Greeting the rest of the band, you shook hands with Moonbin, fist bumped Rocky and arrived in front of Eunwoo. You two never interacted that much, so you went for just a normal handshake. Upon grabbing his hand, you noticed that he had pain. Looking down, you saw a wound on his hand.

The same wound you had before patching it up.

“Eunwoo, maybe you should bandage this, it looks like it might hurt!” You said to him. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” He answered, leaving the room.

You felt someone walking towards you, so you turned around, only to be met with a smirking Jinwoo. “Say, Y/n… didn’t you say your right hand also hurt just now?” He asked you, knowing he was right about this. All the other members looked at you, too shocked to say anything.

Right before you could answer, Eunwoo came walking back into the room again, this time without his jacket that had previously shielded his arms. Sure enough, on both of them, drawings of minions were visible. “What is this weird atmosphere hanging here? What happened when I was gone?” He asked, looking around from face to face, waiting until someone would explain him.

Faster than telling him, you figured showing him would be easier. You grabbed the zipper of the jacket and zipped it down, letting the jacket slip off of your shoulders. The confused boy was first looking at you with the most confusion you had ever seen. Why would you be taking off your jacket in this kind of situation?

Upon seeing his drawings on your arm, his mouth fell open. “Are you serious right now.” He uttered, walking over to you, examining the drawings on your and his arm. Meanwhile, the other boys where on the other side of the room, watching how all of these events were unfolding themselves.

“Let me… just do this real quick.” You said to him, grabbing your sharpie out of your back pocket. “You carry that around?” Eunwoo chuckled, still not believing the things that were happening right in front of his eyes. You nodded, and brought the sharpie closer to your skin.

Deciding on what to draw, you drew a little heart quickly on Eunwoo’s nose. After seeing his expression change, you were sure it was visible in your nose now too. “Believe it now, minion boy?” You teased him.

“Hey, I told you not to make fun of him!” He scolded you, offended. You just laughed and gave him a hug, which seemed to startle him a bit. After a few seconds, he eased into the hug and gripped you tightly, not wanting to let you go.

“I’m glad I found you, soulmate.”

#cha eunwoo #eunwoo #lee dongmin #soulmate AU #fluff #astro

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actuallymollyweasley · 7 years ago

Text

kids of the in-between: ch. 14

aka “Ticking Backwards”

Honestly, you’re all amazing for being so patient all this time, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait! Managed to finish just in time to celebrate the end of the beauty that was Pynch Week haha. Feel free to ask to be tagged in future updates if you want!

Read all parts: on tumblr | on ao3

One second, Adam was highlighting his calculus lecture notes from last week in an effort to try and remember how the hell he was supposed to answer the questions in his problem set. The next second, Blue Sargent had somehow managed to snatch up his notebook and highlighter, toss them onto his bed, and perch herself on his desk, all in a single motion. She then proceeded to smile at him as if this was completely normal.

(Although Adam supposed that because Blue Sargent was involved, it kind of was.)

“Hello, Adam.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. She was using her customer-service voice, the one that managed to convey I'm running on two hours of sleep so you can be polite to me or die just by the way she shaped her vowels. “Blue. What do you want?”

“Can’t I just want to talk to my best friend, whom I love dearly and never see anymore?”

“You can,” Adam said. “But you generally do that from your own desk, not mine. Also, it's not my fault that you've only slept in your own bed three times in the last week.”

“Adam!”

Blush was an interesting color on Blue. It clashed rather horribly with the neon green streak Noah had dyed in her hair the other day—but the neon green streak also clashed horribly with her ripped purple overalls, so maybe it all balanced out in the end.

“I'm just saying,” Adam continued, “don't try to pass all the blame off on my double shift and weird boyfriend.”

To his surprise, that statement made Blue eye him carefully. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“The double shift?”

“The weird boyfriend, you idiot.”

“Could have gone either way,” Adam argued, although he couldn't quite keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. “What about him?”

Blue snagged one of his pens and started doodling on her overalls, as if owning ripped purple overalls wasn't anti-establishment enough already. “How are things going between you two? Since your… since that phone call?”

“They're good,” Adam said, and was surprised to find that for once in his life, he actually meant it. Good wasn't something he came across very often.

Blue drew a suspicious smiley face on her overalls. It sported a single raised eyebrow and a curled mouth and a judgmental stare that pointed directly at Adam. “So no problems at all?”

“I said good, not perfect.”

After all, Ronan had blown into this very dorm room yesterday morning to show Adam a caricatured painting of Gansey that he'd created using Gansey's sleeping face as a model. Adam had been working at his desk with his deaf ear pointed toward the door and all his focus directed toward his assignments. When Ronan had let the door slam shut behind the tail end of his hurricane, Adam had flinched. It had been instinctive, and unavoidable, and had nothing to do with Ronan himself, and he had still freaked out and left and refused to talk to Adam for the next several hours out of misplaced guilt.

So they were working on it.

But that was good too. It was nice to work for something that Adam actually thought he could get.

“There's already too much perfect in our friend group,” he continued. “Henry and Noah never even frown at each other, and don't think I didn't notice that Gansey’s wearing a lavender polo shirt today.”

“Coincidence,” Blue insisted.

“You guys matched outfits,” Adam replied, unrepentant. “Ronan and I have to have disagreements just to balance out the rest of you.”

“That's a terrible reason to have a fight.”

“You yell at Gansey for wearing boat shoes every day just to keep up your three-week streak.”

“This conversation isn't about me and Gansey.”

“The thing about a conversation,” Adam said, “is that you shouldn't start one if you don't want it to go both ways. Why are you suddenly asking about Ronan?”

At that, Blue finally looked up from the drawings on her overalls, rolling Adam’s pen between her palm and the desk. “I just… Are you sure you want to stay here for Thanksgiving instead of coming home with me? Because I know that you don't want to cause issues with money, but you know my mom always cooks too much food anyway, and you really wouldn't be imposing and my baby cousins would love to see you and I don't want you to have Thanksgiving with Ronan just because you don't think you have any other options.”

“Oh, Blue.” Adam reached out, rolled the pen out from under Blue’s hand, and started drawing. “I'm staying here for a lot of reasons. One reason is that I don't want to go back to Henrietta so soon after telling my father that I don't need to.”

“But Adam,” Blue protested, “you shouldn't—”

“Another,” Adam continued pointedly, “is that Calla always looks at me like I'm either going to destroy the house or fall down dead at any moment, just because she knows I notice when she's doing it. Also, your mom always burns the turkey, and Ronan has never actually burned anything that he's cooked in front of me. Not to mention that I genuinely like Ronan and am looking forward to making out with him over break. I'm pretty sure all of those are valid reasons. Do you disagree?”

Blue looked at him, blinked, looked down at the vines now twisting across the hem of her overalls, and sighed. “No. I just had to make sure I didn't need to beat Ronan up for you. And I was hoping I could convince you to come so I wouldn't have to suffer through my mom’s burnt turkey alone.”

“And the truth comes out,” Adam grinned, capping his pen. “Don’t worry about it, Blue. I'm sure Orla will show up with her husband for Thanksgiving dinner so she doesn't have to cook anything herself, and if Orla enjoys doing anything with you, it’s painting nails and complaining.”

“You got me there,” Blue said, then paused. “You realize that I'm never going to be able to wash these overalls now, right? These drawings are a symbol of our friendship and ability to have serious conversations without deflecting. I have to preserve them forever.”

“All I did was make squiggly lines,” Adam said. “If you really want something worth preserving, hand them to Ronan and give him a Sharpie.”

“He'd just write the lyrics to the Murder Squash Song across my ass.”

“Or he'd draw something really thoughtful on your front pocket and pretend Chainsaw did it.”

Blue considered that statement. “Knowing Ronan, he'd do both.” She clapped both hands on his shoulders—a distinctly Gansey gesture—and looked him in the eye. “He really is perfect for you.”

Then she hopped off his desk.

“Did you just… give me your blessing?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Isn't that Gansey’s job? Are you assigning each other parental duties now?”

“Sorry, gotta go, meeting Henry to tear holes in our clothes and drink tea from his expensive mugs.”

“Henry would never defile his vintage Madonna t-shirts and designer jeans.”

“My and Noah’s clothes,” Blue corrected. “Have fun with your calculus.”

Blue had been his best friend for over three years at this point. Adam didn't know why he kept making the mistake of attempting to understand her.

“Now, I restocked the coffee beans and cereal—and remembered to buy milk this time, before you ask,” Gansey said, glancing around the kitchen like the cabinets would help remind him of what he wanted to say. “Ronan said you two were fine to do the grocery shopping on your own, but I didn’t know if you would get a chance to go out before breakfast tomorrow so I wanted to make sure you didn’t have to worry about that. The lock on our door is still broken, so you might want to push the couch in front of it at night just in case. Declan and Matthew are welcome to stay in my room if they don’t want to book a hotel. I’m planning to return Sunday afternoon around four, but if anything happens before then, just give me a call and I can be back in three hours. In fact, if you think I might need to be here for any reason at all, say the word and I can cancel my plans. Maybe I should just call Helen right now and tell her to let Mom know that I can’t make it home for Thanksgiving after all. I’m sure she’d underst—”

“Gansey.” Adam had been planning to let Gansey tire himself out, but this was getting out of hand. “I have been self-sufficient for the last ten years. I'm pretty sure I can handle a week in the dorms, even if that week does involve Ronan.”

“Dickface,” Ronan called out from inside his room.

“Are you talking to me or Gansey?”

“Yes,” Ronan said.

Gansey’s face contorted like he wasn't sure whether to feel offended or amused. “Regardless. You'll call me if the need arises, won't you?”

“Yes, Gansey, we'll call you.” Adam pushed at Gansey's rolling suitcase with his toe, watching with satisfaction as it bounced off the kitchen cabinets and slowly rolled back. “Now go enjoy your Thanksgiving.”

“You too.” Gansey considered Adam for a moment and then held out one hand for a fistbump. It was absurd and boyish and brilliantly Gansey, and Adam accepted it with a smile tugging at his lips.

Gansey's responding grin was blinding as he reached down and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Ronan, I'm leaving!”

“Good fucking riddance!” Ronan replied before sticking his head out of the doorway. “Watch your shifts into second gear. That's when the Pig stalls out most often.”

Adam wouldn't have thought it possible, but Gansey's smile widened. “Thanks, Lynch,” he said, and then he was gone, and Adam and Ronan were alone.

Adam turned and raised his eyebrows at Ronan, who very purposefully turned around and retreated back into his room. Unfazed, Adam followed him. “Second gear, huh?”

“You're the mechanic,” Ronan said. “Didn't you notice?”

“Oh, I noticed,” Adam said, “but I wasn't the one who made sure that Gansey knew too.”

“Shut up,” Ronan said, and kissed him.

They'd been dating for a few weeks now, but kissing Ronan Lynch still felt like starting a wildfire. Adam had to break away before they burned down the whole dorm.

As he did, he eyed the extra sheets draped across half of Ronan's room. “When are you going to let me see what's under those?”

“When I’m fucking done with it.”

He frowned. “‘It?’ Is all of that for one art piece?”

Ronan shrugged. “Dr. Azalea.”

“But I thought you already turned in your last assignment.”

“This,” Ronan gestured vaguely, “is for my first assignment.”

Adam felt his heart collide against his ribs, a bang rather than a thump. “Happiness?”

“Yeah.” Ronan tugged the sheets more securely over his stack of canvases. “It's stupid.”

“It's not.” Adam reached out and took one of Ronan's hands in both of his, rubbing his thumbs over Ronan's knuckles. “Now come on, what are we supposed to be buying for tomorrow?”

“This was a terrible idea.” Ronan looked about five seconds away from throwing the pasta he was cooking out the window. “Adam, why the fuck did you let me cook? We should have met them for lunch somewhere. I shouldn't have let them come here in the first place. We should have driven to D.C. We should have stayed here by ourselves. Fuck, this dish is shit.”

Adam peered over Ronan’s shoulder. “Doesn't look like shit to me.” He snagged a bite of penne with a fork before Ronan could stop him. “Doesn't taste like it either.”

“It’s shit compared to my mom’s,” Ronan said, and that was startling enough to make Adam turn off the stove and take the spatula from Ronan’s slightly shaking hands. He hadn't heard Ronan mention his mother since before his father had died. Actually, he'd never heard Ronan mention his mother at all.

“Ronan.” Adam frowned at his boyfriend’s hands, trying to find the right words. He'd never been particularly skilled at offering comfort. He'd never really needed to be. “It doesn't have to taste like your mom’s to be good. I'm sure they'll love it.”

“Matthew might,” Ronan muttered. “Declan’s going to hate it.”

“He won't,” Adam insisted, but the look on Ronan's face told Adam he knew that Adam had no idea what he was talking about. He was an only child, his parents were both alive and terrible, and he had never met Declan Lynch before in his life.

“I mean it,” Adam said, not sure how he would back up that statement, and then there was a knock at the door.

Ronan tensed, gave the pasta one last stir, opened the door—and was promptly tackled by a medium-sized bundle of brightly colored clothing and hair like sunshine.

“Ronan! I've missed you so much! Your hair is so short! How is college?”

It's mostly like high school,” Ronan said, voice a little rough, “but with better friends. Are you still growing?”

“Like a weed,” came from behind Matthew’s mass of curls. “If you don't watch out, he’ll end up taller than you, Ronan.”

“Doubtful,” Ronan said, shoulders stiff but eyes still soft because Matthew had stuck his tongue out at him in response. “Are you coming inside for lunch or what?”

“Or what,” Matthew replied, although he was already passing Ronan in the doorway.

Adam hid a smile in his shirt collar.

At the same moment, Matthew caught sight of him and bounded forward like a wayward basketball, only skidding to a halt to extremely vigorously shake Adam’s hand. “Hi! I'm Matthew, Ronan’s brother. It's great to meet you! What’s your name?”

Adam’s smile froze onto his face. Had Ronan seriously not told them—

“Hello, I’m Declan Lynch, and you must be Adam Parrish.” Ronan's older brother slipped past Matthew to introduce himself. He had Ronan’s sharp cheekbones, the type of suit that a millionaire would wear for a casual evening out on his own personal yacht, and a handshake with half of Matthew's enthusiasm and twice his firmness. “Matthew, don't you retain anything Ronan says?”

“I retain the things that matter, like that he said lunch was ready,” Matthew retorted. Then he glanced at Adam. “Um, not that you don't matter, obviously. I just forgot that you were going to be here the whole time. But now I'm even more excited to meet you! Ronan’s never had a boyfriend before.”

The Lynch in question was currently glaring at the pot on the stove—probably because he couldn't bring himself to glare directly at Matthew, Adam thought with amusement. “Shut up,” Ronan said, “and grab a plate.”

“I'll shut up if you let me drink beer with lunch,” Matthew said.

“Not a fucking chance,” Ronan replied.

Adam had no way of proving it. But when he turned around to shut the front door, he was pretty sure he glimpsed a small smile on Declan’s face.

The rest of Wednesday went so well that Adam had to refrain three times from asking Ronan what he'd been so worried about. As he’d expected, Matthew had nothing but compliments to bestow on the food Ronan made, and Declan didn't mention it at all, which Ronan claimed was its own kind of silent approval. After that, they spent most of the afternoon shopping for last-minute groceries—or rather, Ronan and Declan argued about what they needed to buy while Matthew stealthily added cans of whipped cream to the shopping cart behind their backs. By the time they reached the checkout line, there were at least fifteen cans tucked between the bags of sweet potatoes and fresh green beans, but the older Lynch brothers placed each new can on the conveyor belt without a word.

Declan made dinner and spent most of the meal talking about his job.

Matthew begged Ronan for beer unsuccessfully half a dozen times.

Ronan painted all through the night, telling Adam that with a little luck, he could be finished by the end of Thanksgiving break.

And then Thursday morning came.

Adam woke up to yelling, which was both familiar and discomfiting. For a moment, he couldn’t distinguish reality from his dream about the double-wide trailer he’d grown up in. The sheets felt scratchier. The room felt smaller. He even thought he heard the sound of breaking glass.

But then Declan shouted, “And it’d be nice if you’d answer your phone every once in a while,” the polar opposite of anything Robert Parrish would have said to his son, and Adam refocused.

“It’s college,” Ronan snapped. “I’m fucking busy.”

“Oh, please, you’re an art student.” Declan’s voice was scathing. “Don’t bother pretending that you’re drowning under some heavy workload.”

Adam decided to grab a pair of sweatpants and open the door before somebody got punched.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, doing his best to pretend that the walls weren’t paper-thin. “You’re up earlier than usual, Ronan.”

“Didn’t sleep,” Ronan growled, which Adam already knew. “I was working on an assignment for class.”

“And I’m sure it’s very pretty,” the eldest Lynch brother said. Ronan was still silently fuming behind the kitchen counter, but Declan’s expression had shifted from derisive to politely neutral the moment he caught sight of Adam. “Good morning, Adam. Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d love some,” Adam said.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Just a little cream is fine, thanks.”

“Gross,” Ronan muttered.

“You’re gross,” Matthew said over a yawn, wandering into the hallway. “What are we talking about?”

“Coffee,” Ronan said.

“Oh, yeah. That is gross.”

Adam furrowed his eyebrows. “I thought you two were staying in a hotel room?”

(It was the type of decision he had a feeling he would never understand—in his opinion, spending money on a hotel when there was a perfectly usable bed and couch in the suite was a frivolity and a waste. But Declan had thought a hotel room would be more comfortable, and so the money was spent.)

Matthew rubbed a hand across his eyes, yawning again. “We did.”

“But Matthew said he was going to use the restroom and ‘accidentally’ went back to sleep on your friend Gansey’s bed,” Declan explained.

“Lame,” Ronan said. But this time he reached out and ruffled Matthew’s hair, so Adam figured things would be all right.

Less than an hour later, the Lynch brothers were arguing again.

“What do you think you're doing?” Declan demanded.

“Making the spice rub for the fucking turkey, like I said I was going to,” Ronan growled.

“With those spices? You're doing it completely wrong.”

“No, I'm fucking not.”

“It doesn't need sage.”

“Yes, it does.”

“How would you even know?”

“Because I actually cared about helping Mom out with Thanksgiving dinner, unlike you, and I listened when she was teaching me! It's parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like in that fucking song, but without the parsley because who the fuck needs parsley anyway. And then if you’re not a fucking idiot, you’ll remember that it also uses salt, pepper, and garlic powder. That's what she told me.”

“Yeah? Then I'm sure she would have loved to hear you repeat it back like that.”

“Guys,” Matthew whined.

Ronan turned to him. “Matthew, you always hung around the kitchen at Thanksgiving too. Tell Declan that he's wrong.”

Matthew bit his lip, eyes darting between the two of them, and said, “I'm sorry. I don't remember how Mom made it.”

Declan and Ronan both froze for such a long moment that Adam inexplicably remembered the drawing he’d seen on Ronan’s wall the first time he ever entered his room—Declan and Matthew wrestling in the grass, Ronan perched on Niall’s back, and Aurora Lynch smiling softly in the background.

Which was worse? To have never felt the kind of love that the Lynches offered each other, or to grow up surrounded by that love, only to have it all ripped away in a single bloody morning?

Declan sighed. “Maybe it has been too long since I helped Mom in the kitchen,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you want, Ronan.”

Ronan’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the mixing bowl. “Who even fucking cares about the turkey anymore?”

“I do!” The turkey was lying on the other end of the counter, so Matthew nudged it within Ronan’s reach. “Come on, Ro, I’ll help you with the turkey.”

“I can start peeling potatoes,” Adam offered.

Declan stiffened like he had forgotten Adam was there. But when he turned to face him, his smile looked unshakable. It would have been enough to make Adam question whether Ronan and Declan were actually related, except that they shared too many facial features. “That’d be great, Adam,” he said, as if tension wasn’t stretched between everyone in the room like bungee cords just waiting to snap. “But I don’t want you to feel like we have a monopoly on tonight’s menu. Do you have any family recipes you want to make?”

Adam flinched—but a quick look at the rigid lines of Ronan’s back told him that one family’s worth of drama was enough for this Thanksgiving, so he covered it by pulling the bag of potatoes closer to him. “No,” he said simply. “My parents never cared much for Thanksgiving.”

Ronan snorted, and not kindly. “You can say that again.”

Matthew looked between his siblings and Adam, frowning. “So. What are we doing for lunch?”

Lunch was an argument, as Ronan thought they would be too full to eat dinner and Declan thought he was just trying to be difficult. Cooking was an argument, as they were constantly bumping shoulders and using each other's mixing spoons and changing the oven temperature. Chainsaw flew into the kitchen at one point, looking for scraps, and that sparked yet another argument, as Declan couldn't decide which was more horrifying: that Ronan had broken the dorm’s rules to get a pet, that said pet was a raven, or that Ronan was planning on feeding her some of the leftover turkey later.

When the Lynch brothers got along, it made this too-large-for-a-couple-of-college-freshmen dorm feel like a home.

When they were fighting, it made this too-small-for-a-couple-of-angry-boys dorm feel like a certain double-wide trailer that Adam was still trying to put behind him.

And on top of that, he was developing a migraine—because everything sounded louder when you could only hear out of one ear.

So when Matthew went digging through their grocery bags, surfacing only to exclaim that they had forgotten to buy pumpkin pie filling, Adam jumped at the chance to get out of Walton.

“I think there are a few grocery stores just off-campus that are still open on Thanksgiving,” he said. “I can bike around and see if any of them carry pumpkin pie filling.”

“Oh, we couldn't ask that of you,” Declan said.

“It's really not a problem,” Adam replied. “Besides, I want pumpkin pie just as much as Matthew does.”

“Don't be stupid,” Ronan said. Then, when Adam turned to frown at him, “It’s fucking freezing outside.” And he tossed the keys to the BMW at Adam.

Adam caught them out of reflex and sheer luck, furrowing his eyebrows. If he'd been having a shitty day, how much shittier had Ronan been feeling? He’d spent the entire day arguing with the only family he had left. “Ronan,” he started, and then hesitated, not wanting to offend Declan. In the end, he settled on, “Do you want to come with me?”

Ronan just shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nah,” he said. “Gotta keep an eye on the turkey.”

Adam frowned at him again, but when Ronan didn't budge, he had no choice but to leave.

Buying pumpkin pie filling on Thanksgiving afternoon took Adam almost an hour. It turned out to be more difficult to find an open store than he'd anticipated, and if he'd lingered in the one store he had found, walking through every aisle and relishing that it was quiet enough for him to hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights… well, no one could prove it.

In any case, by the time he returned, Ronan was no longer in the kitchen. Instead, his awful electronic music was blaring inside his room.

“The turkey finished cooking, so Ronan decided to let us make the rest of dinner while he went back to painting.” Declan didn't roll his eyes, but with that tone of voice, he didn't need to.

“Well,” Adam replied, “he’s extremely dedicated to his art. He wants everything he works on to be perfect. That's what makes him such a good artist.”

Declan looked like he couldn't imagine Ronan Lynch being dedicated to anything. “Good for him,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Were you able to find the pumpkin filling, then?”

Adam nodded.

“Awesome!” Matthew sprang up from where he'd been lounging on the couch. “Do you want to help me make the pie, Adam?”

What Adam really thought he should do was check on Ronan. But Matthew’s eyes were shining with excitement, and Adam found himself unable to refuse.

Between making pie, throwing together a few side dishes, and reheating the turkey once everything else had finished baking, hours passed without Adam noticing. Suddenly it was seven o’clock, and dinner was ready.

“We usually try to eat by five,” Declan said, sliding into his chair at the kitchen table, “but with putting everything together ourselves, I suppose delays were inevitable. I hope you don't mind, Adam.”

Adam thought Declan must not have actually gone to college to believe that a seven o’clock dinner was some horrible catastrophe. “It's fine,” he assured him. “Should I go get Ro—?”

“RONAN!” Matthew shouted out of nowhere, making Adam jump. “DINNER!”

“He's fifteen feet away, not five hundred,” Declan chided, although even he seemed unable to properly discipline Matthew. “I’m pretty sure you didn't have to scream that loudly in order for him to hear you.”

“Yeah, but it was fun,” Matthew grinned. “And apparently necessary, because he's STILL NOT OUT HERE!”

A pause.

“RONAN?!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming, Jesus,” Ronan said, shrugging on his leather jacket as he came out of his room. “I had to finish the thing I was working on, calm the fuck down.”

“We were all waiting for you,” Matthew said, in a supercilious tone he could only keep up for half the sentence before breaking into giggles, but Adam’s eyes narrowed as he took a second look at Ronan’s hands.

Declan followed his line of sight and frowned. “Ronan… Ronan, are those bandages? Are you all right?”

“Calm the fuck down,” Ronan repeated. “My hands slipped, it's not a big fucking deal.”

Declan’s frown only deepened. “You cut yourself… on art supplies?”

“Ever heard of a palette knife?” Ronan said, scathing.

“Nope!” Matthew broke in cheerfully. “Now come on, Ronan, sit down, we have to pray.”

Ronan's shoulders stiffened. “Right.” He sat down next to Adam. “I guess that's your job now, Declan?”

For the first time since Adam had met him, Declan looked visibly uncomfortable. “Actually, I was thinking we could all say it together?”

Ronan clasped his hands together so tightly, Adam thought it must be hurting the cuts on his palms. “Fine.”

He bowed his head, and after a moment, Matthew and Declan followed suit. “Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Adam said along with them, although he wasn't sure he believed in gifts or bounty, let alone a benevolent God who supposedly offered them. It just seemed like the polite thing to do.

When they were done, Matthew's head popped back up like a puppy's. “Okay! Let's eat!”

Declan smiled, passed Matthew the mashed potatoes, and stood up to begin cutting into the turkey. Adam got so caught up in filling his plate with green beans and sweet potato casserole and stuffing and peas and turkey and gravy and cranberry sauce—he may have been getting three meals a day from the dining hall, but putting as much food on his plate as he could, whenever he could, was second-nature by now—that he didn't look over at Ronan until he'd sampled everything in reach.

“Ronan,” Adam said, “this turkey is amazing. Whenever I go to Thanksgiving at Blue’s house, her mom always burns it and makes us eat it anyway, but I… Ronan, why is your plate empty?”

Ronan was staring off at nothing.

“Yeah, Ronan, if you don't get some food soon, I'm finishing off the sweet potato casserole without you.”

No, not nothing—the empty chair at the head of the table.

Adam started to get a hard feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Ronan?”

Ronan stood abruptly and nearly knocked his chair over. “I need a drink,” he said before heading toward the refrigerator.

“A drink,” Declan said drily.

Ronan threw open the refrigerator door.

“Are you serious? Beer on Thanksgiving?”

He grabbed one, seemingly at random, and slammed it on the counter. “Yeah, Declan, beer on fucking Thanksgiving. Who's gonna stop me?”

“I—”

“No, I mean it,” Ronan said. “Who's gonna stop me? Because Mom hasn't spoken in months, Dad’s dead, and I don't have to listen to a word you say. You're not our fucking parents.”

Declan went completely still, as if this was another one of Ronan's paintings. Adam thought he knew which emotion Dr. Azalea would accept this one for. Heartbreak.

“Shit,” Ronan said, “I’m sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him when he left.

For a moment, silence.

Then, “Ronan, wait!”

Matthew scooted out of his chair and hurried after him.

Adam got up and ran to Ronan's room, intending to use his window to see if Ronan headed into the parking lot, but when he finally tugged Ronan's door open, he couldn't do anything but stare.

At last, the sheets Ronan had been using to hide his happiness assignment had been tossed aside, leaving the project in full view.

It was a wreck.

Adam thought Ronan had actually been proud of how his artwork was turning out, but that was clearly no longer the case. Several of the canvases had been slashed through, while others looked like they had been kicked in. A paint tube had been squeezed out over a few more, leaving behind red paint hardened and flaking to the touch like dried blood. Preliminary sketches had been torn up and scattered over the mess, perverted confetti celebrating creative disaster. And when Adam finally remembered to lean out and look for Ronan, all he noticed was another pile of Ronan's ruined paintings that he’d apparently thrown out of the window. Everything was just—

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s his art,” Adam said. “He's been working on these canvases for weeks, insisting that he was getting close to finishing, insisting that his next idea was going to be the right one, and now it's all destroyed.”

But when he turned around, Declan wasn't staring at the ruined paintings. He was staring at the objects that Adam had gotten used to after spending so much time in Ronan's room.

“What?” Adam asked. “You can't tell me you don't know about Ronan's dreams.”

“Of course I know about his dreams,” Declan snapped, his eyes too wide and horrified to make his harsh tone effective. “But these are…”

Adam looked around and tried to remember how it had felt to see Ronan's room for the first time. The unnaturally bent sword, the twisted clock that ticked backwards, the dark stain on his floor that was now mostly hidden by ripped canvases and red paint…. That pit in his stomach came back. He'd known the objects weren't exactly fun dream souvenirs, known they could even look menacing, but they were just dispersed among the other objects, right? Tucked between self-bouncing balls and clocks that worked properly, hidden behind dream lights and whimsical inventions? Everyone had nightmares sometimes, and anyway, Adam hadn't seen Ronan dream up anything bad since that night at the campground. Of course, he hadn't been around Ronan every night—but he'd been around sometimes—and Ronan had never objected when Adam asked to spend the night, he'd never said that there was anything to be worried about—but then he was always the one who woke up first, and last night he had never fallen asleep at all.

“This isn't normal,” Adam said. It wasn't a question because he already knew the answer.

He knew it wasn't normal.

But Ronan had been so happy for the last few weeks—he’d thought Ronan had been so happy—that he'd stopped worrying.

Adam felt, abruptly, like a terrible boyfriend.

“No, it’s not normal,” Declan said derisively. “None of this is fucking normal. I haven’t seen him dream like this since…”

“Since Kavinsky?” Adam guessed.

“How do you know about Kavinsky?”

For some reason, the question snapped Adam into action. “This may surprise you,” he said, “but being in a relationship occasionally requires communication.” Except, apparently, when you destroy weeks’ worth of hard work. No, that’s not worth mentioning at all. Adam pushed the thought out of his mind. “Listen, Declan, I still have Ronan’s keys. That means he can’t have gotten that far. You should take your car and look around off-campus. He likes to go to St. Agnes or Nino’s, but check liquor stores too. I’ll search his usual on-campus hideouts because you can’t exactly find those on Google Maps.”

Just then, someone started banging on the front door. For one hopeful moment, Adam thought Ronan might have changed his mind about storming out. But when he flung the door open, only Matthew was waiting on the other side, red-faced and breathless.

“I tried to run after him, but by the time I went into the hallway, he was already gone. I went down the stairs and looked around, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t figure out which direction he’d taken.”

“That’s okay, Matthew,” Adam said. “We’re going to find him. You stay here in case he comes back, all right? Do you have my phone number?”

Matthew shook his head, so Adam took Matthew’s phone out of his hand and punched his number into his contacts, sending himself a text so he would have Matthew’s number as well. Then he did the same to Declan’s phone, grabbed his coat off the couch, and felt in his pockets to make sure Ronan hadn’t taken his keys without Adam noticing after all. They were there, a cool and hard and reassuring weight.

In the same time span, Declan had barely managed to put on one shoe. “You seem to have this search-team business down to a science. Have you… has something like this happened before?”

Adam felt something shatter inside of him. “Not in a while,” he managed to say.

Then he was gone.

Adam checked everywhere. Every classroom Ronan had bribed or broken his way into, every tree he’d sketched, every bench he’d fallen asleep on. By the time he got back to Walton, it was almost nine, Thanksgiving dinner was a forgotten feast weighing down the kitchen table, and nobody had been able to find Ronan Lynch.

Finally, feeling guilty and desperate, Adam called Gansey.

“Adam! I’m so happy to hear from you! I hope you’re having a lovely Thanksgiving. I’m just,” he hiccupped, “watching Food Network with Helen. Because obviously we haven’t seen enough—hic—food for one day.”

Gansey sounded sleepy, wine-drunk, and content. Adam could picture him leaning against Helen on an extravagantly luxurious couch in their living room, even though he had yet to actually see a photograph of Gansey’s sister. It made him feel even worse about saying, “Ronan is missing again.”

Gansey caught himself mid-laugh. “What? But I thought—”

“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” Adam was quick to add. “I mean… you know. Now that we know the truth about that one time. But he left during dinner and Declan and I have checked all the usual places and I….” He sighed. “I would just feel better if I knew where he was.”

Gansey was quiet for a while. “Did he take his car?”

“No.”

More silence. “Did you check the roof?”

Adam felt his heart stop, restart, and stutter again, all in the space of a moment. “The roof?! Gansey, I thought we just established that Ronan wasn’t—”

“Not like that!” Gansey interrupted hastily. “Ronan and I used to go up to the roof to talk. We haven’t been up since… but anyway, it’s worth a shot.”

Adam’s heart did its best to reestablish a natural rhythm. He didn’t think it was particularly successful. “Oh. Okay. Thanks, Gansey.”

“Do you need me to come up? I wasn’t being flippant, you know, when I said I would the other day. If you’re concerned that Ronan might—”

“No!” Adam’s voice was too loud for the near-empty campus. “No, Gansey, you really don’t need to come. You’ve already been helpful enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Adam hesitated, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. “I’m sorry for calling you like this. Don’t worry, all right? Ronan is fine. This isn’t like before.”

“Just text me when you find him, okay?”

Gansey’s voice was smooth, measured, and nowhere near immature enough to belong to an eighteen-year-old boy.

Adam tried not to let the guilt crush him like a cartoon anvil when he said, “Of course I will, Gansey. Have a nice night.”

After a moment’s indecision, Adam ducked into Ronan and Gansey’s suite on his way up to the roof. It had gotten cold, and Ronan’s leather jacket offered almost no insulation, so he just wanted to grab a couple hats and maybe a blanket before heading up to the roof.

Of course, Matthew Lynch stopped him in his tracks.

“Did you find Ronan yet?!”

Adam shook his head. “Still looking. Gansey told me about another place I haven’t checked yet.”

“Okay,” Matthew said before handing Adam a brown paper bag.

Adam frowned. “What is this?”

“Well, you both pretty much missed dinner, so I filled up some plastic containers for you,” he said. “They should still be warm. There are forks and knives in there too.”

“I—thank you, Matthew.”

“I had to do something while I waited,” Matthew shrugged. “Now I’m working on this.”

He turned around in his seat and gestured at the kitchen table, on which rested a medium-size square canvas. From the underlying design, Adam recognized it as one of the ones that Ronan had elected to squirt paint over rather than completely mutilate, but it was getting harder and harder to make that distinction. Matthew was methodically covering every inch of the canvas in a gentle, chrysanthemums-at-sunrise yellow.

“You’re repainting one of Ronan’s canvases?” Adam asked in surprise.

Matthew shrugged. “He said he was having trouble with his happiness assignment. I thought this might help.”

Adam looked at the bag of food in his hands, at the serene smile on Matthew’s face, and at the yellow canvas. For the first time, he understood why Ronan had such a soft spot for Noah Czerny.

“Paint fast,” he said. “Ronan will be back soon.”

He draped one of Gansey’s spare blankets over his shoulders and took the stairs as high as he was allowed to go, and then higher. The door to the roof read, Locked: Authorized Access Only, but when he pushed on it, it swung open.

Adam poked his head out. The wind whistled in his one good ear, making it difficult to hear anything.

He squinted into the darkness.

“Ronan?”

@reytrashqueen @nymphhadora @thehufflepuffshuffle @thegreywarenloveshim @siriiusblcck @thefangirldiaries98 @adamprrishcycle @xerxesians @lirapheus @sacrebleusargent @laniemoriarty @actuallyronanlynch @iridescentsparrows @sapphicclary

#pynch #trc #pynch fic #pynch fanfiction #adam parrish #ronan lynch #i wrote this #kotib #kids of the in between #gangsey #otp: the ocean burned #otp: scio quid hoc est

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just-jordie-things · 8 years ago

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Like She’s Mine (part seven) - Stiles Stilinski

this is like.. part 6b lmao warnings - swearing + mentions of sex + sorta shortish

“So tell me something y/n” Stiles mused. I think that we’d successfully sat on the floor silently for twenty minutes.

“Okay” I said, picking up the baby monitor next to me and playing with it. “Like what?”

“I don’t know I just want to talk”

“Alright then um... tell me more about GWU I feel like I don’t know enough. Got a special girl waiting around back there?” I asked with a short laugh. He almost laughed, but I heard it die in his chest.

“No, no I don’t really have anyone there. I pretty much just float around classes”

“No friends?” I asked, turning my head so my chin set on the edge of his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, I just watched him as he looked down to the fingers he played with in his lap.

“Nah I prefer to just um... I just like the way I have things going now”

“Yeah? And how’s that?” He turned to me, causing me to lift my chin off of him so his nose didn’t bump into mine.

“Get up, I have my own dorm you know, I usually check for notifications but if there aren’t any I get ready for the day and head to school. I have morning classes but my mid afternoons are usually free. Maybe another class around threeish..” He shrugged his shoulders. “Then later I’d call or text with you before bed” I smiled at that, and he looked back at his fingers.

“How do you not talk to anyone throughout the day? You went there for a whole year-”

“No not anyone, I text you did I not just say that?” I linked my fingers around the monitor, shrugging weakly.

“I guess I mean I figured you’d talk to somebody”

“Nah”

“Well... in a selfish way that’s good” I said.

“Oh?” Stiles raised a brow at me, and I felt my cheeks heat up.

“Yeah I mean... now maybe you won’t find better attachments there and leave the rest of us behind” He turned to me again, staring intently at me.

“y/n- that- that’s ridiculous” His brows furrowed and I looked away again to avoid eye contact. “Nothing’s... I’m not gonna- Nothing would ever make me want to leave you behind” I smiled for a moment, but then quickly changed my expression back to a neutral one. “What?”

“Hm?”

“That look, what’s that look for?”

“I don’t know what you mean” I said shrugging it off and staring at the monitor some more. I saw him lick his lips out of the corner of my eyes.

“y/n-”

He was cut off by the baby monitor going haywire, screams and cries I heard through the radio and from just down the hall. I sprung up, yanking away from Stiles and rushing towards Madison’s room.

“Do you need-”

“Thank you but no, I need to do this on my own she’s very- just stay there” I said, putting my hand up to Stiles as he’d begun to stand. I entered Madi’s room, finding the girl crying on her back. “No, no shh” I cooed as I walked over to her, lifting her in my arms. “Come on, come on let’s look at the stars” I said in the happiest voice i could muster. I carried her towards the window, showing her the view. But her cries continued. I winced as fat tears rolled down her red cheeks. “Sh sh sh” I pointed out the window, and she turned to it.

The loudness of her crying, which I was grateful for. But here and there she’d whimper of take shaky breaths.

“I’ll drop and speak a charm, take the weather from your heart”

Now, I don’t know when I’d realized singing calmed her down, and god knows how I was good enough to make her relax but it it. So it was something I stuck with when she’d throw her fits.

“And the weight from your toes..”

The melody was soft, and I sang it in a mere whisper as I bounced her just barely.

“Burn the bed and the dreams I’ve never met...”

Her eyes began to close and I smiled softly. Slowly, I began making my way to her crib.

“Those wishes were never for granted”

I laid her back down, breathing a soft sigh in relief as she stayed sound asleep, body calm again. She did look like a little angel. After assuring she was comfortable, I kissed her forehead one last time.

When I went back out to the living room, Stiles had his back to me, laying out a blanket on the sofa. I just stood there, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Sorry we used to have another bed” I told him, and he turned to see me. “If you want you could always just sleep in mine and I’ll stay out h-”

“No no, it’s fine” Stiles said, shaking it off. “I don’t mind the couch. You know it’s my prime napping place” I chuckled and nodded. I was going to tell him an old story about how I’d always walk in on his naps. But my eye caught something glittery on the table.

“Hey, we never opened your present” I said, walking over and reaching for it.

“That’s okay we can do it some other-”

“Oh no biggie” I didn’t even look at him as I pulled out the tissue paper. I grinned as I pulled out a pink elephant, slightly bigger than Madi even is.

“Aww!” I held it and pet it, liking the softness of the stuffed animal.

“Yeah that just.. I don’t even know” He chuckled and I set it on the table, reaching in again. I pulled out a couple of fuzzy blankets, which was greatly appreciated around here, you could never have enough really. There was another box at the bottom that was wrapped up. There was a neat pink ribbon tied in a bow. I gave him a look as I pulled it out, and his features shifted to something I haven’t seen before. “Th-that’s not- that’s not for Madi that’s actually for you” He said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s actually your Christmas present... since we were apart this year so..”

“Oh Stiles you shouldn’t have gotten me anything, I didn’t-”

“I know, and I don’t want anything so don’t worry about it” I furrowed my brows but he waved his hand for me to open it. I untied the ribbon and then pulled off the lid. My eyes watered at the small collection of items inside.

A red blue and black strings of yarn, tied together to make a friendship bracelet I made him in the fourth grade.

A little plastic case holding a CD that had sharpie all over it. It said STILES’ FIRE COLLEGE MIXTAPE and there was doodles and funny little drawings. It made me chuckle.

A photo strip from an ice rink we went to a long time ago. I teared up a little as I thought back to that day. Hanging out with Scott and Allison and all of us taking the pictures together. The first were just us smiling, the second was funny faces, the third we had our warms wrapped around each other, and the last one I’d surprised him and kissed his cheek. His mouth was wide open in a surprised grin, and his eyes were big round caramel eyes staring at the camera while mine were fluttered shut as my lips were planted on his cheek. This was sophomore year. I didn’t know I loved him then, but now I know I did.

“y/n?” I looked up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Then looked back into the last thing in the box. A small gold bracelet. There were links into a more rectangular looking piece, with cursive engraved in it. y/n m/n l/n with an arrow it. My fingers traced over it delicately as my eyes widened.

“Stiles...” I set it carefully on the table top as he smiled slightly. It was just a lip twitch but it made me tear up all over again. “It’s beautiful” I whispered, and he walked over to me.

“Well I’m glad you think so” He said softly. I hugged him before he could see me cry. His arms wrapped around my back. “I have another gift too but uh.. I don’t want you to be mad” I cocked my head to the side, stepping back just slightly.

“Why would I be-”

“I’ve transferred to Beacon Hills community college for the next year”

I froze.

“Don’t be mad, really I’m doing it for you- for Madi- I want to help-”

“Stiles..” I didn’t even know what the hell to say.

“It’s already done and in place. I did it this afternoon”

My chest heaved.

“y/n this year... it just... it sucked without you- without any of you” He caught himself.

My sharp breaths became audible. But Stiles stepped forward and put his hands on my arms.

“But GWU it was your dream school..”

“Was. It was my dream school”

“So now basic community college is your dream school? Stiles stop just- you’re being ridiculous” I put my hands on my forehead, looking down and trying to collect my thoughts.

“If that means I can stay with you- guys- then yes” He stumbled again.

“Stiles do you hear yourself?” I hissed slightly, not wanting to raise my voice and wake up Madi again. “You’ve been back for barely a day and suddenly-”

“Things have changed, y/n... but the things that have stayed the same I don’t want them to go away”

“Our friendship? Did our friendship go away when you were gone for the year?”

“No but now we can be closer again, don’t you want that?”

“Stiles...” My arms fell from my head and I grasped his hands in mine for a moment. “Of course I do but, this just seems... it seems foolish”

“But y/n it’s more than that-”

“Then what is it?” I asked. His mouth hung open for a moment, before he looked down and closed it. After a long moment of silence, I realized I wasn’t getting the answer I was hoping for and I sighed softly. “I just don’t want you throwing your life away the way I did, okay?” He didn’t say anything, so I released his hands and raised my palm to rest on his cheek, making him look at me.

“You didn’t, and I’m not” He said, voice weak and tired. I gave him half a smile but I’m sure my eyes looked sad, seeing that my vision was still misty.

“Well... the decision was already made” I whispered and my hand moved slightly to fall, but his went over top of mine, keeping it set on his jaw.

“I’m not going to apologize to you y/n... this was solely my choice” I gave him a sad smile.

“I know” I said softly. “I hope it won’t be a bad one”

“It won’t be” He responded, his lips upturned softly. “Come here” He pulled me close again and hugged me.

“This is great, but if you hug me one more time today I might fall asleep on you” Stiles chuckled, and the vibrations in his chest reverberated against mine, giving me a nice sense of safety.

“That would be okay” He responded, and I patted his back slightly before stepping away for the last time. I collected the gifts back into the bag as he made his way back to the couch.

“Goodnight Stiles” I practically whispered out, holding back on leaving the room completely.

“Goodnight y/n” He responded just as hushed. I smiled slightly before I turned around and walked to my room.

I was up for another three hours trying to get to sleep. I was scrolling through my social media, reading a boring article on the gas prices when I realized I wasn’t paying attention to my phone screen whatsoever.

No, my mind was too plagued with thoughts of Stiles.

ha i actually posted part 7 like i said i would but oops but here it is ok im too tired to write an authors note sooooo give me feedback? or not, maybe you’d rather eat nutella straight out of the jar and cry bc you can never marry stiles stilinski like i am rn. whatever makes your goat float in a boat while he boasts about his friend ghost.

yikes im exhausted...

tagged: @morganschiebel @bunnyboo10154 @imissyoualittlemoreeveryday and @johnsonxstilinski and @celestial-writing even tho shes being mean to me rn but i still love her ;)

todays lesson for u kidz is: don’t drop out of college! (even tho stiles didn’t really ‘drop out’ but still a good message)

xoxo~ jordie

#teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf scenario #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf fanfiction #dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien fanfiction #dylan o'brien imagine #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien scenario #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski scenario #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles stilinski x reader

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kjack89 · 8 years ago

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Dear Marius Pontmercy, Pt. 1/?

The Dear Evan Hansen AU that no one wanted but me. Purely and completely self-indulgent, because I can.

Currently this is looking like it’ll be four parts. The goal is to update once a week but idk if that’ll actually happen.

Developing Marius/Cosette, semi-unrequited E/R, but the focus is predominantly on friendship. Major character death cw, suicide cw, suicide ideation cw.

Chapter 1 – On the Outside, Always Looking In

“Dear Marius Pontmercy – Today is going to be an amazing day, and here’s why: because today, all you have to do is just be yourself.”

Marius snorted. “Yeah, right.”

He let his hands slip off the keyboard of his laptop, cradling his left arm in his lap, the bulky cast somehow a strange comfort. Be yourself – was there ever a more worthless piece of advice? How could Marius, weird, awkward Marius whose hands sweat too much, especially when he thought of actually making conversation with Cosette, the love of his life who didn’t even know he existed, or worse, Enjolras, who—

Well, who was harder to explain.

If he wanted to have any chance of talking to Cosette, or to Enjolras, he couldn’t just be himself. He would also need to be confident, and interesting, and easy to talk to and all of things that he wasn’t. Which, at the end of the day, sort of defeated the purpose of being himself.

He sighed and looked back down at the mostly empty document on his computer, and lifted his hand to press and hold the backspace button, watching his worthless words disappear. “So did you just decide not to eat last night?”

Marius looked up guiltily at his grandfather, who was smiling at him. “I wasn’t hungry,” Marius told him.

Gillenormand sighed and slowly sat down on the edge of Marius’s bed. “You’re a senior in high school,” he said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “You need to be able to order dinner for yourself when I’m at work.” When Marius didn’t say anything, Gillenormand nudged him and winked. “You know, supposedly you can order dinner from one of those newfangled devices, so that you don’t even have to talk to anyone on the phone. I know how kids your age hate talking on the phone.”

Closing his eyes and counting to ten, Marius considered telling his grandfather that online ordering didn’t solve anything, that you still had to talk to the delivery person when they came to the door, but he decided against it. “I know.”

“This is what you’re supposed to be working on,” Gillenormand reminded him. “Dr. Mabeuf wants you to work on talking to people, on actually engaging in conversation.”

Another count to ten, and Marius forced a smile onto his face. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to be a lot better.”

Gillenormand nodded approvingly. “I know you are. That’s why I made an appointment for you with Dr. Mabeuf this afternoon.” He stood as Marius looked up at him, something like horror flickering in his eyes. “I hope that you’ve been writing those letters he assigned you.” Gillenormand snorted and shook his head. “Of course, I don’t see what good writing yourself a pep talk will do – Dear Marius Pontmercy, this is going to be a good day and here’s why, etc. Seems like hogwash to me, but I suppose that’s why I’m a lawyer, not a doctor.” He shook his head again and looked at Marius. “Anyway, have you been doing those?”

“Yeah,” Marius said, his voice small. “I, uh, I started writing one. I’ll finish it at school.”

“Good,” Gillenormand said, his tone turning brisk. “Because I don’t want another year of you sitting at home on your computer every Friday night telling me you have no friends.”

Marius looked away. “Neither do I,” he muttered.

Gillenormand didn’t seem to notice Marius’s tone. “Why don’t you go around today and ask the other kids to sign your cast?” he suggested. “That would be a perfect icebreaker, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Marius said, with no enthusiasm whatsoever. “Perfect.”

Marius bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, nervously clicking the cap of his sharpie over and over as he lurked outside the entrance to the school, waiting to see someone, anyone he knew so that he could ask them to sign his cast and get his grandfather off his back. He saw Feuilly and thought about waving him over, but whether he wanted to or not, Feuilly saw him and made a beeline over to him. “Hey! How was your summer?” Feuilly asked, barreling forward before Marius could answer. “Mine was productive. I did three internships and ninety hours of community service.” Marius opened his mouth to respond but again Feuilly did not let him. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “But I gotta have all this for my college apps, you know?”

“Um, yeah,” Marius said, and taking advantage of the time he had to get a word in edgewise, blurted, “Do you maybe want to sign my cast?”

Feuilly blinked and looked down at Marius’s tentatively outstretched arm. “Oh my god, what happened?” he asked.

Marius wasn’t honestly prepared for someone to ask, and it took him a moment to reply. “Oh, um, well, I broke it. I was climbing a tree, and—”

“Oh, really?” Feuilly said, mildly interested. “The old man who lives down the hall from me broke his hip getting into the bathtub in July. That must’ve been the beginning of the end, because then he died.” Marius stared at Feuilly in horror, and Feuilly just smiled and cheerfully told him, “Well, happy First Day!” before disappearing into school.

Marius heard someone laughing and turned to see Éponine leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. “What?” Marius asked, a little defensively.

“Nothing,” Éponine said, stabbing her cigarette out against the wall. “I was just wondering, is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from jerking off too much, or…?”

Marius turned bright red and stammered, “I wasn’t – that wasn’t – I wasn’t doing that!”

Éponine’s smirk widened. “Paint me a picture of it – you’re in the bedroom, you’ve got Cosette’s Instagram up on your phone, and—”

“That’s not what happened!” Marius insisted, his face still the color of a tomato. “I was climbing a tree, and I fell, ok?”

Éponine examined him critically for a long moment. “I’d stick with the jerking off story if I were you,” she recommended. “It would be the most interesting thing about you.”

Marius gritted his teeth before huffing a sigh and asking, “Do you want to sign my cast?”

Éponine raised an eyebrow at him. “Why are you asking me?”

“Well, I just thought, because, um, we’re friends…”

“Your father knew my father. At the most, that makes us family friends, which is a whole different thing, and you know it.” She tossed her dark hair and glared at the school as the bell rang. “Anyway, like I said. Stick with the jerking off story. And stop asking people to sign your cast. We’re not in elementary school anymore.”

With that, she headed inside, and Marius slowly slid the sharpie back into his pocket, took a deep breath, and headed inside.

So much for today being a good day.

Marius kept his head down as he headed into his first class, AP World History, though he looked up as he accidentally ran into someone. “Oh my god, I’m so—” He broke off when he saw that it was Cosette. “Sorry,” he finished, his voice coming out as a squeak.

Cosette smiled distractedly at him, not pausing her conversation with Musichetta, and Marius ducked his head again and brushed past them. He faltered slightly when he saw Enjolras sitting at the front of the room, flanked as always by Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Marius made a noise that might have charitably sounded close to the word ‘hi’, and before he could flee from the situation, Enjolras looked up at him and blinked. “Marius, right?” he asked.

Marius’s mouth opened and closed twice before he managed, “Marius.”

Enjolras stared at him. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes, it is, it’s Marius, sorry,” Marius blurted all in one breath, which, if anything, made Enjolras stare at him even more, which, of course, caused Marius to blush even deeper and his palms to start sweating worse than normal.

“Why are you sorry?” Combeferre asked mildly, propping his chin on his hand and looking at Marius as if he was a mildly interesting insect.

Marius looked wildly from Enjolras to Combeferre and made a minute movement of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. “Well, because, he said Marius and then I repeated it, and it’s just so annoying when people so that, so I’m sorry because I don’t want to be annoying and I know I’m annoying, and—”

He broke off because now Enjolras and Combeferre were both staring at him like he’d grown another head, and Courfeyrac was looking at him like he was a drowning puppy, which frankly, he felt a bit like. Enjolras cleared his throat. “Ok, well, I—” he started, at the exact moment Marius blurted, “Do you want to sign my cast?”

“What?” Enjolras asked.

Marius quickly decided to abandon ship. “I didn’t say anything,” he said, pushing past Enjolras to collapse into a seat at the back of the class where, mercifully, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac couldn’t see him. “Oh my god,” he muttered, putting his head down on his desk and praying for death to find him.

“So that was rough,” someone said, a barely hidden laugh in his voice, and Marius opened one eye to see Grantaire sitting next to him, doodling in the margins of his textbook. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse crash and burn attempts at talking to Enjolras, though normally it’s from people trying to hit on him, and I definitely don’t think that’s your angle.” Grantaire paused in his doodle and glanced over at him. “So what is your angle?”

For a moment, Marius considered telling him, because if there was one person on the planet who might understand, it would be Grantaire. Grantaire, the class clown, the fuck-up, the guy caught smoking pot last year in the bathroom and behind the bleachers and, if he’s to be believed, anyway, in the teacher’s lounge. But more importantly, someone who was vaguely friends with Enjolras – vaguely because as anyone with eyes and ears knew, Grantaire had been in love with Enjolras since elementary school.

And maybe, just maybe, Grantaire would understand the desperate, painful longing that Marius felt to belong somewhere, with a group of friends like Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Jehan and Bossuet and—

Because if he had friends, if he was normal, if he wasn’t a complete loser, maybe then he could talk to Cosette. Maybe then he could ask her out like he had wanted to every day since she had moved here in seventh grade. And sure, maybe she would shoot him down, because why wouldn’t she? But at least he’d have tried something, and hell, at least he’d have friends to fall back on.

But no, not even Grantaire would understand just how pathetic Marius was, and so he ducked his head and said nothing. Grantaire looked at him for a moment more before returning to his doodle with a muttered, “Whatever.”

From the front of the classroom, the teacher cleared her throat and tried to call the class to order, though it went about as well as could be expected. The only person who seemed to be paying any attention was Enjolras, and it took him a record 30 seconds before he raised his hand, inspiring a solid half of the class to groan, loudly.

“Yes, Enjolras?” the teacher asked warily.

Enjolras put his hand down. “I wanted to know if the focus of this course is going to be predominantly on imperialist western societies.”

The teacher sighed. “As I’ve explained to you many times over email this summer, the focus will be on what the College Board has determined is important to include on the AP test.”

“So the barometer for importance is determined by the College Board?” Enjolras asked, incredulous. “Don’t we have a moral responsibility to instead learn about world history, instead of white, western history?”

Without raising his hand, Grantaire called from the back of the class, “Don’t we have a moral responsibility to honestly not give a fuck?”

The class laughed and Enjolras swiveled around in his chair to glare at Grantaire. “Shut up if you don’t have anything to contribute,” he ordered.

“Are you going to come back here and make me if I don’t?” Grantaire shot back.

Enjolras just rolled his eyes and turned back around as the teacher tried once more to regain control of the classroom, but Marius glanced at Grantaire, who was scribbling over the drawing in his textbook so hard that he snapped the point off his pencil. “God fucking damnit,” Grantaire swore, throwing his pencil down and standing to storm out of the classroom.

“Grantaire, get back here!” the teacher called after him.

Marius bit his lip and looked down at his own desk. He could be wrong, but he thought that, before he had scribbled over it, Grantaire had drawn a pretty good sketch of Enjolras.

He was also pretty sure that he wasn’t the only one having a shitty first day of school.

Marius’s cast was still blank when the last bell rang, which only served as further evidence of how bad his day had been. Marius made his way to the computer lab so that he could quickly type something up for the stupid letter he was supposed to have written for his stupid doctor’s appointment.

Just as he sat down at a computer, his cellphone rang, and Marius glanced down at it, unsurprised to see it was his grandfather’s office phone calling. “I know I’m supposed to pick you up for your appointment, but I’m stuck in a meeting,” Gillenormand said without preamble. “I’m going to send the car to pick you up instead. Also, go ahead and eat without me tonight. I won’t be home until late.”

“Fine,” Marius said listlessly.

“Did you write one of those letters yet?” Gillenormand asked. “Dr. Mabeuf’s going to expect you to have one.”

Marius’s grip on his phone tightened. “Yeah, I know,” he said quickly. “I’ve, uh, I’ve already finished it. I’m in the computer lab printing it out.”

“Good,” Gillenormand said. He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Did you have a good day?”

“It was…” Marius trailed off. “It was great.”

“Good,” Gillenormand said again. “Well, I have to go. I will see you at home later.”

“Bye,” Marius said, but Gillenormand had already hung up.

He set his phone down and stared at the blank document on the computer, at the stupid cursor blinking at him, waiting for him to write lies to encourage himself when all that today had done was remind him how little he believed things would ever get better. He lifted his fingers, set them on the keys, and let his frustration and his anger and his loneliness pour out:

Dear Marius Pontmercy,

Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year because why would it be. I know, I know, because there’s Enjolras, and all my hope is pinned on Enjolras, who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me, but maybe if I could just talk to him, maybe – maybe nothing would be different at all.

I wish everything was different. I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to someone. I mean, would anyone even noticed if I just disappeared tomorrow?

Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,

He finished with a flourish and clicked print without even rereading it. He logged off his computer, stood and turned to grab the paper, almost running smack into Grantaire, who was standing between him and the printer. “So what happened to your arm?” Grantaire asked.

“Oh, um,” Marius stammered, looking down at his arm, wondering if he should make Éponine’s joke about masturbating and deciding against it, “I fell out of a tree, actually.”

“You fell,” Grantaire repeated.

Marius felt himself blush for about the fiftieth time that day. “Well, see, it’s a funny story, though,” he mumbled. “Because for ten minutes after I fell, I just lay there, waiting for someone to come get me, like, you know, any second now, any second…”

He trailed off and Grantaire just looked at him. “Did they?” he asked.

“No,” Marius said. “Um, see, that’s the funny part.”

For a moment, Grantaire kept staring at him, then he laughed. “Well that is just the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” Marius blinked, and managed a small smile. “No one’s signed your cast.”

Marius glanced down at it. “I know.”

“Well, I’ll sign it.”

“You don’t have to.” The words were out of Marius’s mouth before he could stop them, before he could think through what he was saying.

Luckily, Grantaire didn’t seem insulted. “Do you have a sharpie?” he asked, and Marius silently pulled the marker from his pocket and handed it to Grantaire, who uncapped it with his teeth and bent over Marius’s cast. He considered it for a moment, and in one artistic swoop, wrote a massive, cursive capital-R, big enough to take up an entire side of Marius’s cast. “There,” he said, with satisfaction. “Now we can both pretend that we have friends.”

Marius took the sharpie back from Grantaire, looking down at the R without enthusiasm. “Oh, great. Thanks.”

“Um, is this yours?” Marius looked up to see Grantaire holding up a piece of paper. “I found it in the printer. Dear Marius Pontmercy…I mean, that’s you, so.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Marius said, rubbing the back of his neck and wondering how the hell he was going to explain this. “I, uh, it’s just an assignment.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, scanning the letter quickly. “Because there’s Enjolras,” he read aloud, looking back up at Marius. “Maybe I was wrong about you trying to hit on him.”

Marius gaped at him, and before he could recover the power of speech, before he could offer any kind of explanation or denial, Grantaire left. And it took Marius a moment to realize that he had taken the letter with him. “Fuck.”

“A letter to yourself?” Éponine repeated, both eyebrows raised as she stared at Marius. “The fuck does that even mean? Is that, like, some kind of sex thing?”

“Not everything is a sex thing,” Marius snapped, crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest. “It’s…an assignment. For class.”

Éponine looked like she didn’t believe it, but mercifully didn’t press further. “Why are you talking to me about this?”

“I didn’t know who else to talk to,” Marius said defensively. “You’re my only—” He caught himself just in time. “My only family friend. And I don’t know what to do, ok? He took the letter from me like three days ago and then he hasn’t been at school since!”

Éponine took a slow drag off her cigarette and nodded. “That does not bode well for you,” she said conversationally.

Marius groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s he going to do?” he asked desperately. “Do you think he’s going to show the letter to people?”

“He’s going to ruin your life with it for sure,” Éponine said confidently, finishing her cigarette and flicking the butt into the grass. “I mean, I would.”

Well, that was hardly reassuring. But before Marius could press her further, Éponine’s eyes widened and she disappeared. Marius spun around to find Principal Javert staring at him, his expression unreadable. “Marius Pontmercy?” he asked. “I need you to come with me.”

The trip to Javert’s office took just enough time for Marius to run through every single thing that could possibly happen, every single punishment he could possibly be dealt, but nothing could have prepared him for Javert to open his office door and reveal Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac all sitting inside, along with a tall, stern-looking man impatiently tapping his foot. “Marius, this is Grantaire’s father,” Javert said quietly. “And of course, you know Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac nodded at Marius but neither Enjolras nor Combeferre looked up at him. Combeferre’s arm was around Enjolras’s shoulders, and Enjolras was staring down at a piece of paper that looked all too familiar. “I’ll let you speak in private,” Javert said, his hand on Marius’s shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary,” Grantaire’s dad said, sounding almost bored as he looked at Marius and told him, “My son killed himself.”

Enjolras let out what sounded almost like a sob, and Combeferre shot Grantaire’s dad a nasty look. Javert cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would be better—” he started, but Grantaire’s dad cut him off.

“It would be better if we spoke outside,” he said firmly. “I have nothing more to say to the boys that my son fell in with.” Marius recoiled at the tone of his voice, the disapproval bordering on disgust. “My son was a disappointment and the end of his life made no difference in that.”

Enjolras’s face went white, and he made as if to stand, his hands balled into fists, Combeferre’s arm the only thing holding back. “Let’s step outside,” Javert said firmly, his tone allowing no room for argument, and Grantaire’s father followed him out, the door closing behind him with a snap.

Marius looked at Enjolras, his mouth dry, and he glanced over at Courfeyrac. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras and Combeferre. “Enjolras,” he said quietly, and wordlessly, Enjolras held out the paper in his hands. “Grantaire wanted you to have this,” Courfeyrac told Marius.

“We didn’t know that you were friends with him,” Combeferre said quietly. “But then we saw – Dear Marius Pontmercy.”

Marius looked down at the paper, which was exactly what he thought it was, and his mind went blank. “Friends?” he repeated, latching on to the only word that seemed to make sense from everything that had just happened.

“We figured we knew all of Grantaire’s friends, since, like, we’ve all been friends forever,” Courfeyrac said. “But then we saw this letter, and it seemed to pretty clearly suggest that you and Grantaire were, or at least, that Grantaire thought of you as…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I mean, it’s right there, the letter’s addressed to you. Dear Marius Pontmercy. He wrote it to you.”

“You think that Grantaire wrote this to me?” he asked, the pieces slowly beginning to click into place. “I’m, I’m sorry, but—”

“It’s all they found with him,” Enjolras said quietly, speaking for the first time and looking up at Marius with wet, red eyes. “He had it folded up in his pocket. He was—” His voice broke and Combeferre’s arm around his shoulder tightened. “He was trying to explain why…why…” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his tone turning desperate. “I wish everything was different, I wish I was a part of something, I wish—”

Marius couldn’t let this go on, couldn’t let them keep believing this mistake. “Ok, but this is not, um. I’m sorry, but Grantaire didn’t write this.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed up to his. “What does that mean?” he demanded. “He didn’t write it? Why would you say that? This is…this is all we have.”

Marius shook his head, unable to vocalize any plausible explanation, and he held the letter out to Enjolras. “You should take it, please,” he said, an edge of desperation in his voice, but before he could say anything else, Enjolras gripped Combeferre’s arm.

“Look at his cast,” he said quietly, his face tightening with pain and loss.

Marius looked down at his cast, at the giant, cursive R he had forgotten was there, and his heart dropped, Grantaire’s words Now we can both pretend that we have friends echoing in his head.

What explanation could he possibly offer now?

He was saved only by Javert opening the door to his office again and stepping inside. “Gentlemen,” he started, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “I know that this is impossibly difficult for you, and I wanted to let you know that we’ve called in grief counselors and they’re on their way. I want to give you the option of returning to class, or else we can call your parents and you can go home for the rest of the day.”

“I’m staying,” Enjolras said instantly.

Javert looked concerned, but nonetheless nodded and glanced from Combeferre to Courfeyrac, who shrugged and said tiredly, “If he’s staying, we’re staying, though I doubt we’ll be doing much learning today.”

“I doubt anyone will be,” Javert said quietly. “We’re holding everyone in their first period class for the moment, and we’ll send the grief counselors to the senior classes first. You are, after all, the ones who would have known him best.”

Enjolras nodded, once, and stood a little unsteadily, letting Combeferre take his elbow and steer him towards the door. He paused when he passed Marius and turned to look at him. “I want to talk to you more,” he said quietly. “Later. At some point. Please.”

And there was nothing Marius could do but nod.

After Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras all filed out, Javert turned to Marius. “And what about you, Mr. Pontmercy? Do you want to go back to class, or do you want to go home?”

“Back to class, I guess,” Marius said hollowly, though something in his chest clenched painfully when he realized that there would be an empty seat next to him.

Javert nodded slowly, his expression softening, and he again placed his hand heavily on Marius’s shoulder. “I am so sorry for the loss of your friend,” he said.

“He wasn’t—” Marius started, but before he could finish, Javert had been called away, leaving Marius standing there alone as always. “He wasn’t my friend.”

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alivingfire · 8 years ago

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For the fic title thing: "The way you got me under your spell" (I stole this from Touch by Little Mix, don't sue me pls)

[this is part of a series of fic synopses i would write based on the fic titles i’m sent, here is my tag for all of them :)]

okay, so, obviously, a magic au. but we’re gonna mix it up: this time, it’s louis who is the secret witch who has to hide his magic (and his giant crush) from harry.

so louis obviously isn’t going to be a typical witch. he’s not big on the kitschy mason jars and cutesy labels for things; he keeps his herbs for his potions in tupperware containers right next to his weed. he brews his potions in an old teapot he’s repurposed into a cauldron, and he stores his mixtures in old whiskey bottles. he draws sigils on his shoes and his denim jackets with sharpie, tattoos protection spells on his forearms amidst his other doodled ink.

so he meets harry when he moves in next door, and he immediately knows this isn’t going to end well. witches fall hard, and they fall fast, and from the first moment harry dimples at louis he knows he’s a goner.

but, surely if harry knew what he was, he’d think louis was crazy and run away screaming, right? so he doesn’t tell him, and just throws up some hasty glamours when harry comes over to visit, trying to cover up the sigils burned into the walls or the ancient spellbooks on his desk. one time, harry notices his stacks of containers full of rosemary and cinnamon and sage, and louis has to scramble for a reason to have all that, finally settling on, “i’m a bit of a chef in my spare time.”

“really?” harry smiles, eyes twinkling. “you should cook me dinner sometime.”

that would be a terrible idea. louis can’t cook anything more complicated than cereal. so he opens his mouth to say no, and -

“sure,” he agrees.

“it’s a date!” harry beams.

niall laughs himself silly when he hears louis’ predicament, but he agrees to help him put together a relatively easy meal. “you’re going to cover all this up before he gets here, right?” he calls from the living room, gesturing at the skulls on the bookshelves and the half-melted candles on every surface, as louis stirs his pot of pasta.

“yeah, yeah,” louis says. “now come help me with the sauce.”

it’s a bit of a disaster but they finally put together a decent-enough meal just in time, and then when harry knocks on the door niall claps louis on the shoulder and twists on the spot, disappearing into thin air. louis answers the door and finds harry there, holding out a bouquet of flowers – roses, carnations, and baby’s breath, those’d make an interesting potion – and blushing prettily.

he and louis grin at their plates through the whole dinner, catching each other’s eyes and brushing their feet together under the table. louis’ magic is twitchy with excitement, making the lamp in the corner flicker when harry brushes his hair off his face, making a book fall off the shelf when harry laughs at his joke.

“can i…?” harry asks as they take their bottle of after-dinner wine to the windowsill, inching closer and closer under the stars as the night goes on. his lips are so close to louis’, and louis’ heart is beating so fast. he should say no.

“okay,” he whispers.

when their lips press together, louis’ magic goes haywire. all the lights in the surrounding city block flash on and off, but they don’t notice. books and candles topple off the shelves behind them, but they don’t notice that either. a lightning bolt strikes the tree outside louis’ window, sending the whole thing up in flames.

that they notice.

“shit!” louis gasps, jumping to his feet. his mind is blank with panic so he runs to the desk, grabbing his spellbook. harry’s scrambling for his phone, probably to call emergency services, but louis stutters, “no, no, don’t! i- i can-” he slams the heavy tome down, flicking through the pages marked with neon sticky notes until he finds the right spell. “et disperdam te, ignis, aqua!” he cries.

a cloud forms suddenly right over the still-burning tree, and there’s a clap of thunder before buckets of rain dump down onto the flames, quenching them. louis takes a deep breath of relief, but then remembers why that happened in the first place.

“um,” harry says.

“right,” louis says weakly. “that. that was. an illusion! yeah, i do- i do illusions, magic tricks-”

“louis,” harry interrupts.

“no, right, that’s stupid. um. it was a prank! haha, got you, you should see your face-”

“louis.”

“fine, fine,” louis sighs. he holds up his palms, which are glowing brightly. “i’m a witch.”

“oh,” harry says. then, “okay.”

“okay?” louis asks incredulously.

“well, i figured,” harry shrugged. “what with all the skulls-”

louis flushes. “i… usually hide those when i have company.”

“-and the notebook you lent me last week that was full of latin-”

“oh, um. yeah, i’ve been looking for that, actually.”

“-and, well. that,” harry says, pointing upwards. louis looks up and is confronted with the sight of the giant pentagram he’d painted on the ceiling when he’d first moved in, and that he’d completely forgotten about until this very moment.

the absurdity of the situation hits him and he doubles over, hysterical laughter hitting him hard. harry joins him a moment later, loud, squawky laugh like a balm to louis’ ears.

“right. well. let’s try again,” louis says. “hi, i’m louis, and i’m a witch. i have a familiar named clifford, and i learned every spell for how to set things on fire but never learned one for how to put them out.”

he holds out his hand, and harry takes it. louis’ magic reacts again, his happiness bubbling over and making the pages of the spellbooks rustle like a wind has swept through, a few of his candles sputtering to life. harry grins delightedly.

“i’m harry,” he says. his palm is very warm, and louis is very happy. “and i think you should show me what you can do.”

a month later, harry has cancelled his lease and completely moved in with louis. his cat, marlene, immensely enjoys being a menace to clifford, who loves her back fiercely even if she does bite him while he’s sleeping. harry’s diptique candles join louis’ magic ones on every surface, and he’s organized louis’ herbs so that he can find one he wants immediately instead of having to dig through tupperware boxes for twenty minutes every time.

louis is at the stove, stirring a new potion in his teapot-turned-cauldron with his wooden spoon when harry gets home from work. louis hears him greet the animals playing in the bedroom, then turns to see him stepping gingerly over the line of protective salt in the doorway to the kitchen. he wraps his arms around louis’ waist and nuzzles against louis’ cheek.

“hello, love,” he whispers, pressing a kiss under louis’ ear.

and, even after a month of kisses and whispers and i love yous, louis’ magic still reacts, making the potion boil and a few of the bottles in the fridge rattle together.

it still makes harry grin, though, so he supposes it’s alright.

#fic synopsis #thought this was needed today lol #anonymous #rachel talks #drabbles

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takenews-blog1 · 7 years ago

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The Dumbest Criminals Of All Time

New Post has been published on https://takenews.net/the-dumbest-criminals-of-all-time/

The Dumbest Criminals Of All Time

Not everyone seems to be able to main a lifetime of crime. So as to achieve success as a legal you could be capable of plan fastidiously, cowl your tracks, assume shortly in your ft, and keep calm in sticky conditions. And naturally, an excellent disguise is a should. However most significantly, you could by no means brag about what you probably did on social media. Many of those might look like no-brainers to us, however these novice criminals will need to have missed the memo. Listed here are a few of the dumbest criminals of all time.

A 911 dispatcher obtained a protracted and silent name from a mobile phone, and tracked the telephone to a home in Sidney, Ohio. Police had been despatched to analyze the scene, and once they arrived they discovered a window was damaged. They entered the house and heard a low beeping sound. The continual noise led them to Douglas Wolaver, who was making an attempt to cover from them, however his mobile phone’s dying battery had given away his location. Apparently Wolaver had unintentionally butt-dialed police on his mobile phone which was in his pocket. It curiously didn’t cross his thoughts to show his telephone off whereas he was robbing a home.

A surveillance digital camera in San Diego captured fairly a scene at a neighborhood 7-11. A person dressed as Gumby entered the shop along with his palms up within the air and proceeded to inform the clerk he was being robbed, demanding a pack of cigarettes and the cash within the money register. Gumby threatened to drag out a gun, however then fumbled when he seemed to be making an attempt to drag it out of his costume. He then dropped 27 cents onto the ground and walked out with nothing. The entire spectacle was so odd, the cashier initially thought it was a joke… and stored the spare change.

Deputies in Hillsboro, Oregon, discovered fairly an uncommon thief once they responded to a break-in on the Rice Northwest Museum of Rocks and Minerals. Their Okay-9s had been sniffing the bottom exterior once they began biting at a clump of moss, and the officers then heard an odd yelp. It seems the canine had been, in reality, biting a person carrying a camouflage suite lined in moss. Gregory Liascos, AKA the “Moss Man”, was arrested on housebreaking and legal mischief fees. He had secretly lower a gap in one of many constructing’s partitions days earlier, and was making an attempt to get in.

Seventeen-year-old Cody Conner entered a Florida intercourse store, pulled out a gun and demanded the clerk hand over the cash within the register. When the clerk tried to speak Conners out of the theft, the teenager defined that he needed to do it as a result of he wanted cash to assist his grandparents pay their payments, and nobody would rent him. The clerk continued to plead with Conners for 20 minutes, finally convincing him to place away his gun and fill out a job utility as a substitute. He agreed, and that utility led the police proper to him.

Christopher Wallace, 22, thought it was an ideal concept to Snapchat whereas he was hiding from the police. Wallace had simply stolen a propane cooking range and a cast-iron wood-burning range from a campsite in Maine’s Pierce Pond Township, and went on the social media web site to let everybody know he was dwelling, and hiding in a cupboard from the cops. One in all his Snapchat “pals” knowledgeable the police, they usually immediately discovered him. Simply logging into social media might be not the perfect concept after a theft, by no means thoughts posting to the world your exact hiding spot.

John Mogan, a convicted felon, dedicated yet one more felony and couldn’t assist however brag about his spoils on-line. Joe had lately walked right into a financial institution carrying a face-covering hoodie. He handed the teller a word demanding money, and the teller handed it over, 4 days later he posted pics on his Facebook of himself with stacks of money with captions like, “‘That’s known as a McStack’ and ‘I’m doing rrree=aaaaalll) good’”. His girlfriend then determined to get in on the motion, and the couple took pictures with fanned-out cash of their palms. By way of the pics, the police had been simply capable of hyperlink Mogan to the heist and he was arrested.

After breaking in a house and looking by drawers and cupboards, Renaud “Junior” Plaisir determined to take a look at what was within the fridge and helped himself to some leftover hen wings. He then handed out in a spare bed room, the place the house owner discovered him the subsequent morning sleeping along with his footwear off and a knife in his pocket. The house owner known as the cops and held Plaisir at gunpoint till they arrived. They found he went on a spree that night, as they discovered just a few different folks’s objects in his backpack, which explains why he wanted a nap.

Blake Leak, 23, was trying to rob a mini-mart in Ossining, New York when police arrived on the scene. Leak fled down the road, and the police chased after him, although each cops managed to journey in the course of the chase. Having just a few further moments to get away, Blake seen a giant constructing with massive grounds. He entered the grounds in search of a spot to cover. The constructing turned out to be the Sing Sing Most Safety jail. A guard noticed Leak instantly, grabbed him and detained him for the police.

When Nicholas Wig broke into a house in St. Paul, Minnesota, he stole money, bank cards, a watch and a mobile phone. Earlier than fleeing the scene, he felt the necessity to soar on the sufferer’s laptop and examine his Facebook account. Oops, he forgot to log off. The sufferer then later went on Wig’s web page and posted that Wig had left some clothes at his home, and he would return them to him if Wig would give him again his mobile phone. Wig shockingly responded and agreed to satisfy the sufferer, and was nabbed by the police.

Lifeless Man’s Excessive

5 teenagers broke right into a home in Silver Springs, Florida and thought that they had hit the jackpot: two vases containing what they believed to be both coke or heroin. The teenagers fortunately snorted up their rating. The suspects, Waldo Soroa, 19, Matrix Andaluz, 18, and Jose David Diaz Marrero, 19, together with two underage teenagers, had been caught the next week for one more theft. The police discovered the vases and linked them to the opposite crime. Seems that the vases had been truly urns, with one containing the stays of the sufferer’s deceased grandfather and the opposite his two canine. Marvel what sort of excessive they obtained from that.

Mark Anthony Carpenter, 44, walked right into a financial institution with an odd object in his hand, claiming it was a bomb. The bomb was truly only a field of macaroni. The teller caught on to his scheme and refused to provide him any cash. His plans foiled, Carpenter fled the scene. He was apprehended by police whereas making an attempt to cover out within the woods. He was arrested and charged with tried armed theft, although he wasn’t truly armed. He might have not less than tried to make use of an merchandise that appeared a bit intimidating; a field of rigatoni doesn’t actually incite worry within the hearts of males.

disguise is crucial for any profitable theft, which is why these two had been impressed to cover their face… behind some Sharpie doodles. A person in Iowa known as police when he found two males carrying hooded sweatshirts and painted faces making an attempt to interrupt into his dwelling. When the police arrived, they discovered Matthew Allan McNelly, 23, and Joey Lee Miller, 20, with marker scribbled throughout their faces. Why they didn’t go for ski masks or not less than full face paint the world might by no means know. It might have had one thing to do with the excessive quantity of alcohol discovered of their programs.

The police had little issue determining who broke into the Ravalli Republic‘s newsroom in Montana. Nineteen-year-old Stephan Crane broke the window, obtained on their computer systems and watched some porn, then logged onto his personal private MySpace and Facebook pages. He then doused the room with a hearth extinguisher. The cops discovered Crane at his sister’s condo, following his path of stolen path combine and M&Ms to her door. Crane advised police that he determined to interrupt in after being drunk and locked out of his sister’s place, and discovering a duplicate of the Ravalli Republic newspaper. He advised the cops he had all the time been inquisitive about what was contained in the newsroom.

This story is certainly a head-scratcher. A person caught masturbating in a bar in Sydney, Australia advised police he drugged himself to “benefit from himself.” The primary reported to the authorities that he slipped the drug Rohypnol into his vodka and tonic when “he wasn’t trying.” He then advised police that he “noticed this hottie piece of hand leaning on the bar” and the subsequent factor he knew, he was touching himself. “The oddball offender was considered one of a variety of “predatory masturbators” who had been making the bar circuit within the metropolis.

When a truck with flashing red-and-white emergency lights started following a pair in Dallas, Texas, the couple felt a bit uneasy. It didn’t look fairly like a legit police automotive, so as a substitute of pulling over, they known as the police. The cops then stopped the truck driver, Adan Juarez Ramirez, 22. Apart from the flashing lights, Ramirez additionally had a faux police badge. The badge was truly a Chipotle Mexican Grill reward card, with the restaurant identify blacked out and the phrase “POLICE” etched in, however Ramirez determined to not cowl up the restaurant’s jalapeño emblem. Ramirez admitted to impersonating an officer, claiming that he was infatuated with the police.

A word to all of the would-be criminals on the market… don’t ever brag on-line about your illegal endeavors. That’s precisely what Hanna Sabata did when she posted a web-based video that she was “having the perfect day of her life.” In her video, which was subtitled and put to the music of Inexperienced Day, Hannah mentioned how she had stolen a “shiny new automotive”, and held up the keys. She then mentioned how she robbed a financial institution (in Waco) and was now wealthy, displaying off her wad of cash. She dubbed herself the “Chick Financial institution Robber.” The movies led the authorities proper to Sabata, who was then arrested.

Jarad S. Carr confronted some issue when he tried to return a printer to a Walmart in Lake Hallie, Wisconsin with out a receipt. When staff went to look at the printer they discovered a chunk of photocopy paper nonetheless in it with the picture of two counterfeit $100 payments on it. They refused to take it again and Carr made an enormous scene, and police had been known as. After discovering out concerning the printed payments, the officers searched Carr’s dwelling and found $300 in counterfeit payments. He was charged with tried theft by fraud, forgery and resisting arrest.

When Michael Trias, 20, broke into to a bed room window in a Mesa, Arizona dwelling, he was stopped in his tracks by a lethal boobie lure. Properly, truly it was only a clothes hamper beneath the window. Trias by some means managed to get caught within the hamper, and a resident who was within the toilet heard the sounds of Trias struggling to interrupt free. The resident known as the police and restrained the thief till they arrived, which isn’t that stunning thought of he was initially trapped by a hole piece of furnishings. Trias was arrested on suspicion of housebreaking and legal harm.

David Zurfluh, 18, was seen weaving uncontrollably down the highway in his automotive. When cops tried to drag him over, he ran from the automobile however was caught by police. Whereas sitting within the backseat of the cop automotive, Zurfluh ripped out the crotch out of his shorts, shoved it in his mouth, chewed and spit it out. He hoped the cotton within the cloth would take in a few of the alcohol in order that he would come up clear within the breathalyzer check. He was flawed. When Zurfluh relayed his story in court docket, folks walked out in tears from laughing.

Some criminals prefer to take dwelling trophies for his or her horrific acts. Anthony Garcia, 25, took it a step additional and tattooed the entire occasion on his chest. When Garcia, a member of the Rivera-13 gang, was arrested for a suspended license, the police took pictures of his tattoos throughout his mugshots. One of many officers thought scene on his chest appeared fairly acquainted. He realized it was a scene from a homicide that occurred 4 years prior: a taking pictures at a liquor retailer. The tattoo depicted the entire exact particulars of the homicide, from Christmas lights to a bent gentle submit, and Garcia ended up being convicted of first-degree homicide.

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