#important and rich i can use my money stupidly AND be horrible

[istherewifiinhell]

What if i murdered and killed and killed and murdered. Would u guys still like my posts....

[hedgehogcryptid]

More Naruto rants

So, I’ve (stupidly, just now) realized that the reason I’m so fixated on Zabuza’s arc is because I got to see it like three times on TV before my country had enough spanish dub chapters to get on with the rest of the plot. So I got atached, is the one that gets me more nostalgic, and it’s the one I remember best. I also got time to properly process it before the more cult-ish bullshit started. And I thought the rest of the series would go a bit like that arc with, you know, ninja mercenaries who work for money in a world that sees them as tools but where they have their own ambitions and reasons and goals of a more or less normal human scale. The part where Gato arrives and the antagonism between Zabuza and Kakashi instantly ends when money is no longer on the table shaped a lot of my expectations for the future of the series (that I couldn’t articulate back when I was twelve, so I’m doing it now).

For starters, Gato is a fucking civilian. A rich fuck who does business and buys killers-for-hire. That’s how the system suposedly works. Where do the civilians go after the chunin exams? Where do the jobs go? Where does the money come from without them? I expected to see Naruto, with his newly decided path, clash with the system he lives in. I expected his elders (with the exception of Iruka and Kakashi) to try and coax him into the “right” path. Something along the lines of “I understand your feelings but that’s what must be done to keep the village running”. And Naruto finding ways to circunvent his orders, to find the loopholes that let him get away with it. Even if it’s just “I got the important thing done, what do you care if I didn’t kill those people?“. I didnt want to see him spare a genocidal megalomaniac but a fellow ninja who’s doing his own side of the job. Wouldn’t “If you kill my friends I’ll kill you, but if you’re done trying not only will I leave you go but I’ll defend you against my partners” be a lot more interesting and give nice posibilities for the future? Would the spared person take advantage of his kindness and fuck him over? Would they apreciate the gesture and start thinking that things can change? Would they “pay it forward” and spare someone that didn’t necesarily need to be killed? And if they did fuck him over despite his kindness, how would naruto justify his actions to his superiors? Would he be conflicted about his choices or would he be steadfast in his beliefs regardless of other people’s actions?

But with the way canon progresses after that first set up Naruto is not changing the system, he’s getting privileges. He can do what he wants because people in power like him. Veteran shinobi would have reason to hate him (”this upstart rookie gets to decide to go chasing an enemy of the state to save him while I have to bust my ass in bloody trenches to make ends meet?”)

I know the talk-no-jutsu is a joke but it’s somewhat accurate. He’s all talk. He never risked getting consecuences for his chosen path, mostly because Kishimoto made a good job making us forget we were watching mercenaries. If the world building wasn’t all kinds of wonky then at some point Naruto’s choices would’ve put him at odds with the people in power, and I don’t just mean the obviously corrupt ones. But Naruto wormed his way into their hearts for some reason and because of that they made exceptions for him, but no one is shown making significant changes to the context they live in. And about that context: they start by saying “shinobi are tools“, and sure, that’s true. But in the first arc they are tools for the people in power, who are not the five kages. The people in power are the people with money and the people who rule the countries. The Kages are just the top brass of the military, who get paid by the people in power. But later, shinobi start being tools for other shinobi with more grandiose ideas and the civilians pretty much disapear unless it’s to fill the background in cities. Their power structures lose all significance and relevance.

And because Naruto is never faced with the posibility of actual, structural, systemic concecuences to his own person then his choices lose a lot of weight. He spares the genocidal megalomaniac, the dude resurrects everyone and then dies. Everything works in the end. And no one gets on Naruto’s case about how you can’t expect all your enemies to die for you. In a military world that doesn’t make much sense, no matter how well everything worked out. The situation would be a lot more interesting if Nagato hadn’t died, and instead left to keep taking care of his war-ravaged homeland. If the super strong enemy we didn’t even defeated walks away, can we really trust he won’t have another change of heart? He seems plenty fickle, after all (he resurrected on a whim all the people he sprent the last couple hours killing. That sounds fucked up). And Naruto would have to defend him, because no way in hell will I believe that everyone in konoha would decide to let a threat of that level be. Not with the word of a sixteen year old pseudo-rebel as the only guarantee.

I wanted to see Naruto garnering support from his peers. Some would be easier than others. Hinata was on his corner from the get go. With the right conversation he’d get Neji too. Rock Lee is a ball of sunshine who’s been belittled more or less constantly, he’d be all up for it too. Sakura comes from a civilian background (if I’m not mistaken) so she is somewhat shocked at the way the world works. She didn’t get it drilled into her the same way others did. It wouldn’t be easy for her, and with some help and prompting she’d be okay with changing it.

And Sasuke. You wouldn’t even need to change his storyline too much, just get rid of the part where Kaguya had a hand in the destiny of the world, in planting misleading information. Get rid of the suposed reincarnation cycle that takes away the importance of personal choices. Basically, get rid of all the alien subplot. You’re still left with a boy who’s been wronged in all posible ways by his countrymen and government. You don’t need Kaguya’s bullshit scheme to make the shit in Konoha look horrible. They do that on their own.

You’d get Naruto finding out about Danzo (who’s covered in stolen eyes from fellow villagers, WTF) and Root, about the Uchiha masacre. He’d get angry on Sasuke’s behalf, and Sai’s, and Zabuza’s even (killing your friends as a test? Naruto knows that doesn’t lead anywhere good). And wheter Sasuke had left the village or not they would be both in the same side for this. If Naruto had been convincing people of the inherent corruption of the system then that would become an all out rebellion and upheaval of the government (instead of the assassination of one dubious character).

That would tie in with the renegade thing (are they “missing-nin” in english?). How many of them are labelled criminals for doing terrible things and how many are because of disagreements with their governments? How many are turned into scape-goats and then exiled? How many people who do terrible things keep living as respected members of their communities just because their interests align with the interests of those in power?

......and I’ve run out of steam but, long story short, I’ve always felt cheated at the what if’s

[ambivalentmarvel]

so the story behind this is that @sreppub​ arrived in my dms saying “sitcom starring two uppity, former rich guys and a regular poor college kid who follow up an online ad and become roommates” and i said something along the lines of “your MIND” and here we are. she does the art, i do the fic, and we both yell a lot along the way. read it on here or ao3 and enjoy!!

The Sitcom Supreme

If Peter or Stephen were around to hear Tony tell the story of how they all ended up rooming together, they would have plenty of objections, to which he would call them both dirty liars, to which they would gang up on him because they’re terrible and like that, to which he would probably throw up his hands in exasperation and/or make the mistake of engaging them in a debate, to which they would grin like wolves because, once again, they’re terrible and like that, but Tony’s the asshole who put up the Craigslist ad, so he gets to start—because he’s terrible and like that.

It’s a common trait amongst the three of them, what can he say?

The beginning of the story does not involve either of the other two, however. It begins with Rhodey, who is only occasionally terrible and like that. Rhodey has been Tony’s best friend since the tender age of fifteen. Considering Tony at age fifteen was a greasy little douche bag with too much money and a whole bunch of daddy issues that were somehow more obvious then than they are in the present, this is an impressive feat. 

Where things start, Rhodey and Tony are roommates at MIT, which is Howard’s school of choice to shove his problem child onto. Tony is supposed to get a single dorm room, but there’s a cockroach problem in that building. Administration has to get creative, which is how Rhodey, fresh out of boot for the fall semester, gets saddled with approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of neglected teenage boy who has only kind of gone through puberty.

The first words out of Tony’s mouth are blunt: “Any chance you have plans to drop out?”

And Rhodey looks at him with a raised brow, efficiently unpacked and totally unimpressed with the enormous stack of Tony’s things wavering in the doorway. “You have any plans to quit being annoying?” he retorts, which set the tone for their entire relationship.

Tony loves him to pieces. 

He’s the older brother he never knew he needed, yanking him by his collar from frat parties on the weekends and to his house for holidays because getting swamped by Rhodey’s six younger siblings is infinitely better than having to wear a suit and tie for Christmas dinner with six CEOs and maybe some senators, depending on the year. In return, Tony sees him through every finals week of his collegiate career, during which Rhodey gets so nervous he usually pukes at least daily and pulls so many all-nighters Tony memorizes the exact shade of red his eyes are at the end.

So, it’s safe to say they get along well. They get along so well, as a matter of fact, that when they stare at each other after their graduation ceremony for their Masters—a two-year process for both of them, and Rhodey receives two degrees to Tony’s four—surrounded by Rhodey’s family and Jarvis, Tony’s lips curl in a smirk Rhodey knows spells the best kind of trouble. “What do you say we keep the roommate streak alive, yeah? Howard’s building an office in New York, and I’m thinking of doing a doctorate at NYU.”

Rhodey’s brows raise, but he’s grinning, so Tony already knows his answer. “Depends. Are you still gonna’ snore?”

“Are you still gonna’ have a stick up your a—”

Mama Rhodes shoots Tony a look from where she’s trying to corral the rest of her kids.

“—butt?” he finishes with a sheepish glance her way.

Rhodey does not even remotely have a stick up his ass, but of the two of them, he features in tabloids far, far less, which Tony somehow uses to his advantage.

“You know it,” Rhodey replies, and so they find a fancy penthouse that Tony mostly pays for, with the excuse of Rhodey satisfying his part of rent via generally covering Tony’s ass to the best of his ability. And he has a lot of ability, honed from years upon years of Tony self-destructing at the drop of a hat, but there’s only so much he can do, especially as his military career just keeps flying higher and Howard just keeps pushing Tony harder.

A few sex tapes, especially wild benders, and crashed cars later, when Howard cuts Tony off and tells him, quote, “I won’t speak to you until you learn to do something other than disappoint me”, Rhodey very gracefully still shacks up with him in their considerably less fancy apartment.

This is all important to know, contrary to what someone whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange might say about Tony’s “long-winded” and “overly-complicated” storytelling tendencies because it explains exactly why Rhodey is a traitor.

Is Carol a very cool lady who could kick Tony’s ass? Yes. Is she sickeningly cute with Rhodey and not just because a smile from her makes him melt into a pile of fucking goo on the floor? Also yes. Does it probably make more sense for Tony to find roommates who will actually be around to monitor his—allegedly—poor mental health and self-care habits? Okay, fine, yes, but the bottom line is, Rhodey is moving in with Carol and abandoning Tony, and nobody said he had to like it.

(This is not strictly true, what with the approximately ten conversations Rhodey and he have had about his happiness and how, if Tony needs him, all he has to do is say the word and he’ll be back, but Tony has always had a flair for the dramatic.)

The whole idea is that Tony will find someone gone less than Rhodey with all his military business to enjoy having around the apartment. It’s technically a three-bedroom, but he and Rhodey use the extra one for storage. Fortunately or unfortunately, that storage area has become a lot of junk they go through before Rhodey makes his grand exit, and Tony suddenly has the option of having two roommates.

The ad is a low point, he can admit that, but there is a flaw in what Tony loudly calls Rhodey’s master plan to leave him alone to wallow in misery: Tony doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends, nevermind people who he’d want to live with.

“Rhodey. Honeybear. Platypus.”

“The nicknames are old, and you need to stop using them around Carol. She called me Platypus last night during sex, and it ruined the whole mood.”

“You poor thing.”

“She thought it was hilarious.”

If Tony has to lose Rhodey to anybody, by God, Carol is his first choice by a long shot.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Sourpatch—”

“I hate you.”

“—how am I supposed to find someone else to live with?”

Tony is thirty-two and regularly speaks out with all of four people: Pepper, Rhodey, Carol, and Happy. Unfortunately, Happy works in Stark Industries’ California branch and has stated rather firmly that he’s not interested in transferring to the city, Pepper wouldn’t live with another person for love or money, and the other two are spoken for.

It’s a terrible situation to be in, honestly.

“Craigslist,” Rhodey deadpans, fighting with some packing tape.

Tony feels his heart stop beating in real time from his place folding some of Rhodey’s clothes into a plastic tub. His head snaps up, and his jaw drops, absolutely affronted. “You would suggest that I, even disowned and stripped of my former glory—” Tony has several million dollars in the stock market, but that’s neither here nor there and isn’t much compared to the fact that he was supposed to be a billionaire. “—would stoop to looking for live-in friends on Craigslist?”

Rhodey looks up to meet his eyes, unfazed. He’s used to Tony’s antics after nearly two decades of friendship. “Well, I’m not moving out until you have at least one person guaranteed to take my place, so unless you have any better ideas, yeah.” He shrugs—just shrugs, as if he isn’t advising Tony to scrape the bottom of the fucking barrel in terms of reliable people to regularly fall asleep around.

It’s insulting.

“I’m not putting out an ad for a roommate on Craigslist,” he protests, shoving the next horribly colored polo into the tub with disdain.

That night, he tears up thinking about stopping Rhodey from being happy with Carol, and the post is up by the time Rhodey gets up—stupidly early, like normal—for his morning run. Along with his contact information and a few blurry pictures of the place, it includes a blurb about the circumstances.

Best friend moving out. Need a roommate or I will die of Sadness. His girlfriend is cool but hewas mind first. Carol, I am watching you. Two rooms open for business. But not sketchy business. You can just lve there. Current resident (me) is cool and very charming. I am a man. No dumb fuck offers. Thanks.

It could use some work, but Tony’s never been great with words, even less so when he’s crying to rock ballads at two in the morning. He edits it when he wakes up, and by noon that day, it’s looking better.

At seven o’clock that evening, he receives one of two messages that actually work out.

Enter the first offender: Peter Parker.

Peter, Tony will learn, is nineteen, attending NYU—like Tony did, which is a sign, really—for a double major in biochemistry and physics, and has the worst luck of anyone Tony’s ever met.

Rhodey’s moving out in a week—he’s been putting off finding a roommate for a while, alright—and Peter has to legally be out of his dorm in three days. That is quite the predicament, and Tony, by nature, is a curious creature. He is not, however, one for beating around the bush. That results in a text that reads exactly this.

Tony: What the hell did you do?

He could hack through the university files, but explanations are always more fun with a personal touch that’s lacking in, say, an incident report. Tony watches a bubble with three blinking dots for a long, long time, and the reply is surprisingly sparse—sparse enough, in fact, for Tony to have more questions than answers when he receives it.

Unknown Sender: theres been a few things but the kicker was the fire

Tony: The fire?

Unknown Sender: i tried to make popcorn and the microwave blew up

Now that is some problematic behavior Tony can get behind. He amends the kid’s previously non-existent contact information.

Tony: How can they kick you out for that? That’s not your fault.

Roommate (?) Peter: it blacked out the power on the entire first floor

Tony: And?

Roommate (?) Peter: last month i got the blame for contaminating half the campus water supply

Roommate (?) Peter: so i was already on thin ice

Tony: Accidentally?

Roommate (?) Peter: idk sometimes things just happen to me

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that. If Rhodey knew, he’d never let him live it down. He can hear his annoying laugh in his ears like a premonition—“Hah—Tony, speechless?”—but then there are the dots again and a simple message to follow the last, a touch pathetic.

Roommate (?) Peter: please let me move in

Tony likes him.

Peter shows up on the stairs of the complex thirty-six hours after Tony posted the ad with a backpack and a meager total of six beat-to-shit boxes. The backpack holds nearly all of his school supplies, which makes Tony, in retrospect, genuinely fearful for the integrity of his spine, and the contents of the boxes are sorted, as Tony will learn, into three categories that each have two boxes in them. The categories are fairly simple—clothing, necessities, and whatever other shit he could fit from his dorm—and leave Peter with thrilling possessions such as an entire collection of truly atrocious shirts with science puns on them, a gallon of hand soap, and any food he had in his cupboards.

Thankfully, Rhodey is out furniture shopping with Carol when Tony goes out to meet him, which solves the problem of Rhodey going into overbearing caretaker mode at the sight of a beanpole of a kid failing to manage their life successfully. As someone who has been made many a you-haven’t-eaten-a-meal-in-two-days-and-I’m-secretly-a-panicking-mother-hen casserole, Tony counts his blessings.

Tony waves. “Peter?” he asks, reluctantly changed out of his pajamas for the day.

The kid nods. “That’s me. And you’re Tony?”

“Guilty as charged. Want a hand with those boxes?” he asks, watching Peter lift three at a time.

“No, I got it,” he insists, and then the box on top slides out of his grip and onto the sidewalk.

Peter stares at it for a second before he lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Maybe I could use some help,” he admits, and with much struggle, the two of them, each with three boxes, waddle inside. There is a moment and only one moment where Tony thinks that it might be nice to have some extra assistance, but with another thought of the things Rhodey would do at the sight of a woefully inept college kid, Tony decides it’s for the best.

Tony leads the operation, considering he has the key and also knows explicitly where they’re going, and he would have to say his biggest complaint about the ordeal is that Sam, who lives in the apartment below Tony and Rhodey with Steve and Bucky, happens to open his door as they walk by.

Being an asshole, he has something to say about it. “Need some help, shellhead?” he crows.

Tony wishes he had a free hand to flip him off.

“Watch your back, Wilson,” he growls in return, a continuation of the beef the five of them have maintained since they met approximately seven years ago, when they all moved in on the same day and kept knocking into each other’s shit in the halls.

When they reach the top of the next flight of stairs and Tony starts to fumble with the key, Peter asks about it. “So—uh—who was that?”

“That was Sam. Part of the deal with moving in is that you harass him and the other two idiots who live with him. He also responds to jackass, douchecanoe, or birdbrain.”

“Birdbrain?”

“It’s an old joke. He had a rather—” Tony grunts, forced to set down his load to unlock the door, “—spectacular run-in with some pigeons a few years ago.”

“Oh.”

“They shat on him. A lot.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a good nickname,” Tony assures him, throwing open the door with his arms flung wide for dramatic flair. “Welcome to Casa Stark. I mean, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker now, but if we’re hyphenating, my name goes first because I lived here first.” He holds up a finger as if to stall Peter, who has yet to speak from where his mouth is decidedly blocked by the aforementioned three boxes he is carrying. “And I know what you’re going to say—that Parker-Stark works better because it’s alphabetical—but that is where you are wrong because letters have no place in this house. Numbers are much preferred, and we play by seniority here, anyway.”

He gives Peter a meaningful look that he cannot see because, once again, boxes.

“More on that, by the way—”

“Hey, Tony?” 

He cuts him off which is, objectively, rude, but Tony rarely gets along with people who aren’t a little curt with him from time to time. This is a positive sign, really, so he allows it.

“Yeah?” 

“This can be Casa Stark-Parker, but can we get to somewhere I can set these down? My arms are, like, going to give out on me.”

Not even ten minutes in, and he’s already learned the art of bargaining. Tony’s proud, and he ushers him inside without any more monologues and a grin stretched across his face.

Peter, by virtue of moving in before Rhodey is out, ends up with the room that is no longer being used for storage. Tony has several questions for him, beginning with the fact that, despite the six packets of instant noodles he bothered to bring, he does not appear to have a mattress. Or a desk. Or a dresser. Or anything that’s supposed to go in a room.

His solutions for Tony’s concerns are as follows.

In place of a bed, he has two blankets, one to put on the floor and one to cover himself with. He was planning on sitting on the floor to do schoolwork instead of using a desk. And finally, he was going to leave his clothes in the boxes.

This is all relayed to Tony with an earnest gleam in his eyes and a smile.

Tony blinks in disbelief. Then, very eloquently, he says, “Kid, that is the saddest shit I have ever heard. Aren’t your parents helping you with the move to an apartment?”

The kid shifts from foot to foot, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing to the side.

Tony’s eyes narrow. As someone who is extremely well-versed in avoidance tactics, he feels very confident in saying that is definitely a fucking avoidance tactic.

“About that,” he begins, “first of all, I’m an orphan.” Jesus Christ. “Second of all, my aunt doesn’t exactly—uh—know I got kicked out of the dorms.”

That is all interesting information, to say the least, but luckily, Tony thrives under pressure.

“Alright. I can respect that.”

It’s not like he never hid anything from his parents. Evading his aunt is Peter’s problem, not Tony’s. None of this is Tony’s problem, really, except then he looks around the room and wonders which of Peter’s boxes are holding his two blankets.

Tony was concerned about Rhodey, but he can’t stop himself.

“But I’m also gonna’ level with you—you’re not sleeping on the ground. You can take the couch.”

The until I get you a proper bed frame and mattress goes unsaid, but sometimes things like that are better as surprises. It’ll be a fun housewarming gift, Tony thinks, and by the time the shipment from IKEA arrives containing both of those things and the aforementioned missing dresser and desk, there will be a third roommate to help put it all together, not that either of them know it yet.

That night, Rhodey and Carol show up with enough ingredients for lasagna to serve four, and Tony delights in showing off Peter as they cook because now he has a “super cool roommate too! Take that, Platypus.”

Rhodey glances to Peter. “If you’re being held hostage, blink twice.”

“Hey!” Tony protests. He is a perfectly lovable roommate, thank you very much, and he’s so offended, he’s not even going to let Rhodey know about his mission to furnish Peter’s room.

God bless her, Carol just laughs.

The four of them get along with surprising ease, considering Peter’s only been around for a few hours. Peter even tries to help with the lasagna, but Tony has a near-photographic memory and has not remotely forgotten the popcorn incident, however vaguely it was described.

“You just sit there and be a nicer person than Rhodey,” he urges him, and Peter nods, hiding his grin behind his hand at the argument that starts.

Once everyone is done, he and Rhodey get suckered into dish duty while Carol spirits Peter off to the living room, claiming she has to warn him about what he’s getting into. Tony doesn’t care enough to complain, and when her back is turned, he splashes a plate of suds onto Rhodey’s front. 

Rather than rise to the bait, however, he raises his brows, slipping into what Tony affectionately calls his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode. “You have to be a good example for him, Tones.”

Tony blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“I’m serious!” They keep their voices mostly down, but Rhodey’s rises a bit with the declaration.

“He’s nineteen—an adult, in case you forgot. He signed the lease all on his own and everything,” he hisses back incredulously.

He thought he dodged the bullet by not disclosing just how underprepared Peter is to live in an apartment, but Rhodey’s head dips. Tony braces himself for the part of his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode where he tells Tony he’s making a bullshit excuse and needs to get it together. “Don’t give me that. He’s a baby adult at best, and you know it.”

Yep, there it is.

“That’s still an adult!”

It is! Tony was on his own way earlier than nineteen. This is not a big deal, no matter how outlandish Peter’s circumstances are for moving out of NYU’s dorms.

“Watch his back.”

Tony scoffs. “It’s not like I was going to feed him to the wolves. I’m barely thirty—I’m not his dad.”

“Tony.”

Ah, the final, crushing blow of this version of Rhodey: his name—but with emphasis.

Tony sighs. “Fine,” he acquiesces. “I solemnly swear I will not let him get up to no good.”

A beat. Rhodey squints at him, slowly lowering the plate he’s holding into the sink. “You told me you refused to read Harry Potter.”

Shit.

Back when the books were first coming out, Rhodey was insufferably obsessed with them, and Tony loves him, but emotionally, he couldn’t handle having Rhodey think he was willing to discuss anything having to do with the series for longer than thirty seconds. Thus, he read the books—everyone in the world was doing the same, okay, and he cannot stand being out of the loop—but lied to Rhodey about it.

And now, he’s been made.

Rhodey and he launch into a very spirited discussion that draws Carol and Peter back to the kitchen, and despite the vein throbbing dangerously in Rhodey’s forehead, the promise has been made.

The day after Rhodey moves out, he and Peter manage to flood the bathroom.

In Tony’s defense, he only promised to look out for Peter. He said nothing about curbing his own dumbass tendencies, and it’s not like Bucky’s bedroom is all that damaged by the leak that Tony fixes before it’s really even a problem.

He and Peter settle into a nice sense of camaraderie, and Tony, content with his situation, forgets to take down his Craiglist ad that, logically speaking, someone would have to dig to find at this point, over a week after initially posting it.

Then, he receives a text that is as simple as it is effective: Is there still an available room in the apartment?

Enter the second offender: Stephen Strange.

Ahem, Doctor Stephen Strange, technically, but Tony has six PhDs. Nobody sees him going around making people call him Doctor Stark, and that’s because it makes him sound pretentious and stuffy, both things Tony prides himself on not being. However, Tony likes to push buttons, and very little gets Stephen worked up as fast as someone ignoring his credentials.

It’s a fun set-up, really, but annoying the piss out of Stephen is something that comes a little later—Tony’s not there yet in the story.

He humors the text, and after getting a read on things, he bursts into the living room, startling Peter nearly off the couch. He’s been doing his homework there and on the coffee table in front of it because the Swedish have many things but fast shipping is, apparently, not one of them, not that Peter knows there’s anything to be waiting on, but he’s getting off-topic.

Peter lets out a short yelp and presses a hand over his heart, both things that Tony ignores.

“We have a situation,” he announces.

“I swear I didn’t do it,” Peter defends pleadingly.

Tony is trying to teach him that messing things up is expected and, especially in particularly magnificent cases, admired in Casa Stark-Parker, but it’s a work in progress.

“I know you didn’t—don’t be ridiculous,” he waves his concerns off. “We are talking bigger than setting things on fire by accident. I bring you, my young protege, the proposition of—” A pause for dramatic effect. “—another roommate.”

“Ooh,” Peter says appropriately, setting his textbook down to examine the texts Tony brandishes. He begins to scroll, but while he does, Tony figures he can go ahead and fill him in on the essentials. It’s a very juicy situation, after all, and he can’t help himself.

“His name is Stephen Strange. He’s a neurosurgeon, but he got into a pretty bad car wreck that messed up his hands. He’s trying to save money while he goes to physical therapy—he apparently has a chance of recovery, but it’s a ways off—and that includes downsizing on where he lives.”

“I mean, yikes, but that’s an oddly specific backstory.”

“I’m glad you think that too, but I am intrigued. I looked him up, and he’s a real person—has a basically flawless reputation, or at least he did before his accident. Thoughts?”

Please say yes, please say yes, Tony thinks. The chance of a competent human—not including Rhodey, who looks more put together than he really is next to the chaos Tony perpetually dwells in—choosing to live with him is too fascinating to pass up, and he needs Peter to see that too.

Peter shrugs. “I’m down if you are. How old is he?”

Victory!

Satisfaction floods Tony, but he tries to maintain his cool.

“Thirty.”

Peter blows out a long breath, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “I didn’t anticipate moving into a nursing home,” he remarks dryly.

What a little shit.

It’s worth noting half the reason Rhodey left so easily is because he said he trusted Peter to keep Tony on his toes. Then again, that Tony likes being snarked at is a large part of why they get along so well despite only knowing each other for a matter of days.

“You’re the worst, Parker. I’m going to feed you to the hooligans downstairs. Steve has a monster appetite, you know.”

Peter hums, picking his textbook back up. “Not if I feed you to them first. And, Tony?”

“What?”

“Only old people say hooligans.”

Tony thinks about that one book, Give a Mouse a Cookie or whatever. Except in his case, it’s Rent a Teenager an Apartment, and Tony doesn’t have to adhere to the literary equivalent of a G-rating.

His response to the dig is creative and colorful, and Peter laughs.

Four days and a brief conversation at a coffee shop later—a formality he and Peter did not do and probably something Tony should’ve thought of as the older adult before giving him the address—Stephen’s team of movers invade the apartment.

The man himself stands like a drill sergeant at the last flights of stairs it takes to get to the apartment, arms crossed, beard wild, conducting activity.

Peter and Tony share their evaluations, peeking their head out from the doorway when it’s unoccupied by movers and Stephen isn’t looking their way. This involves quite a bit of ducking, but they are very careful not to be caught.

(Someone’s whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange later informs that “they were not at all subtle” and “were, in fact, very embarrassing”, but that’s how things with the three of them generally are, so Tony figures it was a good crash course to how life together goes.)

“He’s kind of scraggly,” Peter whispers, his head under Tony’s because he’s the shorter of the two of them, something Tony delights in refuting Peter’s quips about his age with.

“Kind of? He looks like a hobo.”

It’s true, okay? Facially, at least, the guy is a wreck. He’s not quite to Einstein levels of bad hair day, but he’s getting there.

“Be nice,” Peter chastises him. He’s gentler than Rhodey when he does it, but considering neither of them ever shut the hell up and they have thus bonded very easily over the course of their short relationship, it’s gotten to feel as natural as most of their interactions.

“All I’m saying is that I am happy to retain my place as the most attractive person in the apartment, okay?”

They’re forced to retreat from the entryway as another load comes through, and Peter looks at him disbelievingly. “Dream on,” he replies bluntly.

Tony gasps in offense.

Peter shrugs. “Look, I’m just gonna’ say it—you knew Rhodey before me, and now that I’m here—” he trails off, looking at Tony in faux-sympathy that doesn’t match the mischievous glint in his eyes.

While it is true that Rhodey is a fine specimen of a man—yet another reason Tony can’t, in good conscience, be truly angry Carol mooched him away from the bachelor lifestyle—Tony can’t cede that easily for the sake of his pride, and he scowls. “I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

They’re still bickering as the movers finish up and Stephen enters the apartment, dressed in what Tony recognizes as the latest from Armani and Tom Ford.

He may not get invited to fashion week anymore, but he still has taste, alright, even if Rhodey limits him to one designer purchase a month.

(Rhodey isn’t around to see what packages he orders now, Tony thinks but shelves the thought for later.)

Tony and Stephen met over coffee, and all three of them said hi to one another before the moving business officially began. However, there is a little stiffness in the air, make no mistake. It’s not Stephen’s fault, exactly, because he’s just kind of a foreboding guy, but still.

It figures that Peter would break the ice. As Tony’s found and will continue to discover, Peter is just as talkative as him. Granted, that trait usually appears in the form of rambling about something from class, but it’s not surprising that his natural passion for life comes through with someone about to be very, very involved in it. 

“Hi!” he begins. “Are all of the movers gone now?”

Stephen raises an unimpressed brow. “Yes.”

His reply is seriously lacking enthusiasm, but Tony isn’t allowed the opportunity to jump on that as Peter keeps going. 

“Sweet! Okay, so welcome to Casa Stark-Parker.”

Woah, woah, woah—timeout.

Tony frowns, raising a hand in a motion for Peter to stop. “I thought that was my thing?” he interjects.

“Well, it has my name in it, so it gets to be both of our things,” Peter replies, then furrows his brow, looking to Stephen. “Actually, since you’re here now, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker-Strange. Order’s based on who got here first, sorry,” he explains with a smile that Tony, now familiar with the fact that Peter has more to him than meets the eye, notes is a touch impish.

Tony is pleased to see, despite his generally wholesome appearance, the kid has at least picked up on the power of staking a claim.

Stephen blinks. His hands, Tony has noticed, don’t stop shaking, not even when he folds his arm across his chest, like a physical barrier between him and Peter’s excitement. “Okay?” he drawls slowly, confusedly.

“Tony’s rules, not mine,” Peter assures him as if he doesn’t just want the satisfaction of having his name not be the last in the line-up.

Tony scoffs. “Oh okay, so now we’re throwing me under the bus?”

“You have to take responsibility for your actions, Tony.”

“Oh, sure thing,” he replies, tone betraying that he does not, in fact, think any responsibility is at all necessary. He looks to Stephen, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe what I have to put up with? And it’s barely been a week.”

Stephen blinks again. “I see it’s a lot,” he says measuredly.

Peter gasps, unaffected. “Oh my God, we should make a sign for it,” he enthuses. “We can put it up on the door, and we’d be so much cooler than Sam and them.”

To say that Peter rose to the challenge of bothering their downstairs neighbors with zeal is something of an understatement. 

Tony is, honestly, a fan of the sign idea, especially if it were to light up, but that is where Stephen cuts in, his hands still trembling as he gestures. “Can we slow down for a moment?” He looks carefully from Tony and Peter and back again, bearing the appearance of a man in the throes of realizing he has made a bad decision. 

Tony knows that look well. It usually shows up when Rhodey agrees to one of Tony’s ideas and doesn’t realize just how badly constructed it is until it’s too late.

“First of all, I am fairly certain my car is parked illegally, and before we get too far, I need to fix it before I get towed. And secondly,” Tony watches Stephen’s lips curl in a self-satisfied, I-totally-think-I’m-better-than-you-even-if-I’m-not-technically-saying-it smile, “I am not here to be part of any Casa. I am waiting for physical therapy to work for me, and then I will be out of your hair. I appreciate being able to live here, but—”

Yeah, Tony’s had enough of that. Personally, he would like to thank Rhodey, who, in a way, begins and ends the story, and truly is the greatest best friend a man could have for teaching him how to properly deal with pompous rich people.

“Nuh-uh, none of that. If you’re living here, you’re a part of Casa Stark-Parker-Strange whether you like it or not.”

Stephen looks downright appalled that someone would dare to interrupt him, which, Tony knows from experience, is exactly the kind of shock rich people need to go through. He splutters for a second before he manages to get out a reply, “That was not in the lease.”

Tony spreads his hands as if to say what can you do? “And you didn’t mention in your texts that you were going to try to be a bump on a log, but here we are.”

Perhaps sensing the mounting animosity in the room or maybe just as excited as Tony to have someone to bother, Peter takes advantage of Stephen’s overwhelmed and bewildered state.

“First day with all three of us!” he shouts. “Picture!”

And before anyone can protest—including Tony, who would prefer to be documented in something other than a Black Sabbath tee and his work pants—Peter leans in with the camera on his phone ready to capture the moment.

In the resulting photo, Tony looks vaguely alarmed, Stephen looks pissed as hell, and Peter wears a grin that stretches across his whole face. The whole thing is blurry, and they eventually get it framed.

It’s a beautiful and fitting start to their time as roommates, and in the humble eyes of the asshole who posted the Craigslist ad, that is how the story of how they came to live together went.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Longitudinalwaveme Reviews Old Comics, Part 7

Today, I will be reviewing Flash #307.

The Flash #307 (1982): “Prey for the Piper”, was written by Carey Bates, drawn by the legendary Carmine Infantino, and inked by Bob Smith. 

The story stars the Barry Allen Flash as the protagonist and, as the title suggests, the Pied Piper as the main antagonist. This story is also historically important for the Piper-it’s the first issue to give him an origin story. That’s right. Despite having debuted in Flash #106 in 1959, the Piper wasn’t given a backstory (or a real name!) for 22 years! 

The story opens with two guys in a helicopter flying a giant gong across the city. Evidently, it’s going to be a new display at the Centrex Museum and...why in the world did they decide to transport the thing by helicopter? Couldn’t they have used a truck? That seems safer. 

Regardless, the Pied Piper, who is in a nearby skyscraper, uses his pipe to hypnotize the pilots and get them to fly the gong into a building that’s under construction. Barry Allen, who is nearby buying what I believe is a newspaper but could also be a magazine or, knowing Barry, a comic book, notices the collision that’s about to happen and springs into action as the Flash. 

The pilots release the giant gong and it cashes into the building, making a horrible noise but surprisingly not causing any structural damage. Barry stops the gong’s descent and goes to ask the helicopter pilots what’s happening. We then cut to Piper (who, as usual for this time period, looks like a demented elf), who notes that he only needs one more really loud sound to put “Operation Sound-Off” (I’m sure that sounded awesome in his head) into action and defeat the Flash. 

Meanwhile, Barry is puzzling over why the helicopter pilots suddenly dropped the gong into the building, as when questioned about what happened, they had no idea. He knows that someone must have hypnotized them, but isn’t sure who or why. Meanwhile, in the police department’s record room, a young officer named Morty, who has been giving a reporter information about some as yet unrevealed story, walks the reporter (who works for Picture News just like Iris did) to her car...only for him to be whacked over the head and her to be kidnapped! We also see that the files she was interested in involve the Pied Piper, who is operating under the alleged name of Henry Darrow.

Barry comes outside just as Morty comes to, and the younger man tells him about what happened. Barry thinks that someone kidnapped her because of the story she was working on, and, because it was about the Pied Piper, Barry assumes that it was the Piper who had her kidnapped. In speaking of the demented elf, he’s in a state park fifty miles outside Central City, known as Summit Canyon, creating an avalanche in order to gather the final decibels needed to enact his evil plan. He notes that, once it’s complete, he’ll “finally be able to rid myself of the two curses which have plagued my life with the most pain and misery: my arch-enemy the Flash-and my despicable family!” 

Meanwhile, in his apartment, Barry is trying to work out the details of the kidnapping (which he still thinks the Piper is responsible for), noting that the man’s past has always been a mystery. We then cut to “the posh Ridgeway Hills community easy of the city”, where one of the kidnappers wonder why someone so rich hired them. The other one basically tells him “who cares, we’re getting paid a ton of money and now we can go to Vegas!” 

Inside a mansion, the people who paid the kidnappers note that the reporter is waking up, addressing each other as “Osgood” (snicker) and “Rachel”. The reporter tells them that they won’t get away with this, to which they basically respond that they totally will, because they’ve got tons of money to bribe her with. We then see that she’s tied up at one end of a ridiculously long table. The reporter, whose name is Marcy Dunphy, exclaims that she’s seen the people who had her kidnapped in the society pages. The man then introduces himself and his wife as “Hazel and Osgood Rathaway”, which, as this is only two panels after the use of the “Rachel” name, may hold the record for the least amount of time passing before Cary Bates forgot a character’s name. The reporter identifies them as the heads of the Rathaway Publishing Empire and is completely bewildered as to why such wealthy people would have her kidnapped. Their response? She’s uncovered a very embarrassing family secret, and they want it to stay hidden. Which does raise the question of why they decided to have her kidnap before trying to bribe her. Wouldn’t she be more amenable to the idea if you hadn’t had her kidnapped? 

While the Flash races to stop the Pied Piper from robbing a museum, the Rathaways for some reason decide to tell Macy the whole story. Their son, Hartley Rathaway, was born deaf, so they spent a ton of money to ‘cure’ his deafness, and because this is comic books, they actually found a doctor who could do it. Hartley subsequently became obsessed with music. Mr. and Mrs. Rathaway had big plans for their son, but, as time went by, it became clear that Hartley wasn’t interested in excelling in anything or in “upholding the prestige of the Rathaway name”. Instead of addressing the problem (or, alternatively, not attempting to force their son to become famous), Osgood decided to start bribing the heck out of people. He bought Hartley’s way into the best colleges and then bribed them into giving him good grades he hadn’t earned. After Hartley graduated, Osgood paid his way into an executive position at a major firm and...seriously, just how rich are these people? 

Meanwhile, the Flash manages to get through the sonic barrier that the Piper set up around the museum, only to be attacked by the Piper and his “Sonic  Boomatron” which is in the shape of bagpipes because of reasons. The stupidly-named device hits Flash with the equivalent of 50,000 decibels, before we cut back to the Rathaways’ explanation of how awesome bribery is. They apparently gave Hartley a silver-plated flute for his sixteenth birthday (in case it wasn’t clear that they’re made of money yet, I guess), and they tell Macy that their son had always liked tinkering with musical instruments. Somehow, they completely missed that their son was a super genius who created hypnotic and weaponized music until he actually put on the costume and became the Pied Piper. HOW DID THEY NOT NOTICE THAT? It clearly started when he was still a teenager, as he used it to hypnotize his tutor into getting out of a test. 

Now with the power to hypnotize people, his life was even easier than it had been before, and Hartley was bored out of his mind. So bored, apparently, that he decided that white-collar crime was overrated and decided to go into the “robbing banks in costume” type of crime. I also find it amusing at how shocked the Rathaways were that Hartley became a criminal. What, do nonstop bribery and literal kidnapping not count? Because they were bribing people left, right, and center LONG before he became the Piper. 

Meanwhile, Piper’s weapon somehow turns the Flash into sound, because this is comics and comics don’t have to make sense. He proceeds to walk off with his loot, surrounded by a sonic barrier that protects him from police gunfire. 

So yes, the Pied Piper is Hartley Rathaway, his family is rich, and he became the Piper because, at least according to his parents, he was an “emotionally disturbed” child who got bored. Apparently the elder Rathaways have kept the secret through EVEN MORE BRIBERY, giving money to everyone from the local police chief to the FBI to keep things quiet. The FBI were the ones who created the identity of Henry Darrow. By the way, Mrs. Rathaway is back to being Rachel again. Rachel reiterates the fact that kidnapping and then bribing the reporter to also keep things quiet was the only logical solution to the problem...at which point the Piper himself shows up! 

Meanwhile, Barry uses his mental control over all his molecules to reassemble himself while the Piper tells his parents that he’s paid his debt to them. Apparently, he turns over most of his loot to his parents in order to pay “back every Rathaway dollar my parents spent on trying to mold me into something I could never be.” The elder Rathaways had to keep all of it because doing anything else would reveal the secret. Osgood tells his son that he and his wife only wanted what was best for Hartley, to which Hartley replies “Not quite, Pop. You wanted what was best for the Rathaway name! What I wanted never really matter much to either one of you.” According to Hartley, then, it seems that he became the Piper not so much because he was bored...but rather because he feels that his parents were more concerned with their reputations than with loving him. 

Then the Flash pops up, punches him out, and rescues Macy, who says that they should give the Rathaways a few minutes alone with their son. I guess that we can assume that the Rathaways never got arrested because they’re made of money. Or something. (Could that be why we also rarely saw the Piper in prison during the Silver and Bronze Age?) 

Well, it may have taken Piper 22 years to get an origin (and a name), but in this case, I think it was worth it. With the possible exception of the Golden Glider, the Pied Piper has what is by far the most interesting Silver/Bronze Age origin of any of the Rogues, and I’m glad it’s stuck around. Props to Carey Bates for giving the Piper an incredibly memorable origin story. 

[springday-aus]

Rich Kid!AU with Suho [Junmyeon]

moodboard link 

Group: EXO 

Member: Suho / Kim Junmyeon

Genre: romance + lowkey reality check 

Type: Bulletpoint AU 

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Suho has a black card and what else was I to do with this information? 

yes, I am making Junmyeon into one of those rich ass fuckboys

you know the ones I'm talking about

the ones that have an endless amount of cars

(and prob names them)

the ones who you can literally tell has not worked a day in his life

despite having so much money, he's dressed like a hobo

but it's like the branded shit

like Supreme or Gucci or Chanel

(and whatever else is trendy)

so it’s “fancy”

unless he's gotta go to like a charity event that isn't really for charity

then he's like in a suit

hm.... when he gets dressed up

he gets dressed up

anyways

let's start from the beginning

he inherited his money from his parents, who inherited it from their parents, who inherited it from their parents.. and so on and so forth

so the Kims have like a shitload of money

like

LOADS

like "I can swim in my own money" loads

except he tried it once when he was a kid

lots of paper cuts

also the gold coin thing

wow did that hurt

it was not a fun day for rich kiddo Suho

and this is very stable money, i.e. old money

so you can only imagine the amount of people who are practically kissing their asses to get partnerships and whatever else rich people want

oh my god, when his mother was supposed to get married—it was chaos, literally every man was throwing themselves at her feet

tsk, tsk, tsk—it was just sad

don't get mixed up, their parents are happy together

or at least they seem like it

lowkey it was an arranged marriage and, like all rich people, his parents like to call it a "partnership" more than a “marriage”

anyways back to Suho

if he's being honest about this whole thing, he doesn't know if he really wants to (or is going to) inherit the family business

he’s not even an official heir 

he has an older brother and Suho has watched enough dramas to know that the older ones are most likely to inherit the family business 

so what is he supposed to do? 

sure, they've been showing him what he's supposed to do

but does he actually know what he's doing?

or if he wants to do it?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

he's been living the same life he's been living since he was born

wake up, eat, shop, go home, sleep

yo, speaking of which

he legit cannot stop buying anything—he sees it, he wants it, he buys it

you know those ugly ass Gucci slippers

yeah, he got those

he bought two of them because they came in two colors

he wore them each like once and then it was never seen again

granted, he was shopping with Taehyung, one of his company managers who Suho had taken underneath his wing

Tae literally encourages people to buying stuff they don't really need

but like

he can afford lots of impulse buys

it's not like he's doing anything else

okay, that's a lie

he's also working at the office, but does it really feel like he's doing anything?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

anyways, let's get back to his horrible shopping habits

this is very important because this is how you come into the picture

he was out one day with Sehun, walking around one of the major shopping centers

just as they were leaving

there was a protest outside one of the department stores

the CEO had like 50+ charges of sexual assault and he was just let off

and wow

these people were angry

so where do you come in?

you….. you were in the front….

with a loudspeaker….

saying some things that…. no one should be saying with children present….

anyways

you were one of the people who’ve organized the event

because this asswipe was still working and got off with a warning from all of these assault charges????

you were not going to let this go

hence why you’re in the front, with your loudspeaker—spitting facts and roasting this man in front of his business

yeah, y’all were a bit of a smallish crowd

(a group of about thirty people)

but anyways

Suho saw you and

wow

his interest has been piqued

you were cute—yelling into your loudspeaker and your fist in the air

you have so much passion

Sehun has obviously noticed Suho had been staring at you for quite some time 

it’s hard not to notice

just as Sehun was just going to push Suho in the order direction, that shitty CEO steps out

and……. in front of you……

you remained calm, letting his douche canoe spit as he rambles on about how these women were all over-reacting and that you were an idiot for spending your free time here and that you were nothing more than a liberal snowflake

at this point, people were all recording on their phones but this man clearly didn’t care and just went ham on you

and as he pauses to breath, you take your chance: “I’m the snowflake and yet you’re the one who needs to chill”

you see the anger just explode in his eyes and, as he continues to yell, he raises an arm

just as he was about to swing at you, Suho steps in

right between you and the CEO, blocking you and grabbing his arm

Suho: “and what is it that you think you’re doing?”

CEO: “let go of me”

Suho: “and let you hit this stranger? aren’t you just embarrassing yourself even more?”

for the first time, you can see him flush with embarrassment as he realizes the eyes and the cameras that are on him

but then he snarls at Suho: “who the hell do you think you are?”

Suho smiles, but it’s as fake as this man: “I’m heir to the Kim business, I could make you disappear in two phone calls, would you like me to show you?”

he freezes, before yanking his arm out of Suho’s hand and walking off

muttering something about millennials

he finally turns to you, as the crowd starts to disperse

Suho: “are you okay?”

You: “I could have handled myself, pretty boy”

Suho: “you think I’m pretty?”

**cue Sehun facepalming on the sidelines**

you sigh, tired from him already: “I can’t deal with this right now, that asshole is still out there and I’m not resting until he’s resigned”

you turn away, not even bothering to listen to his response and immediately head off

Sehun: “you really managed to blow that opportunity”

Suho: “shut up and drink your milk tea”

later that day, he may or not have used some of his family’s money for something other than meaningless shit

he was looking you up—you’ve done a lot of things and you have so many achievements

as well as enemies

yikes

he’s seen a lot of these people at the Kim’s charity auctions

and at business meetings

and the parties his family throws at their party mansion

oof—this is not looking good for him or these people

so what else does he do?

he does a bit more digging on you

is it creepy? yes

should he be doing this? probably not

so what does he find?

your fb, instagram, twitter—all the social media you’ve got

this is what happens when you have a lot of free time and you’re rich 

he’s not really sure these accounts are your personal accounts though

there are pictures of you and the causes you’re involved with

but they’re not about you

he will admit that he’s very impressed with all of the things you’ve done

you’ve managed to make some major changes

environmentally, socially, and lawfully

(local laws ofc)

it wasn’t done without a lot of damages and enemies

but (from what he’s seen) you’re tough

next week, you’re leading another protest against a makeup company because of their false claims of being cruelty free

and their microplastic beads that’s polluting the ocean

and the high water demand due to the large amount being used in their products

jesus you have retweeted so many scholarly articles

and they’re like 40 pages long

Suho doesn’t think he’s read this much since college

(well his family paid their son’s way through, but you get what I mean)

he makes a note to shop there on the way sometime next week

just do he can see you again

the next week passes, more slowly than Suho had thought

as it comes, he goes ham on his shopping trips—he’s going to ALL the makeup department stores

never really buying anymore because he’s too busy on the lookout for you

he says it’s a “business trip”

(ignoring Baekhyun, Chanyeol and Jongdae + Sehun’s side eyes)

these people are really kissing up to his asses

literally getting up to his face and trying so many products on his faces

it’s like the spongebob episode when all those perfume people are spraying shit in his face 

yeah... imagine that 

his vision is getting blocked and his face is getting caked with every passing hour he spends

just as he was about to give up

the days roll around 

and he finally spots you outside the shopping center with your loudspeaker and protest signs

you’re in a group circle, talking with some other people 

who Suho is going to assume are other organizers

he manages to kind of sneak over as y’all are discussing 

you were discussing the main points and what the game plan was

Suho was just…. there…. 

you didn’t even know until everyone was dispersed to their positions

Suho: “so what can I do?” 

your eyes narrow at him: “pretty boy?” 

he smiles, so stupidly bright: “yeah” 

you eye him up and down: “are you lost? don’t you have a department store to get to?” 

Suho: “this is a department store” 

You: jesus christ 

You: “okay, in case there was another misunderstanding on my abilities, I can handle this” 

Suho: “I understand, I just want to help” :) 

you nearly growl at him, what an idiot 

you don’t realize you’ve been staring at him for a while, until a friend of yours steps up next to you and give you a little nudge 

your friend whispers to you: “he’s a Kim, his involvement would mean more exposure” 

you let out a deep sigh and shoo her away to deal with the stragglers who’ve just joined 

You: “do you know why we’re here?” 

Suho: “false claims of the makeup being cruelty free?” :)

You: “lucky guess” 

You: “okay fine, we’re gonna be here for a couple of hours—he’s arriving soon and then he’ll leave, just as he always does and we’ll have to rally in case he gets aggressive”

Suho: “okay, got it” 

he gives another smile and is so compliant, you figure he’ll be here for a bit and then leave 

but, to your shock, he’s there the whole you’ve been there

which is like two hours longer than the others were supposed to be there 

and even after the whole thing, he asks you what else is coming up 

with another push from your friend, you reluctantly share the information with him from your organization’s website and facebook group and all this other stuff

but let’s be real, Suho already knew some of this stuff due to all of his internet stalking

it doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate you sharing the information tho 

anyways 

he comes to the next one—just as you told him from last time 

and the other one

and another one

eventually, he just makes it part of his schedule to come and help out

at first, you didn’t really think he would show up

and when he does, you asked why

Suho: “I have a lot of free time”

somehow you don’t doubt that

the more he’s been coming, the more interested you were

not in the sense that “oh he’s so attractive for fighting for these causes alongside with me” interested

it’s more of the “what does this sneaky motherfucker want” interested

so you do some digging and it only confuses you more

shouldn’t be fighting his brother for that heir position for the Kim Incorporation?

why is he so interested in being part of this fight that involves… well, him?

isn’t he worried we’ll start attacking the Kims?

a lot of the other organization members notice it as well

because I mean, have you seen him?

(he is very attractive)

but also because this big name hot shot is at these small group protests, when he should be in a meeting or something

it doesn’t mean his efforts aren’t appreciated

he always gets the group things like food and supplies for strikes that last for longer than usual

for instance, you and your organization went to join teachers who were striking for a better contract with the school district

Suho came running with more posters, loudspeakers, shakers, coffee, sandwiches

the district teachers absolutely adored him—they even took pictures with him 

but, you will admit that it’s nice to talk to him, despite the differences in social class 

he likes talking to you too 

(maybe more than he likes to admit) 

it’s just 

you have this fire in your eyes 

the passion in your voice is clear 

and you know what you want and you go for it, without any mercy for anyone who gets in your way 

but you have that sensitivity and awareness and drive to help others that’s the whole point of you even being here 

he wishes he had that

but, these last few weeks

he actually feels good to help you out

whether it’s running for supplies or providing donations for causes you’ve told him about  

he feels purposeful

he feels good that he can help all these people and that his time is actually useful

and now, your organization is getting more exposure, which is nice

…. until the media gets involved and starts to paste Suho’s face on it

and that’s when you realize what he’s been doing

the Kim family had been using this whole thing as a reputation tactic

you feel stupid letting him into this

what you wanted to do was make a change for those who couldn’t advocate for themselves

and now all your hard work is being passed in the hands of some rich guy with way too much time on his hands

so, you did what you did best: dig some dirt on some filthy rich people

turns out there was a previous scandal with the family

they underpaid their staff

lots of people were getting low/little income and they were at a disadvantage because they were in a position where they couldn’t quit

when word got out, they said they would raise the wages

but some people say that these people didn’t

so you’re gonna find out—you snuck around their estate, talking to the staffers about the incident

most were unwilling to talk, but there were a couple of people who shared with you

they talked about they had medical bills, student debt, disabled family members, etc.

they had to work here and have to continue

apparently it was said that they would receive raises, but it isn’t livable—they only had 10 cent raises, but only after working for 5 years at a time

office workers obviously were higher up, but the servant staffers at the estate were taken advantage of

even after it was exposed, they didn’t really do anything about it

while you spent a couple of weeks snooping around

Suho had been at home

his parents were clearly upset because he’d been spending too much with the lower class

Mrs. Kim: “it’s good for our reputation, but you can’t keep spending your time with them”

Mr. Kim: “why can’t you be more like Dongkyu and spend more time in the office”

Suho: “I’m not even inheriting the company, why bother working?”

Mr. Kim: “of course you’ll inherit the company, alongside with your brother—it’ll be an even split”

Suho: “what if… what if I don’t want to inherit the company?”

Mrs. Kim: “what else are you going to do, if not a businessman?”

he doesn’t know why, but your face flashes in his head at that moment

in fact, you might get along with him better if he lost the inheritance

he wouldn’t be able to donate anymore

or get any supplies

maybe his support would be enough

the only question is to whether or not his family would cut him off

so, he speaks the truth

Suho: “I… I don’t know”

it’s been a couple of weeks since he’s seen you, so when he comes to the next meeting…

he was a bit excited

but when he comes

that fire is in your eyes once again…  but it’s towards him

Suho: “hey” :)

You: “so when were you going to tell me that you’re an absolute douche-bag”

Suho: “what?”

You: “your face is all over our hard work and now you get all the credit?”

You: “not to mention, you don’t say shit about all these people who you work with”

You: “also your family is garbage—really? underpaying the staff and lying about it?”

he’s…... speechless

on one hand, you’re right

and on the other…. you’re right

what is he really doing here?

is he actually making a difference?

you, on the other hand, you’re….

you’re amazing

you have been able to draw attention to all these issues

and you’ve been able to make these changes

you might not be filthy rich, but it doesn’t mean you don’t have any influence

Suho can’t really say anything other than…

Suho: “I’m sorry”

You: “you think that’s enough?”

Suho: “no, it’s not enough, I just don’t know what else I can say”

to be fair, you should be really pissed—you are pissed

but he looks so dejected

you remembered talking to him about his family ties and their family history… is not pretty

so you soften up a bit

just a bit

but only because it’s him

the one who always comes with a smile on his face

the one who comes with more than enough supplies because he wants to make sure everyone is comfortable

the one who hangs around you because he knows how tired you are

the one who stays and listens to you rambling for hours about a million different social issues

you put a hand on his shoulder

You: “you don’t always have to say it, sometimes it’s a matter of doing”

thanks to you, he decided to do something

for another couple of weeks he doesn’t see you

but you?

you def saw him

on the news

he got busy

he went on his usual schedule (like his parents wanted)

but this time

he wasn’t quiet about it

I’m talking about pointing out the environmental drawbacks of these products

calling out the people during the “charity” events

cutting of trade with those who don’t give fair wages

he’s even actually been trying to actually raise those wages for the servants in the Kim house 

(of course with the request of your help)

and wow

the news are just having a field day and eating it up

so that ultimately means his parents are seeing all of this

and what happens?

he gets cut off

he’s no longer inheriting the Kim fortune

Dongkyu is getting everything and he gets nothing 

but with your help, he’s a successful business consultant

turns out that business degree did do some good

he helps develop local businesses and the money he makes

not only goes to good causes

but also to help promote your organization

with the rightful faces on it

as for you two?

let’s just say, you’re a lot closer than before

seeing his drive to help others

the effort he makes to recover from his blissful ignorance

you’ve grown a soft spot for him

as for Suho

he’s glad he has you

you’ve made him a better person

made him realize all the different things he can do

you two working together + practically dating?

the organization members are eating it up

(and you’re pretty sure they were betting but no one would say anything to your face)

anyways

dating a former rich kid! Suho is a lot more fun than you would have thought before

lots of dates are at your (or his) apartment

mainly yours because he’s got a studio and has a roommate

(he is broke)

anyways

you spend a lot of time working on building cases against companies

it’s mainly work bc humanity is evil

but when y’all aren’t working

it’s cuddle timeeeee

you would put shows on, but y’all aren’t watching

you spend a lot of time in his arms

or him in yours

(he likes being a little spoon and isn’t afraid to admit it)

and, as his official partner, you are always supported by him

Suho: “WOO-HOO YOU GOT THIS ANGEL”

You: “omg it’s flipping an egg, I’m not receiving a medal”

it’s cute tho

and ofc you got his back

when he was kicked out of the house, you straight up wreaked havoc

all those people were spreading rumors, you shut that shit down

when he kicked out with nothing more than a duffle of clothes, you became his safe haven

you helped him get back on his feet 

found what he really wanted to do

and he was able to find someone really special

you ♡ 

[toziers]

#12

it’s laid down in the grass / with our old and worn-out shoes / looking at the stars / on a blanket made for two - #12: in the stars - my brothers and i


technically, you could see the stars from anywhere in derry. a small town not yet overtaken by the towering sky-rises or cloudy pollutions of the neighboring industrial plants, just about any spot was good enough to crane your neck back and see constellations from horizon to horizon in any direction. not that richie was gonna stand in front of the aladdin looking like a flipping idiot trying to see cassiopeia or hercules; he might as well slap a sign on his chest that said “henry bowers please kick the shit out of me.”

you could see the stars from anywhere in derry, but the quarry, still and calm and free of sociopaths horny for violence, was richie’s favorite.

“just be home by midnight, boys,” maggie says, smacking richie’s hand away when he scoops a finger-full of brownie batter from the side of the mixing bowl. “richie! wash your hands first!”


“yeah, yeah, back by midnight, whatever, thanks mom!” he’s so tall he has to bend down to kiss her cheek now – like he has since he was 15, shooting up past her already impressive five-foot-eight and then surpassing even his father less than a year and a half later. the tallest of the losers by an inch (with stan tailing just behind) and the gangliest by a mile (though bill’s clumsy doe movements could give richie’s elbows a run for their money), richie was always bending, slouching, cramming himself into rooms and chairs and twin-sized beds. maybe that’s why he liked the quarry so much: at least out there he didn’t have to worry about smacking and whacking and thwacking into low door-frames or shin-height coffee tables. 


(eddie had laughed so hard the day richie ran forehead-first into a support beam of the bunker that he’d fallen out of the hammock. they’d spent the rest of the evening on richie’s couch watching cartoons: richie, holding an ice pack to his head, and eddie, holding one to his wrist. karma had never felt so fucking satisfying.)

“and take the quilt from the hall closet this time instead of one of my nice ones from the living room,” she adds sternly, and richie looks away, sheepish, as he wipes the saliva from his finger across his jeans. clearly he hadn’t done as good of a job getting the dirt stains out of the expensive fleece as he’d thought.

“i got it, mrs. t,” eddie says, holding up a roll of patchwork fabric half the size of his body. richie was the tallest, and eddie was the smallest, and it’d always been that way. (except for the summer that eddie hit his growth spurt before bill and spent two months holding that half-inch of height like a goddamn trophy until bill eventually overtook him again.) richie kinda liked it though; even now, eighteen years old and set on the path to university in the fall, they both still fit in the old worn-down hammock. they didn’t fit well, but they fit, and even if they didn’t, they would’ve found a way to squeeze in. eddie and richie were always finding ways to be close, making silent excuses for the way their thighs pressed together as they played video games or pretending their hands didn’t linger with every playful smack or tickle fight. they didn’t talk about it: the other losers didn’t either.

“rich, c’mon, we’re wasting daylight.”

“that’s the point, eds, it’s star-gazing.” but rich crosses the kitchen in two easy steps, and they take the bickering that follows out the front door as maggie calls out have fun! with a knowing smile on her face.

mothers always know.

* * *

“and that one’s gumbus minoris, named after the bravest man that ever lived; slayer of blockheads and — eddie, stop laughing, this is important — slayer of blockheads and slayer of pussy—”

“oh, beep beep richie,” eddie says, but his cheeks are red from giggling and his brown eyes sparkle with mirth under the light of the moon. “gumby doesn’t have his own fucking constellation.”

“he does too! trust me,” richie sniffs, rolling over to prop himself up on his elbow and using his free hand to push his glasses up his nose. “i’m an expert.”

“on what, bullshitting?”

richie scoffs. “why, i never!” he throws his palm over his chest, twisting his voice into something whiny and high pitched and about as close to a southern belle as eddie was to out-growing richie’s horrible Voices.

(which was to say not close, not even in the slightest.)

“ah swear it eddie, on all the fiyaflies in the field and all the twists in your britches.” richie gets another burst of sweet giggles for that and a light smack to his stomach. eddie’s hand lingers for a moment, fingers skimming over the faded print of richie’s prized liger t-shirt before dropping away. eddie’s gaze is still pointed at the sky, so richie lets himself indulge in the soft curves of the boy’s profile, in the way his long eyelashes brush against the hairs of delicate eyebrows.

when they were younger, richie used to pull eddie close and give him a gentle noogie or pinch his cheeks and call him cutecutecute. shit, richie still did that, did it a lot more regularly than ‘best friends’ probably should, but lately, richie was having to bite his tongue to keep from calling eddie something else —  pretty, maybe. or beautiful. a downright knock-out, from head to toe. richie’s eyes flick to the stars. heavenly would work, too.

“i’m telling you, it’s up there! see, right…” richie leans over onto eddie’s side of the blankets — to get the sight lines right, of course — and points, tracing the outline of the green character over a configuration of stars. “right there.”

eddie tilts his head away from the sky, beaming, and when richie turns his head too their faces are close enough that richie almost goes cross-eyed. “uh-huh. is pokey up there, too, mr. expert?”

the weight of eddie’s stare sits on richie’s heart like a hot hand on his bare chest, like always, but richie’s greens are aimed down. soft brown freckles are spattered across eddie’s nose and spread ear to ear: fuzzy stars against warm skin. richie’s spent hours finding his own constellations there, and across eddie’s arms, and his back, too, when they were all laid out on the rocks drying off after a swim.

“nah,” richie says, and brings his hand down to ghost his index finger over the slant of eddie’s cheekbone. he traces… something, some shape, drawing invisible lines from one freckle to the next; suddenly he can’t remember who pokey was, let alone what he looked like. “he’s right here.”

the puffs of eddie’s breath come out uneven — richie can feel it against where his palm hovers over eddie’s mouth — and when richie finally scrounges up the courage to meet the other’s gaze, eddie’s eyes have become little more than chocolate rings around blown-out pupils.

the desire to close the gap and kiss his best friend is stupidly, ferociously, unbearably overwhelming. there is a possibility (or maybe just the heart’s whisper of hope in richie’s chest) that, with the way eddie’s eyes flit to catch the movement of richie’s tongue wetting his lower lip, eddie might want to kiss him right back.

but beneath every loud, obnoxious, look-at-me-or-i-swear-i-might-die funny kid’s facade, there is a coward. taking chances on a dirty joke, on crossing lines with Voices and bits, that was easy. taking chances on this? eddie and richie stood on a tightrope, a precipice of love and love. 

don’t ruin this, the coward screams. you can’t lose him now.

so richie grins, pokes eddie’s nose, and flops back onto the blanket with his hands behind his head. “don’t bother asking about the blockheads, though, fuck if i know where they—”

if the force of eddie’s body dropping onto his wasn’t enough to knock the wind out of richie, the feeling of lips — his best friend’s lips, eddie’s lips, eddie’s pink, pouty, perfect lips — against his own did the trick. frozen, richie stares, wide-eyed behind the frames of his glasses that’d gone lop-sided when eddie flew across the blanket at him.

kiss him back, fuckass!

he does. richie’s head thumps softly to the ground as his hands fly to curl around eddie’s jaw, tender and desperate all at once. there’s no finesse, no grace to any of it; it’s all the fierce, wild energy that always ricocheted between them focused into a single, bruising kiss. richie’s heart is hammering against his ribs so hard he’s sure it’s shaking his entire being.

eventually, eddie pulls back, though his body stays half-flung over richie’s like a tiny blanket of energy. he’s breathing hard, and even in the faint glow of moonbeams, richie knows eddie’s face is flushed. actually, his probably is too; his cheeks feel hot (and his hands, and his stomach, and everywhere else eddie’s pressed up against).

“you’re a blockhead, richie,” eddie says, but his face lights up with the biggest smile richie’s ever seen.

i love you, richie’s heart sings.

“no, you’re a blockhead,” richie’s mouth says. his brain’s a little scrambled still, swimming with thoughts of eddie eddie eddie, and his smack talk suffers as a consequence. eddie still laughs; eddie always laughed. eddie would never tell, but he thought richie was the funniest person in the world, easy. it didn’t matter the joke, and it never would. if richie was speaking, eddie was right there with him, hanging on every word that came out of his trash mouth like richie was spinning gold with his tongue.

“guess that makes us a pair.” richie smiles then too, a rush of joy, unbridled and pure, washing over him so strongly he thought he might drown in it. the moment felt infinite and ephemeral, impossible and  palpable, all at once.

“guess so.”

they don’t get home before midnight. in three weeks, richie (and the rest of the losers, too) would leave for school, while eddie would stay in derry to take classes locally. the coward inside richie screamed worries of drifting apart, permanently or not, but for tonight, it was silenced by the bravest man that ever lived.

eddie, not fucking gumby.

you could see the stars from anywhere in derry, but laying at the top of the quarry side-by-side with eddie, hands clasped between them and ankles hooked so that their dirty converse knocked together — yeah, that took the fucking crown.

[luked4nuke]

If, I were President of the United States. (I just wanna state I’m not a democrat or republican)

First I’d enforce Quarantine and extend it. I’d also attend the poorest families or individuals first and provide them with the financial assistance they need. People are struggling hard enough as it is living paycheck to paycheck.

Second I’d shut down the schools as I believe safty more important especially for the future kids who will rule this place. I also don’t like how schools give so much homework and stress. They just condition kids into beleiving working 40 hours a week is normal and that you should be lucky to have weekends. Staying in classes all day then returning home only to be forced to complete more homework that takes up time and robs them of social interactions. These schools don’t even test knowledge. They test obedience and reward them for being quiet little slaves that will slowly become a “regular worker.” They really don’t care about how smart you are, they test memory over all else, when they study a subject and pass the test they move on quickly to the next one stressing them out. If they failed the test, to bad they’re still moving on with you. (Sorry this got way of topic. I just hate how schools operate and also how low they pay the teachers)

Third I would dismantle the police force and create a new one. A better one that focuses on real problems like sex trafficking and drugs. All the horrible crimes that are allowed to fly under the radar. Any excessive use of force would be heavily punished. Fired, fined and jail time. No shooting at peaceful protesters, seriously dafaq is wrong with them unleashing hell upon unarmed civilians and sneaking in rioters to escalate it to justify the force.

Fourth, gold is a finite resource. Pretty much all the money you’ve ever spent is fake, all digital backed by nothing. Personally I hate it but you’ve all becomes achstomed to it so I would attempt to fix the economy so people can afford essential things, like homes and food. Instead of kicking out homeless people Id build shelters. They make it to easy to fall down into poverty and nearly impossible to climb back up. Once you’ve been arrested, once you’ve been homeless, you understand the struggle of trying to reintergrate with society. The easiest path become the dark one. I would attempt to control the population, America is a gigantic habitat and likewise it has a carrying capacity. If you’re gonna argue people have to pay unreasonable amounts of money for food you’re crazy.

Immigrants are definitely allowed as long as they follow the rules and don’t commit crimes. America was litterally founded on immigrants. American stole land from the natives violently and even managed to capture Hawaii, which was its own nation. They taxed us and recognized us as a small power. Iolani Palace has electricity flush toilets and even phones before the White House did. Queen Lili’uokalani signed in duress. It horrible and sheforfeited her whole kingdom in exchange for the people, as a leader should. The people make a country, the government already should put the people first. Without all the hardworking Americans working, there is no country.

We don’t serve the government. As a government worker we serve the people. It’s our duty to ensure everybody is treated fairly. To make sure everybody that we oversee has the essentials for life, a home and food.

And for LGBT rights. I personally don’t care what the heck they do. Love is love, let it be. They can chose to identify as whoever they want and pursue relationships with whoever. You can’t force things onto people. America is supposed to be freedom personified, we can chose to do as we please as long as we don’t bring harm to others. Those camps are wrong. America is also religion free, you can be whatever you want, Christian Muslim, litterally anything. Being a satanist is totally legal as long as you don’t hurt anything. Believe in what you want and don’t force it on others. Gay people are amazing! We all are, were all human and we can change and create change. We are all human at the core and we always have been. We have a right to love, and to be loved by all around us. Love is love, let it be, theres always been love. I can identify as a man or woman, and I can damn well love either as I please as long it’s reciprocated. I’d always rather say I love you too much then not enough.

Climate change is real. The pollution of those stupidly large companies is also VERY real. As an individual you contribute less than a percent of the actual pollution, it’s literally the big corporations. That needs to stop. I’m not exactly sure how but I AM GOING to start a wave of change that will benefit the worlds health. We all live here. This is not political, I don’t have time for games, scientists that have studied their whole lives are begging for us to change. We can all have solar electricity farms and then it’d be FREE. “But you can’t charge people for that you can’t make money.” I’m NOT TRYING TO MAKE MONEY I DO NOT CARE ANOUT MONEY. IM AIMING FOR SOMETHING BIGGER THAN GREED THE BETTERMENT OF HUMANITY. I don’t care about ruining electric companies and other random fossil fuels bullshits that will run out, I want the future to be bright!

Screw it im going off the rails, schools main courses should focus on stuff like self sustainment, like farming and wilderness survival. Creativity because that’s the most human thing about us! Empathy basic Psychology. Kids can get mad they should learn and understand why. Understand why they feel the feelings they feel and giving them all better emotional control. EMPATHY. They need to learn things like taxes since they’re such a big part. Also why the heck are taxes so complicated. It’s just targeting the illiterate foreigners and immigrants who struggle and try to understand it and I believe that’s horrible. Make it easier to become apart of America the land of freedom and the getaway from the crueler areas of earth. Maybe just limit the population. Also seriously fuck off with taxes! Why the hell are you charging and taxing 14 year olds that aren’t allowed to vote, thats taxation without representation.

Taxes should be like Mario kart and Ancient Greece. Quote from some thing I googled

“The philosopher Aristotle developed the theme. His "magnificent man" gave vast sums to the community. But poor men could never be "magnificent" because they did not have the financial means. True wealth consists in doing good, Aristotle argued in the Art of Rhetoric: in handing out money and gifts, and helping others to maintain an existence.

The idea is simple the higher up you are on the financial ladder the more you have to pay taxes and contribute to society. The large taxes from the rich help fund financial aid for the poor and stuff. The rich did not earn that money they climbed to top on top a mountain of millions of shortcuts and underpaid workers It should be an honor to be taxed and help the poor people survive. Like in Mario kart, the higher you’re placed the harder it is to maintain it and the last place people always get the better power ups giving them a constant fighting chance. At most I believe wealth should be hoarded to sustain like one generation of kids, two at the most. Maybe three but theres no reason anybody should have all that money that your never going to spend or all that money that becomes worthless once a war or breaks out or aliens attack or something. Life is more important than money. Something simple everyone should consider.

I think everybody should be able to pursue a career and each career should be sustainable. Enjoyment in a job of your choosing without worrying about financial burden. Jobs would be divided into smaller simple groups and the pay would based on their contribution to society. Like doctors getting paid more and getting teachers paid more, but small retailers wouldn’t get paid as much but they could survive not living paycheck to paycheck. The motivation is everybody should free to pursue the hobby they love without being punished. Maybe little Timmy doesn’t want to be a firefighter, maybe he desires a simple fun life selling flowers. That’s fine! Maybe they don’t wanna become the hero but it’ll be an honor to society. As long as you have a job that contributes to society you can live for free. If everybody is constantly trying to make the most profit, then we all become a bucket of crabs dragging each other down. I can’t sell my $10 good that costed me $2 to make. Also the whole buy back thing irritates me, I spent $60 on this goddamn game and GameStop can only give me like $10 in store credit or $5 in real life? That’s isn’t fair and that applies to pretty much everything. That’s $1000 phone you bought is barley worth $357 right now. I’m pretty sure it didn’t cost that much to make these things but like DAMN. Capitalism sucks.

In summary, I don’t know much about politics but I would be the human party. I don’t care about left or right. I’m the one that doesn’t care about money. I care more about life and creativity. Peoples right to enjoyment and living a happy life with others regardless of gender. Survival of the human race and advancement into the future where more things are free and we can constantly focus on creating an even BETTER one. We can’t go anywhere without each other especially if we’re all just a bucket of crabs. To greedy and self destructive constantly looking out only for themselves. Seriously get your act together humans before you kickstart your own downfall. If we’re all trying to make a profit, nobody does. The best things in life are free. You can pursue wealth for your future or you can focus and live and enjoy and love the now. Mario kart style, where all in this race for life and we all deserve a winning chance.

[looking-for-wisdom]

It had begun with the standard political dinner, as if Zoya hadn’t already had enough reason to hate them. Such was the trouble of being an important person— there was no hope in slipping away undetected. Nikolai had insisted she’d come despite the fact he was bargaining for sponsorship. Zoya had never found finance particularly interesting, especially when it was a matter of wooing the rich. She’d had quite enough of wealthy men for one lifetime.

Unfortunately, she didn’t trust anyone else with the job of Nikolai’s partner. So she’d gone, and faked a smile and laughed at mediocre jokes and whispered silly secrets to Nikolai.

Men were horribly stupid that way. They blinded themselves with their assumptions of her and she never failed to be amused at their shock when they found out the King’s giggling arm candy had been speaking their demise into his ear the whole time.

It’d been going so well. The Count had done everything but vocally promise his support. It would have only taken a few more moments, but for perhaps the first time ever, Nikolai had decided to put his feelings before the state’s affairs. Zoya had always called him a fool but she’d never once believed it until then.

“If I were so inclined to agree to your terms,” the old man said, a mirth in his voice that suggested Nikolai had already convinced him, “perhaps you’d be grateful enough to allow me a night with your general. I’ve heard only good things.” 

He said the word “general” as if it were a title only put before her name to justify her spot as the king’s whore. That was the rumor, after all, and why would he believe she was a threat when he’d never seen her play that role. She could have gutted a man in front of him and he still might have made excuses for her. How could a woman so beautiful have room left for cruelty, men like him would wonder, as if cruelty and beauty hadn’t always gone hand in hand.

She’d inhaled sharply, barely keeping her rage in check, but bit her tongue. The insult to her intelligence was more infuriating than his poorly hidden lust. She was used to the latter. The former was almost as common, but she allowed less people to get away with it.

Juris had taught her the importance of biding her time, though, so she smiled stupidly all the while thinking of how she’d destroy him when he’d least expect it.

She’d been about to answer with a regretful excuse when Nikolai had jumped in, mistaking the way her body tensed for fear rather than anger.

“She is not a gift of mine to give or, for that matter, a prize of yours to take,” he’d answer with coldness in his voice that sucked any trace of humor from the room. When no one spoke he opened his mouth again as if to further scold the Count, but Zoya didn’t give him the chance.

She placed her hand on his knee. To an onlooker it might have looked like an act of comfort, sweet, even. But Nikolai knew how tightly she was gripping him. They’d worked together far too long for him to miss recognize her threat.

She hummed gingerly and broke the silence. “Now, now,” she cooed, relying on the one rumor that could save them, though it was a more dangerous one now that Nikolai’s fiancé was in the picture, “there’s no reason to be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

She winked at the Count from across the room, becoming more irritated by the second that she was the one forced to clean up this mess. The King could afford the gossip of being territorial of his lovers— his father had survived such rumors. He would not, however, endure being painted as the enemy of all disgusting men. They were a needed enemy for the time being— they held 70% of Ravka’s wealth.

Zoya felt him strain even further beneath her hand, but he got the message. She didn’t want his help.

The Count still seemed on edge, but he at least seemed to understand the explanation. Encroaching on another man’s property was frowned upon. Doing so to a king was just foolish.

“Unfortunately,” Zoya continued when she was sure the situation had been diffused as best as possible, “I fear I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps we can finish this discussion in the morning when our minds our fresh?”

The Count nodded though there was still a hint of strain in his face. Nikolai offered him a half-hearted thanks, though Zoya didn’t count doing the bare minimum as coming to his senses. She wanted him out of there as quickly as possible, before he could completely ruin their chances.

“Nikolai, would you be a dear and walk me to my room?” She asked, her voice honey sweet but her eyes assuring it wasn’t a request.

They weren’t two steps from the dining room when Zoya’s facade dropped, but she waited until they were behind closed doors to truly let lose.

The guest room she’d been allowed to stay in was large, albeit tacky, but with sun gone from the sky the room’s only source of light was the fireplace in front of the bed. It was there that she finally stopped and turned to meet Nikolai’s eyes. His expression was unreadable and sent a fresh wave of anger through her.

“What was that?” She snapped, finally, like a predator pouncing on its prey.

Any evidence of that impulsive, stubborn anger was gone from his face. It was almost enough to make Zoya think it’d never existed in the first place. Outbursts like that were rare from Nikolai— no, unheard of. Not once had she ever seen him lose his temper so suddenly. Not once, at least, before that dinner.

When he spoke, he did so with nonchalance, as if there had been nothing strange about it. The act made Zoya want to steal the breath from his lungs just to stop his words.

“You are a member of the Grisha Triumvirate, appointed by the King of Ravka. The Count knows you rank above him. Such behavior is completely unprofessional and a disrespect to the crown itself. To be completely honest I’m surprised you hadn’t torn him limb from limb before I had the chance— we both know your perfectly capable of it,” he answered with a half smile as if he expected her to return his banter.

Zoya was in no such mood.

She should have expected he’d know exactly what to say. Nikolai always did, and yet she was still taken aback by his approach. Leave it to him to appeal to her logic and pride of her position. When he said it like that, it almost made sense. But she had been in the room with him, and the distain in his voice had not been that of a cleverly worded warning. It’d been the distain of a man playing the part of the noble hero. He had come to her defense not because they both knew damn well she had more than earned the Count’s respect. He’d done it because she was Zoya— a human being who deserved to be treated like a person, not an object.

Zoya knew it with every cell in her body, because if he’d really been driven by the former she would not be feeling a long buried hope rising in her again. There would not be a part of her who was grateful to him, despite the stupidity of his actions, because she was convinced that no other man would have even thought to call the Count out that way.

She forced that feeling deep inside herself and directed her focus on more practical things. His kindness meant nothing when Ravka couldn’t afford a king who picked reckless battles.

“We don’t need some crusty old man’s respect, Nikolai,” she retorted, once again shocked that he of all people needed this reminder. “We need his money. Have you forgotten our country is broke or are you simply that stupid? If wasn’t going to have to sleep with him before, I certainly do after the stunt you’ve just pulled. But, of course, you’re right. Enjoy your petty fights, Ravka be damned.”

Nikolai paled and Zoya thought idly that her last comment might have been a tad unfair before he answered.

“No.”

“No, what?” She demand.

“No, you don’t have to sleep with anyone,” Nikolai answered, face fierce, leaving no room for dispute, “that is not your job. No one would ask that of you.”

She stared back at him, incredulous. This was not the usual assumption she could be softened and taught feelings. This was the assumption that she already had them— that she need not change in order to avoid being asked to sell herself. Zoya wasn’t sure which was the bigger insult.

“No one is asking anything of me,” she said sharply, “I am willing to do whatever it takes to save my country. In fact, the point of this conversation is to remind you that you have always done the same.”

There was a pause as she watched him straighten and shift, mouth set in a thin line. She knew this persona well, but she couldn’t remember the last time it had been used on her. This was Nikolai the King, not Nikolai the colleague.

“You will give that man nothing,” he stated, “that is a direct order from your king.”

Zoya’s eyes narrowed. She spoke slowly so he would understand what she was saying.

“Nikolai, I chose to follow you all those years because I thought you would be good for Ravka, but do not mistake me. I am not some pawn to control as you please. I have acted on your former requests because I have found no reason not to trust you. I suggest you do not make me reconsider that decision.

The room was silent for a long moment and Zoya found herself feeling sick. This was not the Nikolai she had come to know. This was not the boy she had saved from the thorn wood and fought along side in the war. The incident at dinner was perplexing, but at the end of the night she could have reduced it to a simple fluke. This was different. This was like seeing the old king out of the face of a boy she’d grown to depend on. This felt desperately close to losing him.

But then his face softened and Nikolai was himself again. Zoya felt herself let out a breath, though she hadn’t realized she’d ever started holding it.

“That is the Zoya I know,” he said finally, “I don’t understand where she went tonight.”

Zoya searched for words as a new anger rose in her chest. The hypocrisy of it was almost laughable. Just a moment before he’d had her thinking she had lost him to his own power. The grief of the prospect was still fresh. And now he asked how she could possibly act the part of something she was not?

Before the thorn wood perhaps she might have reacted the way he expected, before the civil war there was no doubt about it. But since she and Juris had become one she found that vengeance could wait. Patience was no difficult thing when she could feel lifetimes coursing through her. She almost thought it rude that he saw her as such a liability.

“I would burn down cities for this country. Enduring one evening of ignorance is nothing if it means we will be able to pay for the upcoming war. You know that as well as I.“

This time, Nikolai didn’t argue. Zoya relaxed with the knowledge that Nikolai’s oddness at dinner had been just that: an oddity. She still didn’t understand what cord had been struck to trigger such an uncharacteristic reaction, but she took comfort in the reassurance that it would not happen again. Besides, it was an equal trade, she supposed. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind her actions either.

“You know, I have dealt with the Count’s brand of stupidity for 13 years and have yet to stumble upon a new insult to rile me. You, on the other hand, have quite the knack of finding new ways to spark my frustration whenever I think I’m immune,” she teased allowing the conversation to fall back on more familiar banter.

“You give them too little credit,” Nikolai retorted, following her lead, “Surely you weren’t nine when it started— maybe when you really hit year thirteen they’ll find some clever way to spite you.”

Zoya quirked an eyebrow at that. He thought she was exaggerating the disgusting tendencies of men?

“If anything it’s been longer. Nine was simply the first time they put me in a wedding dress,” she said, feeling as if she’d won this round.

His next words kept her from feeling too smug, though. “That’s not legal.”

Only three words and yet they conveyed a whole world of naivety— a trait she’d never associated with him. Too late she remembered the incredulous look on his face as she’d suggested possible suitors. She’d thought it was a personal standard— she could understand refusing to wed a fifteen year old. Teenagers were beyond irritating. But the prospect that he truly thought it a universal belief that taking a child’s innocence was wrong? It was a moral she shared but knew most did not.

A sharp laugh was all she could manage. It might have been a bit cruel, but she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed by his horror or simply annoyed by his ignorance on the matter. “That’s not legal,” he’d said. Zoya wished that statement had been true for the nine year old her mother had tried to marry off.

“Your pampered upbringing is showing,” she commented, knowing how much effort he’d put into understanding the life of commoners but not caring as long as it wiped that pity filled look from his face.

Once again he said nothing and Zoya thought absently of all the times she’d wanted to put him at a loss for words. This was much less satisfying than she’d hoped. She knew she’d never mentioned it before— to be frank she hadn’t meant to let it slip out— but she’d never expected such a reaction.

“Quit looking at me like I’m an injured doe. Nothing came of it. I was discovered as grisha and brought to the little palace before I could go through with the wedding.”

“And if you hadn’t been grisha?” He asked eyes cold with an anger that wasn’t directed at her.

If she wasn’t grisha? Zoya didn’t want to think of that. Would she even be herself without her power? Would she be alive without it?

“What does that matter?” She snapped, not wanting to consider it any longer.

He stared at her for a moment, a silent conversation transcending between them. His gaze seemed to analyze her for any hint of pain left over from an incident over a decade before. Perhaps she would have had something to offer if he’d been there thirteen years ago. If Nikolai had been there... it was an interesting thought. If they’d known each other back then when she’d had Liliyana and unhampered ambition. If they’d known each other when she’d been cruel, a pawn in the darkling’s plan. Would things have been different? Would the grief in her be any easier to bear?

If she’d known his warmth during the worst of her life would she be able to give him up to Ehri in a few short months?

She was shaken from her wondering when Nikolai finally spoke. “Do you have any parchment here?” He questioned.

It took a moment to process the odd shift in subject, but Zoya gestured to her right. “In the desk.”

He nodded and settled at the poorly lit table. He didn’t speak for a long moment, focusing on whatever he was writing. Zoya watched him from her place by the fire, confused but not willing to start another conversation.

After what seemed like hours he stood and turned to face her, paper in hand. “We return to Os Alta tomorrow morning. Upon our arrival I begin the process of declaring this law.”

She took the page from his outstretched hand. It was a legal document— a bill amending the legal age of marriage thirteen.

It was obvious that he wasn’t completely content with it— if he’d had it his way he probably would have gone so far as sixteen or eighteen, but change was slow in Ravka. Zoya, however, did not share his disappointment. At thirteen she would have understood what the marriage entailed. She would have fought back. It was a step in the right direction.

She felt an aching gratefulness go through her body as she thought of the little girls who would be saved from her past. This time, Zoya was the one without words. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her impulsive temptations down with it.

Still, she could not chase away one realization: she had not known him all those years ago. She could not change that. But somehow having him with her now made the tragedy a bit easier to handle. He gave her suffering hope.

She wanted to do something, anything, to tell him that. But in the end she knew she had no such luxury. There had once been a time where they could spend entire nights spilling secrets. Nights where she could watch him in guarded wonder as his kindness prevailed despite Ravka’s often infectious despair.

Those nights had ended when he’d taken her advice and chosen a bride.

She handed the decree back to him, before replying. “It’s late. You should leave before people are given any more reason to believe you aren’t taking your engagement seriously.”

He pursed his lips and for a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only nodded.

“Good night, General Nazyalensky.”

Not trusting herself with an apathetic reply she stood on her toes and planted a small peck on his cheek. She hoped it might say what she could not.

After he’d left Zoya had laid in bed for hours, cursing him for being impossible to stay angry with.

[danaty-consolation]

More Mermaid Hunter Au ideas

tagging @artistefish and @purpletiger15, because this Au became big, the first post about the concept is here.

Fluff

1.The girls help Mana in being more socially aware, they also  go to shopping and have a good time.

2. The boys help Yuta and Mao to lose up a bit by going places and taking photos, Yuta and Mao begin to have more fun.

3. To help with cash they all do jobs, there was one time that the girls had to group cosplay in a cosplay competition and that gave them a lot of Money.

“Why do I have to be Sailor Pluto?” Mana said.

“Because you’re amazing, more mature and  the one who is all serious,  is perfect for you!”

“Girls, Do you think I should really be Sailor Venus?” Nanoka said a bit embarrassed” my hair is not long”

“It’s ok,  your personality and character is perfect for Venus, small details can be played down!”

4. They all love to go to the beach (even if they have to keep the guard up)

5. There are bonfires and they all talk about things or past adventures while sleeping with the stars.

Neutral

6. There will be a time when they need to go to a Masquerade ball of two important people of the black mermaid  market organization to investigate (because  those people are stupidly rich and in this case like to waste it in parties), and all of them will have to go in formal wear to not catch suspicious eyes, it will be an interesting party.

All the girls go with this dress with this mask with their respective colors: Mana with a black-blue color, Kagome with red, Akane with a sky Blue, Lum with Teal, Sakura with a light purple and Nanoka with yellow.

(They all catch the attention of the male population in the ball, and get a lot of invitations to dance

The boys all use smoking suits and the mask with ties of the same color as their respective girl dresses.

(All the boys are killing it with the smoking suit, like Imagine Yuta, Mao, Inuyasha, Ranma, Ataru and Rinne in it?  yes fanservice)

Angsty

7.The first time they saw Yuta and Mana die, was horrible, because even if they knew they were immortal it was tragic and after they revived,   Yuta is tackled down with  the boys meanwhile a relieved and happy Mao is looking at the back (later on mao will open up a bit and give up an hug too) and  The girls group hug Mana while crying.

7. When all of them become immortal is a fact that all of them has seen each other die and is not a funny memory, so they try to evade dying  at all the cots (but of course  it still happens)

8. Mao lost the count of how many times patched everyone up including himself.

9. The gang can’t help to wonder the “if’s”  about what could have happened if the mermaid flesh had turned them into lost souls of killed them since all of the people who had seen eat it or the other parts of the mermaid have a horrible fate, it’s a scary memory for them.

10. Most of them are scared to come back to their home one day, since being immortal they don’t have a sense of time but after a lot of years pass they return as visitors, it’s bittersweet.

[azuremist]

Title: Not Today

Fandom: Professor Layton

Characters: Henry, Randall, Angela, Hershel, briefly mentioned noncanon therapist

Pairing: (Presumably one-sided) RanHen

Words: 2,687

Warnings: Internalized homophobia, self-hatred, character death, violence on inanimate objects, divorce mention. (Ask to add more!)

Summary: Henry reflects how he falls for his best friend, Randall Ascot, along with Randall’s death, and how it affects his life today. Takes place before Miracle Mask.

Taglist: @lukeowotriton 

Reblogs > Likes!

You know, everyone expects me to be moving on soon. In all honesty, I doubt that. But, at the very least, if I’m moving on someday, that day isn’t today, that’s for sure.

I don’t remember when I first met him. I was young, in my defense, but how weird is that to think about? How can the memory of the moment that changed my life forever be fuzzy around the edges, much less blurred out of sight?

I do remember what lead up to it. Mother divorced Father, despite my father being the breadwinner. Left devoid of cash, my mother decided to take up the role of a servant, and she even had me working as a young, young child, in order to get extra money. I remember holding onto her dress on my way to the Ascot household for the first time, and I remember her saying that I would serve their son in particular. But… It stops once the door is opened.

I’m positive I just saw him for what he was. A kid who wore his bedhead like it was a trendy style, with freckles and a horrible sense of fashion. And he was the person who I would be serving for; so I disregarded him as a person, and registered him as a boss.

I’d heard my mother complain about serving Randall’s parents; how demanding they were and such. I couldn’t deny that she looked exhausted all of the time. So, I expected the same experience with this redheaded boy… But I guess I forgot one crucial thing. He was just that; a boy.

I constantly asked him if he needed something, and the most he ever asked of me was a glass of water. Otherwise, he would just smile at me. The requests he usually gave me were along the lines of, “Hehe, I ‘command’ you to play robots with me!” Randall didn’t really want much, it seemed, except for a friend.

That was alright with me. My father never called, and mother tended to be busy, other than the occasional scolding for me. So, from young boys, Randall and I grew close. Going on what he claimed was ‘adventures’, when, in reality, we were just going across the street to get some pop. In his own way, though… He did make everything into an adventure. Singing a tune from some action movie, holding my hand as he ran ahead… It made life with him have color. Every time he spoke, I felt him wiping away the monochrome hue from my eyes, and I could see the world as colorful as it was.

Mother only had that small house to keep me separate from work as a baby. So, with no need for that any longer, the Ascot residence became my new home. Every night was like a sleepover; and when I got nightmares, I passed up my mother’s sleeping area in favor for Randall’s room, where he let me climb into his bed and snuggle up close. He was warm. And I fell asleep by focusing on trying to make our breathing match.

Those early times were scary sometimes. I was a child who had a job, who had to work to provide for my mother and myself. I was always scared of messing up, especially because of my mother’s strictness… But when I was with Randall, I felt safe. I was able to feel like a child again. The world was colorful.

And that’s how it was for a long, long time. Just the two of us, unable to be torn apart. When I talked to him, or… Just listened; just listened to him talk about fossils and treasure with that wonderful glimmer in his eye… I felt like I was in a bubble of white light, protecting us from the scary outside world and the looming threat of growing up.

Then, around… Oh… Middle school, maybe, Randall brought home another friend. Hershel Layton.

I didn’t dislike Hershel, don’t mistake me here. He was kindhearted and quiet, and helped keep Randall in line when I couldn’t. But, suddenly, it wasn’t just Randall and I anymore. There was this intruder trying to break into our bubble. Even looking back on it now, I wouldn’t say I was jealous… I was just panicked about the change. Things were changing again, and at the time I wanted them to change the least.

Something important you have to know is that, back when I was a child… Well, ‘the gays’ were talked about sparingly, especially when it came to rich people like the Ascots. But I sometimes overhead Randall’s father talking about his ‘sick brother’. I assumed this mystery brother had a cancer of some kind; which would explain his live-in male roommate. Some sort of doctor, maybe…?

But, over time, I pieced together what was really happening. Randall’s uncle was sick in the head. Mentally ill. He was in love with his roommate… His male roommate. Gross, right?

But when I heard about this, my stomach twisted. I felt like throwing up. I didn’t know that this ‘sickness’ was possible; that it was physically possible to like another boy. But now that I knew it was possible, I couldn’t help but wonder…

Was I sick, too?

Was this sickness behind the feeling of safety I felt around Randall? Was this why, when Randall smiled, it felt like something warm spilt in my heart, and why when he laughed (full-on snort-laughed), I felt like I would give a kidney to hear it again? Was this why I felt my face go hot when he touched my skin? Was this not a strong feeling of friendship and platonic companionship, like I had thought?

I had to know more. Was this sickness going to cause me harm? Would it affect anything else as I grew up? My vision, my hearing? What was happening to me?

What was wrong with me?

I was wondering all of this when Hershel came along. Change was the last thing I needed at that time… But there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to put a lid on my feelings, and shove them into a dark corner of my heart.

Even if I was sick, wouldn’t it be selfish to ever want to date Randall when being his friend was basically the best thing that ever happened to me?

Then high school hit, and on came puberty. And suddenly, girls were all Randall could talk about.

He talked about all sorts of girls. He talked about the blonde girl who he liked, and the girl with pretty eyes who flirted with him. More and more, especially loud when other people were around. I expected these feelings to come to me, too, sometime soon. Maybe this sickness of mine could be grown out of?

No. It only got worse with age.

While Randall drooled over girls, all I could notice were boys. How they talked, how they moved… I was going absolutely, positively boy-crazy. And that was a problem when there was a very kindhearted, and very, very handsome boy within the range of my home, at literally all times.

I wish I could say I just began to notice how nice he was, because that would be less embarrassing, but it was more than that. It was how his muscles moved under his shirt, and how he smelled like pine trees and the outdoors. But not in a gross way… In a nice way. It was how his skin was dusted with sweet freckles and how he showed his gums when he smiled. I saw all of it, and I couldn’t try to deny to myself anymore that I was head-over-heels, stupidly, helplessly in love with my best friend, Randall Ascot.

Do you know what it’s like to live with the person you love? It’s like living with fire. You want to get close… You’re so memorized by its every flicker and glow. But it’s dangerous… Because if you touch it. Well. You burn. But you can’t help but wonder how that beautiful fire; that beautiful, dangerous fire; feels on your skin.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to burn. I couldn’t tell him I was sick. Even if he was sick too… Where would that lead us? We would still be mentally ill. And would that mean I was dragging Randall down with me? And if I told him I was sick, and he was normal, then I would be absolutely ruined. Not only would I lose my best friend, but he would tell everyone. And I would be on the streets faster than you can say ‘rejection’. That’s what happened to Randall’s uncle, anyway…

I lived in constant fear. I hated myself. I hated myself so much, and I wanted to push it onto someone else. Anyone else. I was looking for someone to hate.

And then, Angela began to date Randall.

And it was like every cell in my body locked onto her, and said, “Yes. That one.”

It’s… Silly, looking back on it. Unlike Hershel, I was jealous of Angela. So jealous that I hated everything about her. I took out everything; my self-hatred, my confusion, my unrequited love; onto her. Well… That would imply that I was… Bullying her. I wasn’t. I internalized it all, just like before. But at least all of these feelings weren’t for myself.

The worst thing I would do is that I would interrupt whenever she and Randall got ‘alone time’. Because thinking about those two kissing, or doing anything beyond that, made me… Not angry… But sad. It was kind of pathetic… But I was still holding onto that hope, that silly little hope, that I might be Randall’s first kiss.

Thinking about Randall and I being together like that… Kissing… It made me feel like I was surrounded in warm, fluffy clouds.

Anyways, I didn’t do anything to Angela. I just wallowed in my own pathetic bitterness and my worries and my love, and it all molded together into a horrible, horrible goopy mess, lying in my stomach for most of my teenage years.

Yes, I eventually did learn to like Angela, once I figured out I was being incredibly silly about this whole thing. I was only hurting myself more by putting energy into hating someone who didn’t even do anything wrong. We bonded a lot over not only Randall, but also our common interests in books. And, with time, Hershel and Angela became a part of our bubble, and it didn’t feel as crowded anymore. I began to feel like, maybe… Maybe… Things were going to be okay.

I had it all planned. Randall would never have to know how I felt, and he would marry Angela, completely and utterly clueless. I would be his best man, and I would hand him off to Angela. Not because I loved him any less, but because I loved him so, so much. At least, this way, I would get to see him smile and laugh in the arms of someone who loved him like I did, rather than him finding out how I felt, and leaving me for good.

Then he died.

When we found out, Angela began to cry on the spot. But I went numb. My eyes wide, my mouth agape, and I felt absolutely, positively nothing.

It was on the way home that it hit me.

The love of my life, Randall Ascot, had fallen into a pit and died a painful, horrible death. We didn’t even know where his body was. It was likely covered in blood, lying limp, a shell of the wonderful boy it once was. I would never see his eyes again. I would never see him smile again, or laugh again. Randall… My sweet Randall… Was dead in a pit.

And now, I would go my entire life without kissing him, or telling him how much I loved him.

I went home alone that day. Angela and Hershel went somewhere, I can’t remember where. But once I was alone… In the house that he and I grew up in together…

I had, what Angela so lovingly called, a ‘Hen-rage attack’.

All of the feelings I had been trying to repress; sadness, stress, frustration, hatred, and the stinging loss of love; came up all at once in a violent outburst, and I absolutely wrecked the house that wasn’t even mine to begin with.

Screaming, crying, I broke furniture, punched walls, and threw china onto the ground. I went completely mad, taking out my fury on anything that dared be in my vision. My vision, by the way, was blurred, but everything looked red and everything felt hot. With every object I broke in that house, I only wanted to break more, and more, and more. And I screamed incoherent sentences, proclaiming how much I hated this, and how the love of my life was gone. Forever.

When I was done, I was covered in dust. My knuckles were bleeding profusely, and I tasted metal in my mouth, as well. And I was in the middle of all of this carnage, sobs violently going through my body. I didn’t feel any better. I thought this would help. But it didn’t.

Because Randall Ascot was still dead.

That feeling of helplessness… That is my motivation now.

I faked my marriage to Angela, so I wouldn’t have to believe that Randall Ascot was dead. I spent thousands of dollars of exploration missions so I wouldn’t have to believe that Randall Ascot was dead. I created and was the mayor of a whole city so I wouldn’t have to believe that Randall Ascot was dead. I worked hard every day, so I wouldn’t ever have to succumb to that horrible, horrible feeling ever again.

Is this denial? Was this just pushing off the inevitable time when I would have to accept Randall’s passing? Probably. Well, that’s what my therapist says, anyways.

Yes, Angela and I both went to therapy. Sometimes together, usually separately… And, every meeting, she would suggest ways to ‘move on’.

“Your whole life revolves around you living in your past,” she would say. “You need to live in the now.”

She suggested that I visit Randall’s grave every day, and talk to it like he was there. Then, after a month, I would tell him goodbye. I did that… But when the day came to say goodbye, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. That word… That simple ‘farewell’… It was stuck on my tongue, and choked my throat. I ended up leaving the gravestone without saying a word.

Then, she tried a different approach; she told Angela to take away the robot that Randall gave to me as a child, without telling me. Real great idea, that one. I went into a full-on rage again, and teared up the house trying to find the robot; my precious comfort item. Angela returned to a house that looked absolutely destroyed on the inside, and me in the middle of it, sobbing, and trying to retrace my steps of the past month on a piece of paper. Safe to say, that didn’t work.

Then, she suggested writing a letter to say goodbye to Randall. I like writing, so… I tried it.

So I sat at my desk, staring at a blank piece of paper. I licked my lips and began, ‘Dearest Randall.’

‘It’s just that…’ I erased that.     

‘Do you remember…’ No good, either.

‘I think that…’ No, no, no.

None of it was good enough. None of it was enough to say how much I felt for him. Despite the wonderful, wide variety of words, there was simply no way to tell him exactly how I felt, in any language.

So, instead, I wrote this:

‘Dearest Randall,

You know, everyone expects me to be moving on soon. In all honesty, I doubt that. But, at the very least, if I’m moving on someday, that day isn’t today, that’s for sure.

Love until the last star dies,

Henry Ledore.’

[anodyne-sunflower]

The Yearbook (Part 2)-High School series

A/N: It’s here! Part 2, turtle doves. I love writing this stupid fic, all because I had a whack ass dream about Balem being a dick to Newt in school…oy. Anyway, I know Marius has an English accent lol but for drama sake, he’s got a French one in this. Use your imagination. Also, if you requested to be a teacher in this, I will slowly (try) to introduce you. That being said, I’m not basing any of their actions off y’alls personality. That’s too much work, and I’m lazy…cut me a break. So, it’s name only haha. Enjoy!

MOOD MUSIC: Feel it still by Portugal. The Man

***

You threw your backpack onto the table, pulling out a chair and taking a seat as you looked around the almost empty library. No other students plagued the aisles of books, or extended their stay on the empty computer desks. It was how you enjoyed the library, quiet and devoid of all other life. Save for your best friend, who was busy burying his nose into another wildlife book to pay much attention to your topic of conversation.

“Newt!”

The freckled boy glanced up, blinking at you stupidly before smiling. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Never mind…” You sighed into your jacket sleeve, restlessly leaning back and forth in your chair as you watched the clock tick by. School wasn’t entirely awful, but in the realm of activities, you’d much rather be sleeping at this ungodly hour. “I am not looking forward to drama class. Why is that even important? I have no use for acting classes…”

“Perhaps you should’ve taken biology.” Newt mumbled nonchalantly, flipping the page and highlighting parts he found particularly interesting.

“I am, but…wait,” You fell forward into the table, hands slamming into the surface and scaring the other student from his reverie of animals. “Did you not sign up for drama class? First period? With Ms. Derboven…?”

Newt stared pathetically at you, a sudden dark cloud emerging over his messy head of hair. You knew that look all too well, you had been victim to it many times in your friendship. That guilty smile, that nervous laugh…it was just another blow to your already annoyed mood.

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” you threatened between gritted teeth, leaning closer to your friend. Your proximity caused a flush of red to sweep along his cheeks, and he lifted his book to cover the obvious sign of nervousness. “So help me god if you didn’t-“

“I swear it was not intentional…” he attempted to soothe your anger, still keeping that sheepish grin on his features. He assumed it would make it all go away, as it usually did. But, you only glared deeply at him, getting closer until your noses were touching and he had no choice but to sit silent and listen. Not that it was difficult for him, your perfume and entrancing eyes were enough to gain his focus.

“Newt, I don’t want to take that class alone! They say the teacher is eccentric and expects you to perform for her the very first day! I don’t know how to act! I’m not even sure I know how to create art…I’m gonna die…that’s it…my social life is now null and void and I will forever be known as the girl who fucked up her monologue.”

“That’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Newt cleared his throat, taking his chance to move away from you while you wallowed in your self pity.

“What’s dramatic is leaving your best friend to endure a full hour and a half of drama class.” Perhaps you were being a bit of a whiner, but facing courses without anyone you knew was always a rough situation. One you didn’t want to deal with senior year.

“I don’t believe dramatic fits that sentence-“

“There you are, Newt!”

The two of you looked up, your eyes falling upon a young man running over to you both. He was dressed like a complete hipster, one you’d find on some Instagram post about charcoal ice cream or what not. His fedora tilted sloppily to the side, giving him a very relaxed look that was only overshadowed by his striking red hair. He certainly knew how to gain attention.

“Oh, hello…” Newt dropped his book to the table, watching as this boy took a seat next to him and began going on about money and drawings. None of it made sense to you, and you sat there completely befuddled by his sudden appearance.

“So, I kind of need the money now…any chance you can pay?” The red head held his hand out, a huge smile on his face when Newt fished through his pockets and handed him some crumpled up bills.

“That should be sufficient.”

“Thank you, I need new supplies…”

“Um,” You interjected, nudging Newt on the arm to introduce you to this new kid. He looked faintly familiar, but it was hard to forget someone with his looks and hair. So you imagined he didn’t make a huge impression the first time, if you ever met him before that is. “Newt?”

Newt, glad for the distraction from your anger, held his hand out towards the red head and quickly blurted out an introduction. As if he didn’t really see the point in doing so. “That’s Jack. He offered to do some drawings for my book I’m writing.”

It dawned on you then, the red hair, the somewhat messy tie. You had seen him before, he was a frequent flyer in the principal’s office, although his offenses were of a lesser degree than the resident bad boy, Eddie. “You’re the one who makes those really amazing murals, right? On the gymnasium, and men’s bathroom!”

Jack hadn’t been paying much attention to you or Newt, he was busy counting the money and figuring out what to purchase with it. But, the moment your melodic voice hit his ears, he nearly froze in his actions. With a surprised expression he glanced up, green eyes widening when he saw you. He could count on one hand the number of girls he found attractive at this school, because the fact was, you were the only one he found charming. Every other girl was so caught up in their looks or social lives it grated on his nerves. There was something refreshing about you though, a trait he wasn’t yet knowledgeable about but, he felt it.

You pursed your lips, eyeing him strangely while he just stared. The silence built to a level that even gained Newt’s attention, and with a curious glance he turned to his friend.

“Jack-“

Before he could get another word out, Jack leaned forward, a glint of wonder in his eyes as he looked you over. “Can I draw you?”

It was an odd request, one you didn’t expect to receive today. To say you were flattered though, would be an understatement. A soft blush formed on your features, a smile curling along your lips as you giggled nervously. “I, uh-“

Newt watched the exchange, somewhat annoyed, but otherwise keeping his mouth shut. He didn’t care for the way Jack looked at you, it was reminiscent to the way you eyed Stephen earlier. A hint of arousal, and longing that only made the animal lover jealous. Try as he might, Newt wasn’t very adept at burying his feelings. “Stop asking everyone to let you draw them.”

“How else am I supposed to practice?”

“Perhaps you should do your art assignments.”

“What a waste of time. Art isn’t something you can schedule or direct…” The entire time he spoke, his eyes fixated on you and only you. It was as if he was already sketching you into his mind, taking every lovely detail and canvassing it into his memories. “It has to be free, spontaneous…”

There was something in the way he spoke that made your heart flutter, like the very passion he conveyed could be felt in his words. It was mesmerizing, and you nearly toppled into his spell if not for Newt interrupting him.

“Jack,” It was when he reached out to touch you that Newt had enough, and with a sigh he held his book up, blocking the artist’s wandering hand. “Sorry, but shouldn’t you finish your painting in the gym?”

The switch went off in Jack’s head, and he rose quickly from his chair, giving a quick farewell before taking off in a rush towards the doors. You smiled at him, a thoughtful look on your face when you considered your observation carefully.

“You know,” you paused, eyes following the retreating back of the talented student. “If it wasn’t for the red hair, I’d say he could be your twin, Newt.”

Newt glanced up from his book, blinking at you skeptically before looking towards Jack. He raised his eyebrow for a second, before pursing his lips and scoffing at the notion. “Absolutely not.”

Before you could think of a single snappy remark, the bell rang, indicating the next five minutes should be spent getting to class. An audible groan flew from your lips, the dread of drama class becoming far too real now. You wanted to drag Newt along with you, but taking him from his beloved science classes was too cruel to entertain.

“Would you like me to accompany you there?”

“No, don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

Newt felt awful about the change in classes, but his counselor was adamant he take courses geared towards his interests. It would help in college, and he had to admit it was a smarter plan than wasting his time watching the drama kids reenact their favorite Shakespeare play.

“If you say so, Y/N…”

You hummed back to him, throwing your bag over your shoulder and sending a wave of goodbye as you walked out the library and into your horrible hour and a half fate. The walk to first period was uneventful, save for the nasty look some girl gave you. You weren’t aware of her dispute with you, but the faint whisper of ‘Balem’ was heard as you passed by. If you were to venture a guess, she was not overly fond of the way you interacted with him this morning. Every girl here was swooning over the rich man, constantly leaving letters in his locker or on his windshield. It was a dim-witted attempt to get his attention, but he rarely ever read the love notes. On one occasion you even saw him use his wipers to release the perfume scented letters from his precious car. Yet, in spite of his cruelty, they still flocked to him like moths to a flame.

��Ow!” The rough material of someone’s jacket pushed into your forehead, making you flinch back and grumble about small hallways. Why Balem’s mother couldn’t pull her purse strings for a bigger building was beyond you. “Watch it!”

“Easy there, darlin’.” An amused chuckle was all you needed to realize who it was, and you reluctantly moved your hand away. View now obscured by the devilish grin of Eddie Kreezer. “Where you off to in a hurry?” He was already pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lighter hidden in his cowboy hat as the staff walked by. You envied his devil may care attitude, but you didn’t need to be caught with him today.

“To class, you idiot. Where you should be going.”

“Tsk, didn’t your momma ever teach you to be nice?” He teased, lighting his smoke and blowing some of it into your face.

“You’re one to talk!”

Eddie was always amused at your temper, but that was due to him being one of the few people who could bring out that spark of anger. It was amusing and quite frankly, hot to him. “Damn, sweetheart. What? Daddy didn’t love you enough as a kid? Is that where all this misdirected rage comes from?” He laughed heartily, pushing one finger into your forehead to keep you away as you launched your fists at him. It was a weak attempt to defend yourself, and it only made the cowboy laugh harder until you gave up. “I’ll be your daddy if you want.” He had the gall to wink, to flirt amidst all this teasing like you were just going to cave under his southern wiles. It fueled that fire of fury inside you, and admittedly was just a bit charming…which only made you angrier.

“You-“

“Ah, ah, ah!” Eddie easily trapped you into the lockers, smirking down at your expression of discontent. “Daddy don’t like the attitude, darlin’.”

The last straw, that was it, and with all your strength you kneed Eddie in the stomach, taking his momentary lapse of judgement as a sign to run away. The last bell had rung, and with the halls now clearing you took the chance to turn back to him, hands balled into fists as you yelled, “And for the record you’re too young to be a daddy!”

The cowboy glanced up, a huge smirk now forming on his lips as he laughed. You figured he’d finally lost it, the recreational use of drugs eventually killing off his last brain cells. That was until you heard your name, a huge blush going head to toe when you realized who was behind you. With a stiff posture, you turned, growing redder when Stephen came into view. He looked confused, green eyes darting from you to Eddie with a hint of worry.

“Are you alright?”

“I-“ you couldn’t form a proper sentence, and in your embarrassment the only helpful thought that came was to run off into the halls. So with a quick mumble of farewell, you brushed passed the athlete and somehow found your way to the theatre. Life could be dramatically unfair sometimes, and having to say such a stupid thing in front of your crush was probably on the top ten list of don’ts. Lamenting over your actions did no good though, and with a troubled scoff you slowly opened the drama room doors. All eyes fell on you then, the piercing ones of your teacher among them. It sent chills up your spine, and even though they all saw you, you still attempted to sneak across the stools lined up to the stage.

“How good of you to join us.”

You fell into the stool, trying to ignore Ms. Derboven’s irritated glare. Thankfully, another student began to sing softly on stage, taking her attention elsewhere. She was positively thrilled when the student sang, like the world was suddenly brighter for it. In your mind, it was a simple distraction, but the pining sighs of women made you finally look towards the center of the auditorium. A tall, handsome student was on stage, crooning out his rendition of a Les Miserables song. Something about empty chairs and tables, not that you knew any of it, musicals weren’t exactly your hobby. But, you welcomed the talent he displayed. If only to have your teacher preoccupy herself with his enchanting voice.

“Isn’t he charming?”

You sank back into the air, trying not to fall from your stool as this girl leaned far too close to you. She had pretty green eyes, her blonde hair set into intricate curls that seemed to have taken hours to do. You didn’t recognize her from anywhere, and with a French accent you wondered if she had any relation to the new boy singing up there.

“Um-”

“Oh, no need to answer. I already know you agree.”

She giggled, hand on her cheek as she sighed happily while eyeing the handsome student on the stage. Drama wasn’t your forte, and if it wasn’t for the insane obligation to take an elective you’d be far from here. But, you humored her affections, eyes darting towards the stage and watching as the other French student recited his lines. He was rather talented at it, even more when he broke into song again. Even if that made it feel awkward to be in here. All the girls, and possibly even the teacher seemed entranced by his voice now, like he suddenly became the first male siren in history.

In your musings, you hadn’t realized he stopped, all the girls clapping and cheering their hearts out to him. Some of the boys reluctantly did so, more than one of them grumbling about how unfair it was to have so many good looking guys at this school. You had to agree there, lately it seemed like an abundance of them came crawling from out of the woodwork. With a defeated breath, you started clapping along as well, looking towards the clock on the wall and praying it would move faster. At least this new kid took up a good chunk of time for you.

“Come on…” you pleaded silently with the clock, as if that would somehow aid your impatience.

“Cosette, would you like a turn?”

You watched as the girl you were speaking to got up, clearly the one known as Cosette. She clapped happily, getting off the stool and heading to the stage to begin her own monologue. You envied her bravery, but the puppy love look on her face made you roll your eyes. She had it bad for that other guy, and judging by his smile he seemed somewhat interested in her in return.

“May I sit here?”

His French accent was enamoring, but you weren’t about to fall head over heels just because he seemed exotic.

“Sure.”

“Thank you.” He smiled politely, eyes constantly moving to look at you. “I’m Marius Pontmercy, and you are?”

At his greeting, you turned to him, offering a smile as you held your hand out to shake his. Only he seemed more intent on being a true gentleman. With a delicate touch he took your hand, twisting it around and laying a sweet kiss to the back of it. The French truly did inspire romance…

“I’m…um,” The words would not come out, and unfortunately making a fool of yourself seemed to be a reoccurring theme this school year.

“Won’t you tell me?” Marius smiled widely, chuckling when you looked away from him. You seemed on edge, and he had no intention to make it worse for you. “It’s alright if you wish-“

“Y/N.” You spat it out harshly, your nerves making you agitated enough to seem rude. Lucky for you, Marius took no offense to your curt tone.

“It’s a beautiful name…” He said quietly, eyes transfixed on you from the start.

There was a notable tension in the air, one that confused you greatly. But, the longer he gazed into your eyes the more you felt your chest cave to the attractive French student. In just a few short hours, you found life at eighteen proving difficult already. How on earth could you navigate this school year with all these men being distractions? Stephen was always your source of affection, and even though you still held strong feelings for him…you found yourself hooked on these new characters. Maybe Newt was right, sexual maturity had officially peaked and you hated every minute of it.

***

A/N: Alright, tell me!! Who do you ship Reader with so far?! Hope you liked it! There’s nothing greater than writing a trashy cliche high school fic. Takes me back, my loves…takes me back. Feedback appreciated! ❤️

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 26189/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3

Read on: Ao3

A million thanks to my cheerleader/coach/cinnamon roll @katie-dub for being my beta and telling me cute stories about 2-year-olds!

Unfortunately, the incident with Killian and the creepy guy forces her to avoid Mamie’s. She doesn’t know if she’ll run into him there and she is not ready to talk about what happened in that scarier-than-hell pawn shop, or whatever it was. Honestly, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to.

Instead, she makes do with coffee made in the French press she finds in the apartment’s cupboard. It’s not great and certainly not as wonderful as Mamie’s, but well she’ll take what she can get.

She throws herself instead into university life to give herself proper distraction. As part of her fellowship with Misthaven University, she’s responsible for teaching a course to undergraduates. She finds out this week that she’s assigned to teach an Intro to American Lit class. She hasn’t really dealt extensively with American literature class, it’s certainly not her specialty. She imagines that they gave it to her just because she is American. Emma spends an afternoon sifting through books and trying to pick some novels selections for the semester. It’s hard to decide on a proper survey, weighing the options of a more traditional canon American reading list against a more diverse one.

The next day, she crafts the syllabus. It’s several hours in the library with a thermos of coffee and a bag of croissants and stroopwafel (dang, at least Misthaven has one thing right- the perfect intersection of food). The library in Misthaven is gorgeous. While most of the university buildings are more modern architecture, the library is older. Its rich wood and elegant windows makes her feel like she’s in a fairy tale. It’s the closest she’ll get, so she might as well enjoy it. She outlines the entire course, including details on papers and reading assignments. She realizes that classes in Europe might actually be different than they are in America, but she doesn’t really know how else to structure a class, so she goes for it.

On Friday morning, she finds herself in Professor Hood’s office for her advising meeting. He’s younger than she imagined, probably late thirties or early forties. His office is sunny and decorated with illustrations of various English folk stories and legends.

“How have you been settling in?” He asks her, as she slides down into a seat and he passes her a cup of tea.

He speaks with a crisp English accent, no trace of a Misthaven accent. She assumes he must be an implant like herself.

“I’m doing well,” she tells him.

“You’ve secured lodgings and all that?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’ve done an apartment swap,” she informs him.

“That’s great. Sometimes foreign students can have trouble with that kind of thing,” he tells her.

“No problems here.”

“And the culture shock isn’t too much?” He asks, “I know it was hard for me when I got here.”

Culture shock? She thinks. More like “worry for my life” shock . But she can’t tell this random professor about her brief dalliance with scamming the Queen. Or the creepy man in the pawn shop who might’ve tried to kill her. Or the stupidly attractive Misthaven guy who made her heart a little swoony.

Instead, she smiles sweetly and says, “It’s not terrible. I’ve been dreaming of visiting Misthaven for so long, so I think it’s mostly just excitement for now. I’m sure the culture shock will kick in soon enough.”

“Good to hear. If you ever need suggestions for places to go, let me know. I’ve been in Misthaven for a while, so I’ve found the expat troves.”

“How did you find yourself here?” She asks.

Emma is becoming increasingly curious about this guy. There aren’t a ton of expats in Misthaven, since the borders have only been open a few years. He’s not a visiting professor either. She wonders how this British man ended up with a secure place on the Misthaven staff.

“Love,” he says, blushing, “I was working on my undergrad at the University of Nottingham and I fell for a visiting student from Misthaven. I followed her here. Just after that, the Crown fell and we were trapped here. We made the best of it and got married. We needed something to be happy about.”

Emma likes stories, even personal ones. Suddenly she wants to know all of Professor Hood’s story. Besides, part of her research involves listening to stories of resistance and accounts from people who lived through the Dark Times. This seems to be a place to start.

“That’s so sweet,” Emma prods, gently, “What happened after that?”

He smiles, thinking of his wife then sighs, as he continues to spin his story. “It was a dark time for academia. There was a witch hunt here for people who had royal sympathies or who were opposed to Gold’s dictatorship. A lot of professors lost their jobs, most imprisoned, some worse.”

Emma can’t imagine living under such a harsh regime. Academia has always been her safe escape. This story is turning from sweet to scary in a matter of words.

“That’s horrible. Were you okay?” Emma asks.

He grimaces, painful memories stretched out across his face.

“Sorry,” Emma says quickly, “This is really personal. You don’t have to tell me these things if you are uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I wanted to work with you for a reason, Emma. When I saw your proposal, I jumped at the chance to have our story told, the stories of many like us told. The work you are doing is rare and important.”

Emma nods and carefully slips her notebook out to start jotting down notes. Professor Hood takes a sip of his tea and then continues.

“Eventually my name went onto a black list and I was certain that I was bound for prison. My wife and I decided it was best for me to go into hiding. I spent three years living in a secret panel in my basement. It was maddening, but my wife, my Marian, she took exceptional care of me and never let me grow lonely.”

“That’s great of her,” Emma says. She wonders if she’ll get to meet this woman. From this story it sounds like they are a perfect match.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice melancholic, “we were both growing impatient. Things were getting worse and worse. Food was being rationed and we shared just her ration, so we were both constantly hungry. Oil was rationed as well and everything was always cold. I was worried I was going to spend my whole damn life freezing in that basement and Marian blamed herself for moving us here. So, we got involved in the resistance movement. She was in deeper than I was, since she could leave the house. She eventually ended up being part of the team that planned the final battle for the castle, the movement that ended the Dark Times in Misthaven.” He gulps, “but she met her end there.”

Emma’s mouth opens in shock. She’s read countless things about Misthaven resistance movements, but it’s different to hear it from someone who lived through it.

“Thanks for telling me that,” she says, not knowing if she should reach out in comfort, but she hardly knows him. Instead, she busies her hands taking notes. “I’m really sorry about your wife. That’s part of why I’ve come here, though. I want to understand resistance better from people who lived through it. I want to be able to argue how and why Blanche Neige used her books to encourage revolution.”

“Well, I can certainly help you find people to interview,” He says, “Those of us who remain from the resistance are still very close. We’d be happy to help you find people for your project.”

“Thanks so much,” she says, finishing her notes.

“What else do you need help with?” he asks.

“Well, I’m hoping to use the Misthaven U Folk and Fairytale collection to look at the stories she based her novels on,” Emma adds.

“That’s great idea. We have some rare collections that I can grant you access to.”

“Amazing,” Emma breathes, excited at the very notion of pouring over the old tomes.

“If you need help with anything else, let me know,” Professor Hood finishes.

“I will,” she promises, stacking up her notebooks as she feels the short meeting approaching it’s end.

“And will you send me your thesis so far?” He asks, “I don’t think I’ve actually been sent it yet- I’d love to give you feedback if you are up for it?”

“That’s great,” Emma says, earnestly, “All I want is for this thing to be the best it can be.”

“I look forward to reading it. Do you have plans for tonight?” he asks.

Emma’s feels her forehead wrinkle. Her new advisor is hitting on her? That’s definitely unprofessional, not mention that he’s far too old. And he just told her the story of his dead wife.

“Sorry,” he amends, seeing where her thoughts had turned, “Not like that. It’s just that they give out free opera house tickets to foreign students every Friday. They do really great performances there, operas and ballets, if you like that kind of thing. Even if you don’t, it’s a nice excuse for an evening out and the building is gorgeous.”

“Oh thanks for the tip,” Emma says. “I’ll think about it.”

She bids her goodbyes and gathers her stuff.

The Opera isn’t a bad idea. She’s still spooked from the events earlier this week and she’d rather not spend the night alone in her apartment. Plus, it might be a way to meet some other foreign students, since she is yet to make friends. Other than Killian, if you counted the 12 hours they were wary friends.

She stops by the foreign student office on her way to the tram and picks up a ticket for the performance that night. It’s an opera by Samuel Barber. She doesn’t know much about opera, so she hopes it’s alright.

When she gets off the tram in her neighborhood, she finds herself ducking into little clothing stores to window shop. This area has a lot of thrift shops and independent boutiques.

Emma won’t deny that she misses her old jean jacket. She’s upset that it was a casualty of that horrible night. There was something comforting about the worn jacket - it was a talisman of sorts, protecting her from harm. She weaves through racks at the thrift shop looking for a replacement. She fingers tan suede jackets, black corduroy ones, and a bright pink windbreaker.

A red jacket catches her eye and she slips it on. It feels right. After her last jacket was ripped from her shoulders, this one feels steady, like armor. It’s the kind of jacket that is perfect for a girl who has always had to do everything for herself.

She buys the thing, spending more than she had planned to. But hey, she got a free ticket to the opera. She can splurge on something .

It’s just past noon when she gets back to her apartment and she’s exhausted. Honestly, this week has been so fricken much. She needs to escape and not think about her grant applications or the creepy man in the pawn shop. She hasn’t been sleeping well, images of that night dancing before her eyes and make it hard for her to calm down. All Emma wants to do is relax. She tosses her opera ticket and new jacket onto the counter and heads over to her bookshelf.

Today she needs an old favorite, she picks up a Blanche Neige book. This is one of her favorites, Towering Hope , a twist on Rapunzel. It’s much more empowering than the traditional fairy tale. In this version, the savior of Misthaven is trapped in a castle. There is a hero, a dashing rapscallion of a thief, who comes to save her from the tower - but only so that she can use her powers to save the whole country and lead them all to freedom. Emma’s always liked this narrative because while the damsel gets rescued from the tower, she’s also the hero of the story. That’s what she loves about Blanche Neige, the way that her stories are always empowering, always about resisting, and yet still have the magic and charm of fairy tales.

The story is more than familiar, it’s like an old favorite song. She’s read it countless times. She’s analyzed it and wrote essays on it. Somewhere along the familiar pages and the softness of being curled up on the sunny sofa, Emma falls asleep.

When she awakes, the light is low and she finally feels rested for the first time that week. She can’t remember her dream, but she knows that there were traces of Towering Hope in it, but that the thief had Killian’s eyes. Stupid, attractive Killian. She wishes she could get him out of her head so she could move on from that night, that idiotic idea. But she can’t.

She pushes him out of her mind, for now at least. She has bigger things to do, like get ready for this opera.

Emma has never really owned the sort of things that one wears to an opera, but after rummaging in her closet for a bit, she picks out a plain black dress and a statement necklace. With a pair of heels and some red lipstick, she figures she can almost pull it off.

She quickly makes a mug of coffee with the French press, toasts a few slices of bread, and then she’s out the door. It’s a tram ride into town, just across the river to Old Town. The opera house sits along the water. It’s ornate, as an opera house should be, white with gold accents and a domed roof.

Outside, she finds a person carrying a sign that reads “Misthaven U Foreign Students” and she joins the crowd. There is a cluster of undergrad students speaking very quickly to each other in Korean, two girls chattering in what might be Norwegian, and a few more chattering in French. Emma was expecting to use this outing as an opportunity to make new friends, but she quickly realizes this might not be the case.

The group moves into the opera house and Emma shuffles along beside them. She squares her shoulders as she walks in. She doesn’t need friends. She’s always gotten through life on her own grit and perseverance. She’s going to enjoy the night even if she is by herself.

The opera house is lovely and certainly distracts her from her problems. There are gold and marble embellishments everywhere, fresh flowers, and velvet draping. Emma wants to look at all of it all at once, but the group is guided along to where their seats are.

Emma glances through her program as the curtain drops and then all at once she’s absorbed in the show.

And it’s weird. It’s really weird. An older woman is waiting for her lover, Anatole, to return to her - but his son does instead. And somehow she falls in love with him? But he impregnates her niece. Yeah, it’s super weird.

At the interval, Emma downs a glass of red wine because she knows that’s the only way she’ll make it through the rest. Plus, the broody plot lends itself to red wine.

By the end of the opera, three and half hours that feel like the longest of her life, the wine has made its way through her system. All she can think is that she has to pee. Like right now.

While the applause starts, she bolts out of her seat and dashes to the closest bathroom before the bows begin. As much as she should feel bad for not adding the applause, she really doesn’t because the opera was so strange.

As she exits the toilets, she washes her hands and pauses to fix her hair.

“So, what did you think?” asks a voice and Emma glances up to see the woman next to her.

Standing beside her at the mirror is a woman with short cropped hair and a nice pantsuit. Her face is lightly lined. She’s probably in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She has an elegant way of carrying herself that Emma envies. She’s always had atrocious posture.

Emma tries for something intellectual to say. This lady seems like the serious opera type.

“Well, it was certainly literary,” Emma manages, after all, she is really good at analyzing things. “The plot was wholly modernist, I think. Though I think anything with that many Oedipal allusions isn’t necessarily my cup of tea.”

“It’s okay, I won’t be offended if you say it sucked,” the woman says.

She has a clear, posh Misthaven accent to her English - with a hint of something that Emma can’t quite place. She’s the kind of woman you’d never expect to say the word “sucked.”

“Okay,” Emma laughs, “It did kinda suck.”

“Honestly, I think most operas in English tend to,” she explains, “Maybe go to an Italian, or even a French one, next time around.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Emma says.

“Is it your first time at the opera?” asks the lady.

Emma nods, a little shyly. She’s an intellectual. She doesn’t like to admit not knowing things.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t deter you from coming back,” the lady says, “There are usually very nice shows on here. There is a very promising ballet planned for next Friday, if that interests you. It should be a bit better than this.”

Emma laughs, “yeah, maybe I’ll come back. I’m here for the next few months.”

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” the lady says, “I can arrange some free tickets for you.”

Geesh , Emma thinks, they must be desperate in this town to get people into the opera house if they are always giving out free tickets.

“That’ll be great,” Emma says, sounding more enthusiastic than she actually is. She’d feel bad disappointing this opera aficionado who seems so zealous about getting Emma interested in this place.

“I’ll leave two tickets next Friday at the door under your name,” she tells her, “What is it?”

“Emma, Emma Swan.”

The woman’s eyes widen and she shivers. Emma can feel her looking her up and down, before she meets her eyes, staring intensely.

“Sorry, is something wrong?” Emma asks.

The woman startles, “what? No, sorry. I’ll arrange the tickets for you, Emma.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emma replies feeling a little awkward.

The woman exits the bathroom with a final, closed mouthed smile. Emma turns back to the mirror and gazes at her reflection. What had the woman been looking for? What had she seen?

Killian has often dreamt of the night he fled the castle. The screams of the queen echoing through the castle. The feeling of air tearing through his lungs as he runs as fast as his short legs will take him to his gran’s cottage. The empty, hollow feeling as he watches Liam and a small bob of blonde hair disappear from sight. Killian knows that dream well.

So, when a new one begins, it startles him.

The night he returns from the pawn shop, his bones rattled, his hand still shaking from the altercation with stranger, the new dream begins.

He climbs in bed, thinking of Emma. For a moment, he had been sure that the man was going to kill her. The knife raised above her, the fierce look in her eyes replaced by terror - he thought that he’d led the girl to her demise. He hopes that creating a diversion was enough of an apology to her for the mess he dragged her into. He knows she probably won’t ever forgive him for the trouble he caused her, but he’ll miss the lass. He’s known her for a day and he’s already charmed by her quick mind and golden hair.

Her golden hair somehow fades into another’s.

He dreams that night of being a child in the palace. He dreams of the tiny apartment that he and Liam had in the basement. They shared a bed, Killian just small enough to fit under this brother’s shoulder.

He dreams of the royal library, where he discovered new books and would spend hours stretched out on the floor flicking through pages - gazing at pictures and attempting to read the words beside them.

He dreams of trays of rich food that his brother would bring him in the evenings. He’d explain they came from the king’s table, leftovers from the feast.

He dreams of a night when he snuck up the stairs to watch a ball. He remembers all the couples waltzing to the most beautiful music. He thinks of the elegant clothes, the smells of sweets, and the ornate decorations. Even for a young boy, he was very impressed.

He dreams of the family. The father with his blond hair and ponytail. The mother with her round face and long, dark hair. And the daughter, the princess - Emma.

Emma with her wispy gold locks, her dimpled chin, her doey green eyes. Emma with her infectious giggle and toothy smile. He remembers playing with her. She was smaller, first a baby that he’d sing songs to. Then she was toddling and cooing, chasing after him down palace corridors. She was three or four when she fled with Liam. He remembers that she was finally the age where they could play proper games together. He wonders if they would have been real friends when they grew older.

She’s everywhere in his dreams. He’s chasing her down hallways. She’s always one step out of reach.

He awakes with the image a different blond haired girl in his mind. One with longer legs, lovely curves, and a determined poise. Emma .

He tries to get her out of his mind. He throws himself into work at the bar, engaging with customers, making them laugh. He gets Ruby to distract him when he can, having her play dice with him when the bar is having low periods.

The rest of the time he has to himself he reads. He decides on a whim to reread the Blanche Neige series. They’ve been his favorite always, since he discovered them in the library as a teenager. He craves their easy comfort now. He loves the way that the words coax him, familiar like an old favorite song. Even now, in the sad nostalgia and strange dreams left in Emma’s wake, the books lull him and help him to forget his worries.

He manages to stay distracted through the weekend, the bar is busy enough then. It isn’t until the stillness of his Tuesday afternoon that he find himself at Mamie’s with a Blanche Neige book in hand. All he wants to do was to drink an americano and try to lose the dismally restless feeling he’s acquired since that night in the pawn shop.

So, his heart stops a little when he looks up and sees her. Emma.

Her hair is up in a high bun, square rim glasses balanced on her nose. She’s dressed in a black thingy, which Killian thinks might be called a romper, only because Ruby’s called it that before. She has a red leather jacket over it, the overall look seems to match her fierceness. Her laptop is in front of her, a stack of books to her side.

He doesn’t know what to do for a moment. Does he go talk to her? He wants to. He really wants to. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her, try as he may, and here she is right in front of him. He wants to apologize. He wants to make things right with her.

But then again, things left off so horribly between them. He wonders if it’s best to duck out the backdoor and pretend that he didn’t see her. That way he doesn’t have to confront how awkward their last moments together were.

Emma looks up and their eyes meet. She glances away and for a moment he thinks that she’s made the decision for him. She is going to ignore him. Then, she swallows and meets his eyes again. A tiny smile graces her lips, an invitation.

Killian leaves his coffee and book behind to go to her table.

A gentle blush rises in her cheeks and she tucks a strand of hair into her bun.

“Emma, look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how everything turned out,” He begins, looking down at his feet, scratching a hand behind his ear, “I never, ever meant to put you in danger.”

“Um, yeah, I’m not going to lie to you, last Tuesday was one of the scariest experiences of my life,” she babbles awkwardly, adorably. “And like, that’s really saying a lot considering my childhood.”

His eyes widen a bit as he takes in her accidental overshare. Just what has this poor girl gone through? He wants to know her secrets, her stories. But they are strangers, former business partners - it’s never going to happen.

“Anyway,” she continues, clearly not wanting to dwell on her admission. “It seemed like you were trying to help. I mean I know that you said the guy was creepy, but I think we were both blindsided by just how weird that got.”

Killian nods furiously. “You can say that again.”

“You got out okay?” she asks, lightly.

He nods again. “Yeah I was just behind you. I haven’t the seen the fiend since.”

“That’s good,” Emma says, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

Killian sniffles and looks down again, thinking it’s probably best to start retreating back to his table and back to his americano. Things are always going to be weird between him and Emma. They can’t just go from the horrible night they experienced and expect to become anything like friends afterwards.

Then he sees the book on top of her stack, Towering Hope by Blanche Neige.

“You read Blanche Neige?” he blurts out,flushed with surprise. Those books are everything to him. They’re the reason he was able to rebuild his life after being a young offender. They’re the reason he was able to find hope.

And there is this girl who has already woven a little tendril around his heart sitting in front of him, reading the very same book.

“Um, actually,” she says, the blush returning to her cheeks. “I’m writing my PhD dissertation on Blanche Neige. I’m basing my career on her.”

“So, you’re something of a Blanche Neige expert?” he asks.

She snorts a laugh. “Not exactly. Not yet, at least. I’ve got to finish the dissertation. But yeah, no one’s written on her before. So maybe, one day.”

“Emma Swan, Blanche Neige expert,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite of her. “Wow, that’s sexy.”

She lets out a full laugh this time, tugging on her bun again.

“I take it you’re a fan?” She asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

“Right, well, you know that horrible childhood thing you talked about before?”

She purses her lips together, her forehead wrinkling again.

“Well, yes, I had one of those too. Quite miserable.” He rattles on, not ready to give details. “But Miss Blanche here, her books were the things that helped me through it.”

She nods, her voice soft, the moment suddenly intimate for the coffee shop setting. “I understand that. The way books can save you from the bad stuff.”

Killian nods and smiles, because Emma gets it. She’s probably the first person he’s ever met who gets it.

“Books are like a little bit of hope,” She adds.

“They are exactly that, Swan.” He nods.

“So what is your favorite?”

“Of Blanche Neige?” He muses, “Probably Never in this Land. ”

He thinks of the novel, a twist on Peter Pan where a modern Captain Hook has a change of heart, abandoning his life of crime and becoming a hero. He ends up sheltering three “darling” children in his house to keep them safe from the dictator.  Like all Blanche Neige, it’s a story about freedom, bravery, and resistance.

“Interesting choice,” she says, smiling.

He wonders if she sees through his choice. He wonders if she sees his previous life of crime. He wonders if she sees a villain in him.

But instead, it seems her thoughts are purely intellectual.

“It’s curiously the only Blanche Neige book that’s not based directly on a fairy tale. Well, that and The Yellow Bug. I can’t find the source material for that one, no matter how hard I look.”

“The Yellow Bug?” Killian muses.

He tries to place the tale. He recalls it a little, the story of an outsider who comes to town in a yellow VMW. She’s looking for her family, but never ends up finding them. Instead, she discovers she can talk to animals and uses the ability to help foil the uprising. In the story, the dictator keeps his soul in an egg which was taken from one of the animals and the heroine eventually finds a way to destroy the soul inside. In typical Blanche Neige fashion, she delivers the town from the dictator.

“You can see traces of the Goose Girl in it,” Emma explains, “In the plot line with the talking animals. And other traces of the Firebird in it, with the soul in the egg. But there are other bits that I can’t place. Blanche Neige usually draws from one source fable, so it doesn’t make sense that she’d mash up a few, or that she’d deviate from using a fairy tale.”

Killian opens his mouth in wonder at Emma. She really is the Blanche Neige expert. Listening to her talk in such detail about his favorite book with so much enthusiasm endears her further to him.

Only he notices one thing she doesn’t.

“I know the story,” Killian blurts.

“What?” Emma asks, surprise in her eyes.

“The source story,” he says, “I remember being told it as a child. It was called The Yellow Carriage. A stranger comes to town in a yellow carriage.”

“What do you mean?” Emma says, “I’ve done extensive research. I’ve looked through countless fairy tale databases.”

“I promise you,” He says emphatically, “I remember it from childhood. The Yellow Carriage.”

Emma gapes at him.

“Well, do you know where to find it?”

“I haven’t heard it since I was a child,” He admits, “I wouldn’t know the anthology it came from.”

Emma frowns. He doesn’t like the disappointment and unhappiness on her face.

“But listen, I’ll try my best to think back and see if I remember it. If I think of it, I’ll tell you.”

The frown abates from her face, “Thanks. It’s just that there is a whole chapter of my dissertation about the irregularities of The Yellow Bug and if there is a source for it - well, it changes things. I wouldn’t want to submit it with an error in it.”

“Listen, I’ve only listened to you talk about Blanche Neige for five minutes now, but I’ve never heard anyone as passionate and informed as you. Anyone reading your thesis or whatever will be able to tell,” He flatters.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not really how academia works. People don’t care about enthusiasm, just precise analysis and fresh ideas.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, “Or else all your work would be done.”

A blush ghosts her cheeks again, before she admits, “well, that would save me a lot of trouble. The reason I’m so desperate for money is because I need to pay for another semester of grad school.”

“That’s why you agreed to my proposal?” He clarifies.

His heart melts a little for her. Emma, so sweet and studious that her ambition is not for a vacation or a large house or money to spend on clothes and jewels, but to learn, to read literature, to study Blanche Neige.

“I just really want to finish my PhD.” She nods. “And the money would have helped to pay back my student loans from undergrad as well.”

Killian feels a flair of anger at the expense of university education in America. In Misthaven, university fees are very minimal and heavily subsidized by the government. He wishes that Emma didn’t have to worry about fees and that she could enjoy her time here instead of focusing on finding funds.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian says, sadly.

Emma gives a rueful smile. “It’s fine. I’m not sure anyone would have believed that I’m lost princess anyway. It was probably a stupid plan.”

“I would believe it,” Killian says, softly.

Her blonde hair, bright green eyes, and dimples - he would believe her to be the lost princess any day.

“Okay, Romeo.” Emma says with another eye roll. “Anyway, a student loan is better than a jail sentence. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says, “Let me make it up to you.”

She looks up and meets his eyes. Her fierce look falters for a minute and he sees something vulnerable in her gaze. There is loneliness there, hurt, and rejection.

There is a certain yearning there too.

Then she smiles good naturedly, “Well, I don’t really have any friends in Misthaven yet. So, you could buy me another cappuccino and we could talk about Blanche Neige for a little longer.”

Killian lets himself grin back at her. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot Emma.”

tagging some fans (people who i looked through their tags and found out they really liked it) // let me know if anyone wants to be added or subtracted:

@sambethe @kmomof4 @pocket-anon @hooked-mom @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan@lenfazreads @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story

[babinforaelin]

Rowaelin Fanfic, Modern AU, But She’s Looking at You, Part 9

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 

 Maeve owns the best club in the city, but when Aelin shows up demanding answers from her Aunt, she is forced into one month of working as a DJ in her Aunt’s club in exchange for information. Along the way she meets Rowan and the rest of the cadre, who are working as bartenders in the club… and Rowan is given the task of babysitting Aelin for the month.

 Here she is!! The final instalment of But She’s Looking at You! I Just wanted to say thank you to all the beautiful messages you guys send me, because they honestly keep me going. Since this was the first thing I’ve ever written, I wasn’t even expecting anyone to see it, let alone like it J So thank you from the bottom of my heart <3

Aelin smirked at Maeve, who was shaking with rage as she took in the blank CCTV screens behind her. Her plan had been unfolding perfectly until her Aunt brought Rowan in. He was still sitting in the bloodied chair, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Rowan slowly lift his head. He had been so horribly beaten that Aelin wasn’t even sure if he’d be okay, but at least he was awake.

Before she could inspect him further, Maeve spun around and snarled at her, eyes ablaze with pure loathing.

“As I was saying,” Aelin purred, “give me the information I need and let Rowan go. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Maeve’s nostrils flared with rage, and Aelin waited while her Aunt thought it over. Then her beautiful mouth broke into a sly smile.

“You’re bluffing, aren’t you dear?” she said slowly.

Without breaking her Aunt’s stare, Aelin pulled out a small gold lighter from the pocket of her jeans. She saw Rowan stiffen slightly, the movement so small it was almost undetectable. She knew that the pieces had fallen into place in his mind.

“No, dear Aunt, I’m not. You see, while you’ve been here listening to yourself talk, I’ve had someone leaking all of the gas lines around Doranelle, this room included. So if I so much as light a single flame in here.... well I think you know far too well what will happen.”

With each word Aelin spoke, Maeve’s smile morphed into a glower.

“If what you’re saying is true, then you and all the innocent people in this building would die. Burnt to death.”

Aelin didn’t let herself pause, “Big risk to take, isn’t it Maeve?”

Her Aunt didn’t reply as she glared around the room, at Lorcan and Gavriel still unconscious on the floor, at Rowan who was now staring back at his boss with undiluted hate. Aelin could see the wheels turning in her Aunt’s mind as Maeve weighed up her options thoroughly.

Eventually the black-haired woman breathed a frustrated sigh through her nose and lowered herself back into her chair, arms bracing on her desk.

“Fine. Let’s talk.”

 Rowan could hardly believe what he was hearing. Aelin had done it. She had called ‘check-mate’ in what seemed like a never-ending battle between her and Maeve. Aelin spared a glance at him then, probably checking that he was alive and nothing more. But as her stunning eyes met his, he was shocked at the pain that poured out of her. Was it pain for his injuries, or simply because she had been the cause? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t able to consider it before Maeve started once again.

“What do you need to know?” she ground out.

“I want the money, Maeve.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Aelin paused for a moment, considering something, before starting again.

“The money that was rightfully left to me after my parents were killed, probably by you. Or did you think I would be too stupid to work out who had taken it?”

Rowan froze. She had never told him that she thought Maeve was behind her parent’s death. Hadn’t even hinted to it.

Maeve crossed her slender hands under her chin and rested on the desk.

“What proof do you have that I had anything to do with either ... unfortunate event?”

Aelin simply threw the lighter into the air before catching it, over and over again, considering her words. It was the same lighter that she had bought with him. His breath had caught in his throat when he first saw it, not only because it had been a slap in the face to remember a time when he was actually happy, but because it suddenly occurred to him how long Aelin had been planning this. For weeks, months even.

Aelin caught the lighter and stilled.

“Who else would have been in a position to gain anything from it? You were my only remaining blood relative who was also old enough to be my guardian. In terms of the money... you’ve always been rich, but I’m sure you wouldn’t waste any of your own precious funds on building a five-storey night club.”

Maeve’s mouth twisted into a small smile.

“I just can’t help but wonder why you never went to a lawyer about these idea’s of yours?”

Rowan realised that Maeve was choosing her words carefully, making sure that she didn’t admit to anything.

“Because,” Aelin growled, “you know full well that the lifestyle you shoved me into would make me a target for the police. Pit fights aren’t exactly legal in Adarlan.”

Maeve had left her to live that life? So that Aelin would never be able to exact justice? Rowan bristled.

“What do you want me to do, sweet Aelin? Write you a cheque for thirty milion dollars? I doubt the bank would let that slide past them easily.”

Holy God... Aelin’s parents must have been incredibly important for her inheritance to be such a massive sum. It was no wonder Maeve wanted steal it from her. He thought he had worked Aelin out, but he was so wrong. Who was she?

 Aelin merely smiled.

“No no, I’ve already taken most the money out out over the past few months.”

Maeve stilled.

“The business partner you’ve been working with recently? Mr. Archer Flynn? Let’s just say that he ran into some trouble shortly after your first meeting with him and ... well it wasn’t hard to fake his movements around Rifthold, or to flash his money around town to make your spies believe he was a serious contender for an investment in your business endeavours. It’s a shame your lackeys never thought to wait and see him without his hoodie on... maybe then you would have realised it was all a ploy. Especially since his body is currently rotting in Riftholds sewers.”

Maeve was shaking now, the rage so strong she could barely keep it contained.

“So I have been sending you letter and emails for months, urging you to send me the money to build our casino in Rifthold, and you stupidly did. So oblivious to the fact you were being used, since you cannot fathom the possibility of falling from this pedestal you sit on.

“The last of the money I was hoping you could give to me in cash. It’s only about five thousand I believe, and if my snooping serves me correctly then the safe behind that ugly painting contains approximately ten-grand.”

Maeve’s face was red now, nails digging into the desk.

“You little bitch,” she seethed.

“Takes one to know one.”

Rowan couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. At her retort, and the entire situation. Both women whipped their heads around to look at him. Aelin gave him a grin that lit up her eyes.

“As for Rowan, I’ve already had the system wiped of the digital copy of his contract. So if you could do me a favour and fetch the original hard copy, that would be brilliant, and since it’s no doubt in the safe then you can grab the money while you’re at it.”

  Aelin watched as Maeve slowly rose from her chair and stepped around it. Heels clicking against the dark floor, Maeve walked to large the painting of Medusa’s severed head. She slid the painting across the wall, attached to tracking that was hidden behind its obnoxious frame, revealing the small safe.

“I’m on a tight schedule. I’d appreciate it if you could hurry it up, dear Aunt.” She taunted, only because she wasn’t sure how much longer Rowan would stay conscious for.

Maeve snarled, but punched in the numbers and opened the door with a loud ‘click’.

She reached a hand in, the sound of papers shuffling filling the room.

Then, fast as an asp, she spun to face them. An arm extended as she clasped a handgun in her delicate fingers, the barrel pointed directly at Aelin.

 “Perhaps next time you should follow me to the safe.”

Aelin felt her body go stiff at the sight of the gun. She heard a chair scrape against the floor on the other side of the room, followed by grunts as Rowan heaved himself up.

“No. Maeve, don’t hurt her,” he ground out. Aelin didn’t have to look to know blood was still leaking from his mouth.

Maeve pursed her lips at him as her eyes flicked to his stumbling form.

“How noble of you, trying to save her,” she purred. “Haven’t you realised by now that you were nothing but a pawn in her game? You’re worthless to her. Why on earth would she ever love you? A washed-up nobody with a-“

“Rowan, don’t listen to her. I don’t think that. I would never think that.” Aelin said, praying that he could hear the emotion in her voice.

Maeve simply cocked the gun, and although she said nothing, the threat rang loud and clear. One more stray word from Aelin, and she would find herself with a bullet between her eyes.

It was enough to make Rowan stop his slow shuffle across the room. Aelin could feel him a few feet behind her, somewhere to her right.

Her Aunt took a few taunting steps closer, though still too far out of reach. If only Aelin could get the gun off her...

“Rowan stays with me,” Maeve growled, “and I want my money back now.”

Aelin snarled, unable to stop the sound from leaving her throat.

“Go to hell,” she growled at her Aunt.

Maeve stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then, before Aelin could blink, she moved her arm to her right and fired the gun.

Directly at Rowan.

  Lysandra gasped as she watched Rowan crumble to the floor, clutching his stomach. Aelin screamed silently, the emotion on her face evident even through the laptop screen.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Dorian swore from beside her.

Blood was already pouring out Rowan’s stomach and pooling around his body. This definitely wasn’t a part of the plan.

Her eyes were planted firmly on her friend, waiting for the signal to send in Aedion and Manon. Aelin had given her firm instructions the night before.

‘Dont, under any circumstance, send them in until I give the signal.’

“Come on Aelin,” Lysandra whispered to the screen. Just give the sign... any second now she would – there. Both Dorian and Lysandra saw Aelin’s hand reach behind her back and make the signal – a tightened fist that then burst open, fingers extending.

Only a second passed before Lysandra called Aedion. He picked up instantly.

“Time to go?” he asked, hushed.

“Get in there now. Maeve pulled out a gun and shot Rowan. Aelin is next. Go, go, go,” she said as quickly as she could.

Aedion hung up, and Lysandra watched as he and Manon ran across the rooftop of Doranelle, then slid down the ropes they had set up earlier and slammed feet-first through Maeve’s office window.

 Aelin couldn’t hold back the sobs as she turned to run toward Rowan, but Maeve stopped her with a simple, “ah-ah-ahh.”

Maeve gestured with the gun and Aelin turned back around to face her, tears dripping off her chin.

“I suppose a gas leak would have killed us all. Next time, don’t bluff yourself through a situation, dear.”

Off to her left she could hear Lorcan and Gavriel start to get up, lifted from unconsciousness by the sound of the gunshot.

“Shit,” Gavriel said in horror as he took in his friends bleeding form.

Maeve held out a hand to stop them from walking any further. Then fixed her attention solely on her niece.

“You have been a thorn in my side since the day you were born.” She took leisurely steps toward Rowan as she did so. Aelin didn’t turn to watch her.

“I thought I’d gotten rid of you when I threw you onto the streets of Rifthold, hoped at best you would be scooped up by a brothel madam. You were young enough when your parents died that I hoped it would all appear like a bad dream to you.”

She was directly behind Aelin now, standing beside Rowan, his grunts the only noise in the room as he tried to stunt his bleeding.

“Now,” her Aunt continued, “I’m going to pluck this sweet rose. Unfortunately for you, I don’t need you breathing to retrieve my money. It’s truly a shame you didn’t just stay out of my way, dear child. Maybe then you would have lived.”

Aelin heard Maeve cock the gun another time, and take her aim.  Slowly, Aelin turned to face her Aunt, who’s red lips parted in a serpentine smile as she watched her niece accept death.

Rowan lay next to Maeve’s feet, blood pooling against the dark floor. So much blood that Aelin couldn’t comprehend how he was still conscious. He should be dead, she realised with a shudder. This was her fault. All of it was her fault. If she was going to die, then she would tell him the truth.

“Rowan,” she said softly. His eyes lifted to meet hers. The vibrant green had dulled as if the life had drained out of him. She continued.

“You mean more to me than you will ever realise. You were the first person in my life that understood me, and didn’t judge me for it. You showed me that there was more to life than I had ever thought possible. Even though I only knew you for a month, I felt like I had known you my entire life, and.... I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I got you dragged into this, because Maeve knew how I felt. She knew I.... She knew I loved you. For as long as I live, I will be sorry. Perhaps even after that.”

Rowan was motionless, green eyes shining as he realised what she said. She had said it. For once in her life she had told someone the truth.

Maeve tilted her head as she looked between Aelin and Rowan.

“How sweet.”

She slid her finger against the trigger and began to pull.

Aelin closed her eyes.

  The pain in Rowan’s abdomen was unlike anything he could imagine. He had been shot before, mostly during his time in the police force, but nothing this serious. His blood had now soaked through his clothes, his hair, but it still poured out of him.

With each second that passed he felt his life drip away. He had his hand pressed to hard against the wound that his fingers were going numb. Or perhaps that was the blood loss.

But all of that pain and worry had eased when Aelin spoke to him. When she said those words. ‘I love you.'

For a brief moment Rowan had been transported back, to a time when Aelin was curled up against him while he played with her hair, her forehead pressed to his chest as they lay on her bed. She had looked up at him then, her eyes soft as she pressed a kiss to his pectoral. The motion so gentle that his heart had skipped a beat.

Rowan realised in that moment that Aelin had been in love with him. Not only that, but she had been for a long while.

As the memory faded, and Maeve muttered some words, Rowan gathered the last of his strength. He would do this. If it was the last thing he did, he would do this for Aelin. Because he loved her.

Maeve’s finger moved to pull the trigger, and Rowan kicked his leg out. Smacking Maeve in ankles so hard that she fell backwards. The shot rang out, and the bullet lodged itself in the ceiling.

Aelin was already running for them, refusing to miss a chance, just as he had hoped. But she didn’t move to get the gun off her Aunt. She came for him.

But the motion he made had torn the wound even further, and Rowan could feel himself flickering. Unconsciousness swept in for a few moments, but Aelin slapped him hard enough that his eyes sprung open once again.

“Stay with me Rowan. Stay with me.”

A heartbeat passed, when Rowan heard the sound of glass smashing. Behind Aelin’s shoulder Aedion and Manon were quickly unclipping ropes from harnesses and moving to fight Gavriel and Lorcan.

Aelin used that moment of Maeve’s distraction to rise and slam a foot into her stomach. The gun flew out of her manicured hand and Aelin wasted to time in grabbing it and taking aim.

On the other side of the room, Manon had quickly taken Lorcan down and was now helping Aedion.

Rowan might have been imagining things thanks to the blood loss, but he swore he heard Gavriel whisper, “Son?” before Aedion delivered a round-house kick to his gut.

Aelin inched back until she was once again at Rowan’s side. Without taking her aim off Maeve, she reached down and slid her arm around Rowan, heaving him up. Aedion and Manon quickly ran over and took over. They walked him to the window but Rowan could do very little to help them support his weight. His wound was screaming.

He heard Aelin’s shoes scuff against the floor as she walked to the safe and grabbed everything she needed, gun still pointed at Maeve. Then, slow as a tiger watching it’s prey, she came over to the window and dropped the money in one of the backpacks Manon had brought.  Aedion was pressing Rowan’s hands against the rope, whispering instructions to him, “You just need to hold on for five seconds. That’s it. The car will be right there, and then we can get you sorted out.”

Rowan nodded, though it was an effort to do so.

Maeve growled from across the room, anger seeping out of her in waves.

Aelin held the gun and papers in her hand. Rowan’s contract, he realised.

She once again pulled out the gold lighter from her pocket and flicked it open.

“Rowan comes with me. The money is mine.”

She pressed the paper to the edge of the flame and the heat quickly began to eat away at the contract.

Aelin checked her watch briefly.

“Also, I wasn’t completely bluffing about the gas leak. I rigged it to start in approximately two minutes. So you can either stay here and burn, or get the hell out.”

Maeve’s eyes widened in shock, and then she narrowed them and snarled.

“I will find you again Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and when I do you will be dead before you even realise what is happening.”

Galathynius.... as in the royal family of Terrasen? Rowan was obviously losing his mind.

Aelin dropped the papers to the ground and checked her nails, bored.

“Sounds like a bucket of fun, Maeve. See you in hell.”

Rowan didn’t get to see what happened next because Aedion told him once again to hold one before he threw Rowan out the window. His palms burned as they slid against the rope, but he held on. The ground loomed closer and spots clouded his vision. Manon slid on the rope across from him, and when he reached the bottom she ran to help him to the back of the van. The doors opened and he saw Lysandra and Dorian waiting for him, ready with bandages and bottles of disinfectant.  Rowan vaguely recalled Aelin saying that Dorian was in his fourth year at med school, studying to be a surgeon. Lucky him.

Manon pushed Rowan into the back and he lay flat on his back. Dorian’s face loomed over him.

“Not going to lie, we were expecting Aelin to be in this position, not you.”

Rowan couldn’t imagine anything worse.

He felt the tentative hands of Lysandra prodding at his face, checking to see what had been broken.

 The next thing he knew, Aelin jumped in the back and started shouting. “IS HE ALRIGHT?” She crouched next to him, hands resting on either side of his face.

“Rowan! Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” She started sobbing. He lifted a hand to hers, caressing a thumb over her skin, which only made her cry harder. 

“I’m fine, Aelin. Thank you for saving me,” he whispered.

He was vaguely aware that the van was moving now.

“I love you, Buzzard,” she growled at him.

He chuckled at the nickname, despite everything that had just happened.

“I love you too, Fireheart.”

A large BOOM sounded from behind them then, making the very ground they were driving on begin to shake.

“Maeve’s office?” he guessed.

Aelin’s grin was her only reply.

                                                    Two months later

  Aelin’s cries of pleasure died down, though her heart was still racing. Rowan gently eased himself out of her, planting kisses along her collarbone as he did. They lay there for a few minutes, panting against one another, skin slick with sweat. Rowan moved his kisses to her neck, and she suddenly found it very hard to focus.

“You’re distracting me,” she said, breathless.

He nipped at her throat.

“You needed distracting.”

Aelin couldn’t argue with that. She had been finalising her plans to go after Arobynn with such an eye for detail that her head had started spinning. Rowan was good at knowing when she needed to be dragged out of her research. Hence how they had ended up like this – Aelin’s back pressed against the soft pillows of their bed as he ravaged her.

They had moved into her apartment in Rifthold and for the first time in her life, Aelin was truly happy. She knew Rowan felt the same.

His kisses moved lower, between her breasts, and it became hard to breathe.

 Aelin had always believed it fate. That tug that had led her to Wendlyn in search for her Aunt... Perhaps it had been meant to lead her to Rowan the entire time. She would never know.

But as Rowan pressed kisses against her abdomen, she decided it didn’t matter.

Fate or coincidence she didn’t care. Because all she knew was that she would be eternally grateful.

  The end.

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Some time ago I decided I wanted to scratch the itch and try something for myself.​Here's my original post from some time ago, looking back I really had no clue :)​https://www.reddit.com/r/Entrepreneur/comments/481cf8/critique_my_plan_to_ditch_the_95/​Short story - I was in a pretty good corporate job making good money but worried I was backing myself into a corner, the golden handcuffs so to speak. The company I was at was undergoing a lot of change and I didn't fancy being on the scrapheap with a bunch of others should someone above make a call or worse still stuck in a position I hated.​I decided to build a business in a completely different industry, with no experience, a big mortgage and new baby and not a huge deal of business experience.​My real reason to do this was to build a foundation and asset for my family - all along my intention has been to build a saleable asset that can generate my income or be sold if I ever desired.​I'm also a worker, I like the excitement of the hustle - I like to put my head down and go 100 miles and hour. Working in a corporate job I was frustrated that most of the time was spent justifying your job or doing useless busy work - I just want to get my shit done and move on.Fishing and boating is my big passion, I used to fish up to twice a week and had a small boat that was my pride and joy. When deciding to go into business I put it up for sale to get some funds to kick start, I figured if it sells that's my sign to go for it. 2 days later there was an empty spot in my driveway and heart but a few dollars in my account and off we went.I used some of the money to fix a few pressing issues on my house and the rest to fund some basic business setup and equipment - once again looking back I had no idea what I was doing but great intentions.​To save a few dollars I built my own trailer, taught myself to weld and made a horrible but functional box trailer to cart everything around in. No sign writing and looked shady to say the least but it got me going!​The first year of business was part time - weekends basically. Trying to land jobs, learn the work and do the work. Over the course of that year I worked weekends and the odd day were I took leave from my day job and really operated in secret - sneaking into a meeting room to call a customer to hustle a window cleaning job or arrange a booking.​I had no real idea how to get jobs initially but eventually caught onto a lead generation service, a bit similar to home advisor called hipages in Australia. Basically you pay for leads for jobs then the customer gets quotes from 3 providers, generally it's a price war but I found I could pick up a job for say Window cleaning but offer a package with all my other services and generally win the job. Once I did a good job I got some referrals etc which got me off the line.​In the first year part time I did about 60k of revenue. At times I used friends for help and paid them through the books - I didn't take a single dollar myself and reinvested everything back into the business which allowed me to have a professional grade trailer built up with some great equipment which gave me some confidence to bid bigger jobs and know everything was going to work.​Second year I told my work about the business and made a plan to exit my day job that year. My employer was pretty understanding and allowed me to take a bunch of accrued leave to work in my business a couple of days a week and in the third quarter of the year I finished my 12 year stint with the company to go it alone. That year we also had our first kid - just to do it all at once.​The first few months were daunting as I really had to hustle for leads and sell jobs to survive, I had a bit of a cash buffer but that quickly depleted and ended up being a lot lower than I wanted and the reality hit of trying to make ends meet.​Initially I was stupidly paying myself similar to what my old job was paying but I soon found out this wouldn't last and basically took a pay cut to as low as I could possibly go so I could reinvest as much into the business and staff as I could afford.​I realized that I really needed some help to get through the work and hired a full time guy as well as a part timer - things were far from perfect but we got through some work! The first full time guy didn't work out and he left and the part timer became full time and is our main guy today.​The end of the second year saw us hit 184k in revenue and we purchased a second had truck (ute) to start building our second rig.​Year 3 has seen us take on another full time guy and I'm starting to get the odd days were I can get off the truck and do sales which is an absolute must. We have 2 trucks in operation and a 3rd ready for build - this will be a replacement of the original equipment I started with as it's starting to get a bit long in the tooth, the end of year will see us operating with 2 trucks but hopefully much more capable and reliable.​We have also leased a small warehouse where we stored the trucks and equipment - I thought it was also important to have a home base for the guys to arrive at each day rather than my house which is one more step toward removing myself from the day to day. It's a big cost but the benefits far outweigh it.​Our marketing has changed quite dramatically, we no longer use any lead gen services and collect all our own leads in house using Google adwords, organic (SEO + Maps), referral and we had just started with some direct mail.​To keep growth going in the right direction I've learned you really need marketing levers that you can pull to make the phone ring so I'm paying more and more attention to that while learning how we can best retain the existing customers.​In Australia our financial year ends June 30 - all going well this should see us hit 300k revenue.​Profits are quite low but at this stage we are still young and trying hard to grow, it has certainly been one of the hardest things I've done and at this stage is harder than ever as we face cash flow issues and the usual growth pains.This year coming I'd like to hit 600k revenue but to be honest it's a little scary as to reach that level is going to require some serious action on my behalf. I plan to get off the truck completely to focus on sales and marketing help in achieving this.​We also have our second baby on the way just to add to the mix !I'm certainly not rich - in fact each month is a struggle to pay the bills and I pay myself about 500 bucks a week. I've chosen to invest in my business and staff and hopefully reap the rewards later. Survival mode sucks big time but hopefully it's short term.Overall it's been a damn tough time but very rewarding to look back at what we have created from nothing. I've never learned so much in my life 2 years of full time business has provided more learning than 15 years of employment and high school years by far. There's no better way to learn and develop than when your back is to the wall.