#its just me and my crayon brush against the world

[fluxydrawings]

slightly late bday present for @parasiteking <33 freshberry is real actually

[ginnsbaker]

In Flames I Sleep Soundly (2/2)

Chapter Summary: The aftermath.

Word Count: 9k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Non-graphic depictions of violence

Author’s Note: Thank you for your patience, I hope... I don't know what I hope. I'm just grateful that you guys took the time to read this piece and leave comments in my inbox. I do have more to say later, but for now I just needed to post this. 

Let me know if you have some questions or clarifications. (yes, I wrote this sentence after sending a work email)

AO3 / Part One / Masterlist

--

Part Two

You’ve always thought that life is like a train ride. 

And as a passenger, you know only two things: the direction of the course and its scheduled stops. And so, it’s like this: get born into the world, take your first steps, go to elementary school, go to high school, go to college, get a job, get married, have children, have grandchildren, and then die in your sleep. If there’s an afterlife, perhaps get resurrected into a young version of you, and move into another train. And then begin another journey. 

But what the passenger doesn’t know is that a train can only move forward when it’s on its rails. And this is where the helplessness of every individual in that train becomes apparent. Your life–or at least how you want it to go–is not entirely in your hands.

For you, a single phone call managed to completely derail your train from its tracks. And then, as if still unsatisfied, it plucked you violently from it and left you on your own in the middle of nowhere.

You didn’t know where to go, only where you’ve been. Like a diamond blade that cuts through steel, it segmented your life into just two parts: Before and After.  

Before was going home to your wife after a tedious day, resting your head on her lap while she threads her fingers through your hair.

After is knowing those same delicate fingers raked through someone else’s tufts of blonde in throes of passion. 

Before was her telling you she loves you and feeling it to your bones.

After is her telling you she loves you and only hearing a lie.

Split in the middle, you presume you can simply choose to live in one or the other. 

***

“Love’s a fucking bitch.”

Inside your car, you’ve been quiet the whole time, just staring at the photos in Natasha’s phone. You stare at Wanda walking out of the theater, hand-in-hand with a tall, lanky man you don’t recognize. 

“His name is Victor Shade. Goes by ‘Vision’. The only son of a high-profile neurosurgeon on the East Coast.” Natasha tells you, eyeing you closely.  

You brush your thumb against the image of the laughing woman in the picture. She wore your wife’s face and smile, but all you see is a stranger. 

“What are you going to do?” Natasha asks.

Briefly, you consider this could all just be a prank. Maybe Wanda is watching you fall apart right now, giggling in hiding because she got you this time. At least it’s the sort of cruelty you’d fight over for a day or maybe a week, and then laugh about in ten years.  

“Y/N?” Natasha tries again.

You finally look up at her and immediately hate the look of pity on your best friend’s face.  

“I don’t even know where I’m sleeping tonight.” you say, handing back her phone. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should talk to Wanda.”

The laugh that bubbles up your throat is nothing short of deranged. For almost a minute, you laugh into your steering wheel until tears begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. Natasha watches you with a worried expression, her hand hovering over your back hesitantly. She thinks about the beautiful person she met in kindergarten, the girl who gave her own blue crayon so Natasha could color the sky properly while she was left to color hers with a red one. It hurts her to witness the light snuff out of the person who was her own light in her darkest moments. And when your laughter subsides into muffled sobs, she cries with you. 

When you’re done, you systematically wipe the tears and snot off your face with the sleeve of your shirt. Natasha patiently waits for your next move.

“Did you get his address?” you ask with a surprisingly steady voice. 

“Yes, apparently it’s in one of the luxurious apartments near the university.” Natasha says as she texts you the exact address. 

“Good,” you say, then turn your attention to the empty roads ahead of you. 

You lied when you had implied to Natasha that you didn’t know what you’re going to do. 

***

A Victorian style of housing is unheard of in this part of New Jersey, but here you are, standing outside of one. His rental is on the second floor at the end of the street where a sports car is parked carelessly in its spacious garage–an august flex coming from a college kid. Wanda crosses your mind once again as you take in this grandiose lifestyle before you. Was it money that attracted her to him? You never pegged her for a gold-digger, but then again you also didn’t peg her for a cheating whore. You screw your eyes tightly shut at the unpleasant adjectives you now associate with your wife as you lose some of yourself in the process. There’s something frightening and unfamiliar threatening to consume your entire being, and you have no clue what to do with it. 

With a deep breath, you walk to his doorstep and ring the doorbell. A few moments later, you jerk in surprise as the door swings wide open towards you, the lock stile of the wooden panel narrowly missing your forehead.

“Sorry, I keep meaning to get that fixed and it’s easier to push,” A man in his early twenties with yellow blonde hair comes into sight. 

“Can I help you?” he asks. 

You have to tilt your head back slightly in order to meet his cerulean eyes. 

“You’re Vision?” you ask.

“Actually, it’s Victor Shade. But yes, everyone calls me Vision.”

“How old are you?” 

Vision shuffles his feet, uncertain if he should answer your question. It’s rhetorical of course, a question you didn’t mean to actually come out of your mouth. You could guess–but truthfully, you’d rather not now. 

“Who are you?”

“Y/N Maximoff.”

He raises his eyebrows quizzically, your name not ringing a bell.

“Wanda’s wife.” you supplement domineeringly, as if declaring it would stake your claim on her once and for all. He drops his gaze at the mention of your wife’s name, like a child that has been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter that he’s at least half a foot taller than you are. He isn’t quite a man. Not to you.

“May I–May I come in?” you ask as politely as you could. 

After a second of doubt he smirks, and then says, “Sure.” You can sense the shift in his stance. He knows you’re onto him, and this is a showdown. Like any Alpha male scrambling to be on top of the food chain, he finds you to be an exciting piece of challenge. It makes you wonder if he was looking forward to this moment as much as you were dreading it.

You didn’t notice before that he’s barely covering his naked torso with a peacoat, and you try not to think about what brought on his current state. If by chance, you had just narrowly missed one of your wife’s regular visits.

Once you’re inside his apartment, you immediately scan your surroundings. There are papers and books scattered all over the floor. You can make out a thin trail of smoke coming from an unfinished cigarette in his living room, where the couch is covered by a tarpaulin smeared with ink and acrylic paint. 

On an easel beside it is a painting covered by a dirty towel you assume he’s been working on before being disrupted by your presence. “Can I look?” you point at it. 

“No. Sorry,” he says, before taking the painting from the easel and bringing it to his room. “It’s not done yet. An artist’s rule.”

You nod, and then noticing the only thing that he has organized, you say, “Nice vinyl collection.”

“Thanks.”

You stare at each other for long seconds. It feels ridiculous to expect an apology from him, but it’s something you think you deserved at the minimum. 

“So, tell me. How did you meet my wife?” you ask when it becomes apparent that he doesn’t have any intention to be an active participant in this meeting.

“Art History 101. I’m one of her–”

“Students.” You complete his sentence with a grimace. Somehow that just makes things more fucked up than they already are. Jesus fucking Christ, Wanda, you curse in thought. Yet in a twisted way, it also kind of makes sense now. What they have is the stuff of sexual fantasies–a goddamned kink show is what it is. You’d never guess she’s capable of this. 

“Yeah, and she was really knowledgeable in the subject. Not to mention, a natural teacher. Everybody in the class was awestruck by her.” Vision continues to talk about Wanda as though he’s talking about her to a person who didn’t know her down to the ground. You don’t need to be told how spectacular your wife is. You knew better than anyone. How dare he?

“How’s it going?” You cut him off before he could accidentally trigger something fatal inside of you.

He looks at you, bewildered at the random question. He waits for the punchline that never comes, and then chuckles, “It’s been swell.” 

“This is where you meet?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“And she likes it?” You mean this place that looks like it’s been ransacked ten times over.

“Well, I guess. She never complained.” he says, and then cowers at the dirty look you throw his way at his callous comment.

“Do you stay in all the time or do you go out too?” you ask.

“It depends. We actually like to drive to new places in and out of town. Especially in the first week since she’s never ridden a convertible.”

“She likes that? She likes…aimless drives with no particular destinations?” 

“Oh, yeah. More exciting than being stuck in a routine, I guess.” 

It’s an obvious jab at a lifestyle he thinks you saddled Wanda with. 

Heat rises to your cheeks and you walk closer to him. “Did you know that we’ve been married for five years? And before then together for six?”

That you have a dog. Plans to have kids in the future. Plans to retire in a beachfront property. The rest of your lives together. Does all that mean nothing? 

“I know,” Vision replies, his tone devoid of any sign that he might be sorry for fucking a married woman. “She also told me you asked to move here because of your banking aspirations.”

“My aspirations? You…talk about me?” You manage to blurt out incredulously. Vision shrugs at that, and actually regards you with mild concern when you start blinking rapidly behind your glasses. You can hear your heart hammering in your chest as all the blood in your body suddenly rushes to your head. 

He doesn’t answer “Would you like a drink?” 

“Yeah, why not.” you say and lean against the closest wall to you for support.

“I have water, orange juice…”

“Got anything stronger?” 

“I think I have some vodka left.” Vision mutters and then disappears into the kitchen. You take his absence as an opportunity to sneak into his bedroom. It’s smaller than you’ve imagined. A huge mirror is hanging across the foot of the bed and you instantly know what it’s for. 

Is this where it all happens? Where they happen? Did they watch themselves fuck? Did Wanda watch herself fuck someone who isn’t you and felt guilty about it? 

Did she think about you at all?

You sit on the mattress and stroke its silky sheets with shaking fingers. The bed is unmade, and you know there’s evidence on them if you try to look for it.

A framed painting peeking out from his dresser takes your attention. You walk over to it and pull it out of its hiding. 

Your eyes go round in recognition. It’s the painting Wanda asked you to retrieve in Soho. You turn the painting over and discover a small piece of paper plastered on it.

‘To Vision, the only secret people keep is immortality.’  - W

You crumple the note tightly in your fist. Suddenly, all of it becomes more real than you can envisage: on a Tuesday morning, you’re perched on the exact spot your wife’s been betraying you over and over. You can almost smell Wanda from where you’re sitting–can feel her damp, soft skin, can hear her little sighs as she catches her breath.

You’re not prepared for the overwhelming rage that consumes you next, as you abruptly get up and walk the small distance to the kitchen.

-

You come to thirty seconds later, to broken pieces of porcelain and an unconscious man lying on a puddle of blood on the floor.

Your first instinct is to call Natasha. She picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Nat,” you say in a rush. “I need your help. I-I didn’t mean to–”

“Hey, hey. Slow down. What happened?” 

“I’m at Vision’s. I did a horrible thing a-and I’m so sorry, Nat, I–”

“Focus, Y/N,” Natasha’s voice is eerily collected. “Is he still alive?”

You scramble to place your index and middle finger on his neck, and let out a sigh of relief once you find what you’re looking for.

“I got a pulse. Should I call 911?”

“Don’t, I’ll handle this. Just grab a towel and wrap it around something cold like frozen vegetables or ice, then apply it gently to the area of the injury.” Natasha says. 

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment to absorb the instruction. Getting a grasp of the situation has started to feel like an impossible task. 

“Did you hear what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Natasha says. “You’ll be fine, okay? I’m on my way.”

And then she’s gone. And you’re left to deal with the vestiges of your crime. You have no idea how much longer Vision will have a pulse. You try to do what Natasha told you to, but you find yourself unable to move a limb, stuck in the loop of wanting him dead and wanting to do what is right. 

That is, until you hear the familiar tone of a message notification. It came from the rear pocket of Vision’s bloodstained cargo pants. You fall to the floor and dig out his phone. To unlock it, you take his cold hand and press his thumb against its screen. 

There’s a new voice message from a certain ‘W’ in his contacts.

Wanda.

You hit play.

“I hate to do this here,” Wanda’s voice is tremulous and you can easily tell that she’s been crying. “But this is the only way I can trust myself to go through with this decision. This needs to end. I can’t live like this. I’m tired of lying and hurting Y/N. She’s my family. Whether you believe it or not, she’s everything to me. I’m sorry. And I hope,” Wanda’s voice breaks on a choked sob. “I don’t know what I hope. I’m sorry.”

You listen to it again before making the decision to delete the message. You slip the device back into Vision’s pants.

Afterwards, you try to save his life.

***

Five Days After 

You wake up with a start. The clock on the nightstand reads 4:34 A.M. 

The dreams are more vivid now, and they have progressed to you jabbing a kitchen knife into Wanda’s chest as Vision takes her from behind. 

In reality, Wanda is lying half-naked beside you, snoring softly. She looks like the Wanda from Before, but your mind knows better. You want to trace her outline with your eyes and your lips, as you’ve done countless times whenever you’d wake up first. You want to kiss her temple and whisper how you love her even if she can’t hear you. You want, and want, and want. But you know what she’s done and with what little dignity you have left, you don’t fall into the trap of your remaining feelings for her. 

In reality, her ex-lover is in some hospital in New York with his family waiting for him to wake up.

The first two days were the hardest after finding out about your wife’s infidelity. Wanda could read you like an open book, but for some miracle she didn’t see past the calm demeanor you put forth. You still comment nice things about her cooking, hug her goodbye, kiss her good night. 

And then the nightmare starts all over again the minute Wanda leaves the house. Because when she’s near you, you don’t have to wonder where she is or who she’s with. You don’t wonder if she notices the empty seat in her classroom that used to belong to Vision. You don’t wonder if there are another pair of eyes like his, looking at her intrepidly with desire. The longer you carry on with your life as if nothing’s happened, the more you realize how much of your existence the past several months were built on lies. 

Maybe the wife next to you is no longer yours, but how do you reconcile that with the truth that you’re still hers? 

“Y/N?” you hear Wanda speak as you get up from bed. “Where are you going?”

Wand hugs the comforter to her more securely. You want to scoff at her question.

“Going out for a run.” you say after a beat. 

“Want me to come with?”

“No, thanks. Just go back to sleep.”

“Oh,” Wanda glances briefly at the time and then says, “It’s still too dark outside.”

You shrug. “So?”

“Could be dangerous, don’t you think?” 

“It’s Westview,” you repeat the same thing she said to you the first night she came home late without calling. The night in which she probably fucked him for the first time. “What’s the worst that could happen to me?”

“Be careful.” she acquiesces softly. “Do you want anything for breakfast?”

“No.” you say, grabbing your running gear from the dresser. 

Sparky tries to follow after you but you lock him in the bedroom with Wanda, and head out to change in the guest bedroom. 

-

There’s a slight itch at the back of your throat and you’ve stopped sweating just a while ago. Nevertheless, your tired legs refuse to stop their strides as you reach your tenth mile, and end up in a deserted farmhouse where Natasha is waiting for you.

“He still hasn’t woken up,” Natasha announces, handing you a bottle of ice water. “And while I got rid of the paintings, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take a swig from it like someone who’s been left in the desert for days, before leaving just enough of the water to pour over your head.

“What do you mean?” you ask after you recover from your run. 

“His family is suspicious. They refuse to believe it’s an accident. You should expect cops to visit your house soon. Don’t panic. I scrubbed that kid’s apartment, they won’t find any traces of you.”

“How many years are we looking at?”

“It’s too early to worry about that. We don’t even know if he’ll ever wake up.”

“If he doesn’t, then I’m a murder, Nat.” you say candidly, like you’ve already accepted the monster that you now see yourself to be. “If he does wake up, then it’s attempted murder. Again, how many years are we looking at?”

“Even if he dies, you’re not going to prison. I promise you.”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything. Just answer the question, Nat.”

“Up to twenty years in the state of New Jersey.”

It figures. Despite it being more than half the amount of years you’ve been alive, you deem it a short punishment for the years you’d be taking from the boy. In twenty years or less, you’d be stepping out of prison to live out the rest of your life, and Vision would still be six feet under and being mourned by his parents. 

You look down at your dirty shoes, and say, “I see.”

Natasha puts her hands on your shoulders and ducks her head, trying to meet your eyes. 

“You’re not going to prison. I won’t allow it.” 

You step back and out of her hold. 

“Now, about that other thing. I already contacted this lawyer who owes me big time. You’ll just have to pay 30% of her regular rate for the entire divorce process.”

You look at your best friend, considering it. You could give Natasha the go signal now to hire this lawyer, but in the end all you say is, “Thanks, Nat. For everything.” as you turn your back on her.

Natasha’s brows snap together. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” The word leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, knowing that for so many years ‘home’ was a person you felt the safest, a person who you could be with as you are. Wanda didn’t just cheat on you, she left you homeless. Home, in every sense, no longer exists.

“On foot?” 

“Yup.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Just get in the car, I’ll drive you.” 

But you’re already bouncing on your feet and moving in the other direction.

***

The next day, you sleep on your alarm again. It’s the second consecutive week you’re calling in sick late in the morning, and your immediate supervisor at work is understandably worried. He offers you take the rest of the week off, partly fearful for anyone at your branch catching whatever illness he assumes you have. Ironically, broken marriages are arguably endemic in this country. So perhaps, you really should stay away from people for a while. 

The blinds were shut, so that as little light as possible dances through the gaps between them. You are encouraged to stay in bed by the lack of sunlight, but as your mind starts to wake up, something about the gloominess of the room urges you out of bed. It’s a Monday, so that means Wanda should be gone already. If you’re missing work, then you could make use of the time to think about your next course of action.

You’re halfway down the stairs when the sound of Wanda’s voice reaches your ears, making you stop in your tracks. 

“This will be our little secret, okay? Y/N can’t find out.”

You nearly miss a ladder in your step at the implication of her words, only to see she’s speaking to your dog. 

Wanda is sitting in the living room with Sparky who is thoroughly enjoying the morsel of cheese she’s feeding him with. If this was any other day before, you’d already be walking towards her to give her a morning kiss, and she’d complain that you didn’t brush your teeth long enough. You’d impishly lock her in your arms while you blow puffs of breath on her face, and she’d squirm and fight you off until the both of you are nothing but a blur of two idiots happy and in love. 

“Wanda,” you blink at her in confusion. “Aren’t you late for your morning class?”

You watch Wanda’s eyes light up before she could spot you at the foot of the staircase. 

“Hey, sleepyhead. Actually, I quit my job.” Wanda declares, wide-eyed, her green pools swimming in starry fervor that you almost squint.

“Since when?” 

“Since today.” Wanda shrugs, and you can see that she was hoping for a different reaction and not the mild indifference that she’s currently getting from you. 

“Why? Did something happen?” You ask as you pick up Sparky and bring him to the kitchen for a proper meal. You hate to see Wanda give up something she seemed so passionate about. But then you recall her recent affair with a student, and there’s really no telling where that passion was truly directed at. 

“Honestly, I’ve been meaning to for some time.” she muses while playing with her wedding ring. You leave a generous amount of boiled chicken in his food tray, before moving to sit on the opposite end of the couch, conscious to put much distance between you and Wanda.

“For a while it looked like I finally found a worthwhile career that isn’t so ambitious,” Wanda says. You glower at her allusion that her prior dreams were too extravagant to come true. “But in the process, I also lost myself to it. I sort of left you behind, while you always brought me to every milestone of your achievement. And for that, I wanted to apologize.”

It’s the closest thing to a willing confession you’ll ever get from Wanda. Her quitting her position at the university is her way of burying this and moving on. Maybe it would’ve been better if you simply waited for your marriage to fix itself instead of snooping around for her secrets. You wish you weren’t so addicted to the truth. If grace exists in this world, then it comes in the form of ignorance to all of the things that bring so much suffering. 

You’re thinking of something to say, but you’re afraid that the dam inside you will burst if you open your mouth. 

“I’m sorry it took a while for me to really comprehend how I feel about you.”

“We’ve been married for years, Wanda,” you remind her in disbelief. “That’s something you should’ve comprehended fully before you decided to say yes to a life with me.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” she hurries to explain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Please, Y/N, don’t get mad. Of course I know how I feel about you. I simply didn’t care to explore the magnitude of it, because I was complacent. And selfish.

“And when it comes down to it, you’re all that matters.” Wanda says and scoots closer to you. Then she takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. Your eyes close in their own accord, sighing at the contact. This might be the only thing that stops you from falling further apart. Even through the worst thing she's ever done to you, you crave to be this close to her. 

Wanda tries to read into your thoughts, and then says, “I know, I know. Acta non verba.”

“What?” you ask distractedly. 

“It’s what you always used to say back in college: deeds, not words. I’m going to show you. I’m going to make you feel how you make me feel.” she smiles at you tearily.

This isn’t how things are supposed to go. You’re to wait it out until the matter with Vision is resolved, and then serve her the divorce papers. She’s not supposed to declare her love for you and for those words to still have a substantial effect on you. 

“Wanda, I–” 

“Here,” Wanda retrieves a box from underneath the pillows and pushes them into your hands. “An advanced anniversary gift.” 

You try to stop your hands from shaking as you stare at the box in your lap. 

"Wanda, there's something we need to talk about."  

"Later, baby. Please, just open it." Wanda says and you try not to cringe at the pet name. 

You're about to pull the lid off when the doorbell rings and Sparky comes rushing to the door, yapping away. 

"I'll get it." You mumble and yank your hand from Wanda's grasp. The haze in your head instantly clears up the moment you’re no longer touching her. 

You open the door to two gentlemen in a dark suit. You remember Natasha’s warning yesterday, not really expecting them to show up this soon. 

"Wanda Maximoff?"

"No, I'm her wife, Y/N. Can I help you?"

The taller one with blonde hair makes the introduction with, "I'm Detective Rogers and this is Detective Barnes.”

You wipe your hands on your pajamas before shaking their hand and inviting them to come in.

“We're here to ask your wife a few questions about Victor Shade." Rogers says. 

You hesitantly glance back to Wanda who suddenly looks so stricken.

"They're here for you." you tell her. 

"Mrs. Maximoff, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Rogers walks over to her and introduces himself and Barnes to her. 

He gets on straightaway with the questions. “Where were you last Tuesday afternoon?"

"I was at work, attending a departmental meeting. Did something happen? Is something wrong?"

The two men look at each other. Then the shorter one, Barnes, says, "Your former student, Mr. Shade was involved in a serious accident."

Wanda gawks at their news. "I–I was told he dropped out of school for reasons that were not disclosed to me and the class. I had no idea. My god, that's... That's terrible." 

“Yes, we’re aware. His family wanted the whole thing in the wraps in case it turned out to be more than just an accident.” Rogers explains with 

“Why would they–” Wanda tries to ask but Barnes interrupts her abruptly.

"Were you close?" he asks. 

He watches your wife as you do–closely, and observing every crease in her features that would give her away. But after months of lying, it's evident how she’s become so good at it. 

“Uh, no,” Wanda shakes her head and smiles through her absolute lie. A strange feeling creeps at you at having to see your wife display such confidence in front of authorities. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can share apart from how he performed in my class.”

Rogers and Barnes exchange even-handed looks again. Barnes glances at you briefly, before nodding at his partner to continue.

“Here’s the thing, Ma’m,” Rogers takes out a small notebook from his pocket and flips through it. “We found your name and contact in Mr. Shade’s call history. There are dozens of back and forth calls between you and him. This is actually the reason why we wanted to get in touch with you, because you’re the only one aside from a classmate of his that he’s spoken to for the entire semester. We want to know if he ever confided in you or if you knew someone he might have had a disagreement or altercation with.” 

You can feel Barnes studying you again, but you refuse to meet his gaze, trying to keep your face as neutral as possible with just a tinge of curiosity. 

Wanda remains unfazed and says, “We do communicate over the phone. But again, it’s strictly about his studies.”

“What about his studies?”

“He was having a hard time with his final project. It can be any form of art–a sculpture, a painting or maybe even a video, and they need to emulate their deepest and darkest desires to it. H-He needed my input every now and then.” 

“Sounds quite a challenge,” Rogers mutters as he writes on his pad. “And have you seen his painting?”

“No. I highly discourage them from showing me their works in progress. Why?”

It’s Barnes who answers her this time. “There was no painting found in his apartment.”

“Oh, he must have kept it someplace else then.” Wanda says, more to herself. 

They don’t comment on that. 

“When did you see him last?” Rogers again.

“Monday of last week. He came in late to class. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“May we ask why ‘it doesn’t matter’, Ma’m?”

“I no longer work at Westview Institute.”

“Really,” Rogers lifts an eyebrow, taken aback. “Since when?”

“This morning,” Wanda answers. “Personal reasons. You can talk to the dean for the details if you want.”

Rogers simply nods and scribbles on his pad some more.

“Have you ever been in his neighborhood? Ever been to his apartme–” He badgers on but you interrupt him. 

“I think that’s enough,” you say with authority. “I don’t see what other questions could be relevant to your investigation, but my wife’s told you everything she knows.” 

Barnes tries to protest but Rogers signals to him. 

“Very well. Thank you both for your time.” Rogers says as you usher him and Barnes to the door. 

“Wait!” Wanda yells, chest heaving. They both look over their shoulders, waiting. “Is he… is he okay?”

You catch the knowing smirk on Barnes, but it goes away as soon as Rogers warns him with a look. 

You weren’t expecting she’d ask about him despite their obvious suspicions on what kind of relationship they had. It hurts you in a way that you can’t even begin to describe.

“Last we’ve heard he’s stable. But I’m afraid he’s still in a coma. For all we know he might never wake up. But let’s hope for the best, shall we?” Rogers says, and then with a polite nod, leaves with Barnes in tow.

“I, uh, I forgot that I need to formally file a resignation letter.” Wanda says after you close the door behind them. She frantically grabs her purse, all the while avoiding your gaze. She’s not appropriately dressed to go outside, but you don’t point it out to her as you continue to act the part of the oblivious spouse.

***

Wanda returns home three hours later. A nostalgic smile finds its way to the corners of her mouth, when she spots the note you left for her on the fridge.

Went to the park with Sparky, it says. 

The post-it notes were a long-standing tradition. Sometimes you’d put one on her rearview mirror, something along the lines of “have a great day ahead, I love you” written, and Wanda would stick one on your lunchbox that said “don’t skip on the vegetables”. 

And while she blames herself for your recent aloofness, she was hoping to remediate it on your anniversary. She already booked plane tickets to Hawaii and made reservations at a 5-star hotel. Your boss and probably the entire staff of your branch already knows about it, when she filed a week of vacation leave on your behalf. And then she put all the documentation and details of the trip in the box she gave you this morning. 

She planned for everything, except the part where two cops showed up at her house to talk about Vision. Admittedly, he was another thing that was never a part of her plans. Wanda used to deride people who make mistakes, and when asked to explain, could only say ‘it just happened’. She’s heard it too many times in the past, mostly from her ex-boyfriends. 

It just happened. There’s no better way to put it should you ever find out what she did. She wasn’t lonely or unsatisfied or neglected. The only struggle she could think of about her marriage is thinking about what to have for dinner, because you neither complain nor you ever know what you’re in the mood for. 

In actual sense, her life was perfect. Because of you. Because you work for her happiness. The guilt eats at her everyday. But she knows what she’ll lose if she comes clean. And she can’t afford that. She’d rather confront her demons than risk losing you. She tells herself she can’t put you through this kind of pain.

Wanda pulls herself out of her thoughts. She needs to focus on you. She truly hopes Vision would make it, so he can go on to live his life and she’ll live hers with you. 

Wanda pads through the bathroom to run herself a bath. While waiting for the tub to fill, she pensively walks around the bedroom, noting how the room still smells of you. That’s when she  finds her gift on your work desk, next to your laptop. It’s still wrapped in a bow. Wanda frowns, wondering why you didn’t bother to open it. 

All of a sudden, your laptop makes a sound. Acting on impulse, Wanda unlocks your computer with your password–her birthday–and then opens your email account. 

There’s a new email from Natasha. The subject reads ‘in case you need them’.

An odd, overwhelming feeling consumes her, and without thinking, clicks on the email. 

Wanda waits for the message to load with its attachments and then–

She freezes and her stomach drops. 

***

About four pairs of couples attend your small dinner party that you have planned several weeks ago. Your boss, Scott Lang came with his wife and daughter all the way from New York just so he can, in his own words, ‘taste your wife’s famous Paprikash’. Wanda reminded you that you were hosting, and you had spent the rest of the day shopping for ingredients and red wine. She asked if you should cancel, but you figured an evening with seemingly elementary lives would do some good for the both of you. 

And you’re right. It’s not a nuisance as you thought it’d be when you were roped into it. In view of the recent episodes that no doubt defined the lowest point of your life, it feels nice to experience a little normalcy in your home. Your introverted nature makes you a disastrous host to these events, but Wanda is the opposite–she’s a natural at hospitality. She’d go around and entertain people, exchange gossip, and make them take shots. She’d dance in the middle of the room, with that devil-may-care attitude of hers, attracting people to her like moths to flame. But at the end of the night, she’d go home to you and sleep in your arms, because she’s yours. As you and Wanda grew older, you became a more exclusive sort of couple. But on rare occasions like this one, Wanda would put on the old party hat while you’d watch her be the best part of it.

The only problem right now is that Wanda went away. Physically, she’s in the receiving room with everyone, nodding and smiling at whatever warrants a nod and a smile, but you can tell that her mind is off somewhere faraway. 

“So, Y/N, what’s the first thing you wanna do in Maui aside from stuffing yourself with Poke bowls?” Scott asks. 

“I’m sorry?” You tilt your head at him.

“You know, the…” he starts doing what looks like a hula dance, but you shake her head, still not getting any of it. 

“Wait, what? Wanda hasn’t–” Scott looks at Wanda, in panic. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean to spoil it.”

Wanda’s been keeping to herself the entire night. And she’s been drinking a lot, the contents of her glass never quite reaching the bottom before it gets another refill.

“It’s fine, Scott.” Wanda says.

You look at Wanda expectantly, but she just studies her drink. Increasingly annoyed, Wanda downs the rest of her wine and then says, “I was planning to take us to Hawaii on our anniversary.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s pretty awesome.” you say.

Wanda huffs out a mirthless laugh, before standing up and telling everyone she’s going to take a nap.

“Good idea, dear. You’re looking puffy around the eyes.” Emma, another co-worker of yours that Wanda never really warmed up to, quips at her.

Wanda clenches her jaw tightly, but chooses not to engage.

You excuse yourself from the group and follow her out of the room. Wanda feels your presence behind her and spins to look at you for the first time tonight.

“I’m okay. Just go back to your friends.”

“They’re not my friends and you don’t look well.” you say.

“I just need a few minutes to myself,” Wanda offers you a smile, but it’s wobbly. “Please.”

You can’t deny her anything and you can’t stop caring about her. She heads to the stairs before you can utter another word. 

***

After Wanda sees the last of the pairs to the door, she finds you in the bedroom with all the lights off. She can only make out your silhouette–shoulders hunched and perfectly still, while you look out the window to watch the couple trade playful kisses before getting in their car and driving off into the distance. 

From your peripheral view, you watch Wanda approach you slowly, cautiously, like a hunter stalking its prey. It’s easy to guess that she already knows. She has her arms wrapped around herself as a defensive stance, probably afraid of what you might do to her. You nearly let out a laugh at the absurdity of it, because you don’t think you could ever hurt her the way she’s hurt you.

“What happened, Y/N?” she asks as she stops a few feet from where you’re standing. 

“What did you do? Did you cause his ‘accident’?” she carries on with the questions despite your refusal to even acknowledge her existence. 

“Y/N?” Her voice is frantic and presumptuously privileged. 

You don’t owe her anything. Especially answers. Anger burns in your chest like a candle–fragile but with the potential to burn an entire field. You imagined the many ways she’d beg you when you discover each other’s skeletons in the closet. You imagined she’d be on her knees, clinging at your ankles, insisting she loves you and that it will never, ever happen again. You imagined you’d kiss her for one last time, right before you’d tell her that you’re done. 

You hate yourself for allowing her to beat you to a confrontation. For coasting through this mess until Wanda takes the mantle of the interrogator herself. She gets to nag you with questions as if after weighing each other’s transgression, yours turned out to be worse than her cheating. 

“Did you hurt him? You did, didn’t you? Jesus, Y/N. Talk to me,” Wanda pleads, and then out of desperation she screams, “Tell me what you did!”

“No. You tell me what you did.” you whisper menacingly, finally letting go of the restraints you placed yourself in for her sake.

You abruptly turn on your heel in her direction, and then stalk towards her in quick, menacing strides. Wanda cowers, but doesn’t yield. She stands her ground like the courageous heroine of her own movie. 

“How you fucked him over and over and over! How you lied to me…” Your chin begins to tremble and your vision begins to blur. “...over and over and over.” 

“Y/N, please–” 

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk to me now.” 

Wanda bites the inside of her cheek, the weight of her sin materializing in the form of your bared teeth and the vein pulsing in your neck and temple. 

“You didn’t think I’d know? I wouldn’t feel it? I knew from the very first night. Because I know you, Wanda. Every thought. Every look. Every fiber of your being. I know you and I fucking hate you!” You hear yourself yell, as real as the wetness you feel running down your cheeks. 

“I didn’t want to hurt him, I wanted to hurt you!” 

“Oh my god,” Wanda sobs out in anguish, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Y/N…”

There was a time, from long before you were married to her, when loving her broke your heart more than it made it whole. You didn’t think it’d happen again, but even if it did, you thought you’d find a way. You’d always find a way for Wanda.

You were happy together, weren’t you? Before this happened, she never gave any indication that she wasn’t. She made plans with you. Five-year, ten-year plans that meant she wanted to continue being with you. In return, you gave it everything you have and more. You turned the dreams into blueprints, and from blueprints into milestones. 

The arbitrary nature of her infidelity is what shocked you the most. It meant you couldn’t have done anything to prevent this. It wasn’t up to you. Love is a gamble and you’ve lost.

You’re both on the floor now. You, leaning against the side of the bed, and Wanda, hugging her knees to her chest as sobs continue to rack her body. 

When both of you can breathe again, it’s Wanda who breaks the silence. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

As much as you need to hear it, an apology now is just a drop in the ocean. Wanda can’t unfuck Vision. You can’t un-crack his skull. 

A thought suddenly occurs in your muddled brain.

“Was there anyone else aside from him?” you ask.

“No.”

“He must be really special then.”

She shakes her head furiously, denying it.

Against your better judgment, you ask the one thing that’s been plaguing you since you learned of her lover’s name. “Do you love him?”

“No,” Wanda mumbles without a second thought. “I thought I did, but no.” 

She didn’t love him. But it still kills you to know that it definitely crossed her mind that she might’ve felt something for someone else.

“Did you…” You stare intently at the ceiling, willing gravity to pull back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “...ever love me?”

“I love you,” Wanda says, her voice low and trembling, though she dares to look you in the eye. “I know how fucked up that sounds to you right now. But I do, I love you, Y/N.”

“You know,” You wince at the way your voice falters. You’re so tired and dehydrated, and your head is starting to hurt. Your lips quirk up in a bitter half-smile. “You have such a lovely way of showing it.” 

Wanda lets her legs slide straight in front of her as she openly weeps into her hands. Under different circumstances you’d be out the door right this second, getting all her favorite snacks and a bouquet of flowers. You have loved her for so long. 

“You should’ve just killed me. I don’t see any difference. At least there’s no pain in being dead.” you say after some time.

“Baby, don’t say that.” Wanda hiccups, struggling to control the spasms in her chest. 

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Even hearing you say my name makes me sick.”

Wanda looks away, like she’s been slapped.

“You can stay,” you say, and Wanda looks up at you with hope. “In this house. For as long as you want. But I’m leaving.”

“No. Don’t leave.”

But you’re already pulling your wedding ring off your finger even as she rushes to kiss you roughly. Wanda pours everything in this one kiss. She has played all the cards she’s dealt with, and this is her final, desperate move. 

As for you, you take it for what it is: a goodbye. It’s messy and salty, and everything anyone could ever hope for in a last kiss. When it’s over, Wanda ducks her head under your chin. She finds purchase in the area just above your heart, trying to commit to memory the rhythm of your heartbeat. 

You don’t have it in you to push her away, but you take the hand of hers that’s still cupping your face, and put the cold metal that once symbolized your commitment to her, in her fevered palm. And then very gently, you force her fingers to close around it. Albeit the numbness in your legs, you manage to push yourself up into a standing position and out of Wanda’s grasp. 

“This isn’t over. It can’t be over.” you hear Wanda speak, but you’re not sure if it’s to you or to herself. 

Out in the hallway, you examine the finger where your wedding ring had been. It’s going to take some time before its mark on your skin completely fades away.

***

A Week Later

“He’s awake.” 

Natasha sits across from you in the diner. She’s back in town to pick you up and drive you back to her condo in Manhattan, where you will be staying for a while until you find your own place. 

You swallow and take a breath, poking at your scrambled eggs. 

She’s wary of you–this zombie-esque version of you. And it’s not only apparent in your behavior, the gauntness of your cheek is more noticeable, and your clavicle more protruded. You look like you’ve aged ten years overnight in as little as two weeks. 

“He doesn’t remember anything.” she adds and this gets your attention.

“How convenient.” you say.

“Look, Y/N. You don’t need to act tough around me. Because I can see right through every mask you have on. You want me to prove it? Let me prove it.”

“Nat, just–”

“You’re more relieved to know that he’s woken up, than him not remembering anything. You’re compassionate to a fault. There can’t be a purer soul than yours.”

Your best friend’s impassioned speech puts a small but genuine smile on your face. Natasha does a little victory dance with imaginary pompoms, and the laughter comes easily to you. 

“I know I have no right to say this, nor do I really understand what you’re feeling right now. But, Y/N, someone will come along and take every broken piece of you back together. They will love you so hard, you’re gonna have to actually beg them to ease off.”

You humor her. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

In all honesty, it’s hard to think about the far-off future without the stinging reminder that Wanda is not in it. But as you sit idly in diner for a very late brunch–and might as well call it lunch–you realize that you’re not left entirely empty-handed. You have Natasha. You have the rest of your friends back in New York, although you haven’t talked to them much lately. You have your career that is getting a fresh start at a new company. Wanda has gotten custody of Sparky. As much as you love him, you have a feeling that she needs him more than you do. 

The point is, you’ve already seen the bottom of the sea, and it’s time to break the surface.

“As much as I hate your wife…soon-to-be ex-wife… or whatever,” Natasha shoots daggers at someone behind you. “She’s here to talk to you.” 

“Did she put you up to this?” you ask, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“She called me to collect a favor, and this is the best bargain we managed. She’s not going to contact me anymore after this.” Natasha says, and then she gets up from her seat and takes her plate of bacon and eggs to enjoy at another table. 

You hear tentative footsteps approach the booth and brace yourself to face Wanda. 

Much to your chagrin, she looks as immaculate as ever in her parka over a simple white v-neck and high-waisted jeans, her glossy red hair cascading in perfect waves past her chest. 

“Hey,” she says and slides into the booth with you.

You take a huge bite of your Reuben sandwich. “Hi, Wanda.” 

“Sorry for cornering you like this. You rarely return my calls and it’s been almost impossible to match our schedules.”

You concentrate on chewing your food, trying to appear perfectly disinterested in what she’s saying. 

“Natasha told me you’re already talking to divorce lawyers,” Wanda pauses to catch your eye, and you see no traces of sharpness in them. Her green eyes are bright with determination. “If you’re decided that it’s what you really want, then I’ll give it to you. I’ll cooperate.”

You look at her from beneath your dark lashes. “Okay.” 

Wanda swallows nervously and interlocks her fingers on top of the table. You can’t explain it, but your eyes automatically search for the wedding band in her left hand.

It’s still there. 

“I, uh, got something for you.” she says. 

“No, thanks.” you say.

“But it’s yours.” she argues softly, digging for something in her jacket. You watch her pull out a ring box and place it in front of you.

“What’s this?”

“Your wedding ring.” She says matter-of-factly. 

“I don’t want–” 

“I don’t care. I’m giving it back to you, and I’m keeping mine. You can do whatever you like with it. But I can’t keep it for you.”

You consider it momentarily, what she’s asking of you. In hindsight, it makes sense that she wouldn’t want to hold onto the residual love you have for her that the ring represents. 

“Fine.” You reach for the small box and Wanda heaves a sigh. 

“So, you have your ring back, and I’ll sign the divorce papers when they’re ready.” Wanda recites mechanically, her voice thinning towards the end of her sentence, as if she’s not at all prepared for what she needs to say to you next. 

“Then, I’ll come for you.”

You almost spit out your coffee. Some of it actually dribbles past your lips and you quickly grab a napkin to wipe your mouth. She tenderly smiles at your little accident, finding your clumsiness endearing. 

You gape at her, unable to think of a response.

“I didn’t want to believe you when you told me that night that you hated me. But I guess that’s better than indifference.” Wanda’s smile turns into a sad amusement at herself. 

“I don’t hate you, Wanda,” It’s the truth. Even though anger is the only emotion you can process most days, you’ve only ever hated the way she makes you feel. 

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she laments. “Thank you.”

You can tell she has more to say and you wait. 

“I’m not going to give up on you, Y/N. On us. What we have, and I’ve thought a lot about it, is something I’ll never find in another.” Wanda says, giving you a long, level look. 

“I’m not telling you this to get a reaction out of you. I know you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of me pursuing you, but,” she falters, the first sign of her vulnerability. “This time, I want you to know everything. I don’t want you to be blindsided by my intentions, so I’m giving you a heads-up.” 

“Wands,” The nickname rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. “You can’t torture yourself like this.” 

“I’m not,” she assures you. “I just refuse to give up on my dream.” 

You’re my dream, Wanda had written in her vows. You remember it, clear as day.

Wanda gets up to leave. “I’ll see you soon.” 

As soon as Wanda exits to her car, Natasha returns to the booth with a strawberry milkshake in hand. 

“Is it over?” she asks offhandedly, referring to your conversation with Wanda.

You hesitate, then look at her with an unreadable expression on your face. You give her the only answer that feels right to you:

“For now.”

[munsonsreputation]

congrats on 500 followers, Kay! i hope you keep writing and growing and receiving lots and lots of love! i'm gonna ask for a (#2) prompt 📄, pretty please! "of course i want to kiss you" with Jonathan! ♡♡

hey lui!!!!

i loved this request and this is my first ever imagine with jonathan so yay!!!! i hope i did your request justice and you enjoy reading it!!

thank you so much for helping me celebrate 500 followers!! it means the world to me!! 💘✨

“Your brother is quite the artist isn’t he?” You smiled widely while admiring the artwork that hung on the fridge, full of color and life that only a kid as talented as Will Byers could create.

Jonathan huffed out a short laugh, nodding his head as he came up beside you to look at the drawings that covered the appliance.

“Mom and I bought him that 72 pack of crayons for Christmas and he hasn’t stopped.” He told said as you turned to face him, a smile on your face.

“Your family is quite into the arts. Will draws. You take photos. El likes to write poetry. Your mom like to dance…or at least tries to. And Hop…”

You and Jonathan stared at each other for a second before bursting out in laughter. Your forehead bumping into his chest as you two stood there laughing. His hands lingering over the small of your back, hoping to not get away from you so easily.

He started, stumbling a bit as his thoughts flowed, “He uhh…he likes to…Hop?”

You giggled even more at that, leaning your body towards him and not daring to move away, as you could feel his hand press deeper into your back, holding you.

“That’s horrible! You’ve turned him into an Easter bunny!” You chortled, wrapping your arms around his neck, staring at him full of joy and humor.

Both of his hands wrapped around your body, and he was hoping that you couldn’t feel his heart beating out of his chest at the closeness for the first time like this alone.

“Y’know what, he actually likes to sing…we all pretend to hate it, but he’s actually pretty good.” He informed you, making you smile up at him.

He looked so pretty. His eyes sparkling and the toothy grin that he reserved for only you. For some time, you thought all you had it all wrong, that he was just a boy you had to admire from a mile away, but little did you know he liked you just as much. For years, actually, and you both had done such a horrible job at hiding your feelings. It was crazy to everyone that it took this long for you to finally see it through.

“You’re staring.” Jonathan whispered, fingertips tapping against your skin, the feeling so simple yet everything to you.

You blinked quickly, shaking your head, “S-sorry.” you mumbled, while you painted an embarrassed smile on your face that Jonathan found endearing.

“No, it’s ok! You look so pretty staring, I couldn’t help it.” He assured you, one of his hands abruptly stopping its tapping and coming around to your face, brushing the stay pieces away.

For a while you and Jonathan had been playing cat and mouse ever since you two had known of the reciprocated feelings. You’d have him blushing as you brushed past him the halls, giving him a cheeky smile. He’d have you stumbling over your presentation, as you caught his eyes in history, mouthing “smart girl,” as you explained the stupid philosopher you were talking about.

But that was cat and mouse in front of everyone.

Now you two were finally alone.

No friends around to pester or whistle flirtatiously.

Just you and him.

“D-Do you wanna finally kiss?” You peeped softly, voice pitched up higher due to your impending nervousness.

His palm finally rested against your cheek, feeling the rushing blood under your skin, “Of course I want to kiss you.”

Your breath hitched, a relaxed smile coming onto your face now, as you and Jonathan took a moment to bask it in. The afternoon glow shimmering in from the kitchen window and the soft noise from the television that you two were watching minutes ago before you had wandered here.

Just a few more seconds of longing staring before he finally made the first move. Closing his eyes as he leaned in slowly, and your lashes fluttered with your lids as you followed suit. When your lips connect, a spark ignited between the two of you. So strong yet gentle, lips moving easily against one against as you tiptoed to get more of him.

With the two of you too caught up in lip locking, you hadn’t heard the front door open. Hopper and Joyce strolling in with their other two children who they had taken out for ice cream after the school day.

Will and El groaned, listening to their dad trailing behind him with their giggly mom as he sang, “I just want your extra time and your…”

The front door shut, and Joyce made kissy noises, filling the space of the song that had just been playing on the radio seconds ago.

Hopper pretended to play electric guitar, following the kids to the kitchen to further annoy them, “Kiss!”

Walking in on the right time, they gasped, while you and Jonathan pulled away, but not leaving each other’s arms.

“Uh…h-hi?” You squeaked, undoing your hands from his neck and twiddling your fingers at his family.

Joyce looked overjoyed, smiling widely as she waved at you, and giving Jonathan a thumbs up. Hopper looked to be just as happy, but a little more smug, with a knowing smile on his face. Then on time, of course, like the long-lost twins that Will and El were they spoke.

“Steve and Robin owe us fifty bucks!” They exclaimed, hooking arms as they ran to the phone and dialed the numbers of your friends.

You stiffed your laughter, as Jonathan squeezed your waist apologetically, “We—we’re gonna go now?” He said, taking your hand and dragging you out of the kitchen.

“Have fun, but not too much fun!” Joyce hollered, watching as you and Jonathan rushed out the front door and into his car.

You buckled in, waving bye to his little siblings who watched from the window with the telephone glued to their ears. He turned to you, starting the engine with a grin on his face, “I know a place where my family won’t impede on our lip locking.”

You giggled, leaning forward to kiss his lips before patting his cheek. “So where are we going?”

[scary-senpai]

Dusted off my OPM/MHA crossover (AKA "UA AU")... in a world where Garou is emotionally well-adjusted, and also attends UA.

Being quirkless, he starts off being placed in the Support Program. Which is not a good fit, because (as we all know) Garou only has one talent when it comes to precision machinery--he can break it in interesting and unimaginable ways.

At that moment, Bang noticed Garou’s hair hanging limply down over his forehead. He began to brush the boy’s hair away from his eyes. Garou slapped his hand away. “Yare, yare…You think I don’t recognize the smell of singed hair by now?” Bang tutted. “Especially yours.” “Alright, alright!” Garou shook his head vigorously, restoring his hair to its usual prickly position. “I burned off my fucking eyebrows. Are you happy?” Bang studied Garou’s face. “Hmm... I suppose they’ll grow back…” “Goddamit—” Garou sprung from his seat and stormed back towards the house, Bang trailing calmly at his heels. “Just leave me alone, alright? I’ve had a real shitty day.” And with that, Garou shoved his backpack and wadded-up jacket into the closet and then slamming it shut. Bang casually re-opened the closet, meticulously smoothing out each item and then hanging them with care as he spoke. “Would you like to talk about it?” “Absolutely not.” “Hm.” Bang spotted some traces of ash on Garou’s jacket and gently rubbed at the dust with his thumb. “Well, whatever happened, I’m grateful to see you escaped largely unscathed. Must have been quite the fire. Let’s just be grateful you can’t grow a beard—”

“Seriously?!?” Garou spun around to find Bang was once again beside him. "That's all you have to say to me?" “Now, now. You must be doing something right.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. A long, floor-length mirror hung from the way in the hallway, and he smiled kindly at Garou’s reflection. Garou’s reflection began to smile back. “Turns out Fist of Flowing Water Crushing Rock works on fires,” Garou said, breezily removing a pen from his shirt pocket. “I never would have guessed, but I suppose that makes sense.” “Yeah, it probably displaces the air and shit… you have to get pretty close, though. I managed to avoid most of the flames, except for, well…” Garou tapped the pen against his temples, and then uncapped it. Bang snatched the marker away. “Don’t you dare,” Bang said. “Not in pen, and certainly not in Sharpie—” “I suppose you expect me to use crayon like a fucking child—” “Or at least use something washable, to start…” Garou turned sharply and marched himself into the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator.

Like all fic writers, I am contractually obligated to give Garou a Coke each time he appears in one of my stories.

[mae-gi-writes]

Yūgen | Sunwoo (The Boyz)

Yugen (n.) a profound, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe that triggers a deep, emotional response. 

Requested by anon! In which Sunwoo, the ace of the volleyball team, is curious about what you’re drawing all the time. Until one day, he stumbles upon a drawing of himself made from yours truly. 

Genre: fluff, volleyball player! Sunwoo and art student reader, shy love, softness, and inspired by haikyuu because I have been obssessed with the anime lately TT__TT  A/N: It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve posted here! Slowly but surely, I’m going through my inbox and replying to your requests. Thank you for your patience, stay safe loves, ily all xx 

-----

Sunwoo wasn't artistically inclined.

But that never stopped him from admiring those that were. He was always so curious as to how just a flick of fingers managed to create a shadow, or how just one glance at a subject made it through onto paper without so much as an effort to remember the details. It was like it was automatically recorded into one's brain, hands already registered to mimic the curves and the folds and the shadows that turned into nothing short of a miraculous piece. So when he caught sight of someone drawing, it always piqued his interest. He stumbled upon you one late afternoon after his volleyball practice, with sweat dotting his forehead and his training bag slung casually over his shoulder. He was about to direct his way to the parking lot upon exiting the gymnasium, only to spot a lone figure huddled upon the bleachers and curled into a ball that caused Sunwoo to frown. Slowly sidling up to the stranger in question and peeking over the railing to catch a glimpse of your face, his eyes are instantly driven to the sketchpad in your hands.

You didn't notice him though, so absorbed in your own world with earphones blocking out reality that a tsunami could've gone unnoticed. So Sunwoo took advantage to climb over onto the opposite bleacher and, after ensuring that your back wouldn't turn to greet him, leaned over the separation to catch sight of a lone figure cartwheeling freely over the page. Woah. You were talented alright. There was nothing else to describe the fluidity of movement you caught with your pencil. It made Sunwoo's breath catch in his throat. He had the sudden urge to know exactly what kind of face hid behind the visual mastery manifesting before his very eyes. After all, there must be other things for them to see rather than the boring literal reality that most people settled for. What kind of imageries were they creating in their heads? What beautiful stories were they crafting? Worlds they got lost in? You moved then, causing Sunwoo to jolt back and scurry away with his heart beating out of his chest, deciding that it was enough spying for the day. After that day, he made sure to seek you out every time after practice although he noticed you never strayed too long in the same place, always moving about like a shadow lingering in the corner, invisible yet omniscient. Sometimes you would find a quiet spot in a patch of sunlight by the tennis courts. Sometimes you'd be found on the bleachers, alert eyes observing every pass, every move, every twist of a body like  camera taking everything in. Sunwoo never approached you. Not that he didn't want to, but he found it awkward to just come up to you and present himself as the guy who'd been stalking your drawings. So he admired you from afar instead, relished in the passion of your dark coffee coloured eyes and in the attentive focus dipping your eyebrows in a soft frown, lips paeted slightly in concentration. "Do you know her?" He'd asked one of his friends from the volleyball team once, during their lunch break as he saw you line up at the cafeteria. Changmin took a peek at your face before he shook his head, "she might be in one of my electives." "Which one?" "I think it's art." Sunwoo forced his face to remain in a mask of calmness as he grabbed a steak sandwich, no fries, "do you know her name?" "Nah. I don't think she's ever spoken in class," Changmin's eyebrows quirk up then, "why'd you ask?" "No reason." Changmin's pointed look defined anything but that.  Although he did have the decency to drop the subject as soon as the rest of the volleyball team joined the table. Sunwoo got his answer a few days later when he practically toppled over you and your drawing crayons. It was his mistake. He'd been leaning too far out from the top of the basketball bleachers, struggling to get even the smidgest glimpse of what amazing piece of art hiding under your jacket sleeve, only for his foot to slip. Down he went with a curse, crashing straight into your body and quickly scrabbling to wrap his arms around your head, a pathetic attempt to cushion your fall as you fell into a heap in front of the bleachers. "You--you okay?" He huffed out, breathless and heart beating like a time bomb. Pulling his arms away slowly, gently, he finally met your gaze straight on and --oh my, your eyes were not coffee coloured at all.  But more of a honey-brown, wide open and framed by soft lashes. Currently dilated in panic. "I'm fine! What--What about you? Oh gosh, I'm so sorry--" "No it was my fault," he made a grab for your sketchbook and scattered pens only for his orbs to register the face messily etched onto the paper. His breath caught. For a minute, he could do nothing but stare at the replica of his face made in charcoal. Those were his eyes, his slightly crooked nose. The scowl he wore during his soccer matches. That was him. The resemblance was akin to that of perfection. That was before your hands snatched away the sketchbook before you quickly slammed it closed, cheeks blazing red, "that's-- I swear I"m not a creep, I-- I just do that for practice--" "It's amazing." Your head-- which had been bowed this entire time for fear that anger would be his response -- shot up in surprise, "what?" "It's amazing," Sunwoo repeated. He wouldn't mind repeating it forever, he realized, if that meant he got to see that aforable blush of yours. He reached out with his hand, "can I look at it again?" So you allowed him after some slight hesitation, and if he noticed, he didn't comment. Fingers brushing against yours slightly, he handled the sketchbook with utmost care as he flipped through the pages with child-like awe. He'd seen your drawings, sure, but mere glimpses here and there, a sneak peek, always accompanied with the fear of being found. But now, he could take his time and actually relish in the soft tracings of your crayon, admire the gentle shadings that made up the tip of his nose. You had managed to capture that frown -- the one he used whenever he concentrated -- to perfection and for a minute he swore he'd fallen in love with himself. "You're really good," he murmured, though that definitely banalized the array of praises popping through his head, "you should keep doing them. I mean it." "So, you're not--" you paused, "mad?" "Well I think you'd have more reason to be mad if you knew I was stalking you from before." "What?" Oh Sunwoo, you idiot. Your eyes had tripled their size and you were looking at him like he'd just grown a second head. He lifted his hands as defence, "that sounded so much better in my head. I swear I'm not that creepy, or a stalker, I just--well you're always drawing and I got curious but I can't really come over and tell you to show me so I had to hide and peek and--" You burst out laughing in his face and despite the fact that he was the cause, he couldn't help joining in with a small chuckle, a grin spreading across his features at how alive you looked at this very moment. "You can ask me next time," your grin settled into a soft smile, "I don't bite." "Your words, not mine," he said, tone lighter and teasing. He helped you gather your belongings and as the pair of you started towards the school gates, he asked for your name. "Y/N," you answered, "and you?" "Sunwoo," he noticed the sky was darkening into purple, a sign that twilight was approaching. Usually, he'd be in a hurry to catch the last bus of the evening to avoid the pain of traffic after six. But it was like his body was slowing down on its own to join your pace, as if he was automatically tuning in to the rhythm of your steps. He found he didn't mind. "So why athletes? Any special reason why you like drawing them?" He asked as you reached the gates. "I just like watching the way they move. It's ...graceful," a hand went to rub the back of your neck, "and they come in handy for figure practice." "I mean, we're not that graceful when you're on the pitch ready to get blown away," he chuckled, "but thanks. At least we know we don't play like animals." "Oh god no. The volleyball team's pretty good. The rugby team on the other hand..." you sigh before you shake your head, "that team is nearly impossible to draw." His shoulders shook as he laughed, "well I don't think they aim for graceful. They look like a pack of wild dogs. Even I don't understand how they play." You had reached the said bus stop by then before you spotted your mother's car along the sidewalk, "oh, my mom's here," you turn to him, "where do you live? Maybe we can drop you--" Meeting your mom? On the first day of meeting you? Sunwoo's hands flew up, shaking them wildly in response, "oh no no, that's not necessary. I'll see you tomorrow!" Thank god for the bus that pulled up at the right time so that he didn't have to linger longer than he needed to. But he didn't miss the small wave of your hand as you watched him go, the smile on your face warming his heart even when it was one of the coldest winter days of the year. From that day onwards, Sunwoo made it a must to make his presence known whenever you were deep in your sketches, always observing, sometimes silently keeping you company and sometimes getting so wrapped up in conversation that your pens would lay forgotten by your bag as you bantered back and forth about subjects that would've made people throw you looks of concern. It became routine to have Sunwoo's head pop up from behind the bleachers or to see him walk up the path to your special hiding spot, right where your gaze would meet the tennis court. You sketched him more and more, folding your drawings into your bag so that he wouldn't see although the urge to catch his face on paper was a growing addiction you couldn't ignore. Even your friends had noticed his lingering presence, proceeding to prod you with questions reflecting their curiosity. "He's from the vòlleyball team isn't he?" Yeji asked one time during lunch, upon noticing the way the said young man's stare lingered over the back of your head before turning away just as quickly, "do you know him?" "We've spoken once or twice." "How do you know him?" Your other friend, Saeron, nudged you with a wriggle of her brows. You brushed her teasing away, "we bumped into each other and then he saw my drawings." "Oh right, you do sketch athletes," Yeji leaned forward, mouth full of bread, "did you sketch him?" "I did, actually." "Oh awkward," Saeron giggled, "he's handsome though, can't deny that. You gotta introduce us sometime." You mumbled out an agreement even though you sat with them just for the sake of having people around. It wasn't that you didn't appreciate them. You did. But they seemed to speak a language you couldn't quite grasp. You would rather sit in your own silence, enjoy your own company if that made sense. Maybe that was why it was so surprising, that you allowed Sunwoo to linger as long as he wanted to. There was something authentic about the way he reacted to your words, an unguarded expression that made you comfortable enough to speak up without fear of judgment. Spending time with Sunwoo was listening to water trickle down the river. Smooth and free. Peaceful. But Sunwoo seldom knew of your high regards, was not aware of the tiny sketch of his figure in mid-spike that was hidden in the pocket of your school skirt so that you could take a peek whenever you felt out of place or nervous. It calmed you down to admire his composure, even if his expression was a mere mimic that could not replace reality. "Do you have any material in particular that you like to use?" Sunwoo asked one cloudy afternoon, breaking the silence while huddling a little closer to peek at your newest sketch of Lee Juyeon; a basketball star player known for his quick reflexes and adept playing style. Not only was his skill on par with that of a Nationals team, but his looks had garnered him quite a fanbase from the get-go. Sunwoo would've liked to say that he wasn't jealous of the way your thumb gently applied shade to Juyeon's lower lip. But the spike in the middle of his chest proved him otherwise. "I like charcoal the most, it's the easiest to work with," pausing to admire your work, your eyes glanced over at him, "do you draw?" He scoffed, "like a five year old." "Wanna try?" "No way. I'll ruin it. I'm okay with admiring it from afar." You hummed an unknown tune as you pulled back your sketchbook, "how is practice?" "Alright. Could be better. We won a practice match last week so we're kind of taking it easy." "That's good though isn't it?" Your gaze met his. His eyes were various gradients of warm maroon and you wished-- at this very moment -- to paint his features into memory. That was when you realized how close you were. You shuffled slightly back and didn't notice the frown Sunwoo threw you in response, "it is. And I'm happy we get to rest. The team deserves it." "You're pursuing it in College?" Your eyes tried not to linger too much over his lips, "volleyball, I mean." "Depends," he smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes, "if we make it to the Nationals." "You will." "Someone's confident," he chuckled. "Well I'm no pro but even I can tell you're talented, Sunwoo," you peeked at him from behind your fringe, glad that you could blame the cold for your red cheeks when just the intensity and closeness of his entity made you want to squirm, "so if there's anyone who can do it, it's you." It was impossible to keep eye contact after such a confession. You lowered your gaze, glad for your sketchbook that acted as a distraction. It was at that very moment that the paper tucked so neatly in your pocket slipped out, causing Sunwoo to quickly make a grab for it. You made a noise of protest before trying to snatch it back, but the boy only chuckled before unfolding the creased page so that there he was, depicted in all his glory. "Is that--" his voice was hoarse and you took this as your chance to steal it from his grasp, reddened cheeks burning and fingers shaking as you folded it back to its tiny square shape, "is that me?" "Y--yes." "You--you keep that with you?" "I--I do," you lifted your chin up defiantly, though you felt your limbs trembling. His eyes, they pierced your own, piecing together a coherence that caused your stomach to fill with butterflies. When he spoke next, his words were a mere murmur. "Why?" "I--I don't know," eyes darting towards the ground, you mumbled, "I just like watching you...play." A pause. Then, Sunwoo shifted a little bit closer. "You like watching me play? Or do you like," he cocked his head, "watching me?" If you were red before then you were probably the colour of a fire engine truck by now. Averting your eyes and turning your head away were instinctive responses due to the blood rushing through your face. "Stop flirting with me," came your mumble. Laughing softly in response, he scooted himself a little closer, so close that his shoulder brushed your back. He leaned over, head tilted to catch your expression. "Cute," his lips broke out in a crooked grin and you swore you felt your heart explode. Flustered, you shoved him away out of instinct but he wasn't having any of that. His hand grabbed your wrists and with a yelp, you were dragged even closer to his chest. "You like looking at me that much huh?" His tone was teasing while his eyes glimmered with playful mischief, "why is that,Y/N?" "You ask as if you don't know," you mumbled out through jumbled words and you were glad he actually understood you. But instead of laughing some more, his features softened into a smile instead as he proceeded to gaze down at you with an expression you couldn't quite place. It was in your normal behaviour to admire people. Not the other way around. And at this very moment, you felt way out of your comfort zone. "I don't know." Your orbs flew up to his in surprise and what you found in those coffee-coloured pupils made your breath stutter, heat coiling through your abdomen. "It...it calms me down," your whisper was barely louder than a breath but by the way Sunwoo's smile widens to reach his eyes, you could tell he heard you just fine. "I like watching you too," he replied. A strand of your hair caught in the wind and he raised his hand to curl it around the back of your ear, his touch ghosting with sparks wherever flesh bumped into flesh. You felt warm. He didn't pull away. Didn't bother hiding the slight dust of pink in his cheeks either, as he slowly allowed his palm to cradle the side of your face. Gently. As if he feared you might run away, recoil back. But you didn't. Even with your breaths going staccato, even if your heart felt like a wild animal. You calmed yourself down with the knowledge that he seemed just as nervous as you were and suddenly, out of a stroke of boldness, your hand went up to hold on to his, pressing it close to your cheek. His breath hitched. You shivered. The wind blew against your figures, a gentle reminder that the day was coming to an end. You weren't exactly sure what changed that day. There were no verbal agreements, nothing that suggested your relationship had changed. Yet, the subtle touches of his hand against your back, your shoulders, moving your hair from one shoulder to another, complemented by his gentle doe-eyed stare that made your toes curl, these changes were small, but significant. And you couldn't find it in your heart to say that you disliked it. What are we? The words lingered at the tip of your tongue, as bitter as the aftertaste of coffee as you stole small glances in his direction. You were sitting comfortably under a tree that overlooked the tennis court where Sunwoo had decided to join you. He'd fallen asleep halfway through your beginning sketch and was now leaning against the tree trunk, face relaxed and body leaned towards yours, close enough that you could admire his face. Countless hours you had spent tracing Sunwoo's features on paper. Countless times you had imagined tracing his lips with your thumb, wondered whether they were as soft as they looked. Maybe it was just curiosity or maybe you had let him walk into your heart so easily that you hadn't realized it yourself. But if there was one thing you could swear your heart upon it would be that you could no longer imagine every day without Sunwoo's presence at your side. As if on instinct, your fingers took a life of their own as they reached up to push a few strands away from his face. They gently carved a path down his cheek, landing at the corner of his jaw. Dangerously close to his open mouth. There was no denying it. Sunwoo was beautiful. Handsome. Had those features on par to that of a model's. You were so focused on edging your way to touch his lower lip that you didn't realize you had been staring, until you glanced up to see his brown orbs fixated on yours. You froze. Shit. "Like what you see?" He murmured. Then, before you could scramble back and probably run with your tail between your legs, his own hand grasped your own and he pushed himself off the trunk before his head angled towards yours, finding your lips. Soft. Sunwoo's lips were soft. You panicked. Not used to the closeness. The fire that sparked between your lids. But his other hand went to clasp your jaw, holding you close as he kissed your next protest away and unconsciously brushing his thumb against your cheek. Shivering in his touch, there was no running away from the way his mouth molded against yours so snugly, and you didn’t want to. You found yourself addicted to the sweet pressure of his upper lip meeting your lower ones and soon enough -- without realizing -- you melted into his touch. 

Sunwoo made a noise that sounded like a soft grunt, his other hand lacing around your waist to pull you closer so that you tumbled halfway into his lap. With embarrassment suddenly flooding through you, you let out a squeak that he answered with a chuckle of his own before distracting you once more with a series of kisses that left you gasping.

Your hands, initially balled into fists in your lap, went to rest against his chest and you didn’t realize that you were gripping onto his school shirt until you parted for air. Only were you aware of your compromising position, of the hard ridges of the young man’s thighs, of the firmness of his chest against your palms, of the way he seemed to be so much bigger than you even though he was a lean athlete, meant to be light and as speedy as the wind. 

Breaths coming out ragged, you tried to slow the beating of your heart. Though it seemed to be quite the challenge, given how lovingly, how intense, Sunwoo seemed to be in making love to your neck, nibbling on your pulse point and causing a soft whimper to fall from your lips. 

A whistle blew in the distance.

The soccer team. They’d be crawling up the hill any minute now.

“Sunwoo,” you breathed out, eyes hazy with mixed feelings of desire and embarrassment. You feebly tried pushing against his chest, to no avail. He merely groaned, head tilting upwards to catch your mouth into another kiss. 

“Sunwoo,” you groaned against his lips. But he held on for dear life, one hand clasping the back of your neck, tangled into your locks. The other around your waist, pressing you as close as he could possibly get you to be. 

“Just one more,” he mumbled in-between kisses, hooded eyes fluttering closed and head slanting to kiss you a little deeper, a little harder.

Your body was on fire. You weren’t used to this intimacy, nor all of the affection he was raining down upon you. 

But it felt good. It felt amazing. Eye-opening.

He finally relented after what seemed like an eternity and you quickly made a move to scramble out of his lap. Though he wasn’t having any of that, grip made of iron as he held on. You looked up to snap at him to let go before everyone saw but was faced with his pout instead, which was enough to bring down your defences. 

“Please,” his pout deepened and your heart practically vaulted through your chest. Cute. Cute. Cute. Stop. Burying his face into your neck, he whispered, “I just wanna hold you.” 

So he did. And thank god the team had decided to take a different route so that you would avoid their imploring, questioning gazes. Though Sunwoo admitted that he’d already known they would go up from the other side of the gymnasium, considering they did that every other week to train their stamina in the process. 

That earned him a light smack on the side of his head, making him whine, “What did I do to deserve this Y/N?” 

“You knew!” You wanted to throw him a glare, but it was impossible when you were busy fighting the grin spreading across your face. 

He grinned back at you, that crooked smile that always resulted in a burst of butterflies roaring through your abdomen. Just like now. 

“So, since you have a drawing of me that you keep staring at every day--” his words died into laughter when you tried smacking his arm, proceeding to cage your wrist with his hand before kissing your knuckles. You squirmed as he continued, “does that mean I can get a picture of you?”

You let out a noise of protest, “that depends,” you mumbled, unconsciously finding refuge in his neck.

Chuckling, Sunwoo grasped your chin lightly to pull you back so that his brown orbs gazed right into yours with a gentleness that had you weak at the knees, “on what?” 

“On what I get in return.” 

“What if I say I’ll take you on a date?” he said wickedly. 

You couldn’t help your smile. 

“I guess that could work.” 

[spacedikut]

hi different anon here! but what if spencer had to take a mandatory arts class of some kind for his degree (i don’t know how caltech or phd courses work but we’re going to ignore that) and he’s getting super frustrated because he’s so good at all of his other academic classes but he just! can’t! figure! out! the arts!!! but then reader is in the same class as him and notices that he’s struggling so they offer to help him out?

it’s kind of a role reversal of the usual spencer-tutors-reader in college (because he’s a genius so it’s an obvious [and very good!] dynamic)

and bonus points if it’s a pottery class and they have a “ghost” moment 🙈🙈 (reader is obv patrick swayze 🤤) but make it any medium you want! or even a music class!! up to you my dear <3

ok for some reason i immedaitely thought of finger painting but. have decided against that

idk how art classes work either but if it’s anything like art was in school then you’re kind of left to you own devices? so let’s go with that. it’s fiction babey!

this was meant to be headcanons/random concepts but turned in a messy blurb so it’s under read more

he loves art and isn’t so bummed out that he has to take the class because - again - he likes it But the issue is he likes Looking at it, Not creating it. he’s got jiggly hands that squirm and twitch without his consent constantly and that doesn’t bode well for drawing fine details and intricate patterns, so he’s hoping because it’s an introductory course it’ll be. maybe more theory than anything else? or at least just basic tools and mediums so he can struggle through with a grimace from the professor

he ends up with /oil/ paints though and he’s looking from the bowl of fruit to his easel to thr OIL PAINTS and derek is there, in spirit, going hahahaha good luck pretty boy! and spencer Could ask to change the type of paint he’s using but he’s awkward and so. grits his teeth and goes. alrighty this is it this is life im using oil paints, something notoriously difficult for a beginner, which is what i am, a beginner, and i am now putting these expensive paints to this expensive easel with my inexperienced hands-

and you’ve been watching him since he stepped in, because he’s pretty, and now you’re grimacing cause Oh Boy he does not know what he’s doing and he’s. he’s breaking the paintbrushes. you can hear the bristles cracking from across the room.

spencer would’ve noticed you if he wasn’t so Humiliated (he, too, easily notices pretty people) so when you creep up behind him and say, “oil paints are difficult, aren’t they?” in this understanding voice that he follows with his head, his first thought is- oh, so to top it all off a piece of art has come to life? this is where we are now?

he does that thing where he forces out a little breath along with a small smile and goes, “ah, yeah. i didn’t want to ask for something else, so,” and weakly lifts the palette in his hand as if to say, it is what it is.

“i could help, if you’d like?”

and he agrees cause he’s eager to learn! and you, a masterful artistic genius, blow him away with not only your knowledge (you’re into the theory kind of stuff too and at one point he jolts himself, realises he was staring at you with his mouth open, and deeeeep down wishes someone would think of him the way he thinks of you when you ramble) but your actual skills too! and you’re a great teacher! patient, understanding, and did he say patient? because he has painted a damn sky at least 15 times and every time he Somehow makes clouds look phallic and you just go hehe :) and he’s like I love u (internally)

several weeks in, when you and spencer have become arty friends, the subject turns to drawing people rather than objects - you tell him getting people /right/ is something you struggle with yet you love doodling your friends and family in your sketchbook. the first body spencer draws (that isn’t a stick man) is done in crayons, which he’s found is the medium that works best for him (only when the crayon is properly wrapped. because the waxy feel of them Freaks him out)

you help him learn about drawing anatomy while he tells you /about/ anatomy, he attempts to sketch a hand and it’s so odd looking he laughs so hard he CRIES and you finally convince him to try charcoal, your personal favourite

it’s messy and gets everywhere (spencer opens his mouth to complain about his expensive grey cardigan but then- the little mark is a physical representation of this memory between you and him, huddled close together as you both draw aimlessly in your sketchbook, and the mark feels more like a blessing) but spencer ends up agreeing that charcoal sketches look the best.

then he sees something he shouldn’t have.

you’re talking about how you sketch your family all the time - there’s several of your roommates and your pets and a sheep u saw this one time - then there’s...someone oddly familiar? that he catches a glimpse of? and before he can think he goes “wait-“ opens that page and it’s him. him, standing too close to an easel with his tongue slightly poking out in concentration and it’s a charcoal sketch of him from last week.

you’re embarrassed. “that’s weird, im sorry-“

“you make me look good” he tells you, smiling sweetly, and you’re convinced it’s just to comfort you but you’re too glad he isn’t filing a restraining order you let it slide

i mean. have you seen his face? how can anyone look at that and not want to start chiselling marble?

then he gets secretive, weird, a little odd and definitely is avoiding you. he paints and draws with his back to you, still talks to you but over his shoulder and can never really look you in the eyes. you think this is it and that the sweetheart you’ve come to see as more than a friend is Done with you, because you’re a CREEP, and then after a weekend of silence on his end this happens:

while you’re getting your stuff ready, he walks up silently and slides a small sketchbook in front of you. you stare at it, wondering what it’s for, and he nods at it and tells you to open it. when you go to, he stops you-

“a-actually, let me give you a page to start on-“

when he manhandles the book his hands brush yours, his already bright red cheeks get redder, and you bite your tongue so you don’t sigh dreamily.

he’s drawn you.

it’s not perfect and kind of not pretty - a lot of harsh edges and weird shading - but you can tell its you. it’s you, drawn by him, probably from memory, and he’s drawn little hearts around your head because he’s the cutest? evidently?

“it’s really bad, but i thought-“ you look directly at him, making him freeze. he’s got a little charcoal just under his eye. unabashedly, you reach up and wipe it away, hand remaining at the side of his face when you’re done. “i thought you deserve to feel how i felt when you drew me.”

“and how did you feel?”

he gulps. “loved.”

all you can do in the Classroom you’re in is beam sickeningly sweet at one another, lost in your own world while there’s a wordless exchange. the rest of the sketchbook is full of half attempts at sketching you - in different positions, with different expressions, some with a full head while others are half a face. some of them are hilarious, but they’re all made with the purest intentions. “i love it.”

and when you share a look then, you don’t need to verbally say what comes next just yet.

(and. yes. the second you see a pottery class is available you drag him and Make him sit between your legs and he’s never blushed so much in his life the teacher asks if he needs air. at one point you think it’d be funny to peck his neck and the shiver it sends through him is so shocking your mould on the wheel is squished between his hands)

[inkslingersworld]

Crowbar (Alternate First Meeting)

Hi guys! This here short story is my first participation in Adrigami Week! I was planning on posting it yesterday, seeing as it’s following the “Alternate First Meeting” prompt, but the time got away from me. Idk if it’s still eligible for the official reblog or not, but I still had a blast writing it all the same. Enjoy! (Contains very mild profanity)

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Her lip was bleeding. For whatever reason, Kagami chose to focus on this minute aspect out of all the other injuries she’d sustained. She dabbed it with a paper towel.

Kagami couldn’t recall how she’d gotten like this. There was so much she couldn’t recall, and the staggering immensity of all her forgotten experiences had weighed down on her for so long that when she found herself in a bathroom without a clue as to how she’d gotten there, she was able to handle the newfound situation better than someone who hadn’t been through what she had.

The only thing that confused Kagami was that her clothes were in perfect condition, despite her face being bloody and streaked with dirt. In fact, they looked as though they’d just been sewn by a master tailor. 

She brushed the puzzlement aside - she couldn’t linger here in this mysterious bathroom. Lingering got you killed.

The door opened easily at her touch, and Kagami examined the bedroom that it led into. The walls were painted in an eye-catching shade of purple, but the bed itself was small and plain. Kagami also noticed that there was no furniture other than a small nightstand and that the window was broken. It framed the outside world in jagged glass.

This aforementioned outside world was cloudy and bleak. Based on how damp the street appeared, Kagami concluded it must’ve rained recently. The buildings matched the clouds in their shade of gray, with windows just as broken as the one Kagami was using as an observation point. No street signs were visible. No vehicles, no animals, no people. Not even wind.

Kagami couldn’t care less about the lack of other individuals; her attention was pinpointed on the crowbar leaning casually against the building opposite. Without a second’s hesitation, she kicked away the rest of the glass and crawled expertly out of the window.

She didn’t know how she knew there’d be a fire escape, but resolved not to ponder on it, because every second she didn’t have the crowbar was a second where it could fall into the possession of someone else. Crowbars were tools; tools were extremely helpful.

By the time Kagami had raced down the stairs leading to the ground, she could notice how old and rusty the crowbar was. In retrospect, it probably wouldn’t be much use against some of the more contemporary weapons others owned, but in times like these, Kagami would take anything she could get.

In no time, she had dashed across the street and grasped the crowbar in her right hand. Flakes of deceased metal fell to the ground like rotten snow as she twirled it experimentally. Even if it fell apart in combat, it was nevertheless pretty maneuverable. 

“Drop it.”

Kagami turned around instead, searching for the voice’s master. She found the man in question stepping out the adjacent alleyway. His face was hidden under an old halloween mask, but Kagami could see he was wearing a green rain jacket and pointing a pistol in her direction.

Was it a pistol? Further examination led Kagami to realize it was no such thing; it was a water gun, and she almost pitied the hopeless idiot who brandished it at her.

“I said drop it!” the man shouted, though not very loudly.

“You know that’s not a real gun, right?” Kagami asked nonchalantly, deciding to break the truth to him.

The man lowered the toy firearm and hung his head. “Damn it.”

“Wait, you already knew?” said Kagami in disbelief. “Why on Earth would you use a water gun instead of, I don’t know, an actual one?”

“I’m a pacifist,” admitted the man, sounding guilty. “I’m a believer of nonviolence.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but nonviolence fell out of fashion a while back,” said Kagami, not knowing where she’d heard it from.

“Well, I always favored the old styles over the new,” the man said. “You hungry? I’ve got some food.”

Kagami’s mouth fell open in spite of herself. Who did this airhead think he was? You didn’t just go around offering people food. But before she’d even responded, he started walking over to her, removing his mask in the process.

Based off his recent actions, Kagami was expecting him to look innocent and tame, and she was not disappointed. However, she hadn’t foreseen blond hair and green eyes. She hadn’t expected him to look this... well, attractive.

“I’m Adrien, by the way,” he said, plopping his butt on the pavement and taking off his previously concealed backpack. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not about to tell you my name!” Kagami cried exasperatedly. “I know nothing about you!”

Adrien, who’d previously been busy unpacking, looked up at Kagami closely for the first time. His eyes widened after locking with hers and he dropped the box of Ritz crackers he’d been taking out.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Kagami demanded, “What?”

Adrien flinched violently and faced the ground, blushing. “Nothing.”

“Why were you staring at me for so long?” persisted Kagami.

“N-No reason!” Adrien stammered embarrassedly. 

“Then why were you doing it?”

“I don’t know!”

Kagami decided not to push the topic and begrudgingly sat down; she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now.

“So...” began Adrien slowly, seeming to regain some of his previous placidity. “I never did learn your name.”

“We’re not there yet,” Kagami grumbled, snatching a plastic-wrapped sandwich out of his hands.

“Well, what are you doing ‘round these parts?” Adrien asked curiously, putting his chin in his hands.

“None of your business,” snapped Kagami, losing some of her intimidation skills to a mouthful of grilled cheese.

“How’s the food?”

“Awful,” Kagami replied, even though it was delicious.

Adrien laughed hard. “You’re funny!”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, but you are!” 

“What’s your problem?” asked Kagami sternly. “You know nothing about me, I could’ve killed you without hesitation as soon as you came over here!”

“And yet you didn’t!” Adrien pointed out cheerfully.

Kagami took a deep breath, trying to keep her temper in check. “Adrien, wasn’t it?”

Adrien nodded and smiled, seeming delighted that she’d remembered his name.

“Adrien, I don’t know what miracle allowed you to survive for this long, but in our society’s current state, you might not be around much longer. I suggest you drop this puppy dog attitude and learn to fend for yourself.”

“Why learn to fend for myself when we can fend for each other?” asked Adrien earnestly.

The sincereness of this question, contrasting with the playfulness Adrien had exhibited, caught Kagami off guard for a moment, though she soon regained her bearings.

“Adrien, no offense, but you’d be dead weight,” she stated. “Even if I wanted to stick around with you, my memory kinda wipes itself clean every six hours or so, only holding on to the most treasured information - my name, my personality, how to speak, how to read and write, knowing what stuff is, and the like.”

“No way!” exclaimed Adrien, before Kagami could continue. “I have the same thing! That’s why I started a diary!”

He zipped open his backpack again and retrieved a worn leather-bound book. Adrien opened it and showed Kagami its messily written contents.

“I originally didn’t remember how to write,” he explained, flipping through some pages to get to the beginning, “but I was able to relearn! It took like a year, though.”

Kagami peered at the even messier scrawl of a younger Adrien. She was shocked to see his name spelled incorrectly with crayon.

“How long’ve you been on your own?” she asked uncertainly.

“About twenty years, I think,” Adrien answered dismissively. “I can’t know for certain, I didn’t relearn how to understand a calendar until someone took me in when I was... fourteen, maybe?”

“Someone took you in?” inquired Kagami.

Suddenly, Adrien’s face began filled with sorrow and loneliness. “Yeah... yeah, I don’t like thinking about that.”

Noticing how sympathetically Kagami was gazing at him, Adrien quickly plastered his old smile back on. “That doesn’t really matter. Now I’ve got you!”

Kagami hesitated. One of the instincts her memory’d held onto was avoiding people, but Adrien seemed different. He in the same situation she was in, and he’d shown her kindness. Besides, it’d be nice to have a companion, and Adrien’s diary probably contained scores of valuable information to help the duo survive. 

Even if not for all those reasons, there was something else, though Kagami wasn’t sure what it was yet. For whatever reason, Adrien made her feel relaxed, happy even. She didn’t know why, but he did.

“Okay, Adrien,” she said resignedly. “You can stick with me.”

Adrien’s face lit up with gratitude, and before she knew it, Kagami found herself buried in a hug. It was warm and comforting.

“Thank you so much!” Adrien said happily. 

“No problem, Adrien,” sighed Kagami, already having her doubts.

Adrien released her and scooped up his backpack. They both stood up.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“West,” responded Kagami mechanically. “It won’t make too much of a difference, but we need all the sunlight we can get.”

The two started to walk. After trekking for about a minute, Adrien spoke again.

“You never did tell me what your name is.”

Kagami smiled softly and rolled her eyes. “It’s Kagami.”

“Kagami,” repeated Adrien thoughtfully. “I like that name.”

\\\\\

@adrigamiweek

[pedros-mustache-main]

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan​ i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest. 

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles. 

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.” 

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack. 

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself. 

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window. 

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air. 

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze. 

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay. 

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take. 

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely. 

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?” 

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line. 

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot. 

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests. 

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening. 

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!” 

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity. 

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.” 

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest. 

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest. 

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.” 

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo. 

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips. 

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.” 

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you. 

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together. 

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau. 

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead. 

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt. 

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back. 

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him. 

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime. 

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes. 

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

[skyemak]

Cater Gets a New Do

Cater stood under one of the various trees of the courtyard. His hands were deep in his pockets as he swayed heel to toe. As a cool breeze brushed his skin, the leaves above him rustled slightly. Again, Cater glanced around the courtyard, and looked behind the tree. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone from his pocket, both to check the time and to check for any Magicam notifications. Recently there hasn’t been much going on at Night Raven College nor at his dorm. It was about two days since his last post, which was unlike him. However, he felt a sort of creative block recently, and no matter how many selfies or pics he took, he didn’t feel they were up-to-par to post to Magicam.

“Oh, Cater-senpai, what’re you doing here?”

Cater glanced up from his phone, a relaxed smile appeared on his face when he saw his familiar underclassman. “Hiya Ace-chan!” He raised his hand by his face, making a peace sign. “Yuu asked me to meet her here after school—said she wanted to ask me something. I wonder what it is~”

“Heh, I think that’s obvious.” A smug smile grew on Ace’s face.

“Hm?” Cater dropped his hand to rest on his side. “What’re you thinking, Ace-chan?”

“Nothing~ Just get ready for a new confess tag to post on Magicam,” Ace chuckled to himself, strolling away.

Cater blinked and looked down at his phone screen before quickly shutting off the screen. He grabbed a piece of his hair with his thumb and finger as he stored his phone back into his pocket. “Heh, as if.” But his mind began to wonder.

This school is surrounded by boys, so it’d be no surprise if Yuu-chan got a crush on someone.

She hangs out with the Adeuce combo a lot, so I’d first guess she’d like one of them.

Ah, but they’re not the brightest crayons in the crayon box.

As a human, Yuu-chan would probably prefer another human so they’d be more compatible. At NRC, that would leave Heartslyabyul, Pomefiore, and Scarabia.

Pomefiore is kinda intense in their own way.

I heard a lot happen as Scarabia…

Well, a lot happened since Riddle’s overblot too…

Now that I think about it, Yuu-chan always smiles in the morning when she sees me. It probably isn’t much though since I’m always acting peppy anyway.

Cater used his index finger to lightly twirl his hair in thought.

…But if she did confess… What would I say?

His ears tinted pink as he glanced down. The beat of his heart quickened slightly.

Well, I admit Yuu-chan is a little cute.

Another breeze flew by, rustling the leaves of the tree he stood by. Cater glanced up the wood. Soon the season will be changing, which will probably give Cater better potential selfies for his Magicam account.

“Senpai!” a voice yelled in the distance. Cater immediately turned his head toward its source and saw Yuu running toward him. “I’m sorry for making you wait!” she exclaimed. Yuu approached, stopping a few feet in front of him, out of breath.  She slouched over with her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “Trein-sensei made me stay late since I did so bad on his last test…” she whined. Cater chuckled, “Heheh, Trein-sensei can be quite strict. I know all too well.”

After a few moments to balance her breathing, Yuu heaved a sigh and stood straight up. She looked directly toward Cater with a determined look in her eyes. “Anyway, senpai!” Cater flinched. Abruptly, he felt his chest tighten. He glanced away from her. “Y-Yeah?”

Yuu grabbed Cater’s hand and held it gently in both of hers. “Senpai, I need you!” she exclaimed.

“Huh?!” Cater erupted. “M-Me?” He couldn’t help but notice how soft her hands felt against his.

Is…Is she really gonna confess?!

Okay, she is more than a little cute now that I see her more closely.

We could also post couple-y photos on Magicam.

I can see the comments now. “OMG so cute!” “I’m so jelly I wanna boyfriend/girlfriend~” “You two look so cute together!”

Wait, I need to consider her feelings too!

Ah, but she would probably expect me to wanna take selfies together.

Wait again, what about when she goes back to her world?!

“Senpai?” Yuu asked innocently, still holding his hand. He snapped back to reality.

“Ahhhh! Fine! Okay! I’ll do it!”

“Yay! Uh, Senpai, why is your face red? Are you feeling okay?”

Cater covered his face with one hand, looking toward the ground. The sound of his heartbeat rang through his ears. “I-I’m fine…” he muttered.

“Great!” Yuu smiled. “Can we do it at your room then?”

“…Huh?”

“I think I could also use two of your clones for it.”

“What?!”

-----

Yuu opened a tote bag swung over her shoulder and began to set out various hairbrushes, a curling iron, flat iron, and other hair products on Cater’s dresser. Cater stood by, watching her bring the products out. He timidly put his hands together and covered his nose and mouth with them.

She… She just wants to practice different hair styles on me…

“Cater-senpai, would you sit here?” Yuu beckoned. Cater twitched a bit in surprise. He looked over and saw her gesture toward a chair, holding a salon cape. “Y-Yeah.” He stepped forward, plopping down on the chair.

“By the way, Yuu-chan.”

“Hm?” she asked, pulling the cape around him to clip.

“Why me…exactly?”

“Well,” she began, taking the clip out from Cater’s hair. “You have nice length hair and it’s easier to try different styles with your hair. Plus, your unique magic makes it so I can practice multiple hairstyles at once! Oh, I don’t need them yet though.”

“Is that so…” he trailed off. Yuu gently ran her fingertips through Cater’s hair. Each time the brushed his hair with her fingers, it felt soothing to say the least. She stepped toward the dresser to grab a brush. Without realizing, Cater let his lids fall as she brushed through his orange strands of hair. Her movements were so gentle and tender, any tension he felt in his body just oozed away.

“I’ll just start with something simple,” Yuu said, setting down the brush and grabbing a fine-toothed comb.

“Okay,” Cater briefly replied.

She used the end of the comb to separate the top section of his hair to carefully tie into a rubber band. Once in, she tugged a bit at the hair in the rubber band at the top of his scalp to add some volume. When satisfied, Yuu again used the end of the comb to section out a piece of his hair at the side of his head.

“Yuu-chan,” Cater spoke up as she began to braid the section of hair. His eyelids still shut.

“Oh, does something hurt or feel uncomfortable?”

“No,” he quicky said, “I was just wondering why you’re practicing hairstyles on me.”

“Yeah, hold on, lemme finish this braid first, Senpai... There, that looks good,” Yuu said, tying the braid into another rubber band. “Well, there’s a couple of hairstyles I wanna try for myself but I wanted to practice them. But there’s a few I wanted to try but hmmm… How should I put it?” She took her comb to section out another piece of hair at the other side of his head. She took that piece and combed it to looked less disorderly. “It’s hard to figure out how to do hairstyles that have the focal points on the back, or that are consistent throughout. I don’t have anyone to kinda help me with that, but I thought if I could try it on your hair, I can get a good idea how to do it for myself, I guess? Plus, I can practice more than one at a time because of your unique magic! So, it’s hitting two birds with one stone, you could say.”

Yuu took the new section of hair and braided it as well. “Ohh,” Cater said.

“Whatever is done to your clones doesn’t reflect your appearance when they disappear, right?” She rubber banded the section of hair.

“No, not really.”

“Good…” Yuu smiled to herself, combining the two braids to the first piece of hair she rubber banded earlier. “Ah, this one is looking cute.” She grabbed a pink ribbon to tie a bow around the three pieces of hair. “I thought it was gonna be easy.”

“What’s it look like?” Cater asked.

“I’ll take a pic,” Yuu said, taking out her cellphone Crowley had given to her not too long ago. She snapped a quick note before facing the screen toward him. “See?”

“Oh, that’s a cute look! It’d probably would look really cute on you, Yuu-chan!”

There was a brief pause. Cater felt his cheeks redden. He just said what popped into his head without realizing it. The man was grateful Yuu couldn’t see his face. Yuu pulled her phone away from view, and quietly replied, “You think so…?”

There was another short pause before Cater spoke up, “So, you said you needed two clones to practice?”

“Uh, yeah,” Yuu answered abruptly. It involves using a curling iron, so I wanted a backup for when I mess up.”

“Okay, Split Card!”

-----

“Hey, Yuu-chan,” said Cater copy #1, “you did good makin’ these wavy curls.” He shook his head joyfully, singing out the curled waves in his hair. “They’re so bouncy!”

“Oh yeah,” said Cater copy #2, “I have this nice braid crown going over my head.” He gestured toward the top of his head. As he said, a braid wrapped around his head, and a few strands of hair dangled from the crown. “Truly I am King Cater!”

“Which one is Yuu-chan working on now? Number 4?” Cater copy #3 said, rocking an orange mohawk.

“A-Are you sure you want me to shave it?” Yuu asked timidly to copy #4, hesitantly holding a pair of clippers.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead!” Cater copy #4 delightfully replied. “Doesn’t affect the original! Plus, it’ll make for fun selfies to put on Magicam.” The other copies shouted, “Yeah!” in unison.

“I don’t need my followers to think I changed my hairstyle 5 times in one day!” the original Cater spoke up.

Yuu had asked Cater to make two clones of himself originally, to have one as a backup, but found she only needed one try to figure out how to curl waves with a curling iron. Then she asked for another two to try the braid crown in case she needed a backup, and then it just snowballed from there.

“Cater, you want me to try shaving the side of your head?”

“Yeah!” Copy #4 said, “I always wondered about those asymmetrical cuts!”

Yuu glanced over at the original Cater. He just shook his hand as if to say, “Go ahead.” Like copy #4 said, it doesn’t affect the original.

“Okay, here I go…” Still unsure, Yuu turned on the clippers, causing a faint buzzing sound.

-----

Hard thumps could be made out in the Heartslabyul dorm hallway carpet. The dorm leader was gritting his teeth, his face red in anger. “What need would he have to make his clones and make such a racket?!”

“Calm down, Riddle,” Trey kept pace beside Riddle. Trey’s efforts were only brushed aside as Riddle trampled on, beelining to Cater’s room. As they neared, loud sounds of giggling and laughter echoed behind the door. Ready to cast his unique magic the second he opened the door; Riddle grabbed the doorknob with great vigor. The next second, Trey’s arm swooped in front of Riddle’s body.

“Riddle,” he said. His voice was gentle, but stern. “Let’s access what’s going on before doing anything drastic, okay?” Trey smiled reassuringly. Riddle took a deep breath in before heaving a heavy sigh. The red faded from his face. “Fine,” the dorm leader said, almost with a pout.

“Uh, Cater-senpai, er, senpais?” a female voice said behind the door.

“Don’t worry!” said Cater.

“We’re just having fun, Yuu-chan!” said what again, sounded like Cater.

“Yuu?!” Trey stated. His eyes opened wide in shock.

“That’s it!” Riddle forced the door open, stomping inside before yelling. “Cater!”

“Yuu, are you--?” Trey began but cut himself off.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Yuu awkwardly waved at the two. Not in any danger, but a bit tense, Yuu was sitting in the chair the previous Caters sat in before. Multiple Cater clones were pointing at her hair or held a piece of it in her hand.

“A fishtail braid would look great in her hair!” said the Cater with a braided crown.

“You know our sisters said we sucked at it growing up!” said the Cater with wavy curls.

“Well practice makes perfect right?!” said the braided crown Cater.

“I think a French braid is a classic. Plus, we were usually good at them growing up,” said Cater with a side-shave. His arms were crossed as he stared at Yuu’s hair in thought.

“Uh, Caters, maybe let’s not tug at Yuu-chan’s hair,” said the original Cater, his hair still with the braided back style.

“Don’t be so stingy,” braided crown Cater said.

“Yeah! I know you’d wanna do a fun hairdo with her too, since you could take a couple-like selfie with it!” said cater with the side-shave.

“Wha--? Why would I?!” the original Cater argued, but pink flushed his cheeks. He dared not look at Yuu’s face. What sort of expression she was making, he had no idea.

“’Cause we’re all thinking the same thing?” said Cater with the braided crown. “We haven’t posted anything on Magicam in a while anyway.”

“Uh, I kinda have some other homework I needed to get to tonight…” Yuu mumbled, looking as lost.

“I think we should try something new entirely!” slipped in Cater with a mohawk. In his hand were the clippers from before. With a smug look on his face, he turned them on. Yuu yelped.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”

Riddle’s signature collars appeared on all the Caters’ necks. Then, all the clones poofed out of existence, leaving just the original Cater, still in the collar.

“Oh, hi there, uh, dorm leader…” Cater mumbled, trying to avoid any eye contact.

“What’s going on in here?” Trey asked.

“Hair styling practice?” Cater hesitantly answered.

Riddle sighed. He crossed his arms and stood with authoritatively. “Cater, you’re making too much noise. Also, it’s past the allowed time for visitors. I won’t punish you for breaking the rules this time but be aware. I won’t be as forgiving next time.”  

“Y-Yeah, I’ll be sure not to let this happen again,” Cater said, bowing toward Riddle.

“Glad it wasn’t something major…” Trey remarked. His forearm leaned against the side of the doorway. “Alright, Riddle, let’s let them clean up.”

“Hmph.” Riddle turned on his heel and walked back into the hallway, Trey following closely behind.

“Uh, hey!” Cater said, running toward the door. “What about this collar?” A few seconds later, the collar vanished from his neck. He heaved a sigh and walked back into his dorm. Yuu was already packing up her supplies, and just about finished.

“Um,” Cater spoke up, gaining her attention. Yuu looked toward him, zipping her bag up and swinging the handle over her shoulder. He put his hand at the back of his head. For a few moments he stared at the floor, shifting his feet, before looking back toward the girl. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it’d get so…hectic.” He chuckled. Yuu looked toward her back, fiddling with the strap of it between her fingers. Cater took notice, lowering his hand from his head, staring at her expectantly. When Yuu finally spoke up, her eyes were still at her fingers. “We can…still take a selfie together…if you want.”

Cater jolted. “A selfie…?”

His chest tightened when she nodded timidly, a soft pink in her cheeks.

-----

Cater sat on the bench at the foot of his bed. His leg was bent with his foot on the bench, and his cheek squished as he rested his face on his knee. He looked idly down at his phone screen, swiping through his camera roll. He selected one of the selfies with Yuu recently, and chose to open it in an editing app. The default recommended filter was to add hearts around their faces.

He turned off the screen, setting his phone screen down on the bench. “I don’t really wanna post any of the selfies…” he mumbled. After a few moments, he vocalized a heavy sigh. Cater raised his other foot to the bench, then used his legs to launch himself backwards to fall into his bed.

“I liked the idea of a French braid on her…”

[sing-in-me-oh-muse]

Snippet July 2021 - Sinner

“I promise I have a good reason.” The girl with sausage hair lowered the spray paint can she held, holding up her other hand in a gesture of supplication. 

Théo’s gaze darted from the girl to the Ladybug statue he’d sculpted--which was covered in orange streaks--and back again. He folded his arms, glaring at the coward who’d dared to deface his work in the middle of the night. “You’d better.”

“You see,” the stranger said, waggling the can under his nose, “Ladybug asked me to do this.”

Théo sucked a breath over his teeth. Ladybug had asked this girl to hurt him so? “That’s a lie…” 

But was it? The girl was so wide-eyed and harmless looking. If Théo didn’t know any better, he’d think she was kind of pretty, too. 

“I swear it’s true.” The girl dropped the paint can onto the ground with a clatter and gripped his lapels in both hands. Théo was helpless, caught in her grip as she dragged him down to her level. “Ladybug asked me because she can’t stand this statue. She says it exploits her. I’m a superhero, too, so she tells me these things.”

A nagging sensation at the back of Théo’s brain told him this girl was telling the truth. He’d always known that Ladybug didn’t like the statue--why else would she not show up to its reveal?--so what the girl was saying checked out.

Théo trembled in the girl’s grasp. “You said you’re a superhero? Who are you?”

The girl smiled at him, soft and oh! so beautiful. “I’m a descendant of a fox hero.” She released Théo with one hand, holding onto him with the other, and showed off her foxtail necklace. “My name is Lila. Lila Rossi.”

Lila… Théo thought. What a pretty name.

“Oh.” Théo swallowed hard. “I’m Théo Barbot.” 

“Théo,” she purred, and Théo melted on the spot. Her hand moved to his cheek, and he was startled by how soft and warm her fingers were. “Would you like to get coffee together, Théo?”

Putty in her hands, Théo nodded.

***

Coffee was just the start of Théo and Lila’s whirlwind romance. He found himself sculpting his new muse at every opportunity; Lila was a genius when it came to striking creative poses and holding them. 

When he wasn’t sculpting, they were out on the town, enjoying dinner and movies and beaches, as well as Paris’ premier clothing and jewelry stores. His bank account was empty but his heart was full.

And Théo knew she loved him. She showed it every day, in the way her eyes would light up when he walked into the room, or in the way she’d hold his hand, or in the way she praised his sculptures of her.

Théo had no cause to doubt her love for him. 

Until he heard her talking to one of her friends.

“And you wouldn’t believe the amount of money he’s spent on me,” Lila said into the phone outside the restaurant she’d agreed to meet Théo at. She was turned away from him, so he hid behind a tree to hear her extol his praises. “I know. He’s really good to me.”

Lila paused, appearing to listen to the person on the other end of the line. She turned to face his hiding spot, and her lips twisted into a smirk Théo could only describe as evil. “Yup. He’s easy to fool.”

Easy to fool? Théo blinked at her. What does she mean by that?

Lila chuckled, her eyes glittering with malevolence. “Oh, totally. Théo’s not the brightest crayon in the box.” 

Théo covered his mouth with his hand to keep his gasp from giving him away. His eyes bulged and his heart dropped into his stomach.

Then Lila tilted her head, appearing thoughtful. “Hey, that’s not cool. Théo is an excellent partner.” As Lila lowered her voice, Théo strained his ears to listen. “I may have started out lying to him, Angel, but I truly do feel… I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve never felt this way before.”

Lila had lied to him? About what? Théo couldn’t imagine what she’d lied about; she seemed like the most honest person he’d ever met. 

But then uncomfortable truths started trickling into his brain. Like how she’d claimed to visit Achu but knew nothing about the country. Or how she’d mentioned that Jagged Stone himself had written a song about her, but never offered to play it for Théo. Or how she’d said she was best friends with Ladybug, when Ladybug had never visited them.

Théo was floored. Lila had lied. She’d lied about everything.

“No,” she said into the phone. “I like Théo. A lot. I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

Théo turned away from her, leaning his head on the tree. He clutched his chest, his heart threatening to pound out of his ribcage. 

Lila… still likes me? Théo thought, tears pricking his eyes. Do I still like her?

“I… I don’t know.” Lila sounded so unsure in that moment, so unlike the confident girl he’d fallen in love with. “I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Théo’s ears perked. “I think I love him.”

Théo decided then and there that he could love the girl despite their relationship being built on a scaffolding of falsehoods. He didn’t need to know whether she was telling the truth to appreciate her good sides; in fact, her fooling him for so long just showed how clever she really was. 

He stepped out from behind the tree, tears evaporated and smile plastered in place. “Hi, Lila! Sorry I’m late.”

Lila beamed at him. “See you later, Angel, my date’s here.” She hung up the phone and pocketed it, offering her arm to Théo. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Théo raised her hand to his lips and brushed them against her wrist. “Let’s go.”

@miraculousfanworks​

[rengokus-eyeliner]

Moment’s Silence

Modern AU Rengoku Kyoujurou x F!Reader

It’s Kyoujurou’s birthday!! Since this special date also coincides with another big event this year, I had an idea to merge the two. I hope you enjoy!

SFW+NSFW

2.2k words

Tags: Fluff, domestic life, oral sex, overall Very Tender Sex

"Good work today!" You snatch your handbag, greeting Uzui-san on the way out. Glancing at your wristwatch, you quicken your pace a little.

5.48pm…

You have to pick up Rika from daycare, secure a cake and prepare dinner within 2 hours in order for your schedule to work out. If you were lucky, Kyoujurou would be tied up with club activities, giving you an extra 30 minutes…

"Mommy!" You spot the familiar puff of yellow and red making its way to you. Bending over to press a big kiss to her cheek, you haul her into your arms and make a mad dash towards the shopping district.

"Did you prepare what I asked you to?" Rika nods, pointing to her tiny backpack. "Good girl!"

"Mommy, there's a big crowd." She gasps a little, pointing a chubby finger towards the mass of bodies clustered in front of the bakery.

"Tanjiro-kun!" You yell over a couple huddled in front of the bakery's glass display, hoping that he heard you. Within a few seconds, your red-headed student peers out from within the ornate doors and flashes you a smile.

"Sensei! Here's your cake." A neatly wrapped box with a silky red ribbon in a bag is placed into your hands, and he bows. "Thank you very much! Happy m-"

"Thank you, I'll see you in school."

Rika waves to him over your shoulder as you turn on your heel. The sun's setting already, street lights flickering on as you finally make your way back to your apartment.

Heaving a sigh of relief, you jam the elevator button and finally have a moment to take a breath.

"Mommy, I could have walked." Rika frowns, her eyebrows- shaped much like her father's- furrow. You chuckle, nuzzling your daughter's hair.

"It's alright. You're not too heavy, anyway-" Just before the elevator doors can slide close, a hand jams itself into the tiny gap, scaring the life out of you.

"I'm sorry!" To your surprise, Kyoujurou steps in. Your husband stares at you for a few stunned seconds until Rika squirms around with delight.

"Daddy!" You hand her over to Kyoujurou, but not before he's able to lean in for a quick peck on the lips as a greeting.

"Rika! I've missed you~" He blows raspberries into her neck, earning ecstatic giggles that ring through the enclosed space.

"I thought you had club duties?"

"Hm? Oh, I exchanged shifts with Tomioka." He extends an arm to grab the paper bag before halting.

The two of you are holding paper bags, identical paper bags. From the Kamado Family bakery.

"Kyou, did you buy a cake for your own birthday? You should have known I would get one for you!" The lift doors jerk open, and the three of you cross the threshold into your house.

"It's not that, my love…" Kyoujurou murmurs, setting Rika down and ruffling her hair. "Did you forget? It's Mother's Day too."

Oh. Oh. Now that explained the crowd at the bakery today. You sigh, setting down the keys and your handbag.

"Now, I know what you're thinking." Swivelling around, Kyoujurou and Rika are standing side by side with their arms crossed over their chests, mischievous smiles on their faces. As much as the sight sends pangs through your heart, you will not be swayed. "You cannot split one entire cake between two people."

Simultaneously, the both of them groan. You leave them to their machinations to get dinner started.

Cooking in the Rengoku household is a thrill. Over the years, Kyoujurou has managed to participate in the kitchen without causing mass destruction, and sweet little Rika sits on the countertop, cheering the both of you on.

After getting Rika washed up and changed, Kyoujurou peeks over your shoulder while you're peeling the sweet potatoes. Today, you'll be making an indulgent version of Kyou's favourite dish- sweet potato rice.

You allow him to take over chopping them, and you turn your attention to preparing the rest of the ingredients. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine. Once you've sliced the cabbage and scallions, Kyoujurou has the sweet potatoes in the oven. You warm up the leftover white rice from yesterday in the rice cooker, along with the soft-boiled eggs.

"Rika, help me set up the table please?" Kyoujurou handles the plates, and Rika sets the cutlery down. Two blue and red bamboo chopsticks for you and Kyoujurou, with a smaller pair of training chopsticks for herself. 

The soft ping of the oven has you up and scooping the rice into bowls, while Kyou retrieves the ingredients from the counter.

"Can I help?" You hand her the furikake shaker, which she accepts with glee, sprinkling the sesame seeds and seaweed over the rice.

You watch, content, as they wolf down the meal, rice grains sticking to their cheeks. Rika definitely took after her father more.

"You may each have one slice, as a treat." You slide the cake from its white box onto the middle of the table, lighting a candle and placing it amidst the dainty curls of white cream. After singing happy birthday and taking an ample number of pictures, the three of you settle into easy conversation over dessert, until Rika sits up, remembering something.

"Happy birthday, Daddy!" She pulls a card from her bag, sliding it across the table towards Kyoujurou. He's beaming, holding the crayon drawing delicately. You giggle when you spot tears in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill.

"Thank you, Rika!"

"Wait, Mommy, I have something for you."

A pink carnation, layers of petals made of pink, frilly paper and a stem of wire wrapped in green tape. It's a little rough around the edges, but you can tell it was made with love. God, now you feel like a fool for making fun of Kyoujurou's tears.

"C'mon, my girl. Let's wash up the dishes. You'll be on towel duty!" Rika salutes, and they march off to the kitchen.

You resolve to having to change Rika's clothing again, as her father flicks soap bubbles onto her and she retaliates by using a spoon to divert the water from the faucet onto his shirt. Smart girl.

---

An hour of cartoons later, Rika is snoozing on Kyou's lap. You stick Kyoujurou's gift to the fridge with magnets, and place your carnation into a small glass bottle on top of your vanity.

"My daughter is the cutest thing in the entire world." Kyoujurou coos, tucking her under plush covers. As quietly as possible, you close the door behind you.

"Let's go take a shower." Kyoujurou whispers, and you arch an eyebrow.

"What if she wakes up?"

"If she's guaranteed to inherit one thing from me, it would be how I sleep like a log." He chuckles. As if to prove his point, you hear cute little snores from her room. "See?"

Hurrying into the bathroom, you feel like a hormonal teenager all over again. When was the last time the two of you had sex? Kyoujurou is by no means neglectful, but working as a teacher is hard. Pent-up stress and tension has built up in your body, and you're aching for a release.

As Kyoujurou strips, you admire his broad back, well-toned with defined muscle, and the shallow divot that runs down to his tailbone. Warmth worms your way into your core, awakening a tingle within you.

He must have felt the weight of your gaze on him, as he turns around and spots you staring. He huffs and grins, the barest hint of a blush blooming on his cheeks.

Your shower is barely large enough to accommodate two, but thankfully, Kyoujurou enjoys the same temperature as you. The hot water beats down on your back, and you can’t help but moan as the heat works its way into your aching muscles.

“Massage my back?” Kyoujurou asks, turning to the showerhead to rinse the soap from his hair. You gladly do so, running your hands up his slippery skin, feeling a shiver roll down his spine. Digging your thumbs into the base of his neck and rubbing circles until you feel the tension dissipate from his shoulders allows you to marvel at his physique. Every shift of his body grants you a ripple of tough muscle to gawk at. After taking your time on his lats, you slide your hands lower. Just the slightest pressure from your fingers makes Kyoujurou arch his back. He hums, turning to capture your lips in a deep kiss.

“Thank you, my love.” His eyes have a hint of hunger in them, and you can feel heat that isn’t from the steam rising in your body. One of his hands comb back the hair from your face, while the other skims down to knead the flesh on your rear. The slightest brush of his body against yours hardens your nipples, and you gasp when he brushes a thumb across one of them.

“Let me return the favour.” Kyoujurou lifts you onto the bathroom counter, the cool marble a deep contrast to your hot skin. Slowly, he kisses the sweet spots he knows so well on your neck, playing with your chest until you begin to heave in anticipation. You feel light-headed, in the consuming embrace of your husband, content to stay that way until the ache in your pussy grows too strong to be left unattended. His wandering hands clutch the soft curves of your hips.

“You’re gorgeous, beautiful, stunning.” He kneels on the floor, lifting your legs over his shoulders and leaving red spots as he sucks and bites down to the growing wetness between them. Two fingers come to coax your slick from between your folds, Kyoujurou admires the glisten of your swollen cunt before he finally flicks his tongue out to toy with your clit. The pleasure halts your breath, and you savour the sensations of his hot breath and tongue, building and building. You can’t help but run a hand through his wet hair, rake your fingers across his scalp which earns you an eager groan. 

Kyou pulls back with a gasp, licking the remainder of your wetness from his lips. He helps you down from the counter and wraps you with a towel, ushering you out of the bathroom and into your bedroom.

“Sit back.” You crawl onto the bed and push him down into the soft pillows. His beautiful cock bobs between his legs, twitching when you lick down his shaft. You spit onto his head, a hand spreading your saliva down until it drips onto his heavy balls. With slow, deliberate strokes, you suck his balls, keening under the low moans and sighs of your lover. Kyoujurou’s hard cock in your gentle grip, the heady scent of his precum… It feels so good to have him all to yourself for once, to have him be pleasured by your touch, straining to hold himself back from thrusting his hips upward. With a hand still on his length, you take the tip of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue as you inch your way down his thickness.

“Wait- ah, fuck!” Kyou whines, digging his fingers into your shoulder. “Feels...too good.”

You lean back, a thin string of spit between your lips and his cock beading onto the bedding. Kyoujurou lies on his side behind you, holding your thigh up with one arm and propping himself up with the other. He drags his length between your slippery folds before positioning at your entrance. Easing himself in, you feel him shudder and grunt. Every inch sliding in, warming you up from the inside, filling you. Gentle until he bumps against your cervix, fully sheathed within you.

“Love, you feel so good…”

“Kyou…” You whimper, clenching around the ample size of his meaty cock. “Please?”

Gingerly, he thrusts his hips upwards, at an angle such that his full length rubs against your g-spot, again when he pulls back. You busy yourself with fingering your clit. The pressure builds back up again, growing, growing. Your moans are breathy, mingling with gasps of his name. Kyoujurou licks the shell of your ear, nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. It’s gentle, needy. 

“I’m...gonna…” You stutter, and Kyoujurou goes the slightest bit faster, pressing into you enough to tip you over the edge. He continues through your climax, until you’re left a trembling mess in his arms. With ease, he flips you over onto your back and slides himself in again. He kisses you, tongue and warm breath consuming you entirely, muffling both of your moans of pleasure.

Gradually picking up pace, you encourage him by holding him closer, wrapping your weak legs around his torso. Whispers of your name, so tender from his mouth, spoken like a prayer into your ear. The room’s filled with noise from just the two of you- the rhythmic, wet noise of your sex mixed in with moans and sighs.

“Inside, please.” Kyoujurou’s breath ghosts over your collarbone, the steady pace of his hips meeting yours growing more erratic, desperate. With a stutter of his hips, he finishes, resting against you for a few silent moments like a blanket.

“Thank you, my love.” Kyoujurou spoons you again, stroking the silhouette of your body. “Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you so, so much for granting me this happiness.”

“It’s not Mother’s Day anymore, Kyou. But happy belated birthday, love.” You giggle, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “It’s 12.04am.”

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, sunflowerslyf!

Happy Birthday, @sunflowerslyf​! We hope you’re having a wonderful day so far, and that the quarantine situation isn’t cramping your party style too much! To keep your party going, @ally147writes​ has written a story just for you!

AN: Happy Birthday @sunflowerslyf! I’ve actually had this drabble kicking in my unfinished folder for... I don’t know, about two years now? Thank you for giving me the reason I needed to finally finish it off!

Rated M for language, and maybe possible TW for spiders...

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The scream curdles his soul, piercing enough to lance straight through him to rend his heart in two.

 “Daddyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

 He sprints from the kitchen, the bowl of half-mixed pancake batter toppling to the ground with a mighty crash. Fuck it. He’ll clean it up later. Or maybe never. Who knows — hell, who cares? A door slams somewhere and a disjointed knock thumps on his front door, but he ignores it. It sounds a million miles away, anyway. Whoever it is can damn well wait.

“Sophie?” he calls as he darts through the apartment’s narrow hallways, knocking framed prints off the walls where he falls into them. He tries to calm his breaths, but he only ends up gasping. He swallows back the rising bile and calls out again, “Sophie? Where are you?”

 “B-bathroom!” his daughter warbles back.

 His mind races through every possibility as he stumbles towards the bathroom: she slipped; she broke her arm; she’s bleeding out on the edge of the tub; she’s somehow managed to bring the railing of the shower down, glass and all, even though she’s nowhere near tall enough to reach it.

 He turns the narrow corner and throws the bathroom door open. There, he finds his daughter pressed tight against the sink, her tiny face blotched all different shades of red, stained with tear tracks that don’t look like they’re stopping anytime soon.

 “Soph?” he asks, crouching before her. His hands go to her cheeks, checking every inch of her over for wounds, marks, any indication of anything that might have happened. So far, nothing. No graze, scratch, or cut. “Bunny?” he whispers, brushing her wispy blonde fringe from her face. “What’s wrong? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

 “Spider,” she cries, loud enough to ring sharp in his ears. “Huge.”

 “Spider?” He pulls back, frowning. Granted, his daughter isn’t the most adventurous little girl that’s ever graced the planet, but a spider? She’s had more adverse reactions to moths. “Where?”

 She points a trembling finger towards the bathtub, where a pile of towels lay in a twisted heap. “Under there.”

 He glances between the towels and the corner where Sophie is now trying to melt into the wall.

 He reaches into the tub, grasps the towels in a great handful, lifts them, and —

 “Holy shit!”

 It’s the size of a rodent. Maybe bigger, brown-black with beady little eyes that glow in the bathroom’s fluorescent light and nasty, fuzzy legs. Peeta leaps back and lands flat on his ass as it scuttles from one side of the tub to the other with audible little taps on the plastic.

 Fuck that.

 Fuck. That.

 “Daddy!” Sophie screeches as she tugs at his sleeve. “Get rid of it!”

 “I know, Soph, I know. I just…” He lets out a ragged breath, hurls the towels back into the tub and herds Sophie out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. He leans against the door and lets out a long, low breath. How the hell did a spider that size make its way to their twelfth-story walk-up, anyway?

 “You were right, Soph.” He swallows, lets out another huge breath. “Huge spider.”

 “You gonna get rid of it?”

 “It’s bigger than my hands,” he says, holding one up. Damn, he’s shaking now. He shoves it back in his pocket and curls it into a tight fist, like he could bop the spider out of existence. “And I don’t think we have any cups big enough to catch it. I don’t even know how to catch it.”

 Sophie sniffs, wiping her snotty nose across the back of her pyjama-clad arm. He’s about to admonish her when her next words steal the wind from his sails:

 “What about Miss Katniss?”

 “Katniss?” He coughs, maybe a little too quickly, but the subtleties (or lack thereof) of his on-going crush on their neighbour are lost on his little girl.

 He clears his throat and goes on, less like a moron, he hopes, “What, uh… what about Miss Katniss?”

 Sophie shrugs. “She collects bugs and stuff. I saw when she watched me last time.”

 “She does study bugs and stuff,” Peeta confirms. Having a dedicated entomologist as a neighbour might have freaked him out of she wasn’t so perfect. “But I don’t know if she likes massive spiders, too.”

 Another frantic knock rattles against his front door. Right… there’s someone there.

 “Hold that thought, Bunny.”

 He takes Sophie’s hand and together they leave the spider and the bathroom far, far behind. The knocks bleed together into one long, constant thump.

 “I’m coming,” he calls as they near, but the knocks don’t slow. He sighs and nudges Sophie over to kitchen table, where her pencils and crayons are still strewn about even though he asked her a thousand times to tidy them up before dinner.

 He tugs the door open and just about falls over again at the sight before him.

 “Katniss?”

 “Peeta!” she exclaims, her hand braced high against the doorframe. “I don’t… I heard screaming, and — is everything all right?”

 “Uh…” He wipes a hand across his forehead, and it comes away damp with sweat. “Fine, I think.”

 “Fine?” She quirks a brow at him. “What’s going on?”

 “Uh, you don’t know how to catch spiders, do you?”

 She blinks at him. “Spiders?”

 He glances back through his apartment and shudders, as though the spider’s grown opposable thumbs and managed the bathroom door on its own. “There’s, uh… a disgustingly big one in my bathtub. Those screams you heard? Our shock and terror.”

 “Ah.” She smiles, and he swears the world stops for a moment. “How big?”

 “Bigger than my hand.”

 “Sounds like a flamethrower might be a better bet.”

 “And burn down the entire apartment building?”

 “Everyone will understand when you explain. You do have large hands, after all.”

 He blushes, but so does she so it’s not as awkward as he thought it would be. She smiles at him again, just the barest little quirk of her lips, and it’s enough to send his heart into overdrive.

 “Hi, Miss Katniss,” Sophie pipes up, like a hot knife straight through the moment, whatever the moment was.

 “Hello, Miss Sophie,” Katniss calls back. She steps past him, pausing by the dinner table. He shuts the door behind her and tries to play it cool. Whatever that means.

 “You gonna catch the spider?”

 “I’m gonna try. Do you have a box I can use?”

 Without missing a beat, Sophie grabs the shoebox holding her colouring supplies and dumps them out over the table. Peeta swallows a cry. That table is mahogany!

 “Will this be okay?” she asks, blinking innocently.

 “I think it’ll work just fine,” Katniss says solemnly.

 She takes the box. Peeta gestures for her to follow him down the hall, where they come to a stop before the closed bathroom door. Peeta leans his forehead against it and sighs.

 “Good luck.”

 Katniss lets out a huffy sort of laugh. “You’re gonna have to move out of the way if you want me to get rid of it.”

 He sighs again and steps to the side. “May God or whatever else you pray to be with you in this difficult time.”

 She snorts. “I don’t need any of that.”

 She inches the door open, shoots him a quick, lightning kind of grin, and shuts it behind her. He presses his ear against the door and listens…

 There’s a clatter and a great, “Ah-hah!”, before she reopens the door with the box held tight in her hands.

 “Oh, my God,” he breathes. “You caught it?”

 “Yeah. Wasn’t a problem. She’s definitely big, but she’s pretty docile, actually.”

 “You’re a lifesaver.”

 She smirks. “Not exactly. This lady might deliver a nasty bite, but she’s not a venomous sort.”

 “What will you do with it?”

 “There’s some nice forest behind the university where I work. I’ll let her out there tomorrow.”

 He runs a hand through his hair and snags it on a wild tangle at the back. Hmm. Attractive.

 “How can I repay you?”

 “Well…” she starts slowly. “You could take me to dinner sometime, if you wanted?”

 Something in his brain short-circuits. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

 Her cheeks flush. “Oh, God, have I read this all wrong?” She shakes her head and hugs the spider box closer to her chest. “This is humiliating,” she mutters.

 “No!” he yells. “You didn’t read anything wrong, I just… no, I mean yes — I mean, I would love to take you out for dinner sometime.”

  “Or I could have dinner here, with Sophie, too,” she offers, “if you can’t find a sitter.”

 “No offense to my daughter, but for our first date, I’d rather it just be us.”

 She smiles, and his brain breaks again. “Yeah, I think I’d like that, too.”

 There’s this sweet moment where they’re just staring at each other with the dopiest smiles on their faces. Peeta hasn’t felt like this in… ever, he doesn’t think. Never has he ever had this stupid romance movie moment in real life, but he reckons he could get used to it, and pretty fast, too, if Katniss is going to be the one he’s sharing it with.

 If only she gets that fucking spider out of his house right now.

[theloveandthedead]

A Wonderful Li(f)e

Pairing: Oliver Emese Song/Walter C. Dornez (one sided love)

Summary: 50 theme challenge revolving around Hellsing’s Dolos and Aphrodite

[Note: Like Olivia, Oliver is likened to Aphrodite. That is not changing lol. Olivia/Oliver are the same character except different names and appearances. However, if you want to imagine Olivia here, you can. Characterization remains the same.]

[Note 2: These themes will contain references to chapters in “L’amour et La Mort” so this one shot will not make sense if you aren’t familiar with the fic.]

-----

#01 – Ring

Walter prided himself on his well-honed ability to mask his emotions, an improvement from his youthful spitfire self. Yet, every time the ruby on Oliver’s finger caught the light, Walter felt a familiar scowl chisel across his face.

The triumphant smirk Alucard constantly shot his way didn’t help matters either.

#02 – Hero

At the tender age of eight, Oliver sold his soul to Hellsing to become a hero against creatures of the night.

How ironic that in the span of ten years, Oliver found a family in the darkness itself—even going as far as to marry its king.

#03 – Memory

“Even when we are old and no one remembers us, I will always be at your side, Walter.” Oliver had vowed on top London Bridge, ruffling the younger boy’s hair with a smile. “We are brothers for life. That’s all the matters, right?”

And perhaps that was enough for Oliver, but not for Walter.

Never for Walter.

#04 – Box

Walter leaned against the doorway of the attic, watching Oliver pull Martha’s wedding gown from the chest and bury his face against the lace. If he announced his presence, Oliver would’ve lashed out, so Walter remained stagnant as Oliver’s muffled sobs filled the room.

#05 – Run

In the beginning, Walter was miles ahead of Oliver, laughing as the bleeding hearted older boy struggled to keep up with him as soldier.

Then, with the passing years, Oliver caught up and was able to keep pace with him before suddenly bypassing him entirely.

Now it was Walter chasing after him, struggling to maintain his place as a solider and his place in Oliver’s heart.

#06 – Hurricane

The juxtaposition of Oliver’s angelic face and Adonis physique was a constant source of whiplash for Walter.

Destiny may be cruel to Oliver but puberty sure as hell was not.

#07 – Wings

When enemies and allies heard the name “Angel of Death”, they envisioned Walter’s cunning smirk as he sliced through his foes.

When Oliver heard the name “Angel of Death”, he envisioned six year old Walter with his chubby cheeks and missing front teeth.

#08 – Cold

As the bitter Oxford chill gnawed at his skin, Walter pulled his blue, handmade muffler closer, the faint scent of home lingering on each thread.

“Only you of all people could make such a shoddy gift, Oliver.” He scoffed with a smile.

#09 – Red

The blood glimmered in the moonlight, sticking to their bodies like a second skin.

Oliver stood a few feet away from him, his profile illuminated in the moonlight. The blood stained his face and neck, slowly dripping down his torso and seeping through his white button-up. His wavy, black hair clung to his forehead, his cheeks flushed with extrusion, and his plump lips were damp with saliva.

Walter had never seen a more beautiful sight, and as Alucard emerged and pulled his husband in for a heated kiss, he begrudgingly acknowledged that he and the mutt were of one mind.

#10 – Drink

Arthur’s habits kept them from over indulging, yet Oliver and Walter had fallen into a tradition of drinking together once a week.

They would sit in one of the reading rooms, share a bottle of wine, and chat about everything and anything until the early hours of the morning.

For Oliver, it was a get together with his brother and lifelong friend.

For Walter, it was an opportunity to have Oliver to himself.

#11 – Midnight

“You’ve downed more than half of the bottle already, and it’s barely midnight.” Oliver teased, holding up the translucent bottle to the candle light. “Stressful week?”

“You try to keep this manor running while training incompetent cadets day in and day out!” Walter huffed, downing the rest of his glass. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You must really be drunk if your tongue is this loose.” Oliver leaned over and brushed Walter’s bangs out of his eyes. “Perhaps we should call it a night. After all, a hungover ‘Angel of Death’ is a fussy ‘Angel of Death’.”

“Piss off.” Walter hissed, latching onto Oliver’s hand and pressing his palm to his neck. “For fuck’s sake, why are your hands so cold?”

#12 – Temptation

“My hands are probably cold because your body is a furnace from all that wine.” Oliver tugged against his grip. “C’mon, let me go and let’s get you to bed.”

“Shut u—p.” Walter huffed, unbuttoning his shirt and placing Oliver’s palm over his clavicle. “Let me cool down first.”

Oliver gave an exasperated shake of his head before slouching back in his seat and allowing his head to fall back against the cushion.

“Who knew Walter C. Dornez was a light weight?” He chuckled while Walter continued using his hand as a cool pack. “You’re lucky I’m too decent to tease you about this when you’re sober.”

Walter didn’t bother responding, maintaining his inebriated illusion as he gave into foolish temptation.

In this candle-lit room with the scent of wine permeating the air, Walter casted aside his cocky façade and willingly fell prey to a songbird’s gentle touch.

Because, within the walls of this reading room, Oliver was his.

#13 – View

As the grandfather clock struck three, Oliver heaved another sigh before gazing upon the slumbering body across from him.

Even in deep sleep, Walter had a death grip on his hand and Oliver wondered if he’d made a mistake in playing along with his antics.

“You will always be my dearest friend and brother,” Oliver finally wiggled his hand away and rested it on top of Walter’s head. “And you deserve better than me.”

Walter’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, staring at their shadows against the beige wallpaper, before allowing them to fall shut again.

#14 – Music

Oliver was a talented singer; Walter would be a fool to deny that. Years of practice had tuned his once pitchy, strangled shrieks into a smooth, molasses-like melody. And Oliver wasn’t afraid to show it, constantly belting out arias day in and out to the jaw dropping awe of their soldiers.

But not Walter.

He would give credit where it was due, but Oliver’s tastes in music were rather dull to his ears.

That was until Oliver suddenly belted out a Chuck Berry number, his operatic tone taking on a raspy, soulful flair that had Walter’s jaw dropping like the rest of them.

#15 – Silk

Calling someone ‘angelic’ was not in Walter’s vocabulary, leaving such words to devotees or overly saccharine poets.

Yet, as a weeping Oliver adorned in Martha’s silk veil stood at the altar of St. Paul’s cathedral, ‘angelic’ was the only word he describe him.

#16 – Cover

“Alright, I’m going in. You got my back, Walter?”

“Do I have to?”

“I mean, you can just let me die I guess.”

“Very tempting, isn’t it?”

“…….I hope your socks rolls down in your shoes.”

#17 – Food

Walter pretended not to notice Oliver sneaking pieces of brownies from the dish behind him.

No, he just removed the fresh batch from the oven, sprinkled a generous amount of salt on the top, placed it on the counter, and waited.

#18 – Dream

In Walter’s dreams, he was a true Angel of Death—imperious, unbeatable, and feared by all.

In Oliver’s dreams, he had his family back and was able to grow up normally.

#19 – Candle

Oliver raced back up the aisle, leaving Walter on the ground with lips tingling and a flame igniting in his core.

#20 – Talent

“Chugging six bottles of Fanta at once is not a talent, Oliver, it’s an atrocity.”

#21 – Silence

During those four years at Oxford, Walter loathed to admit he missed Oliver’s show tunes and occasional rock numbers.

#22 – Journey

Walter knew the moment he took The Major’s deal, his path and Oliver’s had split in different directions. Yet, sometimes after a bottle of wine, he hoped their paths would intersect again.

#23 – Fire

Millennium’s Warsaw base burned around them like a sea of fire, and Oliver stood above it all with his mangled arm outstretched as he unwillingly commanded the No Life King to slaughter all their enemies.

For the first of many times, Walter felt a twinge of awe and fear.

#24 – Strength

It took everything for Walter’s knees not to buckle when Oliver picked him up by the waist and moved him aside.

“Sorry,” Oliver bit into his apple, the juices dripping down his chin. “You were standing in front of the fruit bowl.”

#25 – Mask

Although Walter was brash and had a sharp tongue, Oliver knew his friend had a heart deep down.

#26 – Ice

Walter knew the moment his treason was brought to light, Oliver’s eyes—warm and green like the spring—would become frosted and bitter as a blizzard.

#27 – Fall

In their youth, Oliver and Walter used to hide in the leave piles and scare Arthur during his morning walks.

#28 – Forgotten

The root of his treason, and the eventual cause of Oliver’s heartbreak—all of this stemmed from Walter’s one and only fear.

#29 – Dance

As Oliver twirled him around the palace ballroom, Walter understood why children were obsessed with fairytales.

#30 – Body

Walter considered it horribly unfair that, upon his return from Oxford, Oliver was a head taller than him and twice his muscle mass.

#31 – Sacred

Alucard may have Oliver, but Walter was his first kiss and he would carry that victory to his grave.

#32 – Farewells

Upon their return from Warsaw, Walter held Oliver as they stood in the foyer.

To Oliver, it was a gesture of brotherhood and comfort.

To Walter, it was a farewell to the future they could’ve had together.

#33 – World

In their younger years, the two of them marked an old map in the library with where they wanted to travel together, with crayon lines zig-zagging everywhere from Montreal to Antarctica.

#34 – Formal

“For the love of all that is holy, Oliver, button your shirt up! We are attending Her Majesty’s banquet, not a cocktail party in Vegas!”

#35 – Fever

Walter had a fever once when he was 10, and Oliver had made some homemade chicken noodle soup for him.

Never again.

His taste buds can only handle so much salt.

#36 – Laugh

The way he hunched over with a crinkled nose and a toothy grin, Walter could see why Oliver’s nickname was Rabbit.

#37 – Lies

“You can trust me, Oliver.”

#38 – Forever

Despite his sins, Walter hoped to meet Oliver again in the next life.

#39 – Overwhelmed

When Oliver leaned over his shoulder, his chest pressed to his back, and whispered in his ear, Walter swore his heart beat could be heard from space.

#40 – Whisper

“Move your ass, Walter, you’re blocking the bathroom door.”

#41 – Wait

4 years.

1,460 days.

2,102,400 minutes.

And, in the end, Oliver still chose Alucard.

#42 – Talk

It took Walter by surprise when Oliver said he didn’t believe people are inherently good.

“It is easy to be cruel and selfish, but to be kind and loving—that takes effort.” Oliver elaborated, swirling his wine glass with a far-off expression. “And it’s hard to make that effort sometimes, especially when the world is hellbent on breaking you down.”

#43 – Search

Walter never thought he would miss the days when Oliver would reach for his hand during mission briefings.

#44 – Hope

The words Oliver stitched into his muffler.

#45 – Eclipse

Oliver stands above him, rays of moonlight filtering through his raven locks, and offers him a hand and a smile.

“Another successful mission by the dynamic duo, hmm?”

#46 – Gravity

It seemed the more Walter tried to pull away from Oliver, the harder he fell for him.

#47 – Highway

The officer was tempted to turn on his sirens as a black Cadillac Sixty-Two Convertible and a Silver Triumph motorcycle zipped by him, but upon recalling the drivers’ identities, he just closed his eyes and prayed none of his colleagues would be foolish enough to pursue them.

#48 – Unknown

The future was a mystery but, as long as he had his ‘family’, Oliver wasn’t afraid.

Too bad Walter didn’t share the same sentiment.

#49 – Lock

The memories Oliver had given him would be guarded in his heart forevermore, even as his wires sliced through Oliver’s skin.

#50 – Breathe

As his final breath passed through his lips, Walter clutched the rabbit keychain in his hand and bid farewell to his first and only love.

[takivvatanga]

sick day

“Mum? My head hurts.” Stella coughs as she pads into the lounge on her bare feet, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her little face flushed, blue eyes burning bright with fever. She’s stayed home sick today, same as yesterday, same as the day before. 

Whatever illness it is that is making its way around at school, it’s horrid. Neville has it too, apparently. Assire thinks about Mary, about how she must feel having a sick child to look after once again - even though this isn’t bad. Well, it is, but it’s nothing compared to… the horrible thing that happened. Assire remembers Mary’s little boy. Clever and quick and so very full of energy, full of life - until he began to fade, his body slowly but surely giving way to something dark, some insidious decay that got hold of him and would never let him go. 

Assire had kept her distance, hesitant to interfere in another woman’s grief. They barely knew each other, back then. To reach out would have been inappropriate, surely. But Assire can’t help but feel that she let her sister in law down. Better give her a call, later on tonight. See how she is, see how Neville is. Assire might not be able to make up for the missed opportunities of the past, but she has here and now, doesn’t she? Never too late to set things right, do things a little differently. Yes, she’ll do that. She’ll call.  “Mum!” Stella’s voice is thin and reedy, thick with congestion. She sounds much younger than what she is, when she’s unwell. Assire beckons her closer, and Stella doesn’t hesitate, climbing up onto the couch and curling up in her mother’s arms, blanket trailing behind. She coughs again, wipes her runny nose with a crinkled pyjama sleeve. Assire brushes a strand of dark hair out of her daughter’s face. Her skin is hot to touch, a little sticky. How bright her eyes are. Blue as the sky on a clear morning, blue as the ocean on a sunny day. Stella has her father’s eyes. Assire wishes Stella looked more like her, doesn’t realise that she is right there, reflected so clearly in the way Stella frowns, in the way she blinks her eyes in astonishment, in the restlessness in her little hands.   Sometimes I still don’t feel as if you’re truly mine. A part of me. You feel so far away, and at the same time you’re so close.  “Can I get a hot drink?” Stella shifts, pushing her bare feet against the armrest of the couch, pressing closely against her mother’s body. Assire pulls her close, presses her face to the crown of her daughter’s head, inhales deeply. Stella smells like green apples and Vick’s Vaporub, like wax crayons and unwashed pyjamas. She needs a shower, but Assire doesn’t want to force her to have one. Not when she’s unwell like this, not - Assire doesn’t want to force Stella to do anything. No. She wants her to choose, to make up her own mind, to walk her own path without restriction, without limitation. “She needs discipline”, Mary has told her, more times than Assire cares to remember. “She needs to learn how to cope with having rules. I understand what you’re trying to achieve, I really do, but it doesn’t work like that.” But Mary doesn’t understand, and as far as Assire is concerned, things are perfectly fine just the way they are. 

“I’ll make you some tea, alright?” Assire stirs. Stella clings to her. “No, Mum! Don’t get up!” Assire sighs, relents, settles back into the couch, tugging at the edges of Stella’s blanket. “No hot drink, then.” “But I’m thirsty”, Stella whines, in her sick-little-kid voice. “Can I just have some of yours?” “No, sweetheart. That’s black tea. It’s not for kids. And it’s gone cold anyhow, see?” She picks up her cup - with its chipped rim and its fading print of cavorting cats, her favourite - and presents it to her daughter. Stella holds it tightly, with both hands, the remnants of bright pink polish still noticeable on her little nails. Stella has lovely hands. Nothing like Assire’s own, their skin thin and sallow, already flecked like those of a much older woman, the nails bitten down almost to the quick. Stella’s hands are slim with long fingers, her nails fast-growing, strong, perfectly shaped. The hands of an artist or a musician, a clockmaker or a surgeon. What will she grow up to do with those hands? Assire worries about Stella. Stella still cannot read. She only pretends, guessing the words based on the letters she can make out, relying on her memory to replicate the texts of her story books. At Stella’s age, Assire had been reading fluently for quite some time. As a matter of fact, she cannot recall ever not being able to read. Not like there was much reading material available when she was small. She’d read street signs instead, street signs and work rosters and every now and again that rare treat of a discarded newspaper that the wind had carried over the fences of the compound. FLASH SALE DON’T MISS OUT! Weekend Weather Unemployment at Record Levels Stella sniffs at the dark liquid in the cup, pulls a face, glances up at her mother with her bright blue eyes. The little girl takes a sip, erupts in a violent coughing fit.  “It’s gross, Mum!” “I told you.” “I want a hot drink! Hot chocolate or milk with honey in it!” “Well, you’ll have to wait for me to make it then.” Another cough, smaller this time but twice as phlegmy. Stella spits into her pyjama sleeve.  “Alright. Can I play on your computer while I wait?” “No, sweetheart. Now let me get that drink for you, yeah?” “I don’t want a drink no more. I want a story instead. Can I have a story, Mum?”  Stella looks up at her mother with pleading eyes. As much as she sometimes resents her inability to be normal, like other mothers, her stories are the best. As far back as Stella can remember, Assire’s tales have taken her on a journey, deep into the centre of the earth or far beyond the skies, into other worlds, murky dreamscapes where nothing is ever quite as it seems.  “Any more”, Assire corrects her daughter sternly. “Speak properly please, Stella.” The little girl sighs, rolls her eyes. “You sound like auntie Mary! She always tells me to talk properly too. I don’t know why it’s so important. You know what I mean anyway.”  “You’ll understand someday. It’s complicated.” “You always say that when you don’t know how to explain something.”

Assire bites her lip, taken aback by the accuracy of her daughter’s observation. This is a discussion she is nowhere near prepared to enter into right now. “A story then. Alright. Are you comfortable?” Stella wriggles under her blanket, inching even closer, settling down to rest her head in her mother’s lap, her restless little hands tugging at the tassels on Assire’s scarf. She loves her fiercely, in this moment, with her messy hair and her sticky skin and her febrile eyes, in her unwashed pyjamas with her unbrushed teeth. Don’t grow up, she thinks. Or at least, don’t grow up too fast. “Am now.” Stella coughs again. Assire pushes a strand of hair out of her daughter’s face. “Let’s see. A story. Well, a long time ago, or maybe somewhere in the far distant future, far above in the High Wilderness Beyond The Skies, there was a girl. Only she wasn’t an ordinary girl. You see, instead of being born, she was made.” “Made? You mean she wasn’t a real girl?” “Oh, she was. She was just...where other people are made of skin and flesh and bone, she’d been put together from bronzewood and ivory and copper and steel and instead of a beating heart there was a clockwork contraption in her chest.” “Was she brave?” “She was. She was incredibly brave, actually. She-” “She was never afraid!” “No. She was afraid all the time. Of a lot of things.” “Then she wasn’t brave.” “She was. Because you see, being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid. Because if you’re never scared, that would make it easy to be brave, wouldn’t it now? But being brave isn’t supposed to be easy. It gets easier, though. What being brave means is being afraid and doing the right thing anyway.” Stella doesn’t reply. Assire can tell by the way she wrinkles her nose, by the way she purses her lips, that she is thinking very seriously about this. Good. Remember that, Stella. Remember that it is alright to be afraid. Because we’re all afraid, in our own way, and anyone who says they aren’t, well, they’re lying. “What did she do, in the Skies?” “She was a traveller. An explorer. She met a great many people on her journey, and if any of them were in need of help, she did whatever she could for them. Until one day…” Stella listens intently as Assire spins her tale, but soon her eyelids grow heavy, her curious questions and interjections become less frequent. Assire lowers her voice, little by little, and soon Stella’s breathing becomes slow and even, every now and again disrupted by a small cough. Assire begins to hum, deep and low in her throat, a strange melody that she cannot recall ever learning, but she has sung it to Stella for as long as she can remember. Stella’s Song, they call it. It’s something they share just between the two of them. She’ll be too old for it soon, just like she’ll be too old for bedtime stories. Assire wishes she could stop time, to keep her daughter here, like this, curled up in her lap, blissfully oblivious to life and all its hardships, its temptations, its wrong turns. Innocent. Where will you go, Stella? Who will you become? The thought fascinates and terrifies her at the same time. “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”, she whispers as she straightens out the blanket that covers the sleeping child. “We’ll have to find out.”

[blazehedgehog]

I've simply never cared all that much for Yoshi's Island and I'm wondering what I'm missing. I've tried getting into the game on a number of occasions but always drop off 3-5 worlds in. I think a big part of it is how the collectibles are handled. The game makes a big deal about getting a score of 100 in each level, but most of the collectibles aren't worth anything if you only get some, but not all. Plus some are hidden in archaic ways. I actually liked Wooly World more and I'm not sure why.

I suppose, on some level, my appreciation for Yoshi’s Island exists based on how it felt to play in 1995. The Playstation and the Saturn had just hit the market, and though they were capable of a lot, games on there did not look or play anything like Yoshi’s Island.

Actually, nothing, anywhere played or looked like Yoshi’s Island. That was by design. As the mythology goes, Nintendo’s board of directors wanted more games that looked like Donkey Kong Country, with its bleeding-edge CGI visuals, and Shigeru Miyamoto balked.

He instructed his team to go in the opposite direction -- instead of computer-generated 3D renderings, they made a game that looked hand drawn, with markers, pencils, paints and crayons. Visible brush strokes, and thick, uneven black outlines. Vibrantly pastel.

Donkey Kong Country itself was apparently a response to Sega and Virgin’s version of Aladdin for the Genesis, which boasted digitized artwork by real Disney animators. It dominated Christmas 1993, and Nintendo wanted a showpiece for the SNES on the same level. Rare delivered “ACM” (Advanced Computer Modeling) that allowed them to pre-render 3D CGI characters and display them as sprites on the SNES. At the time, it looked a generation ahead of everything else, and gave Nintendo their trump card against Aladdin.

Yoshi’s Island managed to upstage them both. DKC looked high-tech, Aladdin looked like a cartoon, but Yoshi’s Island was unique. It had an art style and a kind of detail that no other game had really attempted before, and it pulled it off almost flawlessly. You were playing inside a living painting.

It was also a shock to play something that felt so different from Nintendo. Between the eight or so Mario games that had come out, there was a pretty well established “feel” to a Nintendo platformer, and Yoshi’s Island felt like a major departure from that. Jumping mechanics were still solid, but it was the system of eating enemies, making eggs, and throwing eggs that turned the staid Nintendo platformer formula on its side.

And it was kind of that Breath of the Wild thing where it was Nintendo trying something new and different and effectively nailing it first try. Throwing eggs felt complex, without being too complex. The way they had you ricochet shots felt fantastic. Just wonderfully creative gameplay, unlike anything else at the time. 

More than just the art and gameplay, it was also the technology, too. Yoshi’s Island is one of three four games to use the Super FX2 chip, and probably the best of the lot. Nothing else on the market was using scaling and rotation like Yoshi’s Island. The next-gen consoles were fighting it out over who rendered 3D polygons, but Yoshi was a masterclass in how much untapped potential there still was in 2D sprites.

It’s just the complete package. Gorgeous art, cutting edge (at the time) technology, and creative gameplay. Some of that luster probably got lost now that it’s been 20+ years and there’s been eight more Yoshi games trying to recapture that spirit, but in my opinion, none of them have come within spitting distance of being what that game was, and still is.

I suppose I won’t argue with you too loudly about collectibles. I recently endeavored to clear Yoshi’s Island 100% about a month or two ago, something I’d never done before, and I eventually gave up halfway through the game because there are too many places for them to hide collectibles where you’ll never, ever find them (not without using a strategy guide, at least). Like, for example, sometimes enemies can be holding collectibles that can then fly out of bounds before you even see them. Miss grabbing that collectible and it’s just gone until you restart the stage. That genuinely sucks.

The good news: getting 100% collectibles isn’t strictly necessary. You get six extra levels, many of which are OBSCENELY difficult. Like easily some of the hardest stuff Nintendo’s ever made for any of their games. Maybe that’s your thing, but honestly, if the reward for grinding difficulty is even harder grinding difficulty, maybe I’m okay never 100% clearing Yoshi’s Island, you know?

Go for the highest score you can, but don’t feel defeated if you can’t get the hundo. A lot of that stuff feels like it’s probably meant to be post-game content anyway. It’s that game’s version of Champion’s Road or Darker Side or whatever. It’s there for the crazy people who finish the game and still want more after the credits roll.

Which is the other thing, I guess. I’m sure there will be people correcting me about how this or that Yoshi game isn’t like this, but Nintendo’s idea for what to do with Yoshi’s Island after the fact was to turn it in to something exclusively for very young children. Which, you know, if you’re a very young child and you love those Yoshi games, more power to you, but that first Yoshi’s Island was a brilliant implementation of an adaptive difficulty that’s only as hard as you want to make it on yourself, all the way up to, like I said, it can be one of the hardest games Nintendo has ever made. But only if you chose that for yourself.

I know that only Yoshi Story was really “for young children” but I feel like even later games never really replicated the level of polish, grace and challenge that the original Yoshi’s Island had in its difficult, which is why I find games like Woolly World to be so boring. They try to straddle a line that robs them of their true potential.

Anyway, I guess I’m willing to accept that Yoshi’s Island was probably a bit of a time-and-place sort of game, where a lot of what it did back then might seem pretty rote by comparison today. It’d hardly be the only piece of entertainment media that doesn’t seem as special after years of mediocre sequels and the rest of the industry had caught up.

[unlockthelore]

Where The Heart Lies

An average day in the Elric-Rockbell residence includes a great deal of bargaining, bantering, and bickering. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. From the story One is All, All Is One on AO3. For more updates, follow the one is all all is one tag on this blog.

Winry ignored the pins and needles digging into her knuckles as she twisted the bolt a bit tighter. Aching fingers curled around automail ones turned to and fro to test the range of movement. Wires exposed from beneath the joint panels cast thin shadows over her work desk until the arm was set down beside its counterpart upon a small metal stand. Pain throbbed in her shoulders as she leant back, massaging against the hollow of her throat then rolling her shoulder blade. Papers with half-written scribbles and designs overshadowed both the ones with lilting script and the harsher ones depicting numbers and addresses to which parcels would be sent.

She sifted through each one with heavy-lidded eyes, stacking them aside then peering at them closely to ensure she had the correct pile. Once the grain of her desk could be seen, she raised a brow as the white order papers gave way to colorful ones. Slipping the page free of her work, she smiled faintly at the drawings in crayon and pencil. Her desk chair creaked as she shifted backward, and she slowly rose to her feet. The buzzing in her legs and deadened lead feet ignored in favor of wandering over to her bulletin board, rummaging around in a small box of tacks for a new pin.

The picture was tacked up aside of a photograph of two smiling children covered in dirt and pond slime while their father, who fared no better, held them from behind with a sunny grin. Her fingers brushed against the photograph. His joy, as beloved to her as an order for a custom-made piece, brought a smile to her face. Immortalized as it was through photographs — a moment frozen in time — she could remember the day vividly. Her eyes drifted close for a moment, and she ran her finger over the dried wax from the crayons, the drawing reminding her of what she had to finish.

A gentle creaking interrupted the silence as she stifled a yawn, her wrist covering her mouth. Den’s head poked through the opening then butt against the wood to push it open further, trotting through with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Hey there,” Winry mumbled, rubbing her fingers through her hair, her headband pushed up from where it slipped beneath her goggles. “Seems we’re both up pretty late, huh?”

Den, of course, gave no other answer beyond a panting bark. His tail whipped against the boxes emblazoned with the symbols of Rush Valley as he trotted inside, bumping his head against Winry’s leg while she walked back to her desk. “I should be done in a little while,” she said, scratching behind one of the hound’s floppy ears. “As long as it’s not too late, Ed won’t notice a thing.”

She sat down and stretched her arms above her head, fingers joined and cracking at the joints before falling to her lap as she deflated with a sigh. Balancing her job with everyday life was a struggle, but it was definitely worth it. She glanced at the photograph on her desk — wide and filled with so many faces of friends they’d made along the way and of family that’d come later. Ed and Al, whole just as they had promised, sporting big smiles at the end of their journey.

It took them so long to get to where they were now. Deciding to work from home and to send orders out to her clients was a no-brainer. If she could spend time with her family and continue her passions, then she was all the better for it. She could practically hear Ed telling her not to give up and all of his belly-aching about taking care of the little things while she put her hands to good use at what she did best.

“Dork,” Winry muttered under her breath, rubbing Den’s head at the confused snuffling. “Don’t worry about it…”

Her stomach growled, and she grimaced, pressing her hand to it and sitting upright. When was the last time she’d eaten anyway? Glancing around her desk for the clock she kept, she raised a brow at the plate and steaming mug set at the corner of her mess. Her fingers curled around the mug’s handle and brought it close to her nose. Dark chocolate cocoa greeted her with its bittersweet scent, a touch of honey sweetening her tongue as she took a sip. The plate housed a sandwich with the corners cut crisply, and upon further inspection, just a bit of everything as she liked it.

Winry was confused but grateful, taking a hearty bite as she continued working with her other hand. Den curled up by her feet with his tail thumping at the legs of her chair rhythmically. With that, and the sound of her wrench cranking and burners hissing, she barely noticed her surroundings, and time seemed to slip to a crawl.

“Hey, you gonna spend the whole morning working?”

Winry shrieked at the cold touch on her shoulder and whipped her head around, wrench raised and clutched with intent to throw. Golden eyes widened in concern, and shock mirrored the stricken expression on her husband’s face, his hands immediately raised in a familiar defensive pose. Her face warmed as a blush appeared across her cheeks, heart thumping as she lowered her weapon.

“Ed?” She muttered, rubbing at her eyes to ensure that he actually was there. After a few strokes of his stricken expression remaining and then a few more of it gradually turning to one of amusement, Winry huffed. “What are you doing up so late?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Could ask you the same thing,” he said, reaching over to flick off the desk lamp.

“Wh—“

Protest parted Winry’s lips quickly, but snapped them shut when she noticed that without the amber glow, the room was still lit. Curtains drawn over the window, normally dark as the world was at night, were now faintly lit with blue dawn light.

“When did it get to be morning?!” Winry whisper-yelled, jumping up from her chair and hurrying to the window. “And we have so much to do today. How did I lose track of time?!”

The curtains were thrown open, and to her dismay, the sky was already beginning to tinge a light blue. Smudges of hillsides and grassland on the horizon blanketed in mottled shades of grey and black. Mortification aside, realization dawned on her that she must have been in her workshop all night. She cast a longing look over her shoulder at the blond man skimming over the order slips with a finger pressed to the papers to guide along as he read.

“I don’t know,” Ed murmured, and Winry wished she could gauge whether he was upset or neutral. Usually, when his head was stuck in a book or when he was in the middle of reading, he always had this blasé, distracted tone. “This is a pretty big order, isn’t it?”

Guilt twinged at hearing the genuine interest in his voice. Winry eased the curtains shut then pressed her hands together, fingertips to knuckle then back, feeling the ache in her joints; but it was nothing compared to the one in her chest.

“Ed,” she started gently, swallowing when he gave a distracted hum in reply. “You didn’t…”

Her words trailed off, and after a moment of silence, Ed lifted his head to glance towards her. His puff of breath was soft. Lips curved into a smile that made his disinterested look gentler, an arm offered to her which she gladly took, pressing close to his side with her hand flattened to his back.

“Nah, it wasn’t one of those nights,” he assured. His voice was deep and warm, lips brushed against the crown of her head. Winry wanted to tell him to wait until she’d bathed. Her forehead was likely clammy from sweat, and she could hardly imagine how her hair smelled, but neither must have bothered him as he pressed a smile to her cheek, accompanied with another kiss. “I just woke up when I noticed the bed was cold and realized that my wife was somewhere else.”

Winry huffed and poked his side, ignoring the jolt in her stomach at the raised skin from one of the scars bisecting his stomach.

If Ed noticed, he didn’t say anything, continuing on his tirade with a haughty tone and a light squeeze to her shoulder. “Poor Den was in and out of the room so often, you didn’t even notice him.”

Almost as if to punctuate what Ed said, Den barked and panted, looking up at them expectantly. Ed tipping his head towards the canine with a raised brow as if saying see? Winry tucked her arms around his sides and hugged him close to her. Whether it was from the exhaustion from or the weight of knowing he was on his own, she didn’t know, but the guilt was heavier on her than usual.

“I’m sorry…”

“Hey, come on…” The snobbish tone was replaced by a softer, tender one. Ed’s hand, calloused and large, set against her shoulder and pressed to hug her closer. “I know how into your work you get, Winry. It’s fine.”

She wanted to disagree, but he was just as stubborn, and she knew he only meant what he said. It was one of his more annoying traits. A light kiss was pressed to the top of her head despite the smoke in her hair, and when he pulled away, Winry lifted her head to meet his gaze.

“Just promise me that you’ll take a break.” His eyes were almost brown in the weak light, cheeks rounded with joy. “Alright?”

Winry sighed softly then pressed a kiss to his jaw, delighting in the brief flicker of surprise. “I promise.”

It was difficult to tell if he was blushing or not, but she had a sneaking suspicion from the way his eyes darted away from her. Years of marriage, two children, and a host of experience between them, yet he still turned red when her lips grazed his skin. Some women might have found it immature, but none of them would ever get the chance to be with Edward Elric.

“And drink your water,” he mumbled in that quiet, pissed-off tone he often used when he was embarrassed, arms withdrawing from around her as he turned away.

Winry giggled. Seconds from calling out a retort that she normally would, she paused and glanced toward her desk. The plate where her sandwich had lain was gone, and in its place were peeled apple slices on a small saucer. The mug she’d been nursing for the better part of a few hours was also missing, replaced by a cool glass of water misting on the sides with a coaster set beneath it.

“… Wait….”

She distinctly remembered having gotten herself cocoa and food before she shut herself in her workshop. Den kept coming in through the door by pushing it open and eventually, she gave up on shutting it. Engrossed in her work as she’d been, she hardly noticed when her meals kept replenishing themselves. Grateful to take another sip or bite so that she could continue with what she was doing.

“That was you, Ed?!”

He tensed in the doorway, his loose hair falling over his shoulders and whipping around to drape down his back as he pointed at her. “Hey, don’t sound so surprised. Sickness and health, remember?” His nose wrinkled, voice lowering as he whirled his head away. “I’m taking care of you just like you took care of me, so get used to it.”

So that’s what it was. Fondness swelled in her chest as she took a few steps toward him, careful of Den’s wagging tail as she passed by.

“… Ed…”

“Wh— Hey, what’s with the eyes?” He turned to face her, lips pressed into a frown. “I know you’re tired and all, but — mmmph!”

He really did talk too much. Winry smiled against the soft touch of his lips to hers, sighing gently when he drew her into a tight embrace. While she knew that she didn’t smell the sweetest , he still carried the scent of musty books and chalk. Her heart thudded at the familiarity and how easy he coaxed her lips apart. The bittersweet taste of dark chocolate met with a charming hint of mint. Winry’s fingers nestled in Ed’s hair when they parted, a smile curving her lips and brushing against his own.

“I love you too, Ed.”

The puff of Ed’s breath was soft against her mouth as he laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“What, wh— ah!” Winry shrieked as she was lifted up in his arms, her ears burning at the tight squeeze around her thighs.

“I’ve been refilling your drink and getting you food for the last hour, and you didn’t even notice,” Ed complained , tucking her close to him as he carried her into the hall. “You’re tired. Come on, Den.”

Winry squirmed, though it was mostly for show. She did feel exhausted and could barely keep her eyes open. Knocking her fist against his shoulder blade as he carried her down the hall, grumbling all the while.

“But you just said that if I promise to take a break, I can keep working!”

“That was before I realized being a gearhead was frying your brain!”

“What was tha—”

Their arguing was interrupted by the soft patter of footsteps. Winry peered past Ed down the hallway where the faint light from the windows cast shadows over a squirming bundle dragging across the floor.

“Uh-oh…” Ed mumbled, looking over his shoulder. “Here, I got her.”

He set Winry down on her feet, slipping away from her, pressing a light peck to her forehead before he jogged down the hall.

“Nina?” He called in a hushed tone, reaching out for the squirming bundle. “Hey, where’re you going…?”

From beneath the quilt, a little girl with sandy blond hair poked her head out, her wide blue eyes watching him curiously.  “Daddy…?”

Winry smiled slightly, leaning against the door while Den sat at her feet. Edward muttered to their daughter while chasing her into the living room. “Come back here, where’re you off to?” He asked, scooping her up in his arms, blanket and all.

Nina sniffed and rubbed her hand against her nose, trying to keep a grip on her blanket with the other. “Hungry…”

“Yeah?” Edward bounced her lightly, glancing over his shoulder at where Winry stood.  “Well let’s eat the apples your mom didn’t want, huh?”

“Who says I didn’t want it?” Winry called after him as he stepped into her workshop.

“Hey! Back to bed,” he called, pointing a finger around the doorway. Nina’s giggling joined Winry’s chuckling, her squealing laugh, likely from Edward tickling her, breaking the morning quiet. “You’re going back to bed too after a snack.”

Winry shook her head and started climbing the stairs, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Geeze, when did I get to be the responsible one around here?”

That’s part of having a family, Ed. Get used to it.