#like I said most of my art from the prompts will be pretty light interpretations. because it is an egg.

[luna-loveboop]

Febuwhump day one- vocal chords

I did this yesterday and it took me all of last night and today to get a decent picture

it's Echoes of Wisdom Link :) (and some of his dark echo..) he went through so much and fought on even without his voice. Lueburry's words are on the back:

and it was a how small of words can I drill on an egg challenge- 'All of the kids who were taken by rifts have lost something. For Link, he lost the ability to speak. Despite all he has been through, he fights to keep others safe. His bravery has moved me deeply.'

Sooo yeah. egg. I think a shaded eow link worked well for this one.

:)

[freelancearsonist]

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought. 

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable. 

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you. 

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to. 

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him. 

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him. 

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. ��I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too. 

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant. 

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

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[jbreenr]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale × Reader

Summary: You wanted to meet Ransom's family, he wanted to make sure you'd never want it again.

Word count: 3k.

Warning: Poorly written smut (+18 only, please), public sex (prompt 11), fingering, unprotected sex (don't do that, kids. be responsible), a bit of dirty talk, the Thrombeys being the Thrombeys. And I think that's it.

A/N: So, after finding out one of my stories was stolen an translated in Wattpad, I did not know if I should post this just yet but, what the hell? Let's do it. Anyway, this is for @stargazingfangirl18 and @navybrat817 's Shameless Hoes for Chris Challenge so, happy belated birthday! Yaaay. 🥳 Hope you like this at least a little and that it's not as bad as my paranoid brain thinks it is. Also, I just love how the prompts fit perfectly together, don't you? As always, lack of vocabulary and grammatical mistakes abound. *apologizes in español*

Wheel results (just attaching evidence):

ᴹʸ ᵍⁱᶠ

Draining, tedious, exasperating. Those were some of the adjectives Ransom associated with Thrombey family reunions. He'd arrive late, have some sort of conversation with his grandfather and leave early to do whatever that took him away from that big house.

Today though, he had a reason to stay for more than half an hour.

If it was up to him, you two would have stayed at home, happy, relaxed, and most importantly, naked in his bed, having a more pleasant time than the one you were most likely about to have. 

He tried to persuade you. Of course he did! But your insistence and puppy eyes made it impossible for him to say no to your request. 

So, here you were, getting out of his car, cake in sweaty hands and an excited smile on your lips, an expression so different from Ransom's, who seemed to be ready to get back behind the wheel and drive straight to Canada.

He didn't knock; he simply opened the door and held it for you to enter. If the three floor house was imposing from the outside, you felt impressed by the inside. Extravagant sculptures, apparently expensive paintings and other kinds of pieces of art were scattered everywhere, telling you just how wealthy and eccentric Ransom's family were. 

“That's Harlan Thrombey! ” You exclaimed as you stood in front of the portrait of your forever favorite author holding a knife and a book.

“So?” Ransom asked, unconcerned.

You turned to him open-mouthed, the cake almost slipping off your palms as you went to playfully slap him in the arm.

“How come you are related to Harlan Thrombey and you didn't tell me?” Your question was more of a shock than an accusation.

The carefree gesture he did with his shoulders only accentuated his next words. “I did not think you would be interested in knowing.”

“I wouldn’t be interested?” Incredulity, flowing out of your lips. “He’s the best thriller author of all time! He’s like today’s Edgar Allan Poe!”

To say that you didn't believe him was an understatement. He knew for a fact that you liked Harlan Thrombey's books, just taking a look at the bookshelf in your apartment was proof enough of that.

“We call him grandpa here.” Said a femenine voice. A brunette walked in your direction, her pretty features hardening as she looked at your boyfriend. “Don't we, Hugh?”

He seemed to be ready to say something but decided not to. Instead he inhaled and placed his hand on your back.

“This is Y/N, the only reason I’m not telling you what you need to hear right now.”

Her eyes rolled in irritation and then turned to you. “I’m Meg. Let's introduce you to the rest of the family, shall we?.” And she dragged you to the room where more people were gathered together, discussing something, not before sending a deadly glare at Ransom.

Given the distance between you and him, you didn't listen to the heavy sigh he let out before waking behind.

“Everyone!” Meg called, making everyone leave whatever they were doing to look at her –and you, in consequence. “Meet Y/N, Hugh's new friend.” She then proceeded to introduce every single member of the family, including the housekeeper and the nurse, except for the grandfather, who apparently had a moment of inspiration and left them momentarily to put his ideas on paper.

None of them left their seat to go and shake your hand except for Meg's energetic mom, who hugged you and expressed how much she loved your coat even though it was soooo last season.

Sitting on a couch next to Ransom, you half expected someone to ask you about how you two met or how long had you been dating or what was it that you did for a living. Nothing. As fast as their attention was on you, it fell from you to their previous discussion.

You now understood why Ransom jokingly suggested deep cleaning the house instead of attending that reunion.

What you weren't aware of, Ransom thought, was that all of them were behaving wonderfully compared to previous times.

You didn't know if you felt more disappointed or uncomfortable. Ransom had left your side to go to the studio for a second and you had barely had any interaction with his family. All of them, dipped in their own matters to even notice your presence. 

Fran, the housekeeper, was kind enough to take the cake to the kitchen and offer you a glass of water, but after giving it to you, she disappeared along with Meg and the nurse. 

“So,” All at once, the room went quiet as Ransom's uncle spoke. “Have you read any of dad's books, Y/N?” Only until you heard your name was that your head snapped up.

“Oh, uhm… yeah. I'm a big fan.” Taken by surprise, you simply answered.

“Really? Which one have you read?”

And to that question, you felt suddenly included in the conversation since you had knowledge of the topic.

“I'm like fifty pages from finishing 'The Needle Game' and intrigue is eating me alive.” As you heard the excitement in your voice, you tried to compose yourself and said “Though 'Nick Of Time' is my favorite.” You smiled at him, hoping that your answer was a good one.

The woman that was introduced to you as Ransom's mother nodded as she licked her lips. The light of the fireplace, reflecting on her glasses as she moved her head up and down.

“Have you read 'Ultimatum' or 'Drop In The Pocket', dear?” Her tone was curious, but the look on her face said differently.

You responded anyway. “They're not bad. I feel like the ending of 'Drop In The Pocket' was a little vague and out of line but it can always be interpreted as an open ending so…” The change in their expressions told you that you had to add something else to that answer. Maybe it was not time for literature humor yet. “But I enjoyed both.”

She hummed and took her drink, detaching from the talk that continued with courtesy questions until it morphed into a heated discussion between Ransom's father and uncle, who would repeatedly ask for your opinion to back up his own.

The discomfort you felt, dispelled to be replaced by the disturbance of being bombarded with dozens of questions at a time, each louder than the other until they changed to a completely different topic to which you were occasionally included as a neutral point of view.

“She knows what she's talking about!” Said Richard at some point when you confirmed one of his arguments. “Thank you, dear.”

Ransom came back from his obligatory argument with his grandfather to find you nowhere to be seen. 

“She's using the bathroom.” Informed Jacob, who did not take his eyes off of his cellphone. 

Thinking that you went there to hide, he started his way to your potential direction until an overheard observation from his mother stopped him halfway through. 

“… Did you hear how she talked about dad's work? Oh, I assure you she won't make it to next week with Ransom.”

Her and Richard's backs were to him, both of them unaware that their son was listening to their share of opinions.

“And did you see her hands?” Joni joined the criticism contest. “She could use some moisturizer, I tell you.”

As usual, they ignored her attempt to fit in and kept going.

“I know it's contradictory to say this,” Richard paused, as to make his point clear. “But he could do better.”

Despite their whispering, Ransom heard every single word and was glad that you were not there to see what was about to happen… 

Ransom's words stuck on his throat when he saw you making your way out of the bathroom, fixing the skirt of your dress, with such niceness and warmth directed to him as you smiled, oblivious to the fact that the people you were trying to get to like you weren't going to. 

His parents were right. He could do better. He could determine to not see them ever again and it would be the best thing to happen to him… Besides you, obviously.

“What's wrong?” Your concern was evident, just as his annoyance was undeniable.

Cold hands caressed his cheeks and Ransom thought of going back to Joni and tell her to fuck off. Your touch was soft, comforting, and gave him the greatest idea he'd ever had.

“I want to show you something.” Was his answer. It was better if you were the one who decided to never step on that house for the rest of your lives. It didn't matter if it was out of embarrassment.

Taking your hand in his, he guided you up the stairs to the first landing. The creaking sound of the old structure, probably alerting everyone in the other room that you were going to the next floor.

“Are you okay?” The sweet giggle that you let out when he abruptly stopped, almost making him feel bad about what he was seconds away from doing. 

“Better than ever.” And he stamped his lips to yours. 

Taken aback, it took you a second to respond. Hands on each side of his face as his own explored your body. When his fingers lifted your dress to caress your ass cheeks was when you ended the kiss. 

“What are you doing?” You asked in a breathless whisper. “Not that I'm complaining.”

You were cornered against the wall with Ransom towering in front of your smaller frame.

Trying to escape from whatever he had in mind was useless, you knew that much. Though, you were not sure if you really wanted to escape.

“What I've been wanting to do ever since you got a shower without me this morning.” His lips found your jaw and descended to your neck where he sucked to create a bruise. Your eyes closed to the sensation.

“Wait. No, wait.” His fingertip that had started rubbing your still clothed bud paused it's motions as his eyes focused back on your face. “We can't do it. Not here.”

Ransom's finger went back to work, bringing a soft moan that you tried to suppress. “Why not? No one's gonna come here.” His other hand moved up your thigh to lift it. “Even if they did, they wouldn't notice.”

With an expert swing of his wrist, he moved your panties aside, letting the cold air that wandered inside the house hit you before his skilled middle finger entered you while still managing to rub your clit in circles with his thumb.

Adrenaline ran through your veins, fuel activating every nerve in your body and shaking away fear from your brain, replacing it with lust and boldness.

“I'm blaming you if we get caught.” Your hips jolted forward wanting to feel more of his hand, the contradiction between your words and actions, making him smirk.

He added a second finger. Knuckles deep and his cold ring slowly warming against the inside of your thigh, he said, “I'll take responsibility, sweetheart.” Pumping his fingers in and out, he felt your slick running down the back of his hand to his wrist, wetting his overly expensive watch and the cuff of his cozy sweater .“But I can't assure you we won't get caught.”

His words, instead of working as a bucket of cold water as one would expect, increased your need to be touched by him, the yearning for him to take you right there and then. 

“Damn it, Ransom.” One of your hands flew to his shoulder to hold onto him for dear life. “I'm close.”

“You're not cumming unless I'm inside you, pretty thing.” At what point did he unfasten his belt and unzipped his trousers, you had no idea. The friction of his digits was gone in a second but the feeling of his already leaking tip rubbing against your most sensitive parts was enough to make you forget about those trifles.

Your lips opened, ready to tell him to keep his voice down when he suddenly thrusted home, stretching you out so deliciously that you had to cover your mouth to muffle the moan that threatened to inform everyone of your current activities.

Ransom's breathing hitched. Being inside you was a dream come true, feeling your walls enveloping his cock so fucking good… it was like you were made for each other, and he was going to prove it, even if his family didn't really get to know.

His hips started moving. Back and forth, back and forth. Delicately at first, letting you adjust to his size but the second he felt you throbbing around him, he increased the pace. Little by little his pounds gained power and energy.

Your whimpers –stuck in your throat, leaving only soft snuffles that crashed against Ransom's cheek, soon became more rapid, erratic and as his fingers dug in the flesh of your thigh to keep you still while he accommodated to go even deeper you heard a creaking noise.

Your boyfriend's blue eyes met yours, his movements never faltering despite the alert given by the dark wooden floor under your feet.

There was a conflict in your head, and Ransom could tell. The way you tightened and the pleading look on your face told different stories, yet Ransom knew they had the same ending.

Shaking your head, your eyes asked him not to do it, but you knew Ransom well enough to be sure that not even begging could stop him. 

“You love it, don't you?” His smile grew bigger as his change of position allowed him to hit your sweet spot on and on, ripping high pitched whines from you and obligating you to close your eyes. “The thought of getting caught. The image of someone seeing how good I make you feel.” The placement of his foot, making the landing creak repeatedly each time he pushed up accompanying every word. “Fuck, you're talking me so well. Such a dirty girl, uh.”

His big hand yanked the strap of your dress down, exposing your left boob. Your already hard nipple was soon attacked by Ransom's fingertips. He'd pinch and twist it slightly, just enough to make your back arch in search of his touch.

Pleasure was overflowing your senses, you could feel your heart thudding in your ears and your legs losing strength. Your hand left your mouth to grip at the back of Ransom's neck to keep you from falling.

The sight of your lower lip trapped between your teeth didn't please Ransom. In other circumstances, he would've let you stay that way, as quiet as possible so no one would walk on you. This time though, it was his intention to rip the most delicious sounds from your lips so you thought of the possibility of his family listening.

And so, he lent to kiss you, passion and desire transmitted through his breath. His tongue asked for a permission that was not really required, but as you let it in, Ransom took the opportunity to bite down your lip.

With your lips forcefully parted and Ransom's restless hand traveling back to your bundle, you had no other option than to moan with each quick circle his digits drew.

A series of laughs and undistinguished words were heard from a distance. Both Ransom and you turned to see what they were about, stopping in your tracks with him still buried deep inside your needy cunt.

“Guess dinner's ready.” Unbothered about the information he just gave, he hid his face in the crook of your neck and resumed his movements.

A shaky oh, fuck fell from your lips as you felt the familiar knot in your stomach forming. Your head flew back, hitting the wall with a soft thud. 

“Careful. We don't want to be obvious, do we?” You knew you were about to explode, and by the way your walls were clenching and your trembling body tried to separate from him, Ransom knew as well. “Let go, sweetheart.” A roar erupted from him as he felt you tightening around his length. “Cum for me.”

With a last, powerful thrust of his hips, you let out a silent scream. The coil snapped, making you see a kaleidoscope of colors behind your eyelids and listen to a loud ring in your ears. 

Ransom followed right after, cursing as he finished inside of you, coating you with every last drop and making sure everything would stay there.

He slid out, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness as he zipped his trousers and took a step back to let you fix your appearance.

You managed to accommodate your dress just in time for Ransom's family to walk out of the room they were in to see you. Your agitated breathing and blushed cheeks, getting everyone's attention. 

“Are you okay, dear?” Ransom's dad asked.

“She's fine.” Your boyfriend answered for you. “She's feeling a little sick. I better take her home.” He took you by the hand and helped you down the stairs to the door, which you thanked. Had he not done it, you would have tripped taking the first step.

“But she hasn't met grandpa yet.” Meg noted, furrowing her brows.

“It'll be next time.” And with that, Ransom took you out of the house and in the passenger seat of his car without giving anyone the chance to say goodbye.

When you were at a considerable distance, you sighed, letting out the air you didn't know you were holding.

“Just so you know, there won't be a next time.” You informed him, against your want to meet his grandfather.

“Why not?” He asked with a chuckle, already knowing the answer. 

“Cause embarrassment won't let me come back in the near future.”

Behind an eye roll and a tap on your thigh, Ransom hid the triumphant grimace his perfectly carried out plan gave him.

[ahopelessromantic]

I think this is love ➳ S. Reid

Pairing: Spencer x Reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: none

Prompts used: 25: “Is that a hickey???”, 26: “I think I drank way too much last night”, 63: “Let’s just pretend it never happened”

Just a little bit of wine gives Spencer and you the push you needed.

Spring was finally transitioning into summer. You could feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers beginning to bloom. And, of course, you noticed it you could finally go outside without a heavy jacket again. There always seemed to be a different spring to your step once summer stood at the door, the tiredness that had settled into your bones during winter finally being melted away by the warm sun. Work was also easier to handle in the summer, even though crime rates always spiked in the warmer months. Something about a warm evening and a sunny disposition seemed to lower people’s inhibitions. FBI agents were no exception for that.

With a broad grin on your face you watched Garcia and Emily dancing stupidly on the dance floor, making absolute fools of themselves. Morgan was hyping them up with whoops and hollers, already pretty drunk himself. Even though you weren’t a big drinker yourself the few glasses of wine you’d had with dinner had still successfully made it to your head. You were definitely tipsy. The Team was celebrating another solved case. You and your colleagues had saved the lives of two women today and all of you felt pretty euphoric. Working in your field, you learned to take every life saved very seriously. Even Spencer had opted for a glass of wine, his cheeks carrying a slight blush ever since. He was excitedly talking to JJ about a study he was working on at the moment, the bar’s lights reflecting in his eyes. If sober you already thought Spencer Reid was attractive, tipsy you saw him as a god, as someone you would see in a photograph of past times and get weirdly sad about because you knew that you would never meet a beautiful man like that. Your fingers itched to take a photo of him, and if it just was to commemorate how relaxed he looked in that moment. You decided to give in to your urge, catching the exact moment he laughed at Emily and Morgan doing something stupid on the dance floor. JJ gave you a knowing look, wiggling her eyebrows. “Very subtle.” She teased you, causing you to roll your eyes. “I’m making art, don’t you see that?” Your response made her laugh loudly, so loud that Spencer turned his attention back to the two of you. “What’s so funny?” Instead of answering, JJ just got up and disappeared to the bar where Hotch and Rossi were sitting, giving you the lame excuse of needing a refill. Her half full glass was sitting right in front of you. She had been on your case about Spencer for ages now, the whole team, actually. Somehow, fraternization policies didn’t seem too important to them when it came to the two youngest members of their team. And maybe, just maybe, even you could admit that there was something between you and Spencer. The two of you seemed to be in an everlasting state of fascination over the other, always gravitating towards each other wherever you went. But so far, you had always been fine without interpreting too much into your chemistry. You were an amazing team when in action, and you were friends in private, and up until now that had always been all you thought there would ever be between you two. It was Spencer, after all he wasn’t the most emotionally open person. He liked to hide his human side behind a shield of intellectuality, and only sometimes did he let you in behind that shield. “Do you want to get out of here?”You asked, suddenly feeling adventurous. Your recent case had led you to beautiful San Francisco and you longed for a walk through the golden city. “What?” He chuckled, baffled. “Come on, let’s go on a walk. You can tell me useless facts about the city while we’re out.” He grinned and got up, shrugging his tweed jacket back on. Waving the team goodbye, you got out of the stuffy bar, happily inhaling the mild evening air. It wasn’t a seldom occurrence for the two of you to split off the rest of the team to go check out a museum or something, and you all stayed at the same hotel anyways, so no one was too worried about the two of you.

“Did you know the fortune cookie was invented here? Weirdly, by a Japanese resident.” You threw your head back and laughed, feeling the lightest you had felt in a while. Spencer and you had taken a cab up to telegraph hill, from where you could overlook the whole city. “Wait, I got one.”, you giggled. “There are more dogs in San Francisco than children.” “Sounds like my kind of city.” He chuckled, moving his gaze from the view in front of him to you. “Are you cold?”Surprised he had even noticed your slight shivering you widened your eyes. It had been warm down in the city, but up on the hill a slight breeze played with your hair. “Nuh, I’m-“ Before you could even protest, he had placed his jacket around your shoulders, fixing its lapels gently. Your eyes widened even more when you realised how close he was suddenly standing to you. Engulfed in his warm jacket, his warm breath tickling your nose, you suddenly had the urge to lean forward and see if his lips were just as warm. Once Spencer realised your sudden close proximity as well he froze, the two of you now just stupidly blinking at each other. “I, uh…”, you spoke up with a low voice, afraid some words too loud could scare the moment away. “I’d kind of like to kiss you right now. If that’s okay.” Spencer licked his lips nervously. Then, to your immense surprise, he nodded. “I think… “ He took a deep breath. “I think I’d like that, actually.” Before you could even question what you were doing you leaned forward and connected your lips. You felt a sense of calm wash over you, a crass contrast to the drive you normally felt constantly to be somewhere else, to do something. In this moment, you were supposed to kiss Spencer Reid on a hill in San Francisco and not be or think of anywhere else. His large hands cupped your face and pulled you even closer, deepening the kiss.

Somehow, things had escalated from there. You had ended up heavily making out on one of the observatory deck’s benches, feeling way too comfortable on the hill all on your own. It was only on the cab ride back to your hotel that you fully realised what had just happened, the shyness finally settling in. You awkwardly said good night to each other in the elevator to your rooms with a wave. Arrived back in your room you hit your head against the door, groaning in regret. >Why was it always tipsy you who decided to take risks and mess things up? With a feeling of dread in your gut for the day to come you went to bed, hoping it would all go away in the morning. But it didn’t. When Emily came to wake you up in the morning she gave you a once over with a suspicious glance, her eyes widening when they stopped on your neck. “Is that a hickey???” She gasped. You were quick to cover it with your hand, but still, the damage had been done. “I didn’t bring any turtlenecks.” You just murmured, avoiding her question. She crossed her arms and gave you a look that probably meant to convey ‘do you think I’m stupid?’. Not daring to look her in the eyes you picked up your bag, ready to leave this hotel and this city behind you. But apparently, Prentiss wasn’t about to let you do that. “(Y/N)? What happened yesterday?” You impatiently stopped in your tracks. “I think I drank way too much last night. Okay?!”, you bit back, immediately regretting your choice in tone. “But you only had a few glasses of wine, (Y/N).”, Prentiss mused. You sighed and murmured: “It was still enough.” Emily frowned in confusion and looked like she was about to ask you even more questions, but you silenced her with a pained look. “Can we just… get to the airport? Please?” She nodded, patting your shoulder on your way to the elevator. “Whatever happened, it’ll be alright.”

The whole car ride to the airport long you played sad music through your headphones, immersed deeply in your thoughts. You were angry at yourself for messing up the friendship you’d had with Spencer so soon and ruining any further chances at a relationship. You should have taken things slower, slowly eased yourself and Spencer into the idea of a romantic involvement. But no, instead you had tipsily kissed him out of nowhere. You stubbornly blamed his damned tweed jacket for everything, with its cosy warmth and amazing smell of Spencer. On the plane ride back to the BAU in Quantico you avoided even looking at Spencer, not even feeling close to being ready to face him. But of course, your genius crush had picked up on your behaviour and confronted you in your briefing room back at work. Everyone had left for the evening already, eager to get back home, but not you. Right now, you preferred the busy office over your quiet apartment where you would be alone with nothing but your thoughts.

“Hey, (Y/N). Can we… talk?” Spencer hesitantly spoke up. You bit your lip and looked at him, eyes probably mirroring the fear you felt. You took a shaky breath. “No, Spence, it’s okay. Let’s just pretend it never happened.” You were about to walk past him to leave the room when he stopped you with his hand on your shoulder. “Please don’t go.” Puzzled, you looked into his warm hazel eyes. “What if I don’t want that? To pretend it never happened, I mean.” You frowned. “What?” You whispered. “I don’t want to discredit the moment we had by just pretending it didn’t happen. I want to remember every bit of it, actually.” Somehow, he looked surprised himself, his gaze lowered to the floor in confusion. “I think I like you, (Y/N).” He spoke after a short moment of heavy silence, eyes wandering up to meet yours once again. Now it was you who felt frozen in place, trying to make sense of the situation. “You… like me?” You asked in wonder. Spencer smiled shyly, nodding and stepping closer to you. “Yes. This is really new for me, and I don’t really know how to deal with all these emotions I’m feeling whenever you’re around, but I think this is love. And you kissing me on that hill was one of the best moments in my life.” You felt tears well up in your eyes. He saved lives on a daily basis, had received three doctorate degrees, but a drunk kiss was his favourite moment? “I like you, too.” You suddenly blurted out, now afraid he could take your silence as a rejection. If you knew one thing about Spencer, it was that he needed wordy affirmations. A spark of light hushed over his worried features. “I’ve liked you for so long now that I don’t even remember when it began anymore. I just… I’m surer of you than of anything else in my life.” Spencer smiled brightly, taking your hands in his. “I’d kind of like to kiss you right now. If that’s okay.” You laughed and nodded. “It’s more than okay.” After looking around to make sure no one was watching the two of you he kissed you softly, all the tension and worry slowly leaving your body. “We’re going to figure this out, okay? Step by step.” Spencer murmured after pulling away, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You beamed at him, the feeling of calmness finally back in your bones. “I think I can live with that.” There was a lot to figure out, but with Spencer by your side every bit of the way you didn’t feel afraid anymore. This was going to work, bit by bit, step by step.

[albionparty]

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Who can join?

What is discord and do I need to join it in order to participate in the event?

Can my friend(s) and I be in the same team?

Are there any tagging guidelines to be followed?

Are there any minimum requirements?

What are the themes and how do I know if what I created fits the theme?

Any restrictions on content?

Are collabs okay?

Do you have an AO3 collection?

I’m a writer, does my WIP count?

Can I post more than one contribution for a theme?

Can I cross-post works for other events?

Where can I find other people’s contributions?

What if I don’t want you to reblog my posts?

Why am I getting déjà vu reading this FAQ?

Answers under the cut!

1. Who can join?

Anyone and everyone can sign up using this form, which we’ll use to allocate you to your group. The allocation announcement and the discord link where you can meet your fellow group members will be released 2 weeks before the event.

2. What is discord and do I need to join it in order to participate in the event?

Discord is a messaging and digital distribution platform that’s perfect from conducting events like this. We’ll be posting the themes on tumblr, but in discord you’ll be able to talk to people in your group and come up with secret plans to beat the other groups! Plus it’s a fun way to make friends in the fandom.

3. Can my friend(s) and I be in the same team?

We take many things into account when splitting people into teams (e.g. author-media creator ratios), but you can message us prior to 19th of July (when sign-ups close) and we’ll do our best to put you in the same team when we do team allocation, if the situation allows for it.

4. Are there any tagging guidelines to be followed?

We know tag space is precious for all the gifmakers and tag-ranters out there, so as long as your tags include the things below, you should be all good!

1. Event name -  #albionparty21

2. Rating - #nsfw if applicable

3. Trigger warnings - #[trigger] tw if applicable

Fics/Poetry/Drabble: 100 words

5. Are there any minimum requirements?

Video: 20 seconds

Art/Gifs/Playlist/Meta: As long as you think it’s a finished work and fits your interpretation of the prompt, any submission is fine!

6. What are the themes and how do I know if what I created fits the theme?

You can find a list of the themes here. You’re free to interpret the themes in any way you like. If you think it fits, then we most likely do too!

7. Any restrictions on content?

As long as you tag everything appropriately, there is no restriction on submissions other than those containing any type of discrimination (this does not include works that are a commentary to said discrimination and portray them in a negative light). We reserve the right to not reblog certain types of content on the blog.

However, no leniency will be given for people that steal content. Please do not use content you have not created in your entries unless you have the creator's permission.

8. Can we do collabs?

Feel free! But make sure that you’ve agreed to work together before you post something that is partially based on someone else’s idea. Collabs go both ways!

9. Do you have an AO3 collection?

Yep! You can find the link to it here. The event is still Tumblr-based, though, so you will need to post your work on tumblr with our tag for us to reblog it.

10. I’m a writer, does my WIP count?

Your submissions must be new and created for the event. A WIP counts if add a chapter to your WIP especially for the event with that day’s theme.

11. Can I post more than one contribution for a theme?

Of course! If one or more themes particularly inspires you, feel free to share them with us.

12. Can I cross-post works for other events?

As long as the other event(s) are also okay with cross-posting, and your submission fits the requirements for both events, you’re free to use the prompts to inspire your fills for other events.

13. Where can I find other people’s contributions?

You can find other people’s contributions under the #albionparty21 tag.

14. What if I don’t want you to reblog my posts?

That’s totally fine! We won’t be reblogging any posts that don’t have the #albionparty21 tag, so if you’d prefer to keep your submissions in your own circle, you’re more than welcome, but if you’re ever ready to share your work, we’d love to help you spread it to the rest of the fandom too!

15. Who will lead the teams and what will they do?

The mods of the fest ( @arthurpendragonns , @camelotsheart , @merlinsprat and @ughmerlin ) will be the ones leading each team. Our job as team leaders is pretty much just to oversee our group, make sure everyone is comfortable and answer any questions. Other than that, we're just like any group member except in our capacity as server admins and fest mods.

16. Why am I getting déjà vu reading this FAQ?

Probably because we took inspiration from the very comprehensive @camelove2021 FAQ written by @shut-up-merlin! 💖

[kiras-sunshine]

if you would have been the one

Written for day six of Carlos Reyes week: what if/au

Summary:

what if they didn't end up together on the night of the solar flares + the prompt of “look, i know we agreed to be friends and everything but that’s what everyone says when they break up. i can’t take you asking me for advice on how to ask out the new person you’re interested in, okay? it’s killing me” AU 

prompt is from this list

read on ao3

or

The bar is packed and even though there are a lot of people chatting around him and music is playing in the background, Carlos still hears and recognises his laughter immediately.

He leans against the table next to him and takes a long sip of his beer.

It is a beautiful laughter, free and bubbly, and Carlos loves to hear it. He is glad that he is happy, and he would do almost anything to keep it that way. Still, it feels like a sucker-punch to his gut sometimes, and he hates that he feels that way.  

TK is surrounded by his teammates, Mateo, Paul and Marjan are explaining something to him with wide movements of hands and he is almost wheezing with laughter. The lights are dim in the bar, but it almost looks like he would be glowing.

He laughs so hard he almost spills water out of his glass and some of it definitely gets onto his patterned light blue shirt and black slacks. Judd calls out him, and it is mostly inaudible to Carlos, but it makes TK shake his head slightly and the smile never leaves his face. Grace soon appears with a bunch of paper towels and helps him to dry his clothes.

He is glad that he is doing okay, and that he seems happy. He looks like he is surrounded by family, and Carlos is definitely happy for him, but it also makes his stomach twist, in a bad way, because once, he was almost a part of that family, too.

He tries to look away because it’s pathetic. It is merely a crush and a ghost of an almost-relationship and he should have gotten over it already. He is being haunted by what ifs. It’s been a few months already since they, mutually, decided that they wanted wildly different things and they would never make it work.

It was a good, clean break-up as far as break-ups go, and they decided it together. There were no dumper and dumpee, it was just a rational decision and their relationship was so vague and undefined that it ended before anything even started.

There is no good reason why he is still hung up on him, but he is, and it is terrible.

TK is still patting his shirt with the paper towels when he looks up and spots him. He definitely recognises him because he smiles at him, warmly and genuinely. Carlos waves at him because it feels like a rational reaction to one’s ex spotting them staring at them.

Besides, they are friends. Sort of. He likes TK and he is pretty sure he likes him back on some level, and he isn’t that immature that he would pass on the opportunity of friendship just because things didn’t work out between them in other ways.

He wants to be his friend, and they would need to get along even if they hated each other’s guts because they keep having to work together. The following day, after they had decided to call it quits, he had seen TK and rest of the 126 five times during one shift and he had been convinced that the universe was out to get him.

So, for everyone’s sake, he has mastered the art of trying to hide that he still has embarrassingly big crush on the man he broke up with months prior.

Carlos turns around to face the table instead of the bar crowd and a certain firefighter, but it doesn’t take long until he feels an arm wrapped around his shoulder. TK lets his hand slide along his back, and it feels like his fingertips would send small electric shocks along his spine.

He is a tactile person, he knows it, and he has realised that TK is always touching the people he cares about. It’s his way of showing affection, and while he is sort of grateful that he still cares about him, the touching is killing him inside a little bit.

Only because it reminds him too much of their almost-relationship and he misses him. He misses the time when things were not awkward between them and the time when he was in the receiving end of other than greeting touches.

“Hey,” TK says, placing his glass on the table, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Even though they agreed to stay as friends, he hasn’t seen him otherwise except when bumping into each other while on calls or at the bar, but they haven’t really hung out. They have caught up with each other, exchanging a few texts and TK had invited him over for a dinner, but he had refused by coming up with an excuse. He still feels a little bad about that.

“I’ve been busy,” he replies and takes another sip of his beer.

It’s not exactly a lie. He has been busy with work and spent most of his free time with his sisters, but he hasn’t actively tried to make time to meet up with him, either.

He wants him in his life, as a friend, but he still has things he needs to work on before he can genuinely just be his friend, and TK deserves better than his pining.

TK nods knowingly. “Work?”

“Yeah, always busy,” he agrees, and glances at him. He is looking down to his water glass and moving it around on the table, as if he were nervous about something. “Also, my sister gave birth, so babysitting,” he adds with a small smile.

“Congratulations,” he says, sounding sincere, as he clasps his shoulder and holds his gaze maybe a few seconds longer than necessary, but Carlos doesn’t look away either. “You’re gonna be a great uncle.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking yet another sip of his drink. “How’s your dad?”

He has seen captain Strand on calls too, and he hasn’t looked terribly ill, but he still wonders about him, too. It feels too personal to go up to him and outright ask how he is feeling, especially when he doesn’t even know what TK has told about them to him.

“Great,” he replies, and relief is audible in his voice, but he is also flashing him one of his most disarming smiles. It’s bright and warm, and it reaches his eyes, and it is definitely doing unfair things to his heart. “Chemo seems to be working.”

“That’s good,” he says with a half-smile.

TK opens his mouth but closes it abruptly when his gaze drops to his neck. Carlos yanks the collar of his shirt to cover the ugly purple-and-yellow bruise’s edge.

He has his hand raised, and almost instinctively seems to want to touch the bruise, but he yanks his hand back halfway.  

“What happened?” TK asks, and his brow is furrowed as his gaze darts between the bruise and his face.

“Crashed into a door when chasing a perp,” he replies, looking at the beer bottle instead of him.

“Ouch,” he says with a frown, “it looks painful.”

Nothing had been dislocated or broken, but the pain had still been agonizing. His shoulder still throbs with pain if he moves it in a bad angle, but it is definitely better than it had been last week.

“It’s getting better,” he reassures, and TK smiles at him, and suddenly everything feels a little better. He likes this, just talking to him and being friends. He can definitely get over his unrequited feelings. “How are you doing?”

“Still sober,” he says, into his glass of water.

“Not what I meant,” he points out softly.

“I know,” he breathes out, and turns around to face the bar crowd, but he still leans against the same table, “but I’m okay.”

He turns around, too, because the shoulder starts to throb if he tries to crane his neck, and he cannot keep his eyes away from him.

“I’m glad,” he tells him, as a man walks past them, glancing up and down. It doesn’t take him long to realise that TK follows him with his gaze and the unpleasant feeling in his stomach returns.

He grins at him. “Have you met anyone?”

He has just taken another gulp of his drink and he almost ends up spitting it out. “Uh, not really,” he manages to mutter, but TK doesn’t seem to pick up on his awkwardness or he bluntly decides to ignore it.

“What about him?” He asks, nodding towards the man who just walked by, “he definitely checked you out.”

He glances back at the man who has sat down in one of the back booths of the bar. He is handsome, there is no denying that. He is tall, lean and it looks like he is in great shape and his brown eyes keep glistering and the mustard-yellow sweater looks great against his dark skin, but TK has his heart still in a chokehold and he cannot bring himself to genuinely get interested in someone else.

Also, the last thing he needs is to bring a third person into this mess he has created for himself. He is aware that the man’s gaze is still on him, but he decidedly decides to look rest of the 126, who have moved on to have a darts competition in the corner.

It’s Mateo’s turn and he does surprisingly well.

“Uh, no,” Carlos eventually says, shaking his head, as he realises that he never replied to TK and he doesn’t want him to interpret his silence as a sign of interest.

“Not your type?” He asks, and his face suddenly breaks into a delighted smirk. “What is your type?”

He wants to scream, a little. He is quite sure he doesn’t even have a type. Appearance-wise there is no common characteristics between his exes, and he usually just goes for guys who he gets along with and who make him laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging and hoping that TK would just let it drop.

He has no such luck, and he should have guessed it. He might not know TK completely, but he knows he is stubborn and determined, and a little bit of a jerk when he wants to be.

“Am I your type?” He asks, with a wide shit-eating grin.

“I don’t know, maybe,” he mutters as he takes a longer gulp of his drink than necessary, “also, I don’t really need your help with this.”

He just wants them to change the subject, but obviously TK gets it in a wrong way, because he laughs and bites his lower lip as he looks at him. “I’m sure you don’t. You, what, said hello to me and I was gone for.”

Carlos swears his heart jumps into his throat, and he struggles to swallow or even find words for a reply. Luckily, TK is on rambling mood and just continues on without waiting for a reply.

He gets along with all of his exes, and he hasn’t had ugly break ups, but this conversation they are currently having, is on a whole another level and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I think I’ve lost all of my game,” TK says, exhaling and scanning the crowd with his gaze, but he settles at looking his crew’s dart match.

“What game?” Carlos asks, with a grin, and the words are out of his mouth before he really even considers them, but it is so easy to fall in the easy-going banter with him, and he wants this conversation to find a new topic.

He loathes that it makes him a little happy that TK hasn’t found anyone else. It is completely selfish and horrible, but he is convinced that pretending to be friends and getting along with TK’s next friends-with-benefits guy would be a whole another circle of hell.

TK lets out a surprised huff, which is followed by a chuckle and gaping at him. “That’s rude,” he deadpans, gently slapping him in his tricep, “you talk to all of your exes like that?”

“Nope. Do you?”

It is completely out of curiosity, he wants to know how much of this convo is just TK being TK and how much can contributed to the fact that neither one of them knows how to act around each other any more.

“You’re literally the only one I talk to,” he retorts, but he shrugs immediately after. “I guess we’re special then,” he says softly, glistering in his eyes, and if Carlos didn’t know any better, he would say he is flirting with him, but he knows better.

“I guess so,” he confirms with a small and dazed smile, and rubs his own neck.

“But seriously I could use some help,” TK continues, softness gone from his voice. He drums the edge of his glass with his fingers.

Carlos briefly wonders what he has ever done to inflict this kind of suffering upon himself. Being in the receiving end of TK’s teasing and soft smiles hurts, but it hurts in a good way. Setting him up with someone else hurts, but not in a good way, it’s killing him.

“What did you like about me?” TK is definitely carrying the conversation on his own, while he wallows in self-pity and misery, but this time he expects an answer, if his expectant look is anything to go by.

He has focused all of his attention him, and there is no escaping of this, and he cannot come up with any ways to distract him. He guesses he could just kiss him and then he probably would stop talking to him, but he still has some self-preservation left in his mind. He guesses he could just admit that he still hasn’t gotten over him, but that doesn’t feel like a good option either currently.

Especially when he was the one who said if it is not meant to be, then it’s not meant to be. His heart hasn’t just caught up with his mind.

Which means his only option is to give him an answer to his horrible question. Besides of all the inner turmoil that his question causes, it is also a really difficult to answer.

It’s hard to break down, objectively, what it was that attracted him to him and what it was that made the spark between them to ignite because knowing that would probably mean he would know why he is still hung up on him.

He cannot explain why he is drawn to him. He just is. It’s that simple, it’s like a magnet pulling him and he cannot fight it.

“You had kind eyes and a nice smile,” he eventually replies, and it is not far from the truth. “And you were hot.”

When they had first met, on that call where the baby had gotten stuck in the tree, he definitely noticed his eyes first. He has always found them beautiful, a particular shade of green, and he had been wearing the whole firefighter gear complete with the helmet, and it had been a little hard to notice anything else except his bright eyes and amused half-smile.

Obviously, later, he had seen him without the gear, and he was, and still is frankly, gorgeous. He still isn’t going to elaborate more or ramble to his ex how hot he found him when they met. He still has some dignity left and he is half-convinced he is going to develop an ulcer if this conversation steers into that direction.

“Were?”

Carlos smirks into his bottle. “Are, whatever.”

He flashes him another smirk, but it seems just slightly meek and it doesn’t linger. “Huh,” TK says, quietly. He looks a little taken a back, but in a good way. “Any tips?”

Carlos is convinced he might be in hell already, but he is already too deep in this conversation to make any sort escaping attempts. “Just, uh, look at them. Make them feel like they are the only person in the world,” he ends up saying, and he just cannot tear his eyes away from his, and TK is making no attempts to do so, either, and they just keep looking at each other.

At that moment, he feels like the only person in the world for TK, and it is definitely becoming too much. He fakes a cough, and the moment passes. He drinks the remaining of his beer. “Worked for me at least,” he murmurs against the bottle.

TK nods, and he is about to say something else, but Marjan and Mateo come to his rescue. They start to talk, rapidly, about their darts game and how TK needs to participate too, and Carlos has never been more grateful that TK’s attention is not on him.

“Carlos,” Marjan says, and gestures towards the scoreboard that she holds in her hands, “tell us TK’s full name for this wonderful scoreboard.”

He skims through the list and it looks like they have written everyone’s first and middle names for good measure there, and he half-suspects the dart game is only a elaborate scheme by the crew to find out his name.

It’s not even that big of a deal and he doesn’t quite get why he is so secretive about his name, but he is sort of impressed that he has managed to keep it under the wraps for so long and watching the team try to figure it out is sort of amusing.

He can see from the corner of his eye that TK is shooting him a pleading look, and he wouldn’t have needed to see that, because he wouldn’t have told them anyway.

“No.”

He guesses TK needs someone on his corner for this ridiculous crusade, too.

“What?”

“Loyalty bounds,” he replies, cocking his head a little.

Marjan groans but TK rises his hand to high five him, and he meets his palm in the middle.

Mateo takes the score board from her. “How are you guys even like that after a break-up,” he mutters as he scribbles just TK on the list.

For a moment, everything feels tense and awkward again, but luckily Marjan starts to talk again.

He listens to his friends intensively, and Carlos gets the faint idea that this might be his only chance to escape this conversation before he has to give him more tips how to hit on guys who are not him, and he feels terrible and selfish and he knows it is completely asshole thing to do and TK doesn’t deserve it, but he walks out of the bar when he doesn’t notice.

He hoped that fresh air would make him feel better and help him to clear his head, but the day has been hot, and the air just feels heavy and thick and does nothing to help the heavy feeling in his chest.

He just breathes, looking at the parking lot that bathes in the last rays of the setting sun. He wants to be alone, but he hears how the door of the bar creaks as someone pushes it open.

“Are you okay? You kinda disappeared,” TK says, and he does sound concerned and weary.

He opens his eyes and turns around to look at him. He looks almost out place, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants and his eyes keep darting around the parking lot. “Yeah, sorry. I needed to get away.”

He nods solemnly, biting his lower lip. “Was it because of me?”

There is sharpness in his voice that wasn’t there before, and it almost catches him by a surprise.

“What?”

He sighs deeply and runs his hand through his hair. “I know everyone always agrees to be friends after a break-up, and I don’t want to lose you, but you look almost borderline nauseated when you see me and now, you’re literally running away. So, just say the word and I will leave you alone.”

He shakes his head as he looks at the pavement underneath his shoes. There are small cracks on it. He sighs and sits down the edge of the pavement. It’s not the best place to sit down, but TK tentatively follows his lead and sits down next to him.

“I want to be your friend,” he starts, because apparently, he is not as good at hiding his emotions as he hoped, but still, he has understood it all wrong. “And you’ve done nothing wrong.”

It breaks his heart that he thinks he doesn’t want anything to do with him and only pretends to get along with him.

“Okay,” he says, under his breath, but his voice still sounds a little flat and emotionless.

Escaping the conversation had been a desperate attempt at avoiding talking about anything real he still might feel for him, but he knows he deserves to hear the truth, even if he will end up thinking differently of him.

Besides, pretending he doesn’t feel anything more than friendship towards him was always immediately off the table if it hurted him.

“And honestly,” he starts, staring at his own hands, “I cannot give you advice how to hit on other people, it’s killing me.”

It feels good admitting that aloud, but the parking is desolated besides them and the parked cars, and it is so quiet.

“Why?”

At first, he isn’t sure if he heard him correctly. He turns his head around, but it sends a flash of pain in his shoulder, and he ends up turning a bit towards him. TK is slouching and staring at the ground, but Carlos keeps glaring at him, because he figured it would be quite obvious why he has hard time giving him dating advice.

He takes a deep breath. “Because I’m still not over you,” he admits, quietly and it comes out softer than he intended, but honesty feels good.

TK’s head snaps up at that and suddenly his gaze is back on Carlos, and he feels strangely vulnerable, right there and then, underneath his gaze. “Oh.”

Carlos lets out a laugh, but it ends up sounding like a sad attempt of laughter. “I know, pathetic, really.”

“It’s not,” TK says, gently, but his gaze darts back to the cars that keep reflecting the sunlight just slightly, “because if you’re pathetic, then so am I, because I think I haven’t gotten over you, either.”

He blinks at him, taking in his words and now he is sure he didn’t hear him right, but there is no other explanation. TK stays quiet, but he shrugs and flashes him a sheepish smile.

“Aren’t we a pair,” he says with a chuckle.

The heavy feeling in his chest has evaporated into nothing, but the absurdity of this whole conversation is making his mind short-circuit and he is just a little loss for words.

“It’s been two months,�� TK complains, attempting to hold back his own laughter, but it erupts a little in the end. “And I’ve tried to get over you, but nothing has worked so far.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, gesturing between them, “this was not my best decision.”

In retrospect, maybe if they have never even stared anything, they would happier and not in this situation, but it fills his heart with different kind of heavy sadness that he seems to regret the whole thing.

He guesses he notices his shift in his mood, because TK’s face falls a little and he places his hand on his forearm. “No, that came out wrong. I don’t regret you, I only regret letting you go. Only an idiot does that and I’m like a certified idiot at this point,” he rambles on, ruefully.

“You’re not that bad,” he says, nudging his shoulder with his own, “I should have given you more time.”

He has maybe spent a couple of sleepless nights thinking about various what ifs. Mostly that is just a waste of time, but he knows they could have done some things a little differently. If he could go back in time, he would try to understand him a little more because the timing was truly atrocious.

He squeezes his arm slightly. “Stop it, you didn’t do anything wrong. It would have been unfair to ask you to wait around while I got my shit together.”

“I did end up waiting anyway,” he remarks.

He isn’t convinced if it can be called waiting, because he certainly didn’t wait for him to change his mind. Sure, he had hoped that things would have worked out differently between them, but in reality, he had just waited to get over him and his crush.

He sharply sucks in his breath and looks back at him. His whole face softens and there is a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Is it wrong if I’m kinda glad that you did?”

His heart skips a beat at the implication of his words.

“No.”

His face breaks into a full smile, and it illuminates his face at least as much as the sunbeams of the sunset. He slides a little closer to him on the edge of the pavement and he cups his face with one hand. His movements are tentative, but seemingly thoughtful. He lets his hand slide along his cheek, and he ends up holding his chin with his fingers.

“Can I?” He asks, and his voice is barely a whisper, as he searches something from his eyes.

He has to admit that TK is a little more than good at making him feel that they are the only people in the world. “Yeah.”

His lips meet his in an instant. It’s soft kiss and his lips are warm against his own. He faintly tastes like lime and even though the kiss above all is a comforting one, and it still sends a thrill through his spine. Most of all, it feels like coming home.

“I missed you,” he murmurs when TK only slightly pulls away.

“Me too,” he tells him gently, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb before he pulls further away.

“Turns out you’re very hard to stop thinking about,” he says, in a light tone, almost jokingly, even though it is the truth.

He remembers when he described TK to Michelle all those months ago and said that he cannot get him out of his head. That had been a more accurate description than he would have imagined.

TK laughs so hard he lets his head fall back. “That’s probably first time anyone has said that about me,” he says, flashing a brilliant smile, but his smile fades away and he looks graver. “I know you deserved better than what I did, but I never not wanted you. I was just—in a messy and confusing place in my life and I didn’t want to get hurt again.”

Carlos stays quiet, because he feels like he might not have finished talking and he has heard these things before, and he just wants to give him the space to say what he wants to.

“And I didn’t want to hurt you either, and I thought maybe you would be better off without me,” he says, quietly, but he looks back up to him.

“That’s quite an assumption to make on your own,” he tells him, kindly.

He knows he could have backed off of whatever they had at any point, and usually he doesn’t want to bother with people who have gone through messy break ups because he doesn’t want to end up being the rebound. He could have backed off when he learned about his addiction, but he had not, because he had seen TK as himself and he knew he was worth chasing for.

“I know, I’m good at jumping into conclusions,” he jokes, but sighs deeply. “And as you know, I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but the universe must have been mocking me by throwing you at my way because--,” he lets his voice trail away.

“You’re you and I got a glimpse of what we could be, and it was almost too good to be true, and I got fucking terrified, and it threw me off the loop and I was a coward,” he finishes, and he has been talking rapidly the whole time, and he ends up sounding breathless.

“You were not,” he corrects him. “You were trying to protect yourself and there’s nothing wrong with that,” he adds, softly, and takes his hand into his own. “And I’d have never wanted you to do something you were not ready for.”

TK glances at their hands, almost wistfully, but he doesn’t pull his own away. “I guess. And what I’m trying to say is that I still want you if you will have me.”

A wave of relief goes through him and he lets out a long exhale. He looks at the skyline that has been painted bright orange and golden by the sunset and he feels calm even if his heart keeps fluttering in his chest and he cannot physically fight the smile that tries to form on his lips.

“I’m generally not opposed to second chances,” he says and raises their intertwined hands so that he can kiss his knuckles. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

This time, Carlos is the one who kisses him. The kiss itself is still gentle, but there are stronger emotions humming underneath it, and he is squeezing his hand a little tighter, as if fearing that he would disappear. TK’s hand ends up in his neck and he is stroking his hairline with his fingertips and he parts his lips slightly and TK laughs into the kiss.  

“I thought--,” TK tries when they depart to breath, but he is still resting his head against his forehead. “I thought I had messed up any chance with the back and forth,” he admits against his lips.

“This better be the last back-and-forth we do,” he says, with a chuckle. “I only want this if you’re all in, too.”

“I am,” he promises, and he sounds so sure of it, he cannot even doubt his words.

TK kisses him again, and it is the sort of all-consuming kiss they shared in the very beginning, and all of his senses are just full of him. The way he smells the cologne he uses and the way his fingers feel just slightly rough against his cheek and his slight stubble tickles his chin. He is his one and only thought.

“This evening took a turn I wasn’t expecting,” he says, when they pull away from each other once again. He tries to catch his breath, but his stomach keeps somersaulting at just the way TK keeps glancing at him.

“I know,” he laughs.

“You know, we can still take it as slow as you want,” he says, when his mind feels just a bit clearer, because he knows that just because they have decided to give it another go, it doesn’t mean any of the issues that existed already would magically disappear.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, but he grins. “Would you like to go out with me? Honest to god date and all that,” he asks, excitment colouring his voice.

“I’d love that.”

“Great,” he says, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Also unrelated to asking you out because I’m going to plan a proper date and not just some impromptu thing, but do you want something to eat? I’m starving.”

“Sure,” he replies, and stands up. He helps TK up too, even though he doesn’t require help, but he likes to do it, anyway.  “Tacos?” He asks, nodding towards a taco cart that is located a couple of blocks away.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Suddenly, tacos feel like a beginning of something new.

[miss-ali-lawliet]

Hello

For the ask game:

3. what do you think about Light? 10, 24 and 25, please.

Thank you for the asks and honestly great questions!! I have a feeling this most is going to be a bit long, so hopefully I can get my thoughts and everything out in a way that’s easy to keep up with!

Also spoiler warning for those who haven’t finished the series!

~~~

3. What do you think about Light?

I honestly have SO many mixed feelings about him, like it’s hard to just be like ‘oh i hate him’ or ‘oh I love him’ because it just isn’t that simple for me personally, which that itself is a great sign of a character since you have to think about that sort of thing with them. Right off the bat though,  I’d like to say that I think Light as a character is phenomenal. He takes the character-type of what many would consider as the ‘perfect guy’ for the main character but twists it in a way that makes the reader/viewer question the protagonist their supposed to be rooting for. 

I also think of Manga!Light and Anime!Light as different people to an extent, as in the manga you watch a seemingly ‘normal’ guy who has issues with the world deal with the sudden power that was thrown on him. I talked about it before in my last ask post, but the scene after Light killed his first person after testing out is a great way to express how he feels, and is one of the few times we really see Light show THAT much emotion. He shows regret and guilt, thinking himself as a murderer and you can tell how it affected him. Anime!Light you don’t get that, and instead he seemed to just take on the task of being Kira and god of the new world without much else thought. I definitely prefer M!Light in comparison to A!Light to say the least, so I’m going to focus a bit more on the M!Light side of things.

I personally found myself wanting to have hope for Light, even though I knew that he wasn’t going to get better but instead worse over time, and honestly it’s probably better story wise to keep him as the ‘bad guy’ who stays bad instead of trying to pull a redemption arc out of no where or something. I have a feeling I’m beginning to ramble, so I’m going to try to wrap this up.

I have a love-hate relationship with Light, because even though I don’t agree with his actions and the tactics he uses to get the ‘perfect world’ he wants, and I do find his thinking flawed and find him very arrogant the more power/ego Kira gains over the world as the story goes on. Yet I find him as a character in general just fascinating. I was definitely more on L’s side of things and found myself enjoying a majority of the scenes where people simple put Light in his place and treat him like a dude with a god complex rather than what he wants/expects. There’s just a lot of thoughts I have about him, but yeah it’s just a love-hate sort of thing for me when it comes to Light. 

~~~

10. Do you ship any characters?

I usually find myself being a bit of a multishipper when it comes to most fandoms, it just depends on the source material and the characters obviously. I definitely can enjoy a lot of the ships when it comes to the fandom, but even if I don’t like a pairing I do my best to remain pretty respectful about it. 

One thing to note is that I can’t really find myself shipping L with anyone in the series to be honest, like I can find myself enjoying his relationship dynamics of characters but with my own interpretations and DR stuff, It’s hard to view him with someone else romantically. 

Some ships I like/don’t mind though (especially when it comes to au stuff as most of these in canon probably wouldn’t work out lol): Matt x Mello, Mikalight, Rem x Misa ig? (more like the concept is sweet i think even though in canon Misa treats her pretty badly and Rem said she doesn’t think of her that way), uhhh. My brain is pulling a blank right now but these are the main ones that come to mind.

Some platonic pairings I enjoy (as there are a lot more of these for me): Matt + Mello, Mello + Near, Matsuda + Misa, Honestly all the task force have really interesting dynamics with one another, L + Watari (obviously in a father/parent way, I just like seeing their interactions), Ryuk + Light, Ryuk + Misa, L + Matsuda’s relationship is honestly pretty funny to me and honestly L’s dynamics with the task force is also interesting as well. 

I think that’s it when it comes to shipping stuff atm

~~~

24. Any headcanons you’d like to share?

Oh! I feel like I have a couple but at the moment my mind is pulling a blank for some reason. Some head canons that do come to mind though deal with my Death Note DRs in some way but they can also be interpreted with the actual series itself, so hopefully this is good enough! Usually I do better with a certain prompt of some sort though for future references though! 

I’ve seen a post a bit ago about Matt and Mello being roommates of some sort at Wammy House and they find themselves in that roommate mentality still when they do room together, and honestly I agree so much with that. 

When Mello leave the Wammy House I see him not contacting Matt or anyone from Wammy House as he turns his focus on his side of the Kira Case, even if apart of him misses them and what he grew up around. Yet he pushes through because he’s stubborn and wants to do whatever he can on his own with the Mafia without involving someone like Matt, probably for his safety. After the explosion though when he has no one on his side, I think that’s when he realizes there’s only one other person he can truly trust and rely on and that’s when he contacts Matt to help him on the case. 

Not really a headcanon as the author himself mentioned that the rivalry between Mello and Near was one-sided and that Near actually liked Mello, I do see both boys sometimes wondering what it would have been like if they didn’t have that rivalry and became friends instead. I honestly see Mello thinking that more towards the end of the case and after the explosion, but at that point he’s probably thinking it’s too late to even pursue a friendship like that with him. 

I like to think that at Wammy House, Matt didn’t really understand Mello’s rivalry with Near and at times questioned him about it at first but he was pretty supportive 

He didn’t have anything against Near though and was pretty indifferent on the whole thing personally, but if it made Mello happy and helped him achieve a goal he had no reason to deny.

Matt in general in general is someone that gives the vibes of not caring about much, but if you’re close to him he is literally SO loyal?? Like if someone close to him has an issue, even if he might make a comment or remark, he is always there to back them up. 

I like to think that over time Light actually enjoys Ryuk’s presence, kind of like a sense of some sort of comfort that he isn’t alone of some sort? Like at first he might have been annoyed and still gets annoyed whenever he acts annoying and distracts him from work, but also I think he doesn’t like hate his company. Probably would rather be around him than Misa unfortunately </3

I think that L and Chief Yagami had a pretty good friendship, or perhaps not friendship but i’m not sure what to call it atm. Like I think L respected him a lot and Soichiro was the same towards him, and I think at times if they decided not to talk about the Kira case it’s usually pretty good for the most part.

It’s not really a headcanon but Matsuda trying his best to get some positive attention for things he does in the case is funny and kinda sweet. Most of the time L probably ignores his antics and doesn’t really feed into it, but there’s like one or two times where he actually does

It’s probably very small, probably something along the lines of “Good job.” or something but Matsuda feels so happy that he even acknowledged him like that and didn’t call him stupid for once. Definitely was a good boost in his mood

I find the thought of Light and Ryuk playing video games early on when he first gets the notebook charming in an almost funny way. Like Light probably either was talked into it by the shinigami or was like ‘screw it, I have nothing else to do atm’ and Ryuk is just happy he can actually do something and not just watch him working 

Light is definitely competitive in games though, like he’ll probably try to act like it wouldn’t matter but like most things with him, but it did lmao

I find the thought of the wammy kids doing things to mess with/annoy Roger so entertaining. Like I feel bad for him, but if I were asked to assist in the pranks or antics I probably would just for his reaction alone

Think that’s all for random misc head canons for now, if you want something more specific just send a request!

~~~

25. Ramble on about whatever you’d like 

Thank you for this one! I usually feel a little guilty whenever I ramble on about things in general, but the fact that some people are interested in my thoughts on things is so sweet!

At the moment though I’m honestly not too sure what to ramble about as there’s a lot on my mind and it’s hard to pick one thing and honestly it can be a bit hard to go through all my thoughts at times. 

But! One thing I will always stand behind that ya’ll have probably seen countless of times so far is that the Wammy Boys deserved better and I will always say it if necessary tbh. Speaking of wammy house though, that comes to mind is that I wish I could learn more about it at times, yet I also enjoy the mystery of it in a way. It’s something I’d be so down to learn more about, but if not I’d be pretty okay with that outcome. Plus just leaves things for fans to interpret in their own ways if they want, and that’s something I definitely enjoy when it comes to the fandom is how they take something vague and turn it into so much more. 

Also speaking of the fandom I’m surprised yet so thankful/grateful for is that the death note fandom is still going on here. It was such a relief seeing that I wasn’t alone in my hyperfixions and thoughts, and seeing all the talent in the art, writing, etc, is just amazing and something I look forward to a lot in all honesty. I’m also just so thankful for the people that take time out of their day to look at my blog in general. You like, reblog, or follow me? I literally want to be your best friend and if I wasn’t so nervous about starting conversations with ya’ll I definitely would have messaged a couple of ya’ll a while ago. Until then I hope you just read this and see me on your blogs and hope my reactions and comments is enough until I get less nervous lmao. 

One last thing before i close the blog off is that I love L with my full heart and I adore Matt and Mello so very much. My favorite lads <3

~~~

Alright that should be it for this post! If you stuck around, thank you!

Some future posts to expect: Matt, Mello, + a f!reader based on the dream I talked about before, some L angst, and possibly something with Light :)

Anyways have a great day/night and here’s a reminder to stay hydrated and eat something if you haven’t already <3

[historic-old-guard-lover]

The emperor has to be god-king Andy. Also like since nicky and Joe obv have to have the lovers why not have andy and quyhn kissing as the empress.

Another related ask (potentially by the same person):

Also since the fool is a journey's beginning I'd almost want to pick Nile for it. As well there are four characters who commonly have swords (or an axe but close enough) and cards have four corners. So one sword each corner, nicky, joe, andy, and quyhn.

So. Someone has good ideas. Here’s the post that prompted these asks. This made me pull out my tarot deck and go through the cards. Below the cut is a break down of the entire tarot deck. There will be an explanation of the (standard) interpretation of the cards, good then less good, and then my associated headcannon (or more than one if I couldn’t decide). The source is my experience with tarot. I’m trying to minimize repeats, but historic and modern Old Guard members are counted separately. Enjoy.

The Major Arcana (aka the cards most people have heard about)

0. The Fool - the seeker. Naivety. Courage. Living in the moment. Journey’s beginning. All paths available. Folly. Apathy.

Nile. Anon convinced me. Though Booker has got the folly, apathy, and madness down, Nile is ultimately the beginning. She’s naïve but headstrong, and quite frankly a perfect match.

I. The Magician - the trickster. Power, skill, talent. Mastery, self-control, willpower. Subtlety. Divine connection and inspiration. Self-reliant.

Modern Nicky. Definitely Nicky. Just. He’s a formerly very religious man who just says these things. Also sniper.

II. The High Priestess - the moon goddess. Intuition, wisdom, foresight, divination, prophecy. Enlightenment, understanding, intelligence, education. Pride, emotional instability, unforgiving.

Historic Quynh. Her name means “night-blooming flower”, which is very moon goddess vibes to me. Also, I’d say over 500 years in a box turns understanding and enlightenment into emotional instability and unforgiveness.

III. The Empress - the queen. Feminine power, matriarch, mother. Fertility, pleasure, beauty. Success, evolution, movement. Marriage, wealth. Overattachment, domestic upheaval, delay.

Quynh. The counterpart to Andy’s emperor card.

Nile. Let’s be honest, she’s going to take over from Andy some day.

IV. The Emperor - the king. Masculine power, patriarch, father. Authority, leadership, proficiency. Wealth, stability, effectiveness. Perseverance, logic, endurance, experience. Lack of ability, weak character, immature, rebellious.

Modern Andy. She is the leader who’s short-comings effect her entire team. And who doesn’t love a little gender bending? (and her film look is already soft butch)

V. The Hierophant - the religious leader. Tradition, convention, ritual symbolism. Ceremony, religion, morality, philosophy. Mercy, goodness, forgiveness, humility, vulnerability, Impotence, Religious tyranny.

Historic Nicky. I mean, former priest (enough said).

Historic Andy. “I was once worshipped as a god” (enough said).

VI. The Lovers - the lovers. Love, attraction. Compatibility, harmony, choice.  Triumph over trials, vacillation. Entanglement, enmeshment. Infidelity, moral lapse, vice, separation, quarrels, inadequacy, failing tests.

Andromaquynh. *peeks out from behind barricade* I know that most people would just put Kaysanova as this card, but look at all the negatives it is associated with. Sounds a lot more like our immortal wives can really cover the gamut. They have the range....I am a sucker for Kaysanova, though. Even though the beginning of their relationship is rocky, I’d like to think it’s been fairly constant over the years. But let’s reverse the uhaul lesbians and fickle gay men tropes! Sorry, Book of Nile fans. That ship just isn’t established enough for this, I’d say. Maybe one day?

VII. The Chariot - the journey. Ordeal, obstacles, competition. High stakes, ambition, discipline. Conquest, victory, greatness. Right action prevails, overwhelming odds, sudden defeat.

Merrick and/or Dr. Kozak. I mean, this is literally their characters in a nutshell. Merrick is the journey/ordeal for the old guard. He is driven by his ambition, thinks he’s won over impossible odds, and then has a sudden defeat.

VIII. Justice - the balance. Equilibrium, equality, symmetry, harmony. Integrity, honor, fairness, neutrality, moderation. Vindication, self-righteousness, bigotry, prejudice, favoritism.

Nile. This is the woman with a sword card. She brings a balance to the team, she clearly moderates conflict, and I’d love to see BLM art of her in this style. Just sayin.

IX. The Hermit - the seeker-sage. Wisdom, inspiration, contemplation, discretion, understanding. Safety, protection, spiritual quest. Seeking truth and justice. Self-denial, timidity, fear.

Historic Joe. The idealized warrior poet? Definitely just a form of the hermit. Helps explain why a Magrebhi trader/artist fought at the Siege of Jerusalem: spiritual quest. I also like the idea of Joe having a secret reserved side.

X. The Wheel of Fortune - cycles of life. Destiney, evolution and progress, advancement. Manifestation, unexpected events. Success, sudden luck. Ups and downs.

Modern Quynh. There is nothing that better encapsulates her storyline than the wheel of fortune. One day you’re roaming the world with your immortal wife. The next, you’re drowning for over 500 years. The next you’re in Booker’s shitty Paris apartment.

XI. Strength - fortitude. Resilience, courage, resolve, confidence. Integrity, moral victory, endurance. Energy, action, vitality. Power, force, violence. Abuse of power, disgrace, impotence.

Lykon. Do I love this character beyong measure and reason? Maybe so. We have so little to go on about him, however, that the only things we do know bely his strengths. Also, he becomes ultimately the weakest when he dies and encapsulates both “extremes” of the card.

XII. The Hanged Man - the tested. Delay, sacrifice, abandonment, rejection. Betrayal. Reversals, restrained or bound, limbo, trials. Falseness.

Booker. If the fact that his first death was by hanging didn’t convince you? Read that description again. His character arc is literally working through being the hanged man.

XIII. Death - the loss or parting. Alteration, transformation, transition. Boredom, depression, stagnation, failure or disaster. Bereavement, recovery, immobility.

Lykon. He literally represents the fear of death to the remaining immortals. It is HE that they invoke when they discuss it. Also, I’m still mourning my favorite underdeveloped character.

XIV. Temperance - the moderation. Self-control, economy, patience, coordination. Consolidation, harmony, friendship, recuperation. Unfulfilled desires, discord, stubbornness, hostility, clashing of interests. Time, seasons, and climate.

A Safehouse. I don’t think any of the people really capture the tempered essence of this card, the constancy throughout all seasons of life. An actual physical building that rises and falls with (regular) humanity, though, seems to do the trick.

XV. The Devil - the arcane. Magic, strange occurrences, prophecy, fate. Catastrophe, downfall, negative attitude, Temptations, sins, obsessions. Enslavement, bondage, misplaced loyalty, violence, fatality.

Honestly? I’m so torn. I feel like a major commentary of the movie is that our demons are the way people react more so than the people themselves. Maybe the armored van?

XVI. The Tower - the House of God. Disruption, expulsion from an earthly paradise, divine wrath. Punishment (of pride), loss, destructive rivalry, plans ruined. Need to start again, bankruptcy.

The Iron Coffin. While this doesn’t capture the religious undertones quite right, the coffin is the Tower for Andromaquynh, It is (divine? or very human?) wrath brought on by pride since the two probably thought that they would be fine. It is loss and painful new beginnings.

XVII. The Star - the bright promise. Hope, faith, light of the spirit. Recovery, symbols of immortality. Gifts, good prospects, new dawn, frustrated expectations.

Nile. The new immortal, enough said.

Historic Andy/Lykon. In a way, the first immortal would also be a great choice of representation.

XVIII, The Moon - the hidden forces. Twilight, illusion, deception, trickery. Dishonesty, danger, uncertainty, terror. Developments, particularly somewhat concealed. Errors, powerful feelings.

Copley. I know, I know. “He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness” and all that jazz. But look at this card’s interpretation and notice it’s pretty negative. Copley’s entire role is to pull the strings behind the scenes. He makes headway on problems in secrets, he lies and deceives everyone in the film at some point.

XIX. The Sun - the work’s rewards. Daylight, co-creation, union “of male and female”. Peace, joy, pleasure, love, contentment. Accomplishment, achievement, success. 

Joe. Not only is he the sun, he also fits this card perfectly. He is creation and happiness. Enough said.

XX Judgement - the rebirth. Judgement, sentence. Rejuvenation, renewal, resurrection, call to the new from the old, rehabilitation. Creation, promotion.

Historic Booker. I feel like his backstory with his family helped highlight the theme of rebirth for the Old Guard. They must be willing to give up what they have left behind to move forward. Also, there’s the more literal play as well since Booker was a conscripted criminal.

XXI The World - the long journey. Perfection, completion, conclusion. Power through intelligence and wisdom. The universe and the material world.

A group photo, of course! Beyond that? Who knows.

Historic Andy? She’s seen so much of it. Like just her eyes portray the history of the world.

The Minor Arcana (aka the rest of the cards)

Since most people are only familiar with the major arcana,  I’ll just briefly explain it. The minor arcana are actually the majority of a tarot deck. There are four suits associated with the four elements. Each suit has ten number cards and four court/face cards (traditionally modelled either based on one person or different interpretations of similar costuming). Each number or face has its own meaning, each suit has its own meaning, and their combination mostly explains what the card should be interpreted as. Quite frankly, the minor arcana are vastly underrated in popular understandings of tarot.

Suit of Wands - fire. Spontaneity, action, passion, adrenaline, life force, stroke of genius.

Guns? It’d be a bit of a niche take, but I associate guns with fires.

Staffs? More traditional in shape.

Suit of Coins - earth. Solid growth, material interests, possessions, profit, business, labor, slow and considerate.

Historic currency. Enough said.

Suit of Cups - water. Heartfelt involvements, imagination, spirituality, love, friendship, family.

Fountains around the world. Enough said.

Suit of Swords - air. Worry, trouble, boundaries, objectivity, the power of truth.

Obviously, their weapons of choice. I would go into more detail about who best represents each number, but I don’t want to bore you.

Court of Kings - mature men. Leaders, authority, status-quo, taking responsibility.

Again, most tarot is very gendered. But members in tuxes?

Court of Queens - mature women. Reflective and active, concerned with security/foundations, supportive, focused.

Members in dresses/gowns/anything that glitters?

Court of Knights/Cavaliers - young men. Dynamic, adventurous, intensive, revolutionary.

Tactical gear. Or historical armor. But it’s easier to do tactical gear right than accidentally draw a 15th century helmet on a 14th century suit of armor.

Court of Knaves/Pages - younger women, teenagers, and children. Students, apprentices, trainees, messengers, new opportunities.

Casual clothes.

[hawkland]

Dear Smut4Smut creator

Letter for the 2021 Smut 4 Smut exchange

My AO3 profile: sidewinder

Thank you for writing or creating art for me! I know I’ll be thrilled with whatever you come up with for any of my requests. (And if I babble on or have more prompts for one ship than another, don’t take that as any kind of preference. Some I just am more specific in the kinds of smutty scenarios I’m requesting/wanting at this time, but I love them all the same.)

Please consider the requested tags all the “prompt” you need if so inspired, if none of my suggested scenarios and ideas inspire you. Also, of course, feel free to combine them or use only one as you see fit! 

General Likes

Non-penetrative sex (especially in first-time scenarios). I love extended kissing scenes, frottage, mutual hand jobs, characters so turned on and overwhelmed that they come from barely being touched/before they can get all their clothes off, etc.

Romantic smut more than really kinky smut (though a bit of light bondage/restraint can be fun!)

That said, I have a definite weakness for wing!kink and tentacles... where appropriate :) 

Generally stoic/repressed/strong characters breaking down and needing comfort/hugs/acceptance of their vulnerabilities

Inverted relationship power dynamics - in the sense of a seemingly older and/or more powerful character actually being less experienced in sex/romantic relationships, or having more doubts & insecurities, and needing the younger/less powerful character to take the lead or reassure them.

In art - I really love all styles of fan art and just seeing how different artists interpret my favorite characters. Seriously, and that’s not just a cop-out because I’m crappy at coming up with art-specific prompts.

General Do No Wants

A/B/O dynamics, mating heats

animal abuse/death

anything related to pregnancy/childbirth

formalized BDSM relationships

non-canon gender identities and/or sexual orientations except gay/bi/pan for requested ships/characters 

scat/watersports

unrequested alternative-universe scenarios such as high school/genderswap/coffee shop/etc (however, canon-divergent AUs completely fine!)

Supernatural-Castiel/Dean Winchester

Fandom-specific Do Not Wants: Bad ending/unhappy-ever-after, Sam-bashing, any suggestions of Wincest

I confess I am a very new Destiel-shipper/SPN fan, having only gotten into the show late last year (post-finale.) So while I know there are mountains of stories already written about this ship, sometimes it’s nigh impossible to dig through it all to find stories that scratch the specific fic cravings I have. Hence all the prompts/ideas for them here, some of which I’m sure have been done to death already...but please humor me :)

Long Prolonged Make-Outs

Kissing All Over

Frottage

First Time Sex is Non-Penetrative 

First Time with Partner of the Same Gender

Experience - Experienced/Inexperienced

Experience - Experienced Partner Lets Inexperienced One Explore Them

Playful Sex

Morning After (Incredible Sex the night before)

I love everything about newly-human!Cas in season 9 (and Cas’s hedonistic tendencies in general). I have to imagine that, as a human, he just feels things with an intensity that angels just don’t feel, as if with human lifetimes so condensed, their senses are intensified to make up for it in a way that would be overwhelming for a hugely powerful/nearly immortal creature like an angel.

So give me any story about Cas’ exploring and fully embracing the sensual pleasures of sex (with Dean). I love Season 9 canon-divergence fics where Dean lets him stay in the bunker. Perhaps after his first taste of sex with April, Cas wants to add to his experiences by having sex with a male-bodied human/someone he deeply cares about (ie, DEAN). Dean may still be struggling with his own internalized homo/bi-phobia but it’s hard for him to resist Cas with his insatiable curiosity about how the human body works, having no filters/no taboos and just wanting to taste/touch/experience until he/they both are completely overwhelmed.

Wings as Erogenous Zones

Wing Kink

I love wings and true-form Cas as well. In fact I’m totally okay with canon-compliant, post-finale fic in Heaven if it means Dean can finally see/experience Cas’s true form (or at least glimpses/parts of it) without dying (because, you know, already dead and all that.) Otherwise, I’m always up for AUs where Dean can sense/feel/see Cas’s wings (if Cas wants him to) and they are an incredible erogenous zone for the angel. Maybe even his most powerful one.

Touching All Over

Touch-starved character overwhelmed from seemingly innocent touches

Touch-starved

Awkward First Times

Trauma Recovery

thank god you're/we're alive sex

Tender Sex with Lots of Eye Contact & Barely Repressed Feelings

Tender Sex

Shame in Sexual Desires

Room-Wrecking Sex

Reunion Sex

Characters mutually pining finally get together and have amazing sex

Desperate Sex

Sex gets paused to deal with PTSD then maybe returned to 

I’ll take all the Cas-is-back, ignore-the-finale fics that are possible. Give me touch-starved Cas after his rescue from The Empty. (Dean can be fully into immediately satisfying his needs or, for angst, still struggling with/unsure of his feelings/sexuality.) It’s tender and healing, or maybe it’s explosive with all those years of pent-up desire and needs. You tell me, I love it all!

Sex While Washing Off The Blood of Their Enemies

Sex While Covered In The Blood of Their Enemies

sex under the stars

Outdoor Sex

Car Sex - on the hood of a car

Car Sex - in the back seat

Hotel Sex

tender making out in a car

sex after a long car ride

For these tags, I’m thinking canon-divergent future-fic where Dean is getting older (maybe Cas is too, if he’s lost his grace), yet they still go out on hunts together on occasion to relive the “glory days”. (Sam’s happily settled down and out of the hunting life with Eileen). They enjoy post-hunt sex in the outdoors or in/on the car, or seedy motel, reveling in the adrenaline of the kill, reaffirming their need and love for each other. Yum.

Supernatural - Endverse Castiel/Dean Winchester/Endverse Dean Winchester 

Desperate Sex

Threesome - M/M/M

Threesome - Character/Crush/Another Version of Crush

Turned On By Violence

One last fuck before you die

Drugs - Drug Use

Time Travel - Sleeping with older/younger version of someone you know in your own timeline

Time Travel - Sleeping with older/younger self

Pairing-Specific DNWs: None here. Go as dark as you want, since it’s Endverse.

Um, yeah. Pretty much what the tags suggest. Dean knows its freaky as hell but maybe he catches his future self and Cas having sex and they invite him in. Maybe he sees it as a chance to be with Cas (even this very different Cas) like he can’t in his own time. Castiel is totally messed up over seeing the man he had fallen in love with (and fallen from grace for) as he had been, back then, and can’t contain himself now that he’s gone so deep into carnal/hedonistic pleasures.

The Orville - Gordon Malloy/Ed Mercer

thank god you're/we're alive sex

"We Lived" Kiss Reveals Feelings

Stranded - On Another Planet/World With No Way Home

Huddling For Warmth Leads To Sex

on the run together

Desperate Sex

One last fuck before you die

Fandom-specific Do Not Want: No Kelly-bashing.

I’d love something set in the alternative universe/timeline of “The Road Not Taken”, where the Kaylons have won, leaving Gordon and Ed on the run together.  Just, any kind of desperate situation where they know they could die at any moment, so they might as well seek whatever comfort, love and tenderness they can find being with each other.

Laughter During Sex

Awkward First Times

Friends to Lovers

First Time Sex is Non-Penetrative

Frottage

Something Made Them Do It

Drugs - Experimental Substance Has Weird Sexual Side Effects

Casual Sex while Secretly Pining

Laughter During Sex

Something fun and silly (and sexy), please, using any of these tags! The show just screams out for tropey “something made them do it” scenarios, be it due to aliens, alien food or drink, whatever. Otherwise I’d love a story where they realize they do have more serious feelings for each other than their (up til then) casual relationship has allowed.

The Good Place - Michael/Eleanor Shellstrop

Tentacles - Tentacle Sex

Tentacles

Xeno - Nonhuman Partner is Ashamed of Their Body

Experience - Experienced/Inexperienced

Awkward First Times 

Laughter During Sex

romantic sex

Tentacles - Gentle and Tender Tentacle Sex with Lots of Caresses and Cuddles

Fandom-specific Do Not Wants: No Chidi-bashing (but also, no Chidi/Eleanor endgame references/suggestions).

The ship/canon where I will eternally want tentacle smut! Michael seems so ashamed of his fire-squid demon form. I want him to find out that Eleanor actually finds it kind of a turn-on and would love to find a way she could...experience it. Since we know Michael can create simulations/realities (like he does in “The Trolley Problem”), maybe he can create one where Eleanor can see/experience a version of himself that won’t, you know, destroy the entire neighborhood or burn her to a crisp?

Otherwise I’m good with any kind of first-time scenario in one of Michael’s “reboots” (or later on when they’ve figured things out and are in Michael’s Neighborhood Improvement Experiment). Awkward Michael figuring out his human body’s reactions to Eleanor, them having fun and romantic sex, would definitely make my heart happy.

[let-it-raines]

it’s all an act (until it isn’t) {1/1}

High school drama teacher Killian Jones doesn’t have time for drama off the stage. He’s had enough of it in his life, and no part of him is searching for more. But then the day before his theater class’s modern day interpretation of a fairytale begins its four-week run, his two leads get sick. There are no understudies, no one to fill the roles, but as they say, the show must go on. 

With him in it, apparently. 

Having Emma Swan, the music teacher and woman who has avoided him since her first day of work at Storybrooke High, fill in as the starring role opposite him is the complete opposite of what he expected. 

Rating: Teen

A/N: Shoutout to @shireness-says and @wellhellotragic for giving me the prompts that make up the inspiration behind this story. You two are always bright spots of sunshine and deserve all of the cupcakes 🧁 in the world. I mean that very, very seriously. ❤️

And thank you to @captainsjedi for organizing @csseptembersunshine and making me get my butt in gear to finally write this story when I’d been struggling with my one-shots. 

Found on AO3: | Here |

Tag list: @kmomof4 @heavenlyjoycastle @tiganasummertree @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @idristardis @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @emmas-storybook @searchingwardrobes @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard

-/-

“Where the bloody hell are Ethan and Kate?”

Killian’s voice bellows over the stage, his words echoing off of the walls and seemingly disappearing into the void, which is what happens whenever he talks on some days. He’s got maybe five students who actively listen to him every single day, and every single one of those five are on a field trip to some kind of classical music concert that he did not give approval for. Granted, he’s only the drama teacher, but when they have the opening night of the play they’ve been practicing for coming up tomorrow, he kind of expects his students to be around.

Or to at least be asked if the field trip interferes with anything.

But was he asked? No, no of course he wasn’t. He’s never asked anything because on the school’s totem pole of important faculty, he is at the bottom with all of the other fine arts teachers, which is a damn shame. Reading and writing and arithmetic are important. No one knows this more than him, someone who has spent nearly all of his life in school even when he was in the Navy, but kids can’t be contained at a desk all day. They have to move or create art, whether that be painting, acting, or playing the damn piccolo. They have to be able to broaden their horizons and have an outlet for everything that they’re going through, so he thinks the drama department is pretty damn important.

As well as the art and music departments, even the physical education departments – and that’s not simply because he is also the track and field coach.

And yet, here he is unable to find his two leads for tomorrow, as well as most of his best students, and it’s all because Emma Swan didn’t bother to tell him that she was taking so many of his kids away to go to an all-day music festival outside of town the day before opening night.

Killian would bet that she did it on purpose.

Actually, he knows that she did.

Emma Swan is the bane of his existence. Never will he forget the day that she started at Storybrooke High three years ago. They’d pulled up into the teacher’s parking lot at the same time, and he’d seen her struggling to grab all of her bags and boxes of things, so he’d quickly slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward her, offering her both a smile and a hand. She’d accepted, a nervous smile on her face, her green eyes very obviously wary of him, and they’d walked in the front doors of the school together.

She was (is) gorgeous. There was no denying that, not that he ever has. She was all toned legs and arms in her red dress that contrasted well against the light, but not too pale, tone of her skin. Her smile was brightened by the red lipstick she was wearing, her full lips accentuated by it, and the blonde of her hair fell down her back in waves that he wanted to run his fingers through.

Obviously, he didn’t. There’s such a thing as human decency and sexual harassment, and he is nothing if not a gentleman (most of the time), but he did notice that she was simply a stunning woman.

The stunning Emma Swan.

There’d been small talk, of course, and he’d asked her about her new position here, what school she was coming from, follow up questions to all of that, and then offered his help for anything and everything that she might need while starting her new job. She’d smiled and said thank you, but then she’d easily navigated to her office, the one just outside of the music classroom and across the hall from his office and the auditorium where he spends his days, and shut the door in his face.

After that, he never quite cracked her code.

During lunch, she seems to have no issue talking to other teachers. She gladly chats with Belle, their librarian, Mary Margaret, the science teacher for grades nine and ten, and occasionally she can be seen talking with other teachers as well. Really, she’s so goddamn friendly with everyone that it makes absolutely zero sense for her to dislike him and not want to be friendly with him. Sure, he’s been disliked by many a woman before – bad dates and relationships and then once for taking the last carton of milk at the grocery store – but he’s always known why. He’s never been left in this state of confusion as to why he’s disliked.

Which is a shame because he quite fancies her from time to time when she’s not yelling at him for taking her students away from practice to work with him on stage or when she’s stealing his students for a last-minute fieldtrip to who knows where on the day of dress rehearsals.

Emma’s got this thing that she does during faculty meetings where whenever she disagrees with what’s being said, she scrunches up her nose and makes it wrinkle. He imagines that she wrinkles her nose when she thinks of him, most likely holding one of her many swan-themed coffee mugs that’s got a fifty-fifty shot of being filled with coffee with vanilla creamer or hot chocolate topped with loads of cinnamon. He can’t even begin to imagine how much she has to work out for how she eats. That, or she has the world’s greatest metabolism.

Damn her for making him notice these things and damn her for stealing his students.

“Seriously, guys,” Killian grumbles again, shifting the canopy bed prop that they rolled onto stage earlier this afternoon. His hands are full of callouses and most likely stained in paint for how much work he’s had to put into making the set. Liam and Elsa have come to the school or his apartment after they get off of work to help out with making sets, and he wonders just how he can repay them for going above and beyond when they already work far more often than him…and he feels like he never stops working. “Why aren’t you listening to me? Where are Kate and Ethan?”

Of the thirty teenagers that he still has with him today, two look up, and neither of them say anything, simply looking at him with pleading eyes, begging him not to make them talk. He loves all of these kids, and even though sometimes it’s hard to garner the attention of all of them, it’s usually much better than this.

He’s a damn good teacher. He can command a room, his five far-too-loyal students aside.

“Bloody hell,” he shouts, clapping his hands together so that the remaining twenty-eight heads look up at him with varying degrees of disgust. “I know that you guys don’t have a lot to do right now when we’re missing our leads, but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore me. Now will someone tell me where Kate and Ethan are? I know they’re not in music, so I know that they’re not on the field trip.”

His eyes scan over the group, looking for someone who’s going to crack, and he finally finds it in Ava.

“They’re sick, Mr. Jones,” she says quietly as her fingers twist around her braid. “That’s what Kate said when she texted me this morning.”

“Are they actually sick or are they skipping classes today while their parents think that they’re at school? And are they going to be better tomorrow?”

He’s met with silence once more until a deep laugh breaks out from Felix, a kid who is great at building sets but not so great at being a part of the team. Honestly, Killian has no idea why he’s even in this class when he could have chosen from several other electives. Deep down, he thinks it might be to torture Killian. Honestly. He’s only ninety percent sure that isn’t the reason he’s in the class.

Maybe eighty percent. It depends on the day.

“They have fucking mono, man,” Felix laughs, propping his feet up on the theater chair in front of him. “They’re not coming to class.”

“Language,” Killian says instinctively while his mind runs over the information he’s just been given. He’s a little loose with his curse words, but Americans seem to be a little more reserved with curses than he and all of his fellow Brits are so this is something he’s had to deal with while teaching in America. “What do you mean they have mono? How do you know this, but I don’t?”

“Group chat,” Felix answers noncommittally. “Ethan went to the doctor a couple days go, then Kate went, and they both got mono because they’re not just making out on stage, you know?”

Yes, he does know about the fact that the two leads in his play are dating. He didn’t when he cast them, but that also wouldn’t have mattered. He knows far too much about each of his students and their personal lives because for some reason, every bit of gossip happens while in this auditorium. The things that he’s heard while trying to paint a tree for set or while attempting to give an actual lesson where his students are supposed to take notes on the history of theater.

No part of him misses when he was a teenager. Every little thing feels like the most important thing, and he cannot imagine having to feel that way again.

“They have mono,” he repeats, testing out the words on his tongue all the while he tries to convince himself that this isn’t real. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. You haven’t gotten a note from their parents about it?”

Killian shakes his head before pulling his phone out of his back pocket, ignoring texts from his brother and his mates so that he can login to his school email. There are several messages that he sees that he needs to get to later all involving logistics for the show tomorrow night, and then he sees the emails Felix mentioned.

Bloody buggering fuck.

His leads are sick.

And they didn’t do any understudies because no one else was comfortable enough to sing on stage, and he figured that it’s just a high school play that the kids wanted to put on as a part of the class. It wasn’t a big deal.

Except for the fact that their principal told him that the ticket sales can all go toward fundraising for the drama department, and now he doesn’t have anyone to actually lead the play.

His students wanted to put on a modern-day fairytale, and all of these disasters happening at once make him think that he might very well be living in one.

If a modern-day fairytale is actually a nightmare.

-/-

Killian has been staring at his computer screen in his office for at least two hours when he hears the click of boots against the linoleum floor in the hallway outside of his office. It’s past six, everyone long gone, and he knows that it can only be one person walking out in the hallway.

Emma.

There’s a flash of long legs and blonde hair falling over a red leather jacket, and he’d recognize those three elements of her person anywhere. But as she’s walking into her office, across the hall from him, he definitely knows that it’s her. The fact that she leaves her door open and he can see her sitting at her desk certainly doesn’t help him forget.

How is she so beautiful and infuriating all at once?

“It’s rude to stare, Jones,” Emma shouts from her office like she does whenever they have these kinds of conversations.

He blinks up at her, unaware of how long exactly he has been staring at her. His head is pounding a ridiculous amount, and he wonders why the hell he ever left England and the Royal Navy just to come to America to teach high school drama and yell at kids to keep running around an asphalt track.

(Heartbreak, following his brother, et cetera.)

“It’s rude to take away my students the day before we have a show opening.”

“Their parents signed permission slips. I wasn’t aware I needed approval from you too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s common courtesy to at least let me know. Why isn’t there a school policy about that?”

He can’t quite see, but he knows that she’s rolling those green eyes of hers. She rises from her desk, and while he thinks she’s only getting up to close her office door, she doesn’t. Instead, she walks into the hallway and over to his office, leaning her shoulder up against his doorframe as she crosses her arms over her chest. When did she take her jacket off to leave her in a simple white sweater?

“You okay?” Emma asks, what sounds like genuine concern in her voice.

“Do you actually care?”

She scoffs, and he looks up at her again so that he can see the slightest twitching in her jaw along with a wrinkling of her nose.

“Believe it or not, I’m not a complete and total bitch. You look like you’re freaking out, and I’m genuinely concerned about that.”

“Ah well,” he sighs, reaching up to scratch behind his ear as he plasters a fake smile on his face, “you don’t have to worry about me, love. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re a liar is what you are.”

“How would you know?”

“For one, you have the worst poker face in the world, but I also have a little bit of a superpower in being able to tell when someone is lying.”

“Really now?”

“Yep. You don’t teach teenagers for six years without knowing how to tell someone is lying.” She steps further into the room and takes a seat in the cushioned chair that sits in the small space across from his desk. This might be the most pleasant conversation they’ve had in years, and he’s still not entirely sure that it isn’t some kind of fever dream. “So, tell me, Jones, what has you looking like you’d rather have a mug full of rum than coffee this late in the afternoon?”

Sighing, he leans forward on his desk and taps his fingers over the script, large letters typed out to read “Sleeping Beauty.” He’s got the entire script memorized now, mostly because he was the one to write the majority of it – with the help of the actual fairytale, the movie, and then his students when they insisted they do a modern version of a fairytale with a twist – but also because he’s been running lines with these kids for weeks.

And now he has no stars.

“I’m a bloody idiot,” he starts, swallowing his pride and the stress that’s lodged in his throat, “because I didn’t cast understudies for this play. Only two students in the class were comfortable both singing and sharing a kiss on stage, and I figured that it would be fine. It’s not a huge production, but then I was told that ticket sales could go to the theater department so that I can actually have funding. But the joke is on me because my leads have mono and are pretty much out for the entire month that we were going to be doing the show.”

Silence surrounds him as he finishes his rant, wondering why the hell he’s ranting to Emma in the first place, and he swears that he can hear the beating of his heart. Or maybe it’s the ticking of the clock above his door.

“You don’t have any other kids who know the lines?”

“Ava Hanson,” he sighs, looking up at Emma while he runs his hands through his hair, “but she’s not going to feel comfortable on stage. At this point, I’m wondering if we should simply postpone or if maybe I should play the lead role and modify things to make it more appropriate. Honestly, though, I’m not sure if I feel comfortable doing that.”

Emma groans, something deep and annoyed, and he’s just about to snap at her as he wonders what the hell could she possibly be upset about when she gets up from the chair and starts pacing back and forth in the room, her face buried in her hands.

“I’m willing to help you,” Emma huffs, stopping her pacing to look at him with her hands on her hips.

“What, love?”

“Look, I know what it’s like to be a part of the arts department, obviously, and funding is so hard to come by that I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any for those kids. Plus, I’m sure a bunch of the kids were looking forward to it. So, for those two reasons and those two reasons alone, I will read over the script and see if I can act in your play if you’re going to fill in for the other lead role.”

“You’re serious?” Killian questions. There’s no way. Absolutely none. “You realize this is a three-times a week thing for four weeks, it involves singing, extra time for no pay, and you have to spend time with me?”

“I obviously haven’t won the lottery or anything here, but yeah, I got all of that.”

“And you know what play we’re doing, right?”

“Sleeping Beauty.”

“Which involves a kiss.”

Emma’s lips fall into the shape of an “O” and he chuckles at that, thoroughly enjoyed by the blush on Emma’s cheeks and the continual blinking of her eyes.

“Just,” she whines, reaching down onto the desk to pick up the script he was looking at, “brush your teeth beforehand, and don’t think I’m taking my eyes off of you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

-/-

There’s a substitute filling in for all of the theater and music classes the next day as he and Emma run through lines and do the messiest rehearsal in the history of rehearsals. Surprisingly, she knew most of her lines when she walked into the auditorium this morning, and while that did make everything go more smoothly, it was still a mess finding their timing as well as the timing of all of their students. But by the time the lunch bell rings, they’ve got a pretty good handle on it, and he sends Emma off to the closet where they keep the costumes to see if she can fit into Kate’s costumes. He’s sure that she can, especially with how slight Emma is, but then Emma walks up on stage with her breasts practically spilling out of the dress.

“What am I supposed to do about this?”

“To what are you referring?” Emma rolls her eyes and motions her hands around until she’s pointing at her chest, impatiently waiting for him to acknowledge the slight problem. “Well, love, your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear.”

Emma laughs, her eyes rolling once more, but he can see the slight smile on her face.

They might just get on, the two of them.

Or kill each other.

Everything for the rest of the day is a blur of him practicing while also dealing with all of the disasters and melodramatic emergencies that his students go through, and he swears the he blinks and people are already filling the auditorium. Liam and Elsa were kind enough to collect tickets for him, as well as buying far more tickets than necessary and forcing all of Elsa’s family to come to the show like he’s a teenager performing tonight and not an adult who screwed up, and he absolutely knows that he’s going to be teased about this until someone else does something equally embarrassing.

Not that being in theater is embarrassing. But being over thirty years old and acting with several sixteen-year-olds is.

Plus, they all know about his slight infatuation with Emma Swan and her definite dislike of him, and Killian just knows that Liam is going to be sitting in the front row recording this to have on file forever. It’ll likely be his Christmas card. Forget a picture of he and Elsa and Elsa’s ever-growing baby bump. It’s going to be Killian walking around on stage.

Closing the curtains he’s peeking out of, Killian turns around to see Emma standing in front of him wearing jeans and a blouse, her feet covered in white sneakers.

“What the bloody hell are you wearing?”

“It’s a modern-day fairytale,” she points out with a smirk, motioning her hands over her. “This is what a modern-day woman wears. Plus, I bent over in that dress and a boob popped out. I’m not flashing some of these dads who already think they can hit on me.”

“Yeah,” Killian gulps, forcing a smile as his stomach twists, “good point. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

It goes surprisingly well even though everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Felix curses in the middle of the one scene that he’s in, Ava’s microphone goes out which makes her cheeks flame in embarrassment, a tree falls down on top of him during the forest scene, and the bed squeaks when he kneels down on top of it to kiss Emma awake.

And that is something else entirely.

He and Emma had argued for an hour over the scene where Phillip wakes Aurora up with a kiss. She’d agreed that it was written well and followed the original storyline, but she’d protested in how they should actually go about it. How the hell does one kiss their colleague and then everything go back to normal?

How did he ever expect his students to do that as well?

This is nothing like it ever was when he was occasionally in community theater in different parts of his life.

But then the play ends to a hefty smattering of applause, and Killian can finally take a deep breath.

And it starts all over again.

Four weeks. He can do four weeks.

-/-

“This is exhausting,” Emma sighs as she stretches out across the panels on the stage, her body star-fished on the wood.

The two of them have been at the school since seven this morning cleaning up the auditorium so the janitor didn’t have to come in on an extra day. It’s the right thing to do when it’s their fault that there’s extra mess in the school, but he’s really and truly regretting it right now that his head pounds at the lack of caffeine in his system. Emma was smart enough to walk in the school with one of her swan mugs full of coffee, but his mind was not thinking that far ahead this morning.

Damn Kate and Ethan for getting mono.

Can he damn his students?

He probably should not be doing that.

But he kind of wants to because while the past three weeks have been stressful and busy and his personal life has absolutely gone down the drain, it hasn’t been…awful. All of his students are having a grand time, having fun with each other and becoming more comfortable in their roles, and to him, that’s the most important thing. He wants them to know that this can be a fun experience and that they don’t have to worry about being judged. So, that’s been great.

Kissing Emma Swan approximately (exactly) eighteen times has been not so great.

Okay, well, it’s actually been wonderful in a weird sense. Stage kissing and actual kissing are two entirely different things, but once the stiffness of those first few days was gone, it felt more natural.

And his odd, inexplicable crush on Emma only deepened, which is the last thing that he wanted.

(He’s turning into a teenager.)

It only gets worse in the fact that she walked inside the building today in a pair of short black running shorts and a matching black tank top with her hair pulled off of her neck in a ponytail. He doesn’t know when she finds the time to work out, but if the definition in her arms and legs shows anything, it’s that she very much does find the time.

(So working out and a good metabolism is how she eats like she does.)

Plus, well, she’s not all bad.

They bicker more than anyone he’s ever met. If he says black, she says white. If he wants to get Chinese delivery for a late dinner, she wants pizza. If he wants to change the tempo on a song to be faster, Emma wants it to be slower. Every single thing is a battle, and he loves it.

In fact, he hasn’t had this much fun in years. Their bickering is different than their bickering of the past. It’s no longer hostile and falls more into the category of teasing or, if he’s a tad bit presumptuous, flirting. A little thrill of excitement runs through him when Emma picks a fight or teases him about the flip of his hair in the same way that he sees her lips curl up into a smile when he teases her right back for the way that her voice croaked during their third performance.

Fun.

Spending time with her is fun.

And he’s terrified to know what’s going to happen when the show ends its run in a week and they go back to hating each other from across the hallway.

“Aye,” he confirms, using the muscles in his arms to pull himself up to sit on the edge of the stage, his fingers reaching over to mess with the loose bit of Emma’s sock, pulling a bit more when she doesn’t flinch away. “Tis exhausting. I plan on sleeping for a solid week when it’s all over.”

“We have school.”

“I’m thinking of playing hooky. You want to join?”

“Depends,” she mumbles, sitting up and bringing her knees to her chest, “what are we going to do?”

Killian hums in thought, tapping his finger against his chin. “Well, for one, sleeping for at least a day. Then drinking a glass or two of rum without having to worry about waking up early the next morning, which is kind of the same thing. But mostly, in this fantasy world, I’m going to spend days away from teenagers of any and all kinds.”

“Amen to that, Jones. Add in some greasy hangover food after that night of rum drinking, and I am there.”

“Grilled cheese and onion rings?”

“It’s scary how you know that.”

“We share a cafeteria five days a week, love,” he sighs, turning a bit more on the stage so that he can look at her while he talks. “A man picks up on some things. I’m sure you notice these things about me too.”

Her brows furrow, suspicion painted in her features, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “This sounds like some kind of trap to stroke your ego, and I am not falling for it.”

“My princess,” he says sarcastically, knowing that she hates it, “whatever shall I do with you? I’d go to the ends of the world or time to make you happy.”

“All you have to do is go to the faculty lounge and make me some more coffee.”

Killian hops down from the stage and bends over in a sarcastic bow that has Emma laughing. “As you wish, milady.”

The show that night goes smoothly, probably their smoothest one yet. Everyone is settled in their roles now, so there’s not much to do but work on vocals and do little tweaks that he’ll need to work on if they also do a spring production. With classes and track and field practice, he’s not entirely sure how he’ll fit one in, especially with every other event that takes up the auditorium near graduation, but it’s simply something to think about.

As well as having understudies. He’s never making this mistake again even if it’s going much better than he ever could have imagined.

Emma is a damn good stage partner, which shouldn’t be surprising given what he knows about her musical ability, but being a musician doesn’t always translate over into being a good actor. At the beginning, he was definitely simply hoping for someone to fill the spot in the most adequate of ways. He was never expecting her to be good.

He also wasn’t expecting them to still have crowds this many shows in. Honestly, when the school set-up this timeline, he expected it to only last two weeks and for them to cancel the rest of the shows, but he managed to get a few retirement homes, elementary schools, and recreational groups to come on different nights so that there’s always someone sitting in the crowd.

If Will, Robin, and Liam are asses who keep coming back simply so that they have more proof of him acting with Emma, that’s beside the point.

If he went to dinner with Elsa three days ago and told her that he’s developed actual feelings for Emma over the past few days, that’s definitely beside the point.

And yet it is also every point on all of his lists written over and over again in permanent marker.

Every logical bone in his body told him not to let his little crush fester and develop into something more, but spending all of this time with her, watching her laugh at his jokes or hum along to their music while cleaning up after the shows has completely endeared her to him. It’s the oldest story in the world – a man falls for a woman – and yet he thinks this has the beginnings to be his favorite tale.

Tonight, though, is their final show, and since Kate and Ethan received the all clear from their doctors two days ago, he and Emma are very gladly stepping down from their roles to let their students close it out. A little bit of fate or good coincidence is playing out here, and when his ever-loyal small group of students tell him to go sit in the audience for once and watch, he listens.

If not with a bit of trepidation as it’s not like him not to be behind the curtains making sure everything goes just right.

“You want some popcorn?” Emma asks him when she plops down in the seat next to him, a red and white striped box in her hands, the smell of salt and butter invading his nostrils. “It’s really good. I’m sure it goes against your healthy eating lifestyle, but you should live a little.”

Killian reaches over to grab a handful, the butter greasy on his fingertips, before popping two pieces in his mouth. “So, you have noticed the way that I eat.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” She knocks her shoulder into his, and he knocks right back. “It’s going to be weird watching it from down here. I feel like I should be singing to you or gurgling mouthwash or something.”

“I knew you used mouthwash right before we kissed.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure that I could trust you despite me telling you to brush your teeth.”

“Minty and fresh,” he breathes, twisting his head so that he can get that little bit closer to Emma. “And maybe a little buttery now.”

“It’s a good thing you won’t be kissing me tonight then.”

His stomach twists at that, his heart dropping a little bit, and he knows that is shouldn’t. He’s an adult. He knows what happens up on that stage is all an act, literally, and his mind shouldn’t get confused by it. And while his mind likely isn’t confused by the lines that they say on stage, it’s confused by what happens off of it. It’s the lunches together and the way Emma comes into his office when they’re both staying late on non-play nights grading papers. Neither of them close their doors now, those wooden frames always staying open, and while she does still shout at him from across the hallway, very rarely is it cross words. Oftentimes it is simply Emma telling Killian to check his phone because she has sent him yet another meme about being a theater teacher.

Truly, it’s the smiles and small jokes and the way that her steps match up with his in the hallways, the echoes of their shoes blending together so that no one would know who exactly it is that’s walking down the corridors of the school.

It’s the subliminal changes, the ones that only he would notice, and while they are small, much like Emma, they are mighty.

“Yeah,” Killian mumbles a little dejected as he takes another bite of popcorn, “it is a good thing.”

Emma looks at him with parted lips like she’s about to speak, but before she can say anything, the squeak of the curtains opening sounds the beginning of the show.

Because Killian’s been acting in it and consumed with playing many roles both on and off stage, he hasn’t truly been able to appreciate the production. He hasn’t been able to appreciate the sets or the way that the kids easily change them between scenes. Now he’s able to notice that and precisely how much everyone has improved, how confident his students are under the lights and in front of the crowds. He’s always been a fan of pushing comfort zones, of helping his more shy students break out of them, but he also knows that it can’t be forced. Some people simply are not comfortable with that no matter how much time he gives, and that’s okay. They find their roles in other ways.

“Kate’s voice is beautiful,” Emma whispers in his ear, but he has a difficult time focusing on it for how her hand is curled around his forearm. She’s got soft hands, especially considering the callouses he knows should form from playing instruments all day. “Does she play any instruments? Why is she not in one of my music classes?”

“Don’t pilfer my students, Swan.”

Her fingers pinch around his skin, pulling at the hair, and Killian scrunches up his nose while he looks at her, their noses only two or three inches apart. “I wasn’t trying to, thank you very much. I was thinking maybe we could see if some of my students wanted to do a combination with yours. We could do live music with a play. Maybe not one that runs for four weeks, but at least a show.”

“Look at you coming around to me.”

“Yeah, well, like you said, we make quite the team.”

When the play is over, his students doing a bang-up job and giving a better performance than they ever would with he and Emma on stage, the audience rises for a standing ovation that has the grin on his face stretching from ear-to-ear. It looks the same to Emma. Kate and Ethan and the rest of their students insist that he and Emma stand on stage with them all, each of them very obviously going for dramatic effect, so he takes Emma’s hand and walks around the front aisle of the auditorium until they can walk up the side steps and have their thirty seconds of gratification and self-indulgence in doing a good job.

Killian doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand.

More importantly, Emma doesn’t let go of his.

She does eventually when they start cleaning up for the night, parents and students helping out as they all eat the pizza that Liam decided to donate for the night. Attached to the top box was a note telling Killian to stop being a coward and to ask Emma out, and thankfully, he snatched that piece of paper away quickly before stuffing it in his pocket. His older brother never does seem to stop finding ways to embarrass him while also being a good person.

Amazing how that works out.

Eventually the sets are put away yet not dismantled and every pizza but one has been devoured, so Killian grabs it and his car keys before walking out of the auditorium and down the hallway to the exit only to find Emma waiting for him. Or, at least, that’s what he thinks.

“So,” she starts, looking up from her phone to smile at him, the black dress she has on far too distracting, “you want to go get that glass of rum?”

“Swan, are you asking me out on a date?”

“I’m asking you to a bar.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking?”

Emma chuckles, shaking her head from side to side as she steps forward so that they’re eye-to-eye, her heels aiding that. “I knew you’d be old-fashioned, so I’ll tell you what, you can pay. And drive.”

“Why, love, you do flatter a man.”

-/-

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma mumbles, her hand placed on his thigh, innocently and yet distracting all at once, “you were in the Navy in England? How the hell did you get here?”

They’ve been at the Rabbit Hole bar for two hours now, only one drink each somehow, and he swears that they haven’t stopped talking this entire time. Obviously, he’s gotten to know Emma better over the last month of him spending so much time with her, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t her sharing stories of the time she spends with her friends or talking about how she knew Mary Margaret through Mary Margaret’s husband. It wasn’t her telling him that she got into music because the foster mom she had as a teenager was a music teacher and taught Emma to play several instruments. It wasn’t him getting to know her on a level more intimate than the pleasantries that all teachers share at school.

It wasn’t this.

And it definitely wasn’t Emma asking him about his life with more interest than she usually shows.

Or the casual touching that precedes flirting. It may have been awhile for him, but he does know flirting when he sees it. Emma Swan flirting with him makes his stomach twist and his heart pound.

“Eh,” he sighs, reaching up to scratch behind his ear out of nerves, “so I joined the Royal Navy at eighteen. It gave me money and purposed and an education. I’d always been interested in the theater as a kid, so I figured I’d study that and possibly become a teacher after I retired. I simply didn’t expect to retire so soon.”

“Well, why did you?”

The age-old question.

“A broken heart. I’d been dating someone, Milah, for a few years, and I bought a ring to propose to her. I did propose, actually, but she turned me down.” He chuckles the words bitterly with a forced smile on his face. “She’d slept with someone else and had hidden it from me, but I guess the ring made her unable to hide it anymore. So, yeah, that wasn’t great, and when my contract ended later that year, I looked into moving here to be with my brother and his wife, who is American. It was a hell of a lot of paperwork and interviews, but I like being here. It’s relaxing.”

The smile on Emma’s face is soft, apologetic, and he can tell that she wants to say that she’s sorry, to show him pity like everyone always does when he shares that story. It’s something he’s grown used to, but he doesn’t want Emma’s pity.

“I was engaged,” she blurts out instead, pulling her hand back from his thigh to grab her wine from the bar top and take a small sip. “Obviously, I’m not anymore, but I was, right before I started to work at Storybrooke. That’s why I transferred. That’s also why I may have been a bit of a bitch to you.”

“You?” he mock gasps. “You being a little rude to me? Never.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to apologize.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“I will punch you.”

“So aggressive.”

“You like it,” she teases, flipping her hair over her shoulder so that his eyes are drawn to the dip of her clavicle before he looks back at her eyes.

“Perhaps I do,” he admits quietly, the sounds around him quieting for a moment as he begins to lean in, begins to get closer to Emma, but he stops himself halfway and pulls back. He’s not ruining this moment by making a brash decision. He won’t.

“Uh, um, anyways,” Emma stutters while blinking, her fingers tapping against the glass. She uncrosses her legs, and he nearly falls backward when her calf brushes against his. Smooth, Jones, smooth. “So, I was engaged to a guy that I worked with, had the ring on my finger and a wedding date booked, and one day I went to his classroom at lunch to ask him if he wanted to eat the rest of my pasta only to see him making out with the vice principal. Which obviously sucked a lot for me, personally, but also it was super inappropriate. Neal always insisted that we don’t show affection at work. No one even knew it was him I was engaged to, and I guess I didn’t realize why he was that way until I found out he was dating two women at one school, which really took him to a whole new level of shitty.”

“He sounds like a real bastard.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs, a bitter smile on her face, “yeah he was, but it’s for the best, you know? I’m not glad that it happened, but I’m glad that I found out when I did. I can’t imagine having actually been married to him. So, when I met you and you were all charming and helpful as well as a fellow teacher, I was done with helpful and charming men and kind of took it out on you.”

“You find me charming then?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

“I do so love a compliment.”

“Stop,” she chuckles, gently slapping his arm. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Charming and weird are the two words I’d use to describe me, though. But, yeah, Swan, I’m glad you didn’t marry him. I’m glad I didn’t marry Milah. Things tend to work out for the best.” The small, shitty band that’s playing in the corner of the bar shifts tunes to a slower song, one he doesn’t recognize, and an idea pops into Killian’s mind. “So now that feelings have been shared,” he croons, standing up from the stool and holding out his hand toward Emma, “will you do me the honor of allowing me to have this dance?”

Emma arches her brow once more, something she might as well do as often as he does, but the quizzical look doesn’t match the grin on her face. “What if I don’t know how to dance?”

“Well, darling, I know for a fact that’s not true since we just danced in a high school play together for a month, but even if it was, luckily for you, you have a partner who knows what he’s doing. So, come on, let’s go.”

She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment before she’s placing her hand in his and rising from her stool, the two of them going to the half-empty dance floor. It’s more swaying than dancing with how close Emma is standing, one of her hands wrapped around his neck while the other is intertwined with his and resting on his chest. His free hand is on her hip, fingers itching to dip lower, but he doesn’t. He won’t.

Not yet.

Not until Emma steps more into his space, the curves of her body aligned with the lines of his, and he can feel the way her heart is beating in her chest. Or, really, that might simply be his.

“Emma,” he hesitantly whispers. Her lips are close enough to his that he can feel his mouth move over hers when he talks, but it’s not enough. He’s kissed her before, and that definitely wasn’t enough. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she tilts her head up toward his and hesitantly brushes her lips over his, staying still until his mouth responds. In reality, her lips feel the same as they did every single time they had a moment like this on stage, but it’s different. It’s different in the way that she moves against him, in the way that she tugs on his bottom lip and on the way that he tugs on her upper one. It’s different in that there is no acting here, only honesty in the soft and gentle movements that have him sighing into her mouth.

It’s different in that this is truly Emma kissing him, and in the three years that he’s known her, he never could have imagined this. And if he did, reality is so much better.

When they pull back for air, he can feel the smile on Emma’s face as their foreheads press together, and he’s sure that she can feel the giant grin painted on his lips.

“You all good, Emma?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, kissing him again, “except it’s very weird for you to taste like rum instead of toothpaste.”

Killian barks out a laugh before moving his hands to cup her cheeks and smile down at her. “I like you, Emma Swan.”

“Funny thing, I like you too.”

Monday morning, Killian pulls into the parking lot with Emma in his passenger’s seat and her hand resting on his knee.

They never picked up her car on Friday night.

When they get engaged a year later, Belle wins the betting pool on when the two of them would get together. Apparently, both the faculty and students started it on Emma’s fourth day of work at Storybrooke High.

Talk about a modern-day fairytale.

[hellzyeahwebwielingessays]

The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 29: AMJ #4.1

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Master Post

I don’t have any preamble. Let’s just get on with this.

Thankfully the recap page isn’t as bad as in prior issues.

First of all, we get yet more information not introduced in the earlier issues. Admittedly this is a minor point, but Ken Gullapalli’s last name is first revealed here. Additionally, we get the title of the movie repeated her, even though it has yet to be mentioned in-story.

More significantly, the recap ascribes additional motivations to the Savage Six. It claims that they took umbrage with Mysterio’s life being dramatized at all, whereas prior issues never implied that. Isn’t it great that part of the motivation for the villains is being explained in the recap page.

Another minor point worth noting is that the recap mixes up the sequence of events. It claims Sonny Diperna joined the movie and then the Savage Six attacked. It was actually the other way around. Also, the recap claims the movie lost all but one investor. Depending upon how you wish to interpret that line, it might also be called inaccurate. The investor they found in issue #2 was never one of the original investors. The movie lost all  of it’s investors but then found a new one.

Neither of these are that big of a deal. But those are pretty basic thing for a recap  to screw up. It’s another example to the shoddy production of this comic (outside the art).

The story proper picks up immediately where the last issue left off. Charlie (the actor playing Spider-Man) quits, claiming the production is cursed. He points out everything has gone wrong, even before the crew were attacked by actual super villains.

MJ counters that things have been looking up since they found a new secure location. Charlie though points out this ‘secure location’ is an abandoned zoo too horrible for anyone to even want to attack them. Charlie accuses MJ of being delusional for believing in the movie.

You know I never had anything to say about Charlie up until now, but in this moment he is the single most relatable character in the whole story.

What’s ambiguous is Williams’ own perception of the character. He’s clearly been framed in an unsympathetic light (and will be again in consequent pages) so the audience isn’t supposed to like him. And yet he is keeping it real, he is pointing out every danger and problem with the production and why it isn’t safe.

I don’t know if he’s intended to be an audience avatar, and author avatar or both. But he’s certainly my  avatar right now.

Charlie’s rant continues by claiming people are going to laugh at Sonny Diperna and MJ for participating in this disaster of a movie. ‘McKnight’ then gets up in Charlie’s personal space and grabs him by the shirt. He yells that speaking to MJ the way he did would have gotten him fired anyway. With Mallorie’s prompting, ‘McKnight’ tells Charlie that he’ll be returning the advance he was given for the scene he’s left unfinished.

Charlie though has other ideas.

Charlie wasn’t exactly being rude. The worst thing he said was that MJ was being delusional. Putting aside how she genuinely has been, in context it’s a perfectly valid thing to say. MJ has been pushing and backing an extremely troubled production that has genuinely intimidated Charlie and jeopardised his wellbeing. Last issue alone confirmed several cast and crewmembers had quite the production after the Six’s attack.

Even if it wasn’t fair to call MJ delusional (which it absolutely is), in context Charlie’s outburst is totally sympathetic, it’s something the cast and crew should be able to excuse given the situation. Not to mention, he’s outright warning  MJ. He’s informing her she is endangering her career and public image by participating in the film. I’m not saying this is outright concern, but on balance his dialogue to MJ is not exactly rude. He’s justifiably upset and is pointing out the dangers to MJ.

Beck in this scene is problematic. I’m not going to say he assaulted  Charlie, but he was way out of line for grabbing him the way he did. That should b the umpteenth warning sign to MJ (who noticeably does nothing) that Beck is bad news and dangerous.

I also detest the framing of Beck in this page. He’s framed as someone defending MJ’s honour, or at the very least a loyal friend. It’s yet more of this messed up sympathetic/friendship portrayal of Beck and his relationship with Mary Jane.

Finally, notice how no one is considering how Charlie’s departure seriously jeopardises the crew. He is now someone constantly off set who knows exactly where the crew are. Do they consider changing location? No. Do they consider that the Six will target Charlie for information no. It’s stupid enough that they aren’t involving the authorities at all. But if you accept that then it’s really stupid for them to not consider Charlie a liability.

On the next page Charlie tries to blackmail ‘McKnight’. He threatens to call his guild rep and report unsafe working conditions; citing the Six’s attack. That is unless he’s allowed to keep his advance. ‘McKnight’ literally tosses cash at Charlie and tells him to leave.

I have nothing really to say about this page. It’s just kind of screwed up that Williams has chosen to make the one character  who’s talking some sense unsympathetic.

On the next page MJ proposes that she will play (a fully masked) Spider-Man in the final scene. She suggests Beck use his skills to ‘heavily edit’ the footage to make her look convincing.

Okay, so this is a double-edged sword.

On the plus side we’re finally dealing more with MJ actually acting  in a mini-series set up to be about that very premise. Having her pretend to be her lover is also a brilliant set up for character exploration. Have MJ, in an abstract way, see Peter in a new light by pretending to be him. But the potential for interesting commentary goes deeper, because she’s acting out Mysterio’s vision for Spider-Man. It’s an opportunity for Williams to explore MJ and Mysterio’s contrasting views of Spidey. That in turn could say a lot about MJ and Beck, as well as Peter himself.

But on the other hand…isn’t this pretty dumb?

Peter and Mary Jane have completely different body builds. According to official stats, Peter is 2 inches taller than her and weights nearly 50 pounds more than her. Then of course you have the fact that Spider-MAN has a MALE body shape and Mary Jane has a FEMALE body shape. And what about the dialogue? How is MJ supposed to convincingly pull off Charlie’s voice?

Oh, sure Beck’s skills are more than capable of faking the difference. But what is the point?

Why use Mary Jane when you could just use any of the actual men on set?

Master Matrix is in that very scene. His body build might not be identical to Spider-Man’s, but it looks similar enough. Or at the very least it looks far more similar than MJ’s body build does.

In fairness, I don’t know much about Master Matrix, so maybe he’s not capable of the physical movements necessary for the job; he is a robot after all. But there are definitely, other  male crewmembers on set. The Kangaroo for example is an actual super villain, he’s literally battled Spider-Man and he also has a far similar body build to Spidey than MJ does.

One might argue that it’s not all about the body type though, they need someone who can act the part, deliver the dialogue. Except if that’s the case, why get MJ? She’s a talented actress but she’ll be wearing a mask, her facial acting will be moot. This means it will just boil down to her ability to voice act, but she is neither  trained VA nor would she believably sound like Charlie/Spider-Man. Realistically ‘McKnight’ would have to use technical wizardry to distort MJ’s voice into sounding like Charlie’s. That’s more than likely within his abilities (especially with master Matrix and HERBIE’s help). But you know what would be much easier? Having someone else dub over the footage!

That’d be a lot cheaper, easier and more dramatically effective than altering the vocal performance of the actor in the suit. In fact, given how the mask is realistically going to muffle the voice of the wearer, ADR would likely be employed anyway. If memory serves I think they have done that in every real life Spider-Man film since 2002. Hell, Darth Vader  was brought to life with a suit and a voice performance.

The point is Beck wouldn’t need  someone in the suit who can deliver dialogue great, so why not get someone with a closer body build?

Shit, if he’s employed so much of his illusionary skills anyway, why not just fake Spider-Man himself? Jesus, Christ he could just make a Spider-Man robot if he wanted or dress up one of the X-Men robots from issue #1.

Or he  could play Spider-Man himself. He literally did that in his first ever appearance!

No matter how you slice it, this is yet another interesting idea Williams fails to sufficiently justify.

Moving on, remember how the worst thing Charlie did was call MJ delusional? Remember how Beck took this as an immense insult? Yeah, well he immediately does the same thing on the next page.

Beck explains he’s very uncomfortable with MJ playing that role. MJ retorts that it’s just one scene and since audiences would be none the wiser it wouldn’t affect her character’s arc. She starts to suggest Beck use his illusions to affect the change but Beck interjects that that’d be cheating and would ruin the authenticity of his work. MJ counters that she’s the most ‘authentic connection to Spidey’ Beck will find.

Beck accepts MJ’s offer. He reminisces that MJ was supposed to play his love interest, a version of someone he wanted to exalt. He then acknowledges MJ has become the saving grace of the movie, making her the second  woman who had the ‘misfortune’ of believing in him. He further elaborates that they’ve strayed so far from his original vision for the film, he sometimes questions if it’s even the same movie.  MJ reassures him that he’s just pivoted.

While this conversation is happening, Mallorie is dealing with another issue. Sonny Diperna has been running late because the paparazzi were tipped off about his inclusion. As a result he can’t get close to the set’s location without revealing it’s location. Mallorie turns to Screwball who launches several remote controlled drones.

A few things to unpack from these pages.

The first is that MJ has it in mind for Beck to use his illusions to finish the scene; something Beck ultimately agrees to. If they were just going to use illusions anyway why do they need MJ specifically to finish the scene? Again they could just get any of the male actors, extras or staff members to fill in.

Shit, they could get Screwball  to do it. These pages depict her acrobatic prowess; and weren’t the first to do so. Additionally she’s actually faced off against Spider-Man herself. Between the two of them Screwball is far more qualified than MJ in recreating Spider-Man’s movements and physical prowess. Her on set job also isn’t something necessary to film a scene. If she were in charge of lighting or the cameraperson then that’d be one thing. But she could almost do her job between takes or hand over her responsibilities to someone else temporarily.

MJ’s justification that she is the most authentic connection to Spider-Man is a moot point. Yeah, she has more of a connection to Spider-Man than anyone on set…and? Charlie had 0 connection to the real Spider-Man, and yet he was cast in the role and ideally would be finishing the movie. What on Earth does MJ’s personal connection to Spider-Man have to do with anything?

It can’t be some nonsense about her being able to act well in the scene. Again, realistically she’d be dubbed over and/or her voice would be distorted affecting any vocal performance she’d give. Not to mention her job wouldn’t be to draw upon her personal knowledge of Peter. It’d be to do what Beck would want of her, to bring his  vision of Spider-Man to life. At the same time her job would be to synch up as best as she could with Charlie’s performance in all the other scenes. She isn’t creating her take on Spider-Man from the ground up, therefore her ‘authentic connection’ is meaningless.

Also isn’t MJ smart to be hinting to the incredibly clever trickster that she’s got a personal connection to Spider-Man. It’s not like he could research her, learn she’s has (and has had in the past) long-term relationships with Peter Parker.

You know, that guy who famously took Spider-Man’s pictures for the longest time and created Spider-Man’s tech and had Spider-Man as his bodyguard when he ran Parker Industries. If you accept the (BS) post-OMD explanation that everything happened the same way but Pete and MJ just weren’t married then that means Beck could learnt his stuff with Google. This is evidenced by Marvel Knights: Spider-Man #1, wherein literal school children were able to look up Peter and learn about his relationship with Mary Jane.

Mary Jane realistically should already be wary of Beck handpicking her for the movie anyway. She should already suspect that that had something to do with her connection to Spidey. Not only did Williams ignore that, but now she’s just having MJ outright wink to Beck that she has a connection to Spider-Man. That’s not endangering herself, her family, her friends or Spidey’s identity now is it?

Let’s talk about Mysterio. So his dream was to make this biopic about himself. He’s got only a little time to make it before he is literally dragged back to Hell. He envisions it as his magnum opus. A chance to be forgiven by the masses and to make amends to his old flame Betsy. And he’s you know…super egotistical and selfish. His history reveals that to us. His original origin entails him wanting to steal Spider-Man’s limelight by framing him. A revised origin entails him feeling pushed aside in spite of his talent.

So is he really  going to compromise this much? Is he really going to so drastically revise the role of the one woman he arguably ever loved to this extent?

The answer is Hell no.

Remember when Beck assaulted someone in the first issue because they insulted his ego?

Remember when he delivered a grand speech about the meaning of art in issue #2?

Is he really  going to allow something so important to him be distorted this much? Is he really going to just meekly accept questioning if it’s even his vision anymore?

Again, Hell no, that’s not in character.

And MJ’s rationale is totally nonsensical from Beck’s POV. The whole point of MJ’s character was wrapped up in Beck’s affections for the real life woman she was playing. But now her role is totally unrecognizable from how he began. That’s not a pivot, it’s a wholesale change. Or at least, that’s how Beck would view it.

In the best-case scenario, we could interpret his attitude as evidence of insincerity. As in, he wasn’t actually all that hung up on ‘exalting’ Betsy. At which point MJ should be on her toes and concerned about how genuine he’s been about anything else. Then again she should’ve been at least wary long before now.

As for the other story thread in these pages, we’ll get to that in a little while.

On the next age, Diperna is confused as to who Screwball is. The paparazzi are following his car in several cars. That’s when Screwball’s drones show up and dazzle them with some flashing lights of their own.

Sonny’s confusion over Screwball is itself confusing because he was literally in the same scene as her in the last issue.

Additionally, it’s incredibly  dangerous to blind any drivers with flashing lights under any circumstances. Shit, when I was learning to drive it was drilled into me how dangerous it would be to be dazzled by another car and how to avoid accidentally dazzling them myself. Here Screwball is deliberately  dazzling three cars. Some of them have open tops and people practically hanging out of them unbuckled.

And on top of that they are clearly moving at speed, around a bend on some kind of upward slope. Accidentally dazzling them with regular car headlights would be a recipe for disaster. Here though, Screwball is using at least six drones to deliberately dazzle them. You can tell from the art and sound effects that one of the cars had to make an abrupt stop. We don’t know if the riders incurred any injuries from that alone but it would’ve been all too easy. Frankly it was really lucky no one was seriously hurt.

I guess you could justify this in a case of self-defence, but the paparazzi were not endangering Sonny’s life. Not unless you argue their cameras were themselves dazzling his driver. But it’s not clear that that was happening and even if it was, that’s not a justification for what Screwball did. Not to mention he could have ended any jeopardy the paparazzi posed by simply stopping the car, getting out and answering their questions. Sure he’d be late, but it’s a lot safer than the alternative. Besides he was already late and it’s publicity for the film.

I’m not suggesting this was out of character for Screwball. But I am saying MJ has just seen a criminal do something extremely  dangerous for no justifiable reason. Bu rights her judgement should no longer be reserved about Screwball as it was last issue. Not that it ever should have been. She should be telling Beck to get rid of her or at least try to keep her under control somehow.

Somehow I doubt that will happen.

By the way, the paparazzi are yelling at Diperna during the car chase…why? Neither he nor they could possibly hear one another in that situation.

I am going to leave it there for now as the next few pages are so bad I’ve decided to dedicate a whole post just to them before continuing onto the rest of the issue.

Previous Part

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Master Post

[vulcan-highblood]

Fashion God - Part 1

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia / My Hero Academia

Pairing: Gen??  Characters: Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku Summary: Izuku desperately wants to be a fashion designer, but can’t find a model who will wear his clothes. Izuku is shocked when a crude blonde boy mysteriously appears in his room to “help” him achieve his dream. It can’t possibly be that simple! [A/N:  This turned out longer than expected. I basically did a timed-write, and here’s what I came up with in an hour. I’m planning to go back and finish this with another timed write or two, so for now, enjoy part 1.  This story was prompted by a lovely anon, but I did adapt it slightly to fit the idea I ended up having. I hope you enjoy it! It’s a pretty out-there AU, but I’m happy with it.]

Midoriya Izuku loved fashion. He loved it more than life itself, as could be attested by the deep bags under his eyes and his poor fingers, which had been stabbed by needles so many times that he was pretty sure he had built up scar tissue. Izuku wanted nothing more than to make it big in the fashion world, but he was from a small town in the middle of nowhere. He read all the magazines, watched videos of his favorite designers, and used whatever materials he could get his hands on in his backwater town. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find anyone to wear his clothes. He’d offered to sew for his mom, he’d offered to make costumes for the school festival, he’d tried countless times to get anyone to model for him, but the only person he’d ever found that was willing to wear his clothes was… well, himself.

It wasn’t fair, but that was the way the world worked, sometimes. He just needed some way to get attention! Once he could capture the hearts and imaginations of the fashion world, he’d be able to share his vision with the world. But for now, he sewed alone in his room, wishing things could be different.

And then, he saw the announcement. Yagi Toshinori, the designer who created the world’s current top brand, AllMight, was looking for an intern. But rather than go to the fashion schools, he was opening the internship up to anyone willing to submit a fashion line that they felt embodied who they were as an artist, and submitted photos online. It was his chance! But Izuku found himself facing the same challenge as always - no models. 

Despite the setback, Izuku decided he’d just model all the clothes himself. That would be fine, right? It wouldn’t be as nice as he’d like, but hopefully his clothes would speak for him. Throwing himself into his work, Izuku began researching, trying to decide what his theme would be. AllMight’s designer, Yagi, had urged competitors to “make their story”, and tell him something only they could share. Izuku wasn’t sure how he could do that, but he thought that trying to tell a story would be interesting. He just had to decide what story that would be.

Google told him that story writing was all about writing from experience. But Izuku had only just graduated middle school, he didn’t have much in the way of life experience to share. Still. He had been rejected, frustrated, and abandoned at every turn by people who claimed to support his dream but were never really willing to put in the work to help him. He knew what it felt like to be abandoned or forgotten. Sometimes, facing this challenge made him feel like a lone warrior, staring down a terrible horde of demons.

So he decided trying an interpretation on “old and new”, drawing on inspiration from old Japanese mythology, artistic motifs, and fashion. There was lots there - beautiful angles, layers on layers, coarse fabrics and smooth silk, princesses, castles, warriors, generals… He spent hours poring over his history textbooks from school, then any books he could find on ancient lore. He looked at books of art, trying to get a feel for the way clothes and fashion had developed in ancient Japan. He began to draw up designs for how to transition these looks from ancient Japan to the modern-day catwalk. He pinned, he sketched, he wandered through museums, and borrowed library books, throwing himself into the design process with fervor. 

He prayed as he worked, begged any god that might be listening to please, please let him win this contest, let his designs show enough potential, let him be enough, let him finally leave his small town behind and show his ideas on a world stage.

He needed a miracle to pull this off.

“Do you know how much a miracle fucking costs these days, kid?” came a drawling voice from behind him.

With a shriek of terror, Izuku dropped his sketchbook and whirled around to face the strange figure that was standing in the middle of his bedroom. “Who are you?” he demanded, shrinking back in his chair. “What do you want?”

“Who am I?” the young man snapped, pointing to himself, shooting Izuku a disgusted look. “You’re seriously asking that?”

“You just appeared in my house!” Izuku protested, “I think it’s a reasonable question!”

“Fucking look at me,” the man - or was he a boy? It was hard to tell, Izuku realized with a frown - gestured to himself. He was clothed in baggy shorts and a tank top. He looked like a kid who wore what was comfortable and still looked good wearing it, but that probably wasn’t what he’d meant for Izuku to notice when he’d said it. 

“What am I looking for?” Izuku asked, beginning to feel like he was on trial in his own bedroom.

“I -” the young man - kid - boy - whatever - glanced down at himself and did a double-take. “Oh, what the fuck?” he snapped, looked back up at Izuku, down at himself, and sighed, flopping on Izuku’s bed. “This just got complicated.”

“What do you mean?” Izuku asked, glad to be feeling less threatened but instead finding himself 100% more confused. 

“Here’s the thing,” the kid sat up, his scarlet eyes fixing on Izuku as he ran a hand through pale blond spikes. “I’m a god.”

~~*~~

Normally, when Katsuki appeared to a supplicant, they fell down on their face and got real chummy. Not this moron. Oh no, he was too busy fixing Katsuki with a concerned look. 

“Right…” the boy said, carefully fumbling on his desk for his phone. “Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have a family?”

Katsuki shut his eyes briefly to resist the urge to light the room on fire. “No, I’m here for you. Because you called me.” And because he’d fucked up, but he wasn’t going to be telling this green kid that, because it would seriously damage his reputation as a powerful god, and Katsuki was not about that shit. 

Green-haired kid narrowed his equally green eyes. “I didn’t call anyone, I can prove it, let me open my call log.”

“Not like that,” Katsuki snapped, standing once more so that he could gesture more dramatically. It felt good to gesture. He hadn’t appeared to a mortal for some time, he’d forgotten how fun it was to gesture at them. “You prayed. Here I am. Answering your prayer.” He struck a pose.

The green kid blinked. “I’m confused.”

He sure as hell seemed to be confused. Most people these days were, since they seemed to forget so easily that their prayers were going somewhere. Half the time Katsuki suspected that people prayed just to hear themselves talk, not because they actually expected divine intervention. Which was bullshit. Because the gods were fucking busy, and didn’t deserve to get a bunch of bullshit calls from people who didn’t have the faith and conviction to really appreciate the work that went into answering their prayers. That was one reason why appearing to a petitioner felt so satisfying - giving that hard evidence of work in the spirit world so that they had to give credit where credit was due. 

“Did you, or did you not, visit a temple literally yesterday?” Katsuki reminded him.

“But that’s because my mom wanted to finish her pilgrimage,” the green kid protested, “I just… prayed because… she said to…”

Katsuki watched the understanding dawn slowly across the dumb kid’s face.

“Wait. So you came because I prayed at the temple yesterday?”

“Hell yeah I did!” and because he’d been fucking forced to come because of some paperwork bullshit, but the kid didn’t need to know that. “So I’m here to help you achieve your dream.”

“...oh,” the kid said slowly, “Well, I mean, what I need most is models. Can you, um. Hire fashion models for me?”

Katsuki blinked. “I’m sorry, you prayed for fashion models?” 

Green kid blinked back at him. “I thought you were here to answer my prayer. How do you not know what I asked for?”

Because he hadn’t been paying attention to it. And because he hadn’t thought it would matter, yesterday, when he’d been collecting the prayers from the temple. Turns out it had mattered. A lot. “I just thought you were aiming small because your faith was weak. But you could just ask to, you know, win the contest. I can do that.”

Green kid shook his head, unruly hair flying. “That’s not fair, I want to win because I deserve it, not because I got some god to do it for me.”

Katsuki wanted to point out that he was rather simplifying a complex process and since basically everything happened due to some deity’s influence, what did it really matter which deity was doing the influencing? But he also didn’t want to bother explaining that. So instead he just sighed. “So what do you want?”

“I told you,” Green kid said, “I want models to wear the clothes in my fashion line.”

“I can do that,” Katsuki said. He’d have the models ready for this kid quick as could be, and then he’d be back in the heavenly realms and free of this detail-oriented bullshit for another decade. Simple.

He should have known better. Nothing was ever that easy.

[starlling-writes]

Turn Around

- Neutral Human x Neutral Monster (not really romantic, but some suggestions of it) - Dark-ish fantasy - 3,700 words - Teen [PG-13] - Contains: swearing; mild instances of violence; mild suggestive themes; ambiguous ending – potential suicidal interpretation; trypophobia mention (when you read the line, “Tonight we were watching a random monster B-movie,” skip to the next paragraph to avoid the description) - Inspired by this prompt [pictured below] from @write-it-motherfuckers​ - Writing Masterlist

My first memory of the rule was when I was a toddler and my parents were teaching me how to turn around. If I turned to the side, I just had to keep my focus straight ahead. If I turned more than ninety degrees, then I had to close my eyes, turn, and only when I was facing the direction I needed to go could I open my eyes again.

Back then it didn’t seem an odd thing to specifically teach a child. I was an infant—incapable of the cognition to ask such questions. But they taught me that I couldn’t carelessly turn around. They taught me it was rude and wrong to just glance over my shoulder.

Just before my fifth birthday, my parents were dead strict about one rule: I must never look behind me. It’s a matter of life and death, they’d lecture but never explained any more than that. I could still look in mirrors and use cameras and such. It was only direct observation behind myself that I couldn’t do.

They tested me, calling to me from behind on the days leading up to my birthday. But by then their teachings were so ingrained in me. It instantly became clear how serious I needed to treat this after I turned five. It also radically changed the kind of childhood I led.

My next day back at kindergarten was a disaster. Half the other kids started screaming, crying when I entered the classroom. No one would come close to me. The teacher did her best to calm them but it’s hard to sooth children when you yourself are so obviously unnerved and weary.

My parents started homeschooling me then.

It wasn’t all bad. For first grade, they set up a special stream of the classroom for me. It was almost like I was there. I could see everyone; they could see me on a screen. And no one screamed. They asked if I was a robot—I was just a face on screen and a voice over speakers—but they weren’t afraid of me. For classes like gym and art, special teachers came to our home.

It was lonely, never having anyone to play with now. But I favored the solitude to their cries.

To my parents’ chagrins, I became numb to everyone’s reactions rather quickly. It was only ever an issue around younger kids anyways. Most older children and adults could control themselves and keep their reactions to looks and quick excuses to leave.

As a teenager, I got cocky about whatever it was that everyone saw behind me. I pushed the boundaries of everything. I stayed out late and walked home alone. I snuck into concerts I was too young for. Every situation that I should have feared being in, I sought out. No one ever messed with me; and that gave me a small invincibility complex.

When I was seventeen, I finally had my first experience in love. I was at some horror punk show and this guy kept looking over at me all night and smiling. It was weird, but it was a nice change from the looks of fright and aversion. When the bands were switching out he approached me and started flirting with me. I was so taken aback that someone was showing interest in me that I didn’t give any thought about if I was actually attracted to him—I wasn’t in a position to be picky. We talked and danced all night. After the event closed, we loitered in the parking lot. He even kissed me.

It was the best night of my life. But then he asked me something that was… just wrong.

“So uh, did you sell your soul to that thing or something?”

“What?”

“That freaky thing behind you,” he gestured around me. “Have you ever killed someone with it?”

It became quickly clear that he wasn’t interested in me at all. I thought I had noticed his gaze drifting behind me throughout the night; but I had written it off as him enjoying the event. The questions became more invasive as I fumbled around noncommittal answers.

Then he got aggressive. Being even less accustomed to physical contact with people, I flipped out. I screamed and shut my eyes and flailed. I fell on the ground and scurried until I felt grass. I got up and looked back at where the asshole and I had been talking. He was lying prone on the ground. Silent. Unmoving. Half of me wanted to see what happened to him. The other half wanted to run home and forget I ever met him.

The latter side won.

Back home, I crept into the bathroom. I stripped to my underwear and braced my hands on either side of the sink, doing my best to calm down. It was stupid to think someone had genuine interest in me. I glared at my reflection. Like always, I saw nothing behind me. “The fucking hell are you?” I mumbled aloud.

If you want to know so badly, look and see.

I jumped back and almost, almost, looked over my shoulder at the sudden new voice. It could speak? It was sentient? My heart was thundering like a herd of wild mustangs. All this time I could talk to it. Why had my parents never mentioned that? It took me a minute to find my ability to speak. “What… what’s your name?”

It chuckled impishly, the sound moving from my right side to my left. So many years, and now you ask?

“I didn’t know I could talk to you,” I defended. “You’ve been with me most my life; you should know I haven’t been told anything about you even when I asked.”

It simply hummed affirmatively.

“What will happen if I look at you?” I wasn’t expecting to get an answer but I had to ask.

Turn and find out.

As I figured. Now that my shock subsided, I turned on the faucet. “Why are you following me?” I splashed water on my face as I waited for its answer, but I didn’t receive one. I patted my face dry then went to my room. “Am I cursed?”

—“Did my parents make a deal with a demon or something?”

—“Do you hate having to follow me?”

—“How old are you?

Each question I came up with was met with silence. It was a jerk move considering the thing gave my crap not even five minutes ago for never talking to it before. I grabbed a pillow off my bed and chucked it behind me. It let out a single snort. I sighed in defeat and curled up on the window seat, staring out at the view I’d grown to hate over the years.

“Are you lonely too?”

Just when I thought I’d still get only silence, it responded. At times.

It was a bit weird, but I was happy to hear its answer. Then an urge came over me. It had been so long since I had a connection with someone—I was not counting tonight with that creep. Maybe, just maybe, we could at least be friendlier. “What would you like me to call you?”

Why are you persistent to learn about me?

“Why not?” I shrugged. “We’re stuck together. You’ve had no choice in learning things about me. And I doubt you get an opportunity to chat with other… whatever you are.”

It—they? I didn’t know how to address it/them—was silent again. What did it say that even the monster that followed me didn’t want to be my friend? I shut my eyes and started playing music in my mind.

Zastrozuth.

 From that night on, Zastrozuth and I grew closer. They weren’t the most talkative, but neither was I. Now their presence held a level of comfort. And when I moved away from home, I didn’t feel lonely.

Zas was great at helping me hang things straight. They also helped me when I was too indecisive to make a choice on dinner, or on my outfit. While we only had little moments like this, they were the deepest connections I had ever had. I cherished them.

Perhaps a bit too much, as the years went on.

It was a rainy, autumn evening. I was home watching movies with Zas. Tonight we were watching a random monster B-movie. The FX makeup was pretty on point, which made me cringe and gag a bit when a trypophobic’s nightmare showed up oozing slime out of its many holes. I didn’t have that phobia but this thing—yeesh! Anyone would be creeped out by it.

While imagining what touching that monster would feel like, my thoughts ended up drifting to Zas. What did they feel like? Were they furry, or scaly, or slimy? I wasn’t even sure if they had a physical form. Presumably, they were a phantom following behind me; but that doesn’t mean they were always like that.

“Can I touch you?” I absently asked before I could stop myself. The moment the words left my lips I cringed and clarified, “Like, if I reached behind me right now—would I feel you?”

No.

“Oh.” I should have guessed. But like with all the questions I had about Zas, I had to ask—my curiosity about them was unrelenting.

Then they asked, Do you want to touch me?

Heat rose to my cheeks. The way they said it just sent my mind straying towards red lights. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I defended.

Like what?

Nope. I was not playing that game. They might not be able to control the way their voice made the words sound, but they’d been in this world long enough to understand the implications of their wording. Maybe it was my lack of human interaction that made it feel… intimate. Regardless, the idea joined the many curiosities I had about Zas.

This was not how movie night was supposed to go!

“Never mind,” I said, no longer wanting to be in this conversation. “It was just a random question that came to mind.” I shouldn’t have asked. I adjusted and snuggled deeper into the couch cushion. This movie was failing to grab my attention anymore.

I can ask.

“Huh?”

While you sleep. I can ask if there is a way.

“Oh. Um… Sure, I guess. You don’t have to, but it’s up to you,” I floundered. So many more questions flooded my mind. But I kept them all to myself. As much as I wanted to learn more, I would never know much about Zastrozuth. It was for the best. Probably.

When I woke up the next morning, I already wanted it to be over. “Morning, Zas,” I yawned.

You did not rest well.

“Nope.” My straying thoughts had kept me awake for hours. Then I had unnerving dreams that I couldn’t remember the details of now but left a haunting impression. It didn’t help when I remembered what we had talked about last night. I stretched then curled back up on my side, tugging my blanket up to my chin. I didn’t expect to feel this anxious. “Any news?”

It could be done. But it would require manifesting on your plane.

“And what would that mean exactly?”

I’m unaware if I’ll be able to demanifest afterwards. If I can’t, you’d see me in mirrors and cameras.

“Would… would that trigger the thing? If I saw you that way—would that still count?”

I am unaware.

“I see.” So either things could stay how they are, or I could give up mirrors and selfies so I could touch them. Then I realized something else. “Would it be difficult for you to follow me if you manifested?”

There was a pause before they answered.

It would be an adjustment.

“So yes,” I sighed. I sat up and scratched my head, frustrated by this decision. I kicked off my blanket and started to get ready for the day.

This would be a major decision.

Zas didn’t bring it up again, but it weighed heavy on my mind the rest of the morning. I tried to push it from my thoughts but it would creep back up. “What do you think?” I suddenly asked them.

Think of what?

“About the manifesting thing. Is it even something you’d want?”

They took their time thinking it over then finally exhaled in a frustrated, overthinking manner. I am not sure.

“Well if it’s something that you don’t want, I’m not going to ask it of you. If you ever decided that you’d like to, then we can talk about it more then. Sound good?”

Their gentle breath on my neck made me shiver. It wasn’t often they were close enough for me to feel their presence. You’re an odd human.

“You’re only noticing this now?” I snickered. Their answering growl made me laugh more.

A few years later, I found a cheap, little house in the middle of nowhere to rent. It was ironic that I sought such solitude now when I had despised it as a kid. But this solitude was different. This house was mine. In this space, I had no worries. Unlike with my previous apartments, I didn’t have neighbors—no one around to side-eye me. This solitude was freedom.

On a gorgeous, sunny day, I decided to venture down to the lake that was a short bike ride away. A couple of the locals had houses along its perimeter but they were spaced out enough that I didn’t feel worried about anyone seeing and bothering Zas and me. The water was still on the nippy side but I swam anyway—or rather, awkwardly doggy-paddled since I never had lessons.

Swimming didn’t last long. Between my lack of athleticism and the chilly waters, I soon retreated to my towel on the shore. “Hey, Zas?” I asked while sunning myself.

Yes?

“Do you ever think about that one question I had asked?”

Be specific or I will eat you.

I snorted, unfazed by their dark humor. “About touching,” I said. The creepy feel of seaweed brushing my legs when I was swimming brought my train of thought back to that question. I wiggled my toes in the sand while I waited for their answer.

A time or two.

“And your thoughts?” I cautiously asked.

This wasn’t the first time I had thought about it since the night I asked. I wouldn’t admit it, but it was partially why I moved here; why I didn’t have stainless steel appliances; why the bathroom mirror was the only one in the house. It was all in case Zas manifested and reflections of them now triggered the spell between us.

Do… you still desire it?

I was not ready for that, so I deflected. “That’s not an answer.”

They gruffly sighed. The longer they didn’t answer, the more I wished I hadn’t brought it up. Then…

Say the word.

A shiver pulsed through me. Was this really happening? This precipice we now danced on made my heart thunder in my ears. I took a deep breath to try to calm it. “Do it.”

The gentle breeze that had been dancing around us swelled into a dizzying gust. For a moment, it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I shut my eyes and waited.

The wind stilled. I could feel Zas’s shadow over me, blocking the sun from my back. Their breath ruffled my hair. I reached my hand slightly behind me, my fingers splayed.

They took my hand.

It was foolish how giddy it made me feel. Then again, I was touched starved for nearly all my life. Whatever this was probably wouldn’t be healthy under normal circumstances. But my life, and our relationship, was far from it.

“How does it feel?”

Strange. But… not in a bad way.

That night, I slept curled in their large arms.

Exactly eight days later, the first incident occurred. Zas and I were walking to get the mail. I didn’t notice anything, but when they told me to stop, I did.

Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you.

Again, I obeyed without question. My anxiety rocketed as I strained to hear something, anything, that could give me a clue to what was going on. Nothing. There was nothing for so long. “Zas?” I whispered.

No answer.

Panic began settling in. Did they leave me? What was happening? What if something happened to them? My chest tightened as endless questions rushed through my mind. I feared the worse. It was tempting to open my eyes, but I kept them such as Zas ordered. I had to have faith in them. I had to…

Heavy panting rumbled behind me, making me jump. For all my desire to hear anything again, I wasn’t thrilled with getting my wish now. Something thick squelched on the ground—drool? Blood? Something more unsettling? I trembled with each vicious breath I heard.

You may look now.

The breath I was holding shuddered out of me. “What happened? You sound hurt.”

It was a moment before they answered, as if they needed to muster the strength to talk. Some creatures… reavers, appeared. I have dealt with them.

“You’ve never mentioned them before.”

They’ve never been around before.

“Why now?—oh…” The moment I asked, the obvious answer popped in my head. Zas was corporeal. I cleared my throat. “So this is one of the consequences, huh?”

There might be another reason. However, that seems the likeliest case.

“And let me guess—there’s no way to stop them from coming?”

No.

“Fuckin’ great,” I muttered, then continued on with the original reason we were out here. I hated the thought of Zas needing to fight off creatures for me. It trudged up all the guilt I’ve felt about asking them to manifest. What else was going to happen now?

In the coming days and nights, more creatures were drawn to us. Zas took care of them all. Horrors plagued my dreams and I’d scream myself awake. Zas held and calmed me until I could sleep again. I started jumping at little sounds. Silence was equally unnerving. Zas did what they could to settle my nerves, but the bit of peace never lasted.

After a few months of this, I had had enough. Then I came up with a plan.

I called up my parents. It had been a bit since we last caught up. I told them all about the house and how I loved being out here. I left out Zas becoming physical, and the other creatures now drawn to us. They would only worried.

“So um—I called because I need you guys to come watch my house for a bit. Can you do that?”

“I have to request off,” mom slowly started, notably concerned. “But sure. We can do that honey.”

“Thanks. Just let me know when you can make it and I can get everything ready.”

Mom dragged the conversation out long enough that, after I hung up, I groaned and face-planted onto the couch.

If talking to your parents is so exhausting, why invite them here?

“Like I said on the phone—I need them to watch the house.”

And why is that?

“You’ll see,” I chirped. It was a surprise. One that even I wasn’t sure how would play out.

 I waited outside on the day my parents were to arrive. The late-summer sun blazed overhead, though the winds of a coming storm blew softly through the trees. Hopefully my parents would get here before it hit.

I drummed my fingers on the hood of my car. It had been years since my parents last saw me—saw Zas. How would they react now? Hopefully, they wouldn’t notice they’re physical. That was why I waited by my car, so Zas could already be inside, prepared to go.

When they arrived, Mom talked a bunch while Dad remained mostly silent. He kept glancing at Zas—could he tell? Mom, on the other hand, seemed to avoid looking at Zas and me all together. At least neither of them tried to fake that things were better than they were.

To everyone’s relief, I didn’t draw the moment out. I said my goodbyes, got in my car and drove off towards town.

But, I never made it to town.

Halfway down to the main road, I pulled over next to a field. Without a word to Zas, I got out and walked into the tall grass. Closing my eyes, I turned my face up to the sky and spun around in a couple circles. I soaked in the moment. “I’m ready,” I murmured.

For?

I opened my eyes and gazed at the pure blue sky striated by thin, wispy clouds. I couldn’t have asked for a more poetically beautiful day. I reached back until my hand found theirs, our fingers naturally entwining. “To look.”

There was a long pause. Are you sure?

“Yes.” I explained all my thoughts from over the past few months; about the letter I left my parents telling them about my decision. That was the real reason I asked them to come. Since I didn’t know what was going to happen, I left my keys there and the details for my personal accounts just in case. It had been a challenge to arrange everything without tipping Zas off to my plan. I didn’t think they would try to dissuade me, per se. But this… this wasn’t something I had wanted any input on.

“So since I’m going to look at you, can you tell me what’s going to happen?”

They chuckled. No.

I shrugged. “Worth a shot.” I took a long, steadying breath. “If this is my last moment, I just wanna say that I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

Me too, little one.

I felt their touch brush my arm. The butterflies I had settled. The things I feared all my life no longer worried me. After everything we had been through, I trusted them.

I turned around and looked at Zastrozuth.

— — —

Masterlist

[momentofmemory]

fictober - day thirty-one

Prompt #31: “Scared, me?”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe (Spider-Man/Tom Holland Films, Captain America)

Characters: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones (mention)

Words: 2917

Author’s Note: i have been patiently waiting for an opportunity to pair these two all month, and today i happened to see a still from ffh that showed art supplies in peter’s room and just. bam. practically 3k. having also done inktober this month, this serves neatly to combine the two. oh—and this occurs about 4-5 months post endgame.

>>Brooklyn & Queens (don’t throw shade, draw it)

Signing up for Ms. Hart’s Drawing I class is the most singularly idiotic thing Peter’s ever done, and considering he accidentally hitched a ride into space four months ago, that’s saying a lot.

It all started when he found Ben’s old film camera in the storage boxes they’d gotten post-Blip. He’d showed it to MJ—it’s artsy and it’s old, so she was sure to know what to do with it—and she’d looked at him with her usual level of curiosity disguised as ambivalence.

“You know Midtown’s offering a Darkroom Photography class next Fall, right?”

Peter didn’t know that, but once he did it was all he could think about.

He brings it up to his guidance counselor, and while she’s surprised by his interest, she tells him he can fit it into his schedule—but only if he takes the spring semester drawing class to meet the prerequisites.

It’s that fateful decision that leads to him sitting in Yellowstone Park for two hours straight, trying and failing to translate the still life from this morning’s class onto the paper in front of him.

He holds his pencil at arm’s length and tilts it to the side, one eye closed. He’s not entirely sure how that’s supposed to help, but it’s what all the artists in the movies do, so he figures it’s worth a shot.

The image looks just as small and useless as it did before.

(Although to be fair, that might be because it’s a photograph on a 4.7 inch phone screen, and not an actual, full-sized object.)

Peter wishes MJ were here—he’d initially picked the park because MJ said she’d help him figure out lighting, but she’d gotten caught up in some kind of decathlon prep right as they were leaving school. He hasn’t heard a word from her since, so he’s honestly given up on the idea of her coming at this point.

Peter groans and flops back onto the grass, notebook falling onto his chest and arm across his eyes.

“I should have stayed Blipped.”

He’s fully intending on lying there until nature takes over and he’s turned into ant food, when he’s interrupted by an elderly gentleman’s voice.

“You all right there, son?”

“Only questioning my own mortality for want of a stable light source—” Peter halts mid sentence, realizing the voice sounded weirdly familiar.

Peter lowers his arm from his face and finds himself staring into the eyes of none other than Captain Steven G. Rogers himself.

“Holy shi—” Peter nearly punches a hole in the ground with the amount of force he exerts in leaping to his feet. “—shingles. Holy shingles. Sir.”

He only just remembered that one story Mr. Stark used to tell about the language thing, but Captain Rogers just seems amused by his slip up.

“Sorry if I scared you there, Queens.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye that makes Peter wonder if he didn’t do it on purpose, but he feels the need to defend himself either way. “Scared? Me? No no no no, I was just… cold.”

It’s seventy-five degrees in the shade, and Peter’s been sitting directly in the sun since he got here.

He shoves his notebook behind him with his foot and brushes non-existent grass off his jeans. “Um, anyway, what’re you—what’re you doing out here? I mean, not that you need a reason, since it’s a public park and you’re part of the public I guess, I mean you’re like half of the reason the public is even still here, so, uh—”

Cap looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and Peter wishes the ground would swallow him whole if only to get him to stop talking. “—what I mean is that I uh, I didn’t realize you were still hanging around in New York, Captain Rogers. America. Sir.”

He’s not entirely sure what the ex-super soldier’s official designation is these days, but Cap just starts to sit down on the grass, gesturing for Peter to do the same.

“Just Steve is fine,” he says, legs folded cross-legged under him. “Pretty sure Sam’ll kill us both if he hears you referring to anyone but him as Captain America now. He’s pretty taken with the new title.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Peter crosses his own legs and twiddles his thumbs. The politics of legacy heroes must be wild. He makes a note to never let anyone go by Spider-Man except himself.

“So can I… help you?”

Even as Peter asks, he can feel his throat seizing up at the thought. Before Thanos, he’d have given anything to team up with Captain America, but now…

Now, his heart’s accelerating from than just hero worship.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Steve’s looking at him closely, eyes strangely sharp for the hundred plus year old body they’re staring out of. “Actually, Tony asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Peter looks up in surprise. “Mr. Stark said that?”

“The words he used were a bit stronger, but yes,” Steve says. “Not that he needed to. Even if you’re from a trashy borough like Queens, you’re still a New York boy.”

Peter gasps in horror, tensions forgotten. “You’re literally from Brooklyn! That’s like, infinitely worse!”

“Not according to ExtraSpace.com, which ranks it as the best borough for housing.”

“Whoever taught you how to use the internet should be criminalized, sir.”

“Steve,” he repeats.

“Right. Steve.” The name still feels weighty on Peter’s tongue. “…If I’m Queens, can we make it even and I call you Brooklyn?”

Cap laughs, and Peter barely has time to think oh my god Captain America laughed at one of my jokes before he realizes the man’s nodding towards Peter’s sketchpad. “Tell you what, you can call me Brooklyn so long as you tell me what’s got you longing for death this evening.”

“Uh…” Peter flounders, trying to find a cooler way to say homework. “Just some bottles.”

Not cooler, Peter. Very, very not cooler.

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“By which I mean drawing bottles! Glass, still-life bottles. Totally kosher ones. Not like, alcohol ones.” Peter scrambles for his notebook. “I’m not legal yet.”

To his surprise, though, Steve holds out an open hand. “May I see?”

Peter turns red enough that if he looked in the mirror, he’d probably think he had his costume on. “…Sure?”

Steve takes the notebook from him and starts paging through it, lingering every so often to trace over his lines. Peter watches the other man’s gnarled hand to avoid thinking about the fact that Captain America was looking at his high school level, B graded sketchpad.

What even is his life.

The only benefit from Steve looking at his drawings is that it meant the other man’s eyes weren’t directly on him, and that lends Peter the courage to ask the question that’s been in the back of his mind ever since he first saw Steve’s white hair.

“…Did you really go back?”

Steve’s hand stills over a poorly done rendition of an onion skin. “By go back, I assume you mean ‘stay.’”

Peter’s not sure he hasn’t just walked into a dangerous topic, but he’s never been good at knowing when to stop. “Yeah.”

Steve nods in a way that makes Peter think he’s probably a lot like that, too. “Then yes.”

A young couple walk by a few yards away, but pay them no mind—Peter’s not in his costume, and the general public doesn’t know what happened to Steve. They could easily pass as just an average grandfather and grandson, enjoying a day in the park. Peter’s eyes follow them until he’s sure they’re out of earshot, anyway, then he turns his attention back to Steve.

“So that makes you like…” Peter pauses, quickly running the numbers in his head. “…A hundred and ten? A hundred and eighty if you count the ice?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches up. “Something like that.”

There’s a glint in Steve’s eyes that makes Peter think he might have wildly missed the mark; he stows that tidbit away for later. “Huh. Wow.”

Steve turns another page. “Does your professor know you’re drawing from photographs?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess?” Peter frowns, wondering how Steve could tell. “Does it matter?”

Steve hums, his brow furrowed in thought. “Camera lens aren’t the same as an eye—flattens the shapes differently. It can throw off the lighting, too.”

Peter tilts his head, then looks at his phone, still lying abandoned on the ground. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry.” Steve turns the page. “It’s a disadvantage when drawing, but it’s also the main advantage of actual photography. You can distort the world to fit the message you’re trying to tell.”

“Isn’t that lying?”

“All of art is a lie if you think it’s a direct interpretation of reality, Peter. The truth of art isn’t in always in what it depicts. It’s in how it depicts.”

Even though they’re his own drawings, Peter cranes his neck over Steve’s shoulder to look at his sketchbook. To him, they just look like the average still life. 

He wonders what Steve sees.

“How’d you know so much about art?”

“I was planning on being an art major, before the war,” Steve says. “And then I became one in 1957.”

Peter starts, eyes widening as Steve turns the page and finally reaches the sketches he’d been working on that afternoon. “You…”

He trails off, unsure of how to pursue that without offending the older super. Steve, for his part, says nothing further and just flips back and forth between Peter’s second and fourth failed attempt at the three-bottle composition.

Peter clears his throat. “When you—when you decided to go back. Was it hard?”

“Dr. Mortyn’s decision to grade on the curve was infuriating.”

Peter scowls; frustrated at what he can only assume is Steve being deliberately obtuse. “No, I mean—not being able to… change things.”

If Peter’s honest with himself, he’s both a little confused by and a little jealous of Steve’s decision. Confused, because he can’t imagine walking away from the fight when there’s still so much work to be done, can’t imagine going backwards in time when all he ever wants to do is move forward. But also jealous, because…

Because Peter’s tired, and he’s only been doing this for two years—if he’s tired now, then he can’t imagine how he’ll feel once he’s been doing this for as long as Cap did (if he makes it that long). Because Peter’s watched superheroes fight and die and sacrifice everything, and the memorials he passes in the street make him feel so small and insignificant that when he goes out on patrol, it makes him wonder if anything he’s doing really matters. Because he feels like he’s doing nothing right now but he’s terrified he’s going to be called on to do everything one day, and he’s just not sure he’s enough.

Steve finally reaches the last sketch in the notebook—the one Peter’d been working on before he’d given up on the whole thing. Steve looks at the forms for a long moment, then flips to the back of the book and carefully tears out a blank page.

“Where’s your pencil, Queens?”

“My—” Peter’s not entirely sure Steve isn’t just changing the subject on him, but he scrambles for the writing utensil regardless. He finds it and two more laying a few feet away, and gently blows an ant off the tip of the black one before offering it to Steve.

Steve accepts it, and starts sketching an outline of the composition.

“Your grasp of form is good,” he says, shapes quickly coming to life under his deft fingers. “Your proportions are mostly correct; there’s not too much difficulty on perspective. The composition is already set for you, so that’s no issue.”

He finishes the draft, still unshaded, and hands the sketchpad back to Peter. “So why do you keep redoing the same drawing?”

Peter looks between the sketched lines in Cap’s drawing and his own iterations. “Because they’re not the same?”

“The outlines are. Does the rest matter?”

“Well, yeah. Once you add in the shading…”

Peter flips through all the sketches he’d made today—one, two, five, seven; hundreds of eraser marks on all of them. They’re all wrong, but they’re all wrong just a little differently. One has light sources that seem to defy all the laws of physics, jumping in every which direction. Another has marks that were supposed to be highlights, but wound up being darker than the actual shadows. Still another has values that are so close together the shadows make the image look flatter than even Steve’s quick sketch.

He looks up at Steve. “It makes the final thing totally different.”

Steve smiles in response, and starts filling in his own sketch.

“Local colour is your biggest problem,” he says. “You’re trying to match everything to the colour your eye thinks it’s seeing in the photo—like in this one, where your darkest shadow on the white bottle is still brighter than the lightest highlight on the black bottle.”

“And that’s bad?” Peter frowns, catching his lip between his teeth, and starts his eighth version of the image while Cap continues.

“Not necessarily.” Steve runs the pencil over the edge of one of the bottles, darkening its side. “Shading is always a tricky thing. There’s a lot of things to pay attention to—shadows, highlights, halftones. Local colour. One of the most important rules is making sure your lightest dark is still darker than the darkest light.”

“Is that last one supposed to be a metaphor?”

“It wasn’t intended, but you can certainly take it that way.”

Peter hums in response, and moves on to outlining the second bottle. “So in my drawing, do I just ignore the colour?”

“The original context always matters,” Steve replies. He pauses to point out a discrepancy in one of Peter’s lines before continuing. “Your white bottle is always going to be whiter than the black one overall. But if you’ve got a highlight on both—that highlight’s the same. And if you’ve got a dark shadow on something, don’t be afraid to make it as dark as it needs to be to provide contrast.”

Peter nods, and after a few minutes, finishes his outline and starts shading. Steve offers pointers every so often, and he’s barely a quarter of the way through the first bottle before he can see a marked difference between this sketch and his last one.

“So,” Peter says eventually. “When I asked how you handled not being able to change things…”

Steve pauses, his pencil hovering above the page, and waits for Peter to finish. 

Peter looks down at his drawing and thinks about how it’s exactly the same as all the others, and yet totally different, too.

“…The answer is that you did.”

Steve smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling, and turns his attention back to his sketch. It’s all the confirmation Peter needs.

The scritch-scratch of pencil on paper fills Peter’s ears as he thinks about that revelation. Whatever Steve did, it can’t have been major—not in the universe-shaping, blatantly obvious kind of way he’s used to Avengers working. He wonders if it was enough.

Peter erases a shadow on the middle bottle he’s decided has gotten too dark, and then glances at Steve, who’s started adding all kinds of textures and details to his own drawing.

It’s clearly the same picture, but the art is something else entirely.

It’s enough.

Peter’s certain Steve has better things to do, but the retired soldier stays with him for another hour, either telling him stories about the Avengers or old school New York, or gently correcting something about his art form. By the time Peter’s done, the sketch isn’t great, per se, but it’s at least good. Steve helps Peter pack his things back up, and then hoists Peter to his feet with a strength that belies his older body.

Steve then hands Peter the drawing he’d made, and Peter almost refuses until he flips it over and sees that Steve’s written a phone number on the back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything, Queens. Including, but not limited to, more art lessons.”

Peter grins from ear to ear. “Thanks, Brooklyn. You too.”

The next morning, Peter turns in a drawing that still looks a little wonky, but it’s so dramatically improved from last time that MJ gives him a halfway impressed thumbs up, and it’s enough to make him take back every disparaging thing he’s said about the class.

That evening, Spider-Man heads out onto the streets with more excitement than he’s had in a long time.

He doesn’t do anything of a particularly groundbreaking nature—nothing that will change the outlines. There’re no aliens, no world-ending weapons, no last minute, jaw dropping rescues.

But there is Mr. Delmar, who needs help repainting the store sign that’s too high for him to reach. There’s a sixth grader, who’s putting up posters for her lost dog until he finds it eleven blocks away. There’s a would-be mugger, who’s had one too many bad days but Spider-Man listens to them all, and then helps him register at a homeless shelter.

It’s nothing so grand as saving the universe. It won’t get him shrines in the streets, or murals on skyscrapers, or even a mention in the paper.

But it’s something: a few more highlights, a little more definition, a bit more right in a world where there’s so much wrong.

And that, Peter decides, is not nothing.

[aelaer]

Fic excerpt

Ahhh so you can actually thank @ironstrange-is-the-endgame for this (and another 1000 words) being written tonight. She reblogged that prompt writing month thing and because I wrote almost nothing in July, I thought I'd use the prompts as a way to choose sections on my 5 multi chapter WIPs to work on as many days in August as possible, as I was really stuck in July and I think this has been a way to get unstuck. Today (well yesterday at this point) it was hurt/comfort so near death recovery scene.

Characters: Stephen and Tony

Backstory: This is part of the sequel to the Stephen meets his villain counterpart AU (Within the Shadows). Sequel is 6k and won't stop growing so. Stephen and Tony barely know each other at this point. Stephen is recovering from a near death in a facility with Tony's tech.

Warning for: Embarrassing situation that might happen while recovering from near death. Nothing graphic but it talks about bodily functions and it's not like Stephen would shy away from it lol. But for any who might, this may not be for you.

Note: First draft, unbetaed and very likely to see tweaking and changes in the future. Concrit (esp on Tony's voice) welcome.

-----------

Stephen eyed his surroundings again and quickly focused on an IV pole beside the bed. It was no longer in use, but it would make do as a support quite well.

His hands were annoyingly shaking more fervently than usual as he found and pressed the button that lowered the bed rails (convenient); he then reached over and rolled the pole to his side.

Now all he needed to do was turn his body, plant his feet on the floor, and take a dozen steps to the toilet. Easy. This was going to be easy.

By the time he had had his feet on the floor, beads of sweat were beginning to gather on his brow and he was entirely unsure how much longer his body could hold on in more than one sense of the word.

He gritted his teeth; he was Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts and Guardian of the New York Sanctum, and he would be damned before he let something as trivial as a bodily function get the best of him. He grabbed the IV pole as firmly as he could in his right hand, ignoring the pain that shot up his wrist and forearm at the force, inhaled deeply, then exhaled as he brought himself to his feet. His left hand latched onto the pole as he steadied himself. The pain in his left shoulder, abdomen, and hands were firmly ignored as he began to put one shaky foot forward.

By the third step, he wasn't sure if he was going to make it before his legs gave out.

By the fifth step, he was pretty certain he was going to collapse in the next two steps, but at this point he was ready to crawl (with all the good that would do, which was no good at all— but he was too stubborn to turn back at this point. There was probably a sliver more dignity in being found in one's own urine trying to crawl to the bathroom than being found in a bed covered in it. Not much dignity— very little, to be frank— but he had little to lose at this point in this rather miserable experience).

As his leg really began to buckle uncontrollably after step six, there was suddenly someone at his side taking up most of his body weight, and a quiet, "I've got you. Keep going, you're almost there," helped spur him forward. 

Then he was in the bathroom and the toilet and at that moment he had never been so grateful to be in a pantsless hospital gown in his entire life.

It was only after he was finished and he was making his way (being helped) to the sink that his weary mind realized that the person at his side was Tony Stark.

The water came on as he stuck his heavily trembling hands under the faucet. Stark held him steady. The soap was automatic, too; small mercies. Stephen took the time washing his hands to gather back some strength.

When he had enough to speak, he muttered, "I did not realize you were also a nurse in this universe."

"Found it helped build character," Stark retorted, but the tone was easy and non-judgemental.

Stephen swallowed and finally removed his hands from the water. Stark was ready with a towel. He carefully padded them dry, but otherwise his usual, ready retorts were dried away by the humiliating situation tempered by sheer exhaustion.

Stark filled in the silence. His light tone held a key of seriousness that Stephen could not quite interpret. "I took it up after Rhodey got paralyzed. Not full time or even part time, but sometimes he needed a friend and for whatever reason he doesn't blame me, though I'm partially to blame for all of it. I have no idea why I'm telling you this. Are you ready to walk again?"

He blinked, at a loss for words. "Yes," he finally answered, and he grabbed the IV pole as Stark helped him back to bed. When Stephen was laying down again and had recovered his breath, he said, "I was looking for a call button to get a nurse. Where are they?"

"One's asleep and I told the other to take a lunch. Midnight snack. Whatever." Stephen remembered Stark's words about keeping his being here on the down low and so did not ask about the limited number of nurses. Stark continued, "As for call buttons, we don't have them. I meant to tell you next time you woke up about FRIDAY, but I thought you'd sleep longer. Should've known better; doctors are supposed to be the most difficult patients, aren't they?"

"Funny," Stephen grumbled. "This may come as a surprise to you, but even doctors have only so much control over involuntary bodily functions."

"Like I said, difficult." Stark settled in the chair beside the bed. "Anyway, there's no call buttons because FRIDAY's here. She's an AI of sorts, helps run the place. Say hi, FRIDAY."

"Hello," came a female voice from the general direction of the ceiling (at least, he thought it was the ceiling, but he couldn't say he trusted his senses much currently). It was the same voice that he heard during his projection.

"She was the one who alerted me that you were awake. I was closer than either nurse, anyway. But you can ask her to get someone if you need assistance at any time."

"Useful," he admitted. "She sounds like a very advanced AI."

"The most advanced in the world," Stark answered, and the pride and fondness he had for his creation was clear in his tone.

-------

Sorry for the abrupt end but I'm not quite sure if I like the dialogue between them yet and haven't figured out where I want the conversation to go from here so there you have it. Yay wips.

[rirururu]

Okay, this turned out way more angst than I thought it would ;-; I hope you enjoy it anyway! I think the next prompt I do will be more light-hearted and less plot oriented.

Also, GUYS! Please check out the amazing art that IchigoJam2009 has drawn for my fanfics. They've done four so far: two for Green-Eyed and Yellow Hair that had me laughing and squealing, one for Love at First Song that gave me so much warmth to see, and one for How to be a Good Boyfriend that made me smile. I went back and edited my work to include the art at the bottom of the page of the first chapter of each of these fanfics so please take a look and give the artist lots of love! ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡

Click here for ao3 version or go to “Keep Reading.”

If Zenitsu had to describe Kaigaku in one sentence, it would be two-faced.

He acted sweet around Gramps, around their neighbors, and around everyone who knew Zenitsu on a deeper level than just face and name. He only found this out when the two of them were forcefully paired together on a history project at their college. The older boy made it no secret as soon as he heard the news that he’d rather choke on a fish than work with him.

And come on! That’s just going too far- Zenitsu was at least better than a fish! It was inconsiderate. It was brash. It was immature, AND he’d belted it out right in front of their professor like that rebel in every high school movie. They were adults now. Please accept some responsibility and filter out your words or else no one will like you!

Back then, Kaigaku had done nothing but tsk and look away.

Their relationship continued like that for a while. The blue-haired heart throb was an angel around others, complimenting them for the most mundane of things. Sakura-chan got one inch cut off her hair? He was the first to notice and comment. Murata bought a new pair of shoes? He’d ask where he got it from because they were cool (they absolutely weren’t). But if it was Zenitsu who walked in with his hair cut shorter or in a washed dress shirt, smile on his face, Kaigaku would ask why he’s trying so hard and that it was pathetic to watch. It hurt. It embarrassed him and made him want to go home. His day always seemed darker after. He won’t deny that.

No matter how high Zenitsu’s grades were, not once did he suck up to him for their project. On the contrary, he’d judge each of his movements on the keyboard with disdain. Outrage over why his forefinger kept hitting the wrong button, or how dare he interpret this piece of music in that way were common in the form of insults thrown on him. Clutching three textbooks between himself and the other boy, he’d just cry and cower away like always.

The weirdest thing was this whole thing probably intrigued Zenitsu more than it should have.

Am I going insane?!

Probably.

Girls never hesitated to throw nice words around. They’d treat Zenitsu well, put on a pretty smile and a curtsy if it got him to pay for their food or jewelry more time (Why do you need two bracelets? You’re going to question my tastes? Rude. I’m sorry-! Please buy as much as you want!). It may’ve been a day or a week or even a month later, but it wasn’t long before Zenitsu spotted them again under the arm of another guy at the mall. The clink of matching bracelets accompanied the crushing melody of his heart breaking.

Kaigaku wasn’t like that around him though.

He gave him attention. It was painful. But it was still the attention that he’d never gotten from anyone else except Gramps before.

So when on the day that their project was handed in, Kaigaku wordlessly shoved him into a deserted lecture hall and crashed his lips against his, Zenitsu didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. He accepted those arms around him, even as one hand pushed painfully against his shoulder and his back was bruised by the chalkboard.

He properly freaked out after. He was just kissed by a guy. He just KISSED HIM BACK! All the ladies had to mourn the loss of one more eligible young bachelor for the taking. Wondering where he went wrong, that was only the second time he ever really raised his voice against Kaigaku. The first time was their initial meeting. “W-We definitely need to talk about this…! Y-You can’t just push me around all the time and give off the impression of hating my very existence just to KISS ME LIKE THAT-”

“Everyone hates you.” Kaigaku only wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his jacket. He scoffed. “You’re weak. You’re dumb as bricks. You’re the ugliest in the class, and you don’t know the first thing about music. Do you seriously think you’ll ever be noticed by someone like me again?”

Zenitsu had never been shut up quicker in his entire life.

Not even one of Gramps’ roundhouse kicks would’ve worked so chillingly well. It was the first time he’d ever experienced the horrible sensation. As their encounters in the empty classroom grew frequent, as the number of times that Zenitsu could call Kaigaku his boyfriend increased, so did the bruises and cuts on his back and arms. Weeks, months, even a whole year passed after their first kiss. He became quieter after that.

But…

People always said he was too loud, so maybe that was a good thing?

Kaigaku was making him a better person. The shame he felt gave birth to affection.

Which made it all the worse when it was ripped from his hands.

Genya was with him at the time. One of the only other people in the college aside from Murata who would hang out with him, the hollowed eyes and sunken shoulders of the blond were alarming him in ways he couldn’t decipher. Finally deciding to take action, he invited his friend out for bowling. In addition to archery, it always helped him relieve his anger and stress and some part of him hoped it would work for him as well.

“I can’t.” Zenitsu had only said, packing his bag without even looking at him. “Kaigaku would get angry if I was alone with someone.”

“What do you mean you can’t- you know what!” Genya was too lost to even comprehend their relationship. Instead, he shifted aside so to pull an unsuspecting Murata into their aisle. “YOU, this guy will come with us too!”

“My name isn’t ‘this guy.’” The black-haired boy was already crying. “Be more considerate to normal people like me.”

Murata did tag along anyway despite complaints. He, too, was worried about Zenitsu and the shared look he had with Genya confirmed their goal of cheering him up. They booked the biggest lane in the hall before even boarding the bus. It was pristine with lights flashing in fun shapes for each type of strike that was thrown. They were even served food in between turns.

It was when Murata excused himself to the bathroom that Zenitsu saw it. Fry halfway to his mouth and Genya lamenting about his score, his sight picks up on a silhouette about five lanes away from them.

It was Kaigaku, lip locked with a girl.

Zenitsu’s vision turned white.

Some part of his ears registers Genya’s voice yelling after him, but he can’t be bothered to interpret what he said. Before he even knows it, he’s dashing out of there as quick as possible. He just- he just had to get away. Anywhere far. That little voice in his head that had been substituted with Kaigaku’s and consequently keeping silent for a year suddenly rains down on him like hail.

Pathetic.

He is.

Not even caring, he bursts into the doors of the first bar that he finds. Zenitsu wasn’t a drinker. He didn’t like the way it clouded his ears and made the sounds of everyone around him murky and dark. Still, he slams his wallet down on the counter. Without pretense, he looks the bartender in the eye with tears pricking its corners. The noise didn’t even make anyone else in the room flinch. “Give me the strongest thing you have.”

The gentleman with a moustache doesn’t question it. This was a bar, after all.

Zenitsu complained about a lot about things. If an essay was a little difficult, he’d say it’s killing him. If he was given too many responsibilities by his classmates, he’d say he’s going to die from all of the stress. It was an exaggeration of course for when he was avoiding the trouble it’d take to do something. But for the first time in his life, he didn’t avoid it. He ran straight to it, wanted to drink and drink aND DRINK until he felt like he was going to die.

He thought Kaigaku was different. He thought that there was actually someone who genuinely liked him and would want to be with him. Stupid, useless Zenitsu with your impossible thoughts! Ah, there it was again. And for each echo, he gulped down another mouthful like it was his life’s nectar.

It didn’t take long for him to become blackout drunk. Everything was hazy. The sounds buzzed like a guitar playing off-tune to a blaring horn. His head hurt. He clutched it but it didn’t go away. And soon enough, Zenitsu couldn’t even remember where he was anymore.

But did it matter?

Suddenly, it felt like nothing did. That part of his head, freed by the restrictions of rational thought, commanded his arms like a puppet. The strings of his mind were his own undoing- for he had his phone clumsily hitting the table as he tried to understand the difference between swipe and press. He eventually did get the device to do what he wanted. Soon enough, he found his body swaying drunkenly to the ring tone as the call connected.

When the brisk sound of breath indicating that someone picked up finally arrives, Zenitsu screams.

He screams because it feels like it’s what he’s been holding it in for months now. His loud voice and obnoxious personality that was stuffed down somewhere deep inside of him since the second Kaigaku started giving him love burst out. The drunk shackles of his brain couldn’t hold them any longer.

Some part of him wonders if he managed to break Kaigaku’s ears with it.

“I HAVE FEELINGS TOO, you ASSHOLE…!” His garbles and noises eventually form words. It’s like a dam is let loose as water drips from his eyes like a clogged tap. He bawls. It’s ugly. He doesn’t care. “You always said I was too cowardly to aim high, BUT I wanted us to move in together in a perfect house with a white-picket fence.” It was a dream of his that didn’t feel so far away since they became a couple. He’d never told anyone but gunned for it with all his heart.

“You keep insisting I’m too stupid to make it anywhere in life, HOWEVER I just got a contract deal with a high-end music company and worked my butt off at an interview JUST SO I COULD AFFORD THE HOUSE SOMEDAY! I WANTED US to cuddle in that home, watch the stars in the night.” Maybe get married one too, Zenitsu doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to.

“You think I’m weak, but I WANT to learn to protect you someday and maybe hope you GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS LONG ENOUGH TO PROTECT ME TOO! So what if you you’re rough and mean? For every scathing remark and for each time you hit me, you’d kiss it better.”

He choked. He could tell he was getting stares from the other patrons of the bar but Zenitsu plowed on anyway. “It was okay. As long as you did that, as long as you love me, everything else that you said or did was just fine! So I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY! I hope you’re happy in your Mercedes-Benz car that your friend bought for you because you manipulated him into thinking you were ill. I hope all of those free lessons you got from our Professors that you spent actually stealing the test answers will help you out in the real world WHEN NO ONE GIVES A CRAP ABOUT YOU ANYMORE! You insist I’m crazy for thinking that anyone else will or can ever love me. But I hope-”

Zenitsu cuts himself off with another sob. This next part was like pulling out teeth to get out, but he had to say it. “-I hope that girl who’s with you finds enough peace within herself to love you, because I just can’t anymore. I just can’t-”

“I’m sorry.”

And that’s when Zenitsu felt his entire world ending.

With a higher tenor and a voice the sound of wind chimes, this person was possibly the furthest from being Kaigaku that he possibly could’ve been. The blond finally rips his phone away from his wet cheek long enough to focus his blurry vision on the screen. Sure enough, the number blaring back at him is one- no, three (three?!) digits off from the one he’s had memorized since the very day that history project ended.

When the person on the line speaks again, Zenitsu finds it hard to comprehend that the other’s irregular breathing pattern indicated that he was crying too. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

What, why are you sobbing? This has nothing to do with you, you know! Zenitsu wants to say, but the embarrassment and horror of the situation finally catches up to him and overrides any urge he has to speak with this stranger. Really- REALLY, Zenitsu?! He pours his heart out, finally gives Kaigaku what he’s been holding in for a year, and he’s too dumb to even send it to the right person. It figures-!

Suddenly, Zenitsu is just so tired.

“It’s fine.” He says instead, voice devoid of emotion. “Sorry for bothering you. It’s my mistake.” Then he hangs up before the other can even reply. Now that he’d shouted every bit of his heart into that call, he can’t find the energy to do much else. So instead of lashing out, instead of repeating his mistake, he wipes his phone back out to the correct number. Maximizing Kaigaku’s chat screen, Zenitsu types out a haphazard message in under three seconds without even looking at the keyboard.

van;t do this anynore

brwaking up witg you

Mind surprisingly clear, he gives the bartender a generous tip and nearly refuses the offer of water that he gets. But after a pat on the back from the surprisingly fatherly man, Zenitsu relents and chugs it down. After assuring him that he was taking public transit back, the blond doesn’t even raise his gaze from the floor as he treads out with heavy footsteps. He doesn’t remember most of the walk back to his dorm room. Everyone else goes about their night as usual, laughing among friends as they carried take-out boxes or homework. The world continues to spin while Zenitsu felt inexplicably dead inside.

He somehow finds his way to his bed. Books are scattered all over it from where Kaigaku had left them just the day before. Zenitsu doesn’t even blink while he shoves the accursed things to the floor before landing face-first in his pillows. The impact agitates that bruise in his stomach that Kaigaku gave him once after failing a test. It made him sick. Before he can sleep though, his phone vibrates.

A call…? It shakes on his blankets but the blond doesn’t answer. He’s too exhausted.

After six rings, it finally stops. Zenitsu thinks it’s the end of it but when it beeps again for voicemail, he nearly jolts out of his wits as that same voice from before fills his room. The wind in its sound soothes him and, for a moment, Zenitsu wonders if he’s imagining it.

“I-I know that wasn’t meant for me!” The other boy on the line is nervous. He can tell. “I shouldn’t have continued listening and invaded your privacy like that. I’m sorry. But if it means anything, I think that dream of yours to live in a perfect home with the one you love is beautiful. I bet you worked really hard for that job and will amaze a lot of people with your music. I don’t think you need to work on protecting anyone, because I know you’re strong enough. A-And-”

“What are you trying to say?” Zenitsu finds himself replying even when he can’t hear him.

“…You can be loved. I believe that with all of my heart.”

At hearing that, Zenitsu breaks. He cries.

Maybe, just maybe, he can.