#poorly made scribbles that I made in the early hours of the morning

[goodwitchycaro]

huh, i wonder what little guy's talking about

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ Earth 42! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, eventual angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ sorry for the delay, too busy girlbossing hehehe I made a closet for the reader, here’s the link || Her Closet

Chapter 3: To Dance For You, To Die For You

Warning ೃ⁀➷ Profane language, depression, family angst, plot progression, long ass chapter, reader lore, underaged smoking.

FIC MASTERLIST

Previous chapter || Next chapter

You || One hour ago

hey, u up already?

"… He sure is taking a while to answer."

You shut your phone with a click at the side, burying it down the sheets next to you.. "... I'm just gonna tell myself that he misses me so much, he can't put it to words."

You looked over to see the digital clock resting atop your nightstand, a bright 『 7:32 AM 』 gleaming right back at you.

… Maybe he’s still asleep.

It doesn’t take long before your attention drifts away from the subject. Unlike what Miles initially thought, you had priorities of your own. Sprawled before your table were books and notes you wrote all throughout your last lecture— neatly organized in pastels and glitters. You peered over the poorly written cursive, eyes cautiously and redundantly scouring through each word. Yet, despite the amount of time you've spent reading the paragraph, nothing at all entered your mind. That same suffocating scribble haunted you, and it sucked all the soul inside your body.

Saturday mornings.

Within the confines of your neat room, you still felt oddly and terribly exhausted. Which was ironic, as your routine was terrific as most would say. Ultimate Dream Girl was how your cousin put it. You woke up early, exercised, studied, ate good food, dressed in stylish clothes, went to school, and studied again after classes— and still, whenever you woke up every single day, you'd feel ultimately, and questionably exhausted.

It’s like you were sinking. Drowning even.

Yet you had to maintain your perfect, glamorous shell of a being. Even if it meant sleeping less these days.

But Miles took the boredom out of your humdrum life. Only he managed to tease out traits in you that even you didn't know existed— a bluntness paired with a foul mouth, and a sense of genuine lightness. He made you feel like your best self, and what was most ironic was the fact that your best self didn't have to be this talented, sophisticated, multi-achiever genius who managed to seamlessly shoulder adult matters— your best self just had to be happy.

And Miles made you genuinely, wholesomely, and incredibly happy.

Only Miles managed to eradicate the burden of carrying your family name. Around him, you were just you. A dumb, pretty teenager with a passion for art.

And that absolutely terrified you.

Peering over your books, spots of white shroud your vision. Like a feather, your head felt oddly light. You try to shake your head to refocus on the paragraph, only then you notice the blotches of red trailing down the page like splatters of paint.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your fingers cascade over your nose, only then noticing the bloody mess running down your lip. You cuss, bolting off your seat to grab the tissue box sitting above the vanity.

“Miss?” One of the maids called out from outside your door.

You drag the sheets of tissue over your nose, muffling your voice as you answered. “What is it?”

“Your tango practice will start soon. Would you like me to prepare your clothes?”

“.. That would be nice, thank you.”

As her footsteps echoed away, you lull your head down, hand gripping onto the edge of your table. It gushed out like an open faucet, and this hammering in your head had you kneeling down to the floor.

“Oh my God, what is that?”

“Quickly, take a picture.”

“Get moving, people.”

The endless wails of the siren. Deafening, unyielding, and alarming. What was once the symbol of hope, was now all that silenced New York.

The lights of red and blue emanated through the streets like a ghost. Those who watched whispered among themselves, turning their heads from the glares of the officers who’d circled the establishment. Above the sign stood what was once the glory of Senator Barlowe’s billboard— now trashed with a chilling message spray-painted in bloody red.

『　ＮＥＶＥＲ　 ＦＯＲＧＩＶＥ．

ＮＥＶＥＲ　 ＦＯＲＧＥＴ．』

The police figured to take down the board, ushering the media and the people away. Though you can never truly silence the people, the people only learn to talk quietly. It’s how the world works, Miles thinks. You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.

His figure appears above the buildings like the menace all of upperclass society viewed him as— the emblem of his chest shining brighter at the bottom of the billboard. A shameless warning from the vigilante. A warning for the oppressive, a threat for a threat.

An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

Miles dreamt of it: losing you the same way he lost his father.

An image of you dying in his arms. The stain of your blood in his hands, and the touch of your body growing colder. As he held you close in that illusion, he felt your heart slowly easing to an inevitable stop. There, Miles knew he couldn’t bear the thought of losing another person to the wickedness of the system.

So he plotted.

The digitalized purple of his mask gleamed in the foggy morning, the fingers of his gauntlet gripping on the empty can of red paint in his palms, crushing it with a single gritty grasp. Miles looked at his masterpiece, the image of the man’s face all painted in red. He figured to beat the old thing up himself, had he had the chance— but New York won’t change from the decision of one vigilante. The people have to wake themselves up, to untie the blindfold of fear around their eyes.

Because once that fear fully unfolds, it’s never going to blind you again.

You || Five hours ago

hey, u up already?

Still no reply.

"From the top in three, two, one!" Marks the start of the bandoneon.

Emerging from the band, you approached the center with steady, elegant steps. Your heels clack against the wooden floors, the hem of your dress tickling your ankles. Your hands gently glide down your body along to the dramatic rhythms of the orchestra. Across the room stood your partner, reaching a hand out while circling your presence— as if to admire your entirety.

"Step, step, step. Spin!" The choreographer bellows. The boy reaches for your hand and spins you into his arms, dipping you down. Your fingers paint the floor with one swipe, head down to feign shyness. When you're brought back, your hand glazes down his cheek, stepping back with his arm wrapped around your waist.

"Keep your head high, shoulders back!"

In the passion of the tango, your grace was your skill— yet your indifference was your detriment.

Your hand steadily grips his shoulder, each step like a tease in average courtship. In the midst of the music, your head's riddled with a million thoughts. With each passing thought, your moves become harsher, and meaner.

Grip tighter, moves sadder.

With each pass of the violin, the knot in your mind tangles and tangles. While gawking into the stage light above, you shut your eyes tight to shield your view. And when your partner's fingers brush against the curve of your waist— you think of Miles.

The memory of his grip on you was forever ingrained in your mind. And when you turn around once more, suddenly, in your hazy mind, Miles stands before you, holding your hand above your head to ready you for a twirl.

In the delusion of your comfort, a sense of ardency replaced your indifference.

Madame Eleanor marveled at the view of the spark before her, glowing like a vibrant vermillion.

But as the final pose commenced, you were disappointed to see a pair of blue eyes instead of Miles' brown ones.

"Perfect!" Eleanor gasps, her hands clasped together with a clap. "Finally! My goodness, how astounding."

You awkwardly pull away from your partner, your body drenched in sweat. Eleanor approaches you with a smile too wide for her cheeks. "That was amazing, dear. All four weeks of practice finally paid off." She sighs, placing a hand over your shoulder. "You dance just like your mother."

The words were harmless initially, but to you it was anything but praise.

You fake a smile. "Thank you."

"I think we've done enough today. Let's wrap it up and call it a day. Great job, everybody!"

Only then the burden was eased off your shoulders. Immediately, you walk towards the bench to reach for your backpack. You dip your hands inside to fish out for your phone, a variety of notifications written across the screen.

Despite the many notifications and boxes your phone bore, you endlessly scrolled down in search of one name and one name only.

Miles || 7 minutes ago

ye im up sorry ab that

kinda busy rn

what time r u gonna go btw

You look around in search of the clock, girl-mathing your way to fix your schedule.

You || Just now

maybe around 6?? idk yet, hold on

nvm maybe around 6:30 to 7:30

You had a lot on your plate, and though you were full, you still have to devour all of what's on there.

Before you could even shut your phone, Miles' text bubble suddenly pops up.

Miles replied to you || Just now

ok

js be on time

[Y/n] replied to you || Just now

damn u must miss me sm ;)

Miles looked over his phone from behind the screen of his mask— allowing it to unfold as he hid behind the brick walls above the roof, sinking down to the floor in exhaustion. Even then, he felt utterly warm just from the sight of your message alone. With a single press, he slips his hand off from the gauntlet just to hold his phone better.

He lolled his head sidewards, pondering over what to reply.

『 so what if i do?| 』

His thumb brushes against the send button, mind in complete tatters.

"... Hey." His head perks up at the sound of his uncle's voice. "What’chu doin lyin around? Get yo punk ass up, we’ve got lots to do."

"Y-Yeah, sorry." He stammers, slipping his phone into his pockets.

You glare at the screen before you.

「 Seen two hours ago 」

Well, fuck damn it, Miles. If you don’t miss me, might as well just say it. Does the G in your name stand for Ghoster or what?

“Are you even listening to me?”

You snap away from the abyss when the sound of your brother’s voice pulls you back to reality. The smoke exits your tongue as your eyes go past the black screen, welcoming the sight of your brother’s frustrated glare. His mere presence was an annoyance to you— as he was always scourging through your work like an animal desperate for scraps. It was pathetic. Despite all that, the both of you still managed to live under one roof.

It was your most common hobby to hang around the balcony to drink whatever beverage you felt like drinking. And at this time of autumn, hot cocoa was your most preferred drink, paired with any pastry you craved. As miserable as you were, you preferred suffering in your wealth. After all, it was yours to keep.

And yet despite your efforts to unwind, your pest of a brother suddenly appears like an unwanted guest.

“Can you stop smoking?” He pleads. In spite of his cries, you take another hit and blow. Antonne only gives up with a disgruntled groan.

“Did you see my message?”

“I did.”

“… Why didn’t you reply?”

“I did reply.” You pulled the mug to your lips. “I replied with silence.”

“You’re insufferable.” He clicks his tongue, sitting before you. Even then, you spare no time to even glance at him. Your other hand traces past the notes you’ve written over the documents, fingers flipping through the pages for a triple-check. Antonne stretched his neck, taking a peek at the title, and yet, you rest your palm over the private contents decisively.

“What do you want?” The sentence comes off too harshly for your own liking, yet it doesn’t shake you. Antonne insists.

“I want us to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The mug clicks against the marble table as if to mark the end of your words. Antonne clasped his hands together, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. “I know it’s a difficult task, but direly, [Y/n], in all seriousness, you’re not inheriting the hotel.”

“I already know all that.” You interject. “And I still won’t drop my responsibilities.”

“What for?” He queries. “You’re bound for a life outside of all this mess— why do you keep bringing yourself into this life?”

You clamp your fist.

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

Antonne sat there, all the words in his mouth vanishing— leaving only a speechless, baffled face of himself that only worsened your mood. For a moment, his jaw hangs open, his mind ravaging through his thoughts to form a sentence.

“I don’t understand. Why— why are you doing this?”

For a moment, the thought of bursting crosses your mind, though right after the thought followed this shame of vulnerability. After all that, the only words that exited your mouth were,

“You would never be able to understand.”

“Can’t you at least—“ Antonne huffs, running a hand through his hair. “[Y/n], if this is about what happened to mother—“

“Mention her one more time, I dare you.”

Ruthless. A familiar air. You were too much like your father, and it was the most tragic thing. “It’s true, isn’t it?” He chokes out, knuckles growing paler from the grit of his wrist. “All this, all of what happened, you’re—“

“I have a meeting with dad.” You stand up, picking your things together. “Go find someone else to plague with your questions.”

“You’re irredeemably suffocating.”

“We’re siblings for a reason.”

Miles || Just now

im On my way!

wtf is that autocorrect

i meant to say im omw

im just gonna pick up something for a moment

The bell sang a soft chime upon his entrance. The warm air welcomes him, with a fire behind the bars of a furnace, and the smell of freshly baked goods and hot chocolate permeating throughout the establishment. Miles felt the chill of autumn roll off his gloved hands, embracing the warmth that felt very much like you. He peers over the aisles of bookshelves lined up before a fake brick wall, picturing the idea of sitting next to you with your nose buried into some novel, allowing him to lean his head over your shoulder to listen to you whisper about some paragraph.

He wanders and wanders, taking note of the chalk-written menu above the cashier, the half-eaten pies beneath glass domes, and the homely pictures of the owner’s life story hung all across the walls.

Next to the counter, a lone, middle-aged woman stood with a mug and a rug in her hands. Her blue eyes flit open— and it reminds him of the dull grey he often witnessed during a heavy downpour, and she acknowledged him with a single nod.

“Afternoon.”

Miles returns the gesture. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

His steps take him closer to the counter. It must’ve been suspicious somewhat— him, who was dressed in tones of dark purple and black like some thief, standing by the entrance for far too long. Miles had to admit, his presence was unbefitting of this whole cozy theme, and yet when he imagines you there with him, suddenly, he didn’t feel all too out of place anymore.

Miles looked at the woman, only then recognizing her from the pictures on the wall. Instead, now, she’s aged past her prime, and her blonde hair was shorter and frizzier. Her eyes were now tucked behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, having to squint just to study his presence.

“I-I just had to ask..” Miles gulps. “Are you guys perhaps.. Hiring r’now?”

“Hiring?” The woman raised a brow. “Why? You wanna apply?”

“Oh no! Not me,” He frantically explained. “I-I’m inquiring after my girl— my girlfriend.”

Embarrassment bled into his freckled cheeks. Initially, he wanted to say the two terms, girl and friend, separately to explain you were just that (But were you, really?), instead the unsure label clumsily exited his lips.

Then again, it’s not like you’d correct him had you been there anyways.

“Your girlfriend?” The woman placed a hand over her hip, a southern sort of twang in her voice. “Why isn’t she the one asking me?”

“Oh— it’s just, she’s really busy, and I know she really likes this place.. God… Idonreallyknowhowtoexplainitbut,” She held a hand up to ease his pace, shaking her hand. “Hold on, lover boy. I can’t understand a single damn thing, hold your horses.”

Miles nibbled on his lower lip, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Basically, she mentioned about wanting to apply here but couldn’t find the time to ask, so just in case her schedule clears up, I wanted to know if you guys are up to hiring part-timers… So I can tell her.” He managed to explain in a much calmer way, watching carefully as the owner hummed.

“So you only really wanna ask?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, alright.” For a moment, she bends down to reach something beneath the counter. A second or two later, she stands right back up, slipping a crisp flyer towards him. “All the details are in there. If she wants to apply, tell her to call for me— the name’s Matilda, and you’re?”

“Miles, a-and my girlfriend’s name is [Y/n], by the way.” Miles beams, picking up the paper. He liked repeating that word, girlfriend.

“Alright, Miles. I’ll wait for your little girlie.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Looking over to the glass domes, Miles then added.

“Also, can I get like a slice of each pie you have?”

You || fifteen minutes ago

I’m already here

where the fuck are you smh

“One, two, three… Spin.”

Miles shuts the chain door behind him, eyes rummaging through the darkness in search of the voice’s owner. At the end of the hall, a dim light emerged along with a shadow dancing over the golden circle just behind a wall. The dark figure moved like a ghost, each step of her feet echoing throughout the subway. The boy neared like a moth to flame, holding the box of pies close to his chest as he neared and neared.

Slowly, he peeks over the wall, only to find you dancing along to something he couldn’t comprehend. You had your phone in your hand, and your headset on too. A count was on your lips, lasting in intervals of three to eight. Your steps were like pulses, and the way you had your hands up meant that it was likely a partnered dance, despite the evident gap, you carried the dance effortlessly well, even in a pair of jeans and a hoodie. You were too lost in the flurry of the Latin music that was melting into your ears like honey, and Miles was too lost in the sight of you. There he was, gawking like a little kid on Christmas day, with his lips half parted and eyes following the traces of your fingers.

He’d already known you were something of a dancer. The way you carried yourself, the way you walked, and the way you moved, Miles noticed it all; A sort of grace, or some sort of flow in the way you presented yourself.

Like a princess, little girls would say.

Yeah, like a princess. My princesa.

Only then, you twirled and met his gaze. You froze in terror as Miles placed his hand over your shoulder.

Do it, Miles! You can do it! Just like what Uncle Aaron taught you.

“Heyy…”

“… WHAT THE FUCK!”

Your phone comes flying out of your hands, landing straight into Miles’ abdomen with a powerful thud. He catches the gadget with a groan of pain and laughter, which comes out as a dying wheeze. You rush to his aid, pulling the box out of his grasp and placing it down.

“Holy shit! Are you okay? Why the fuck were you standing there like a fucking skincrawler— fucking hell, Miles!” You endlessly cussed, aiding him by the arm.

“… I couldn’t help it.” He heaved. “You looked like one of those inflatable tube dancers, jesus— HAHAHAHAHA“ And he’s back to howling in your face all over again, falling to the floor like a duck in search of air. You click your tongue and swat his shoulder.

“I bet you can’t even dance.”

“Yeah, that makes the both of us.”

“Oh I hate you so much.” You shove him lightly before burying your face behind your hands.

“… Why were you dancing anyway?” Miles eased, eyeing the darkness. “And why didn’t you turn on the lights? The whole damn scene looked kinda apocalyptic.”

You knelt next to him, nails digging into the fabric of your jeans. “Well, I kinda have this tango performance at school and it’s in two weeks… I’m still not all that confident with what I’m about to present, so I’ve been working my ass off to perfect it.” You waved your hand around. “And about.. This... I couldn’t find the damn switch.”

He shakes his head in disapproval, placing his arm over his knee. “God, you’re hopeless.”

You tilt your head, lowering your voice into a whisper. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“…. I can dance tango.” He dumbly grins. “I think— I mean, I’ve watched it before, and I’m hella great with my feet.”

“Is that a proposal to dance with me?”

Miles scoffed. “In your damn dreams.” He laughs, leaning his head over to the wall. There, you pout at him like some little kid.

“What? Why are you lookin at me like that?”

And the next thing he knows, he’s up with his chest pressed against yours, listening to the sound of your voice guiding him through the basic steps of the Latin dance. He takes your other hand in his, while your other is latched onto his shoulder. Carefully, his fingers creep up on your waist, the sensation silencing him.

“And then when I step back like this, you take your left foot forward, and we’re just going to do this back and forth.”

“Oh— okay, oh shit,”

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“Just think of it as a game, and follow my feet.”

Miles readily follows your words, uttering subtle apologies whenever he’d step on one of your feet. When he does get the eventual gist of it, the two of you prance around in short steps. Miles grew overly conscious with the sound of his breath, as you were too near that it was detrimental to his whole being. With your head down, you carefully watched his moves, completely anonymous to Miles’ staring. He was hoping you’d look up and catch him like you always do. You were so pretty like that.

“Very good.” You beam. “Damn, you really do dance well, huh?”

“Of course I do.” He clumsily twirls you into his arms, still catching you either way. “I got it from my mama.”

“I assume she’d be a greater dancer than you, though.”

“Well, yeah, that’s true.” He admits. “But hey, ain’t I a good partner?”

As you turned around once more, your faces inch closer, your lungs a little too short of breath. Your hand traces down the outlines of his arms, the tension between the both of you thickening. You could almost sense it, Miles begging you to give in, and you were bound to— eventually.

“Yeah, you’re doing great.”

Then again, you pull away, fingers brushing past and slipping away from his palm. Although you were the one distancing yourself, your hand reached out for his. You tried to fool yourself into thinking that it was just for the dance— but when you circle him, and when you notice that Miles couldn’t help but face your figure, no matter where it went— you were defenseless. He looked at you like you were the eclipse, a shadow that capered around the flashlight’s gleam like how the moon would collide with the sun. You swivel back into his grasp, and you couldn’t care less if it was anything but perfect, because it was only at that moment that you recognized tango in its truest form.

And it was through this dance that Miles realized he’d absolutely die for you.

As the ending commences, the two of you smile at one another. Miles, who grinned at you so lovingly, could hardly see the rue in yours. “You ain’t half bad.” He then states, easing a crack out of his limbs as he stretches. “That was some ground-breaking exercise, shit, I started feelin shit I ain’t never felt before.”

“Yeah,” You tiresomely added. “God, now I’m starving.”

His head perks up. “Actually, I brought some food today.”

“Oh?”

He gestured over to the box. “I bought like a fuck ton of pies for my mom to cheer her up.” Miles picked up the box, offering it to you with a nudge. “You can get only two.”

As he slips the lid off, you marvel at the pastries inside, mouth watering from the smell.

“This one’s butterscotch, blueberry, apple.. Chocolate and banana, pumpkin, and cherry… The fuck are you doing?”

Miles watched as you positioned your phone above the box, angling it well. “Taking a picture, dumbass.” You shot back. The flashlight gleams over the food with a quick snap. “Shit, it looks so pretty.”

“Okay, you ain’t eating shit.”

“Wait!”

You point the camera at him. “Pose in three, two, one.”

And he pulls up his middle finger with a blank face.

“Tsk. Not like that, Miles.”

And he pulls up his pointer finger, turning his pose into a peace sign.

As the photo snaps, you immediately look into your phone’s album, grinning stupendously wide. “Pretty boy, indeed.”

“.. Why’d you keep calling me that?”

“Because you’re pretty. I like pretty things and pretty people.” You answered as though it were too obvious. Miles shook his head, hardly saying another word. Yet in his mind, he couldn’t help but ponder.

But you’re prettier than me.

“Now, which one should I eat?” You pondered with a tune, eyeing each slice. “They all look so good.. God! Okay, I’ll take butterscotch, and uh, the chocolate and banana one.” You cautiously tug the wrappers to pull out each of the treats. Miles couldn’t help but playfully deride. “You choose like a kid.”

“Just because I chose the chocolate one means I’m a kid.”

You take the flashlight and place it down the floor before taking a seat. Miles follows suit, sitting beside you with his chin resting above his palm, unconsciously watching you devour the treat with your cheeks full like some chipmunk. You hummed with each bite, going on about how you adored the flavor. Even as you did so, Miles listened and stared, adoring the way you spoke and the way you boasted about the flavors. Then and there, he realized how much he liked seeing you eat, and at that moment as well, Miles knew he’d like to eat with you everyday in the far future.

As you finished your little meal, you licked the chocolate off your fingers, anonymous to the stain on your cheek.

“You got a little sum on your..” He points at the corner of your lip. You try to wipe it off, yet it simply smudges. His fingers naturally reach for your chin to clean it off. You lean in, not thinking much about the act.

“Is it gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” You sweetly beam.

Slowly, his fingers lift away from your chin.

You lean your head against the wall, heaving a short sigh. “That was absolutely delicious.”

“I bought it from that store we saw yesterday, down the block.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and uh,” He slips his hand into his pocket, fishing out the folded flyer. Hesitantly, he hands it over to you. “I got you something.”

“What’s this?” You airily query, unfolding the paper. You browsed into its contents, only then realizing that it was a part-timer flyer. Your jaw hung open, eyes switching glances between the contents and the boy beside you. “Wh-where did you get this?”

“I asked the owner.” He directly answered. “You wanted to know if you could.. Get a part time job, so I asked.”

“I—“ The mere act rendered you speechless. “Oh my god. This is… Why are you so nice to me?”

Miles’ head turns away. “I’m not being nice. I wanted to apply too.” He smoothly lied. “I got you a flyer just in case.”

【 Emilie Chocolat — We are now hiring! Open positions for: bookkeep, barista, cashier. Accepts part-timers. Must be at least fifteen years old. 】

“Oh, I don’t know if I could apply right now.”

“Why not?”

You chew on your inner cheek, cautious of your words. “I don’t really have the time to go to an interview right now. I’m very busy with school.. And at home..”

“Then go when you have the time.”

You think about it. “… Alright. I’ll try. Not entirely sure yet, but I’ll try.”

“Take your time.” Miles mildly suggested, as if to comfort. “You have all the time in the world, man.”

“… Yeah.”

You’d like the think his words were true. When it came to Miles, you find yourself a little too optimistic— a parallel of your usual self. You’d joked to yourself every now and then, that if the world was ending and Miles would tell you that there’s a cure, you’d believe him. And it wasn’t that you were easy to fool, no, it wasn’t that at all. You were quite smart, as mentioned by all those who watched you grow up, but since Miles’ entry into your life, you started optimistically letting things fall into place before scheming.

You didn’t know what to call it. Calling it infatuation was underwhelming for you. To say you simply like him didn’t feel enough.

Though you didn’t want to admit it too quick.

That’s how your mother fell anyway.

“Do you think,” You huff. “Do you think I can do it?”

Miles straightened his lips. “You probably can. You’re smart.”

You roll your eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Ion think someone dumb can lie so well about having band practice just to see someone at night.”

“I don’t lie often, Miles,” Your head lilts. “I lie only for you.”

“… By that, does lying to me also count?”

You don’t know how to answer. You can feel his expectant stare burning into your skin.

“…. It’s not about lying to you. There are just some things I prefer not to say.”

Your head pivots, finally earning the strength to look him in the eyes. Before he could even speak, you already knew what he was going to say. You knew him too damn well.

“If that’s the case, can I ask you about somethin?”

As you’re about to open your mouth, he holds up a finger.

“Don’t try to run away this time, and don’t lie. You’ve gotta swear on it.”

You raise your hand. “On God, I won’t lie nor will I try to run away.”

He brokenly nods, taking in a deep breath.

“… Then, who– who am I to you?”

[bathic]

1. But something about the date...

Word Count: 2.3k

Hongjoong marked this day down without any explanation. He didn’t need one, or maybe he did, but not something worth blotting his journal in ink over. The alpha could live with just knowing, experiencing.

But something about the date, glaring back at him in his own conjured scribble followed him all the way to the shared cafeteria. Other packs grouped together at tables, some breaking apart to mingle with differing hordes while idly moving through the monotonous slide of the serving line. He could peep Yunho towards the center, beside him with a pout, San. With a cursory sniff tucked downward by the drop of his chin to his chest, he could smell the blueberry pancakes, breakfast sausages and scrambled eggs curtesy of the morning’s set menu. And a whole lot of scent blockers. Like non-scented medicinal lotion, laying a thin layer of something vaguely tangible to one’s nose over the spike of spices and sugar— it was a bit of a nauseating concoction that he still hasn’t gotten used to.

The group home, or pack orphanage required that every resident used the scent preventative, transdermal patches when pre-heats and pre-ruts cycled through the months, when present in any of the public spaces. A safety measure to keep from any involuntary provocation between packs. Especially during scheduled cycles— pre-present-post.

Hongjoong didn’t really have his qualms about not being able to smell anyone, not even his pack members. But the patches that stuck to his scent glands like a tight stretch of skin made his own itch, made his neck feel taut. Pre-rut settled into his lower stomach in the early hours of the morning, making his muscles ache and the scent of black currant to sour slightly beneath his nose. Seonghwa had looked at him empathetically, patch kit in hand before settling between his legs to lay the patches on his scent glands.

The taller male, anointed ‘unofficial’ head omega by the group, offered a small smile whilst patting down the opaque adhesive edges. “The pack across the hall are leaving today.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flickered upward from his zoning point, one of the buttons on Seonghwa’s white uniform shirt, to gaze at the other. “I’m sure Wooyoung is taking the news poorly.”

“Not as bad as you’d expect. He’s happy to see Yeonjun’s pack get chosen, maybe a bit melancholy but nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of cuddling in the nest.”

Taking a step back, and with hands as soft and gentle as a feather, Seonghwa assessed his work with a guiding touch to Hongjoong’s jaw, turning his head to and fro’ before letting go to fuss with the patch kit. Something akin to a hollow stone settled an unusual amount of weight in the alpha’s stomach. While he couldn’t say that the news was unwelcome, that he was bitter about the pack across the hall getting a chance at a proper life, to be protected and loved— a part of him did feel green eyed. They hadn’t been around for long, arriving in a heap of shivering messes drenched by a summer downpour about a month or so after Hongjoong’s own pack settled in. Everyone here, no matter how long the days piled up on the waiting list had an equal opportunity to be chosen. And yet, a small pinch within his chest felt like it was unfair that they were leaving before them, his pack.

Seonghwa didn’t need the ability to smell Hongjoong’s rapidly souring scent to know what he was feeling, being the eldest of their pack and the head omega made his sense of observation just as keen as his smell. “I know what you are thinking. And it isn’t very becoming of you, Hongjoong-ah.”

Hongjoong sighed, pouting slightly from being unearthed like a beetle beneath a rock. “Can you really blame me, Hwa?”

“No, I guess I can’t.” Seonghwa departed towards the shared bathroom, placing the patch kit on a wooden shelf above the toilet. When he returned, choosing to instead lean against the frame of the bathroom with his willowy arms crossed over his chest. “But I know it isn’t right to harbor such feelings for our friends. They deserve this opportunity just as much as we do, just as much as any of the packs here do. How do you think those who have been here years before any of us feel seeing the newer packs that have only recently been roomed be plucked up and taken away? They have years of being overlooked, while we only have a month.”

He knew the omega was right, that their pack and the pack deigned ‘TXT’ by the pack orphanages coordinators practically had the same amount of time spent here. A month wasn’t anything compared to, say— five years.

Hongjoong didn’t really have anything else to say, aside from the obvious ‘you’re right’. Or rather, he didn’t want to admit what else brewed negatively beneath his skin. But Seonghwa was nothing but knowing.

“There’s something else that’s bothering you.” Not a question but an observation.

“Just… thinking about what to get everyone for Christmas. It’s five days away, and I’m struggling a bit with Yeosang and Mingi’s gifts.” He picked a bit at the dry skin around his nail beds, avoiding any eye contact that would give him away so easily. Which was futile because he knew that Seonghwa could tell he wasn’t being truthful.

The omega hummed, kicking off the doorframe and walking towards the center of the pack den. Choosing to ignore rather than pry was an indicator that the eldest was aware of the unspoken hindrance on Hongjoong’s mind but wouldn’t force an answer out of him. The alpha would, eventually, come to him for counsel and they would pick apart every layer of his doubts and worries and inner turmoil until he had nothing left but an empty space in his mind to fill with more important things— like his love for his pack or the fond memories from over the years.

“Will you be joining us for breakfast? The others wanted to have a little sending off for Soobin and his pack before they left.” Seonghwa fixed the other with a soft look, arms still crossed over his chest.

“In a moment, I have something I need to write down in my journal before it slips my mind.” Hongjoong spared the omega a small smile, of which was returned with a nod before the other departed from the room.

Left with only himself, the alpha let the weight of his insecurities bear down on him. He was an alpha, presented as such at eighteen and while he didn’t dislike his societal role, he found himself truly feeling out of place more often than not. Sure, he could command, did so very often when it came to the younger members of his pack acting out. That wasn’t hard. Being authoritative wasn’t hard. But what was, was keeping up the ruse in private. Hongjoong was a different person behind closed doors, when in the shielded sanctuary of his pack den and surrounded by his members, he was soft. And not just caring soft, he wasn’t Seonghwa in the slightest. The alpha was… well, submissive. While still wielding a sharp-edged dagger when disagreements needed settling, it was difficult to break past the fog of wanting to be vulnerable when in the safety of his pack.

That was where he found himself questioning his leadership more often than not. How could an alpha, the one person capable enough to carry the weight of one’s pack, to lead without fault, to protect and provide and—

Hongjoong stood up, abruptly ceasing the internal pounding of his thoughts. His journal was stacked atop everyone else’s, a gift given by the coordinators to help any of the packs that struggle with trauma have a means for their voices to be heard without engaging verbally.

How could he be an alpha when he wanted nothing more than to relinquish the reigns and follow someone else’s lead for once?

The pen in his hand moved a bit across a blank page, and he figured that maybe his answer would appear somewhere within the ink.

+•+

Wooyoung perked up visibly upon seeing a mop of familiar fawn colored hair, the longer strands towards the back of the alpha’s head curving slightly over the front of his shoulders. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up!”

Hongjoong placed a hand on Yunho’s shoulder as he slipped into the seat between the tall beta and his youngest pack member Jongho. “Just had a bit of writing to do.” He spared a knowing glance towards Seonghwa, whom was in the middle of a conversation with Soobin and Yeonjun. The other group seemed to have intermingled themselves amongst their own. With the two ‘heads’ of the pack talking amicably with Seonghwa, Beomgyu showing something to Yeosang excitedly and Taehyun and Kai goading Mingi into an impromptu arm wrestle.

“Did you hear?” San leaned a bit forward over his tray of food, nearly dipping the front of his uniform shirt into the syrup drowning his pancakes. He was giddy, smiling wide enough for his dimples to show.

“Assuming you’re asking about the pack across the hall leaving today— then yes, I have heard.”

The omega visibly deflated, plopping back into his seat in disappointment. San wanted to deliver the good news, but it seemed he was just a bit behind the jump. Wooyoung gave his upper arm a soothing pat.

“It’s a bit bittersweet seeing them go but I would prefer they did than to stay here. Not saying this place is bad or anything but, compared to being in a proper home with the room to grow and to settle comfortably with your pack. I’d pick that over anything.” Jongho remarked, scooping eggs into his mouth as an afterthought.

“I wonder what their alpha is like. I bet they’re some big-wig CEO.” Wooyoung whispered conspiratorially.

The sudden talk of alphas and ideal pack living made Hongjoong’s gut tighten miserably. He couldn’t blame them for discussing the topics as he too wanted those things, but it just made those nagging thoughts of inability and failure churn restlessly in his mind. He could have provided that, could have given them a proper home to grow in, could have made it so that all eight of them settled into a life that they woke up happily enough to be living but instead, he barked more than he could ever bite, and that outcome is what led them being here. Because he couldn’t be that CEO, couldn’t be the alpha.

Yunho nudged him slightly, having noticed that he had seemed to almost curl up into a small ball while San and Wooyoung chattered back and forth about the pampered life their friends were about to bestowed. Jongho would interject from time to time, but the alpha couldn’t pluck the cotton from his ears long enough to catch any of it.

“Are you okay?”

Hongjoong swallowed, offering a bit of a watery smile that looked very much like a grimace. The beta paused mid-chew; cheeks puffed outward into smooth slopes.

“Yeah, just, pre-rut and all.”

Yunho wasn’t convinced and honestly, if someone told Hongjoong the same thing— he wouldn’t be either. Inwardly, he cursed his terrible persuasion skills.

Luckily though, just before Yunho could truly question him, the overhead intercom crackled to life and the voice of the take-in coordinator announced for TXT to gather their belongings and arrive for pick-up in the lobby. Simultaneously, pack members jumped up and gathered each of the five into their arms, patting backs and rubbing cheeks and whispered congratulatory words. All of it felt like watching a celebration from the outside of a house, looking in through a narrow window at the wide smiles and celebratory handshakes. Hongjoong couldn’t find it in himself to be sincere, not in his words for his actions. But he tried, giving his hugs a bit more squeeze to them, his shoulder pats a little more weight and his send-off remarks just the slightest bit sweeter.

Wooyoung was crying into Seonghwa’s chest, despite the fact that he was happily yapping away only moments ago. Him and Yeonjun had grown close, best friends as the omega had put it. His darling, another term he bestowed upon the other omega, of which was reciprocated in kind. And now the realization seemed to be hitting him tenfold, that his beloved friend was now leaving for a better life.

Hongjoong itched to comfort the omega, wanted to wipe his tears away. To sooth Wooyoung, and San who had also begun crying and Mingi and Seonghwa. Yunho had taken to crowding both San and Mingi under his arms, rubbing the back of their necks as they waved pitifully with wobbly lower lips as the other pack bustled on out of the cafeteria. Seonghwa cooed with mushed tears gathering along his waterline into Wooyoung’s mop of black hair with Yeosang draping himself around the sobbing omega’s back. Jongho remained passive, at least at a glance but his hand had inched up from his side and slipped into Hongjoong’s. His grip was firm and trembled slightly. The alpha could only give the soft skin on the back of it a stiff swipe, a poor excuse for proffered comfort.

They settled after a couple minutes, although nobody had the appetite to finish eating.

Hongjoong didn’t have an appetite to begin with.

[ohyespotatous]

Weekly study reflection (June 1-7) 💗🧠

Goals: Study at least 7 hours or revise 4 chapters a day Goals achieved: 3/7 (June 1, 3, 5) 

💌 - When I told you I'm a potato, I meant it, guys. My biggest blunder this semester? Being lazy for an entire month in April, which left me binge-studying 23 days before exams. I ambitiously aimed for 7-10 hours of daily study and promptly burned out in the first week, lol. Well, it's embarrassing. It's okay guys… Feel free to use me as a bad example. That way I won't be that useless. Haha, just kidding! We either win or learn :) Now that I made the decision to not fail this semester, I’ll make the most of my time, even if it's not perfect. So… here's my evaluation of the first exams prep week :v

Goals & objective 🎯

🧐>

The goals I set could be more attainable and specific.

Studying for 7 hours doesn’t mean I am effectively learning something. I could learn more or less in the same amount of time.

Revising based on the chapters isn’t practical for exam preparations. I don’t need to relearn everything, and it gets boring for my rebellious mind.

💡>

I need to set different goals for each subject & topic.

Outcome-based objectives rather than time-based ones.

Time, energy, and focus management ⚡

🧐>

Boring study schedule. As I set my goals based on study duration, I made a fixed study schedule with a fixed study interval. I got knocked out really fast. 

I tend to get burnt out every other day when I study for more than 5 hours.

Long sessions lead to diminishing returns. My study time keeps decreasing throughout the week.

I’m not too fond of Pomodoro because it breaks my flow. Still, it is helpful when I have difficulty focusing or don’t feel like studying.

Coffee doesn’t necessarily enhance my focus. Drinking enough water works just as well. Morning coffee causes me anxiety during noon study sessions.

My brain works best in predawn hours until early morning.

💡>

Add a big buffer to the study time, so you can start when you’re physically & mentally ready and don’t feel guilty when you start late.

Break the study time into shorter intervals with breaks.

Use a variable-interval/variable-ratio reinforcement schedule. Stop when you’ve learned/done enough or are tired. Give yourself a little reward.

Optimize study environment and various learning methods for sustained focus. Keep it interesting!

Adjust caffeine intake and timing. Drink enough water.

Learning Techniques 🧠

🧐>

Since I have only studied Statistics and Economics until now, my biggest challenge is the numbers 💀 My biggest weakness. The only way out is to practice and practice more.

I think the theory part went pretty well. 

Unless the book is ‘poorly written’ or hard to understand, I don’t really need pretty notes. Scribbling the book and writing side notes work better for me. 

Flash cards for key concepts and terminologies.

I use the Feynman method and mindmaps to review my understanding of the information. I usually explain the concepts to the walls or my cats, lol.

I still need to make time for the practice tests.

💡>

Make card decks for Statistics and Economics equations.

Convert charts and diagrams into your own words.

Schedule a time for the practice tests.

╰⁠(⁠*⁠´⁠︶⁠`⁠*⁠)⁠╯

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 31-32

XXXI.

OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.

"London.

"Dearest People,—

"Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.

"I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are very 379 necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid.

"Every one was very kind, especially the officers."—Page 378. "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture.

"It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

"At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,—Mr. Lennox,—and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and sung, with a look at me,—

'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?

She lives on the banks of Killarney;

From the glance of her eye,

Shun danger and fly,

For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'

Wasn't that nonsensical?

"We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved à la mutton-chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em 380 the latest Yankee shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.

"I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,—the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,—I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,—'Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo, darting to my window,—'How sweet! We must go there some time, won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,—'No, my dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'

"A pause,—then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa, aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and I have the scenery all to myself.

"Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid; 381 things seem so cheap—nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

"Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,—

"'Now then, mum?'

"I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

"To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep; dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

"Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi,' or the king's way; but now it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women 382 in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides,—old men, stout ladies, little children,—and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.

"In the p.m. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible—so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

"Midnight.

"It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers; Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

"Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving

Amy."

"Paris"

"Dear Girls,—

"In my last I told you about our London visit,—how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum 383 more than anything else,—for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows,—especially Fred.

"Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the 'parley vooing,' as uncle calls it.

"Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafés, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art; but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write.

"The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,—so full of bijouterie and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. 384 Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are très magnifique. I've seen the imperial family several times,—the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought,—purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a mounted guard before and behind.

"We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

"Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether 385 the most agreeable young man I ever knew,—except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

"Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised. It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

"Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.

Votre Amie."

"Heidelberg.

"My dear Mamma,—

"Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.

"The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw,—the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.

"When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away,—to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.

386 "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me.

"Now comes the serious part,—for it happened here, and Fred is just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich,—ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well; 387 Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his friend,—a rakish-looking baron,—about 'ein wonderschönes Blöndchen,' Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

"Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,—at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine; so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a 388 real story-book girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool, and only a little excited.

"By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he said, as he shook hands,—and said it in a way that I could not mistake,—'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'

"I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he says 'Will you, please?'

"Of course this is all very private, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your 'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.

"Ever your

Amy."

XXXII. Tender Troubles.

389

XXXII.

TENDER TROUBLES.

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,—

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother, with a sigh and a smile.

" 390 Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon; but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and, after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out,—

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the 391 passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,—

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

392 "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What will mother say? I wonder if he—" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated "philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month; but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in 393 their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way."

As every one was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that 394 she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,—long, broad, well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days, when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction,—

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

395 Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,—

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,—sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have a went."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play Mentor.

396 "Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin,—

"'Out upon you, fie upon you,

Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a most eligible parti by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

397 "You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for—well, whoever the modest girl may be," and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

[biggest-stupidhead]

AN: Despite my ever-growing pile of WIP I have added yet another piece. I’ve been thinking about this one for a while now and it seems appropriate seeing that the new season of aot dropped. So enjoy some college AU to ease the pain :) 

Summary: A single night out effects your entire semester. 

Word Count: 3.1K 

Warnings: mentions of vomit, alcohol, let me know if I missed anything 

____

Everything from last night was a blur, you remembered meeting at Eren’s apartment for a pregame, then you kind of recalled the walk to the bar. But once you had stepped foot inside of the bar, everything was foggy. You vaguely recalled ordering shots of fireball, and then a round of Moscow Mules. Just the thought of the drinks made your stomach ache. But that was about it, however, your night hadn’t ended when you blacked out. It was early in the morning and you had found yourself back in your bed with your wastebasket in close proximity. 

Your nose wrinkled when you saw the vomit in the trash, instead, you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet did not meet the ground as you expected, felt something warm and fleshy beneath the soles of your feet. You yelped in shock, but it was much worse for Connie who had fallen asleep at the side of your bed. He sat up as soon as your feet left his torso and buried his face in the trash can to dry heave. 

“Oh, Connie I’m so sorry.” You knelt beside him, rubbing circles on his back sleepily as he coughed. You took a moment to inspect the state of your room, turned out you hadn’t slept in your bed alone, Jean was passed out pressed up against the wall. Connie was obviously on your floor, and Sasha was snoring loudly on your beanbag next to your mini-fridge with a bottle of vodka in the crook of her arm. 

“I don’t remember anything from last night.” You ran a hand down the length of your jaw and Connie spat into the trash before turning to face you. His face was covered in sharpie, a poorly drawn monocle and mustache scribbled onto his features. You snorted and grabbed his face with your free hand, he groaned and fell backward, his head hitting the wooden floor loudly. 

“Connie.” You wheezed as you laughed at his misfortune. 

“How are you going to get this off? We have class in like-” You turned and blindly felt for your phone on your cluttered nightstand. Your eyes widened when you saw that it was already 8:30 in the morning. 

“Your first class starts in like an hour man.” You patted the side of his face trying to wake him up but he was already snoring again. You abandoned the cause and instead turned your focus to Jean, leaning over your bed and shaking his leg. 

“Wake up.” You hissed and Jean rolled over, cracking an eye open to look at you. 

“I never slept, you twitched all night long.” He moaned, throwing his arm over his face. You crossed the room and pulled your blinds open, the pale morning light flooding your crowded room.  

“Sorry.” You didn’t really feel bad, he could’ve slept next to Connie or Sasha if it really bothered him. 

“Connie’s supposed to be in his psych class in like an hour.” You told him and Jean sighed again, this time finally sitting up, his foot swinging down from the bed and gently knocking against Connie’s hip. Poor guy couldn’t catch a break this morning, he sat up and you imagined that if he had any hair it would be sticking out in odd angles. 

“I’m up, Jesus.” Connie looked awful as he drags himself to his feet with Jean’s help. Now the real challenge would be waking up Sasha. You watched as Jean guided Connie to your bathroom down the hall, the two of them still swaying on their feet. The first thing you did was take the vodka from her, then you opened your fridge and pulled out a bag of shredded cheese. As soon as the plastic crinkled beneath your fingertips Sasha sat up, even though her eyes were only half-open. You peeled the bag open and her eyes finally opened the rest of the way, you handed her the bag and she sunk her fist inside of it, bringing a handful of cheese to her lips. 

“Good morning Sash.” You greeted, shutting your fridge and then your bedroom door so you could change out of the clothes you wore out the night previously. Sasha was chowing down messily on the cheese as you shimmied out of your jeans, you knew you were sloshed when you slept in jeans. Then you pulled on a nicer pair of loose-fitting jeans and threw a zip-up jacket on over the bralette you had worn in place of a shirt. 

“I’m telling you, last night was so worth it,” Sasha said around a mouthful of cheese. 

“I can’t remember jack.” You muttered, zipping up your jacket just enough to cover the top of your breasts. 

“I ain’t surprised, you were stumbling around five minutes after we walked in” Sasha snickered, placing the bag of cheese aside. 

“Maybe you can fill me in later over dinner?” You asked as you scrambled to gather your supplies for your first class. 

“If you’re buying,” Sasha said as she stood up and brushed some cheese off of her stomach. 

“I know you’re on the meal plan Sasha, you basically have thirteen meals a week with your plan, that's six more than mine.” You said with a roll of your eyes as you grabbed your keys off of your desk and slung your bag over your shoulder. 

“Oh boo,” Sasha yelled after you as you made your way to your bathroom. Connie was sitting in the tub with his underwear on, and Jean sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands. You quickly scrubbed the old makeup off of your face and pulled your hair off of your face. You sighed in defeat when the annoying strands fell back against your skin. 

“Hurry it up Connie, I need one too,” Jean whined as Connie half-heartedly scrubbed his scalp with your shampoo. His face was still covered in sharpie, but it was beginning to fade thanks to your face wash. 

“You better not use all of my conditioners on your bald head.” You warned and Connie cracked his eye open despite the soap running down his temple. He stuck his tongue out and pulled the curtain shut.

“Make sure you leave some for me at least!” Jean said, tugging the shower curtain open again, Connie let out a high-pitched screech and pretended to clutch his pearls. 

“I don’t have time for this.” You grumbled as you made your way through the apartment, stopping to grab bottled water from the fridge. Then you were out the door, it was late August and already the day was heating up. You regretted the jacket and wished that you had thrown on a t-shirt instead. You were lucky you had woken up when you had, giving you just enough time to walk to your class. If you hadn’t you most certainly would have been late, and from what you recalled in the syllabus this professor was particularly strict. 

You checked your phone and saw that you had about twenty minutes to get to the Liberal Arts building, which was plenty of time. You could probably even swing by the cafe and pick up a coffee. This lifted your mood and put a little pep in your step, you hurried to the Starbucks that was in the campus center, relieved to find that the line was short. You ordered your coffee and went on your merry way, sipping your drink as you walked. By the time you made it to the Liberal Arts building, you had five minutes left before class was set to start. 

Your favorite thing about these classes was their size, typically being capped at about thirty students. You weren’t super-shy or anything, but it made it easier to participate in comparison to a lecture hall. You picked a seat right in the middle of the room, next to a blonde that was vaguely familiar to you. She didn’t turn to acknowledge you so you said nothing yet, instead, you began to pull out your laptop and open up a document for notes. 

Your coffee was almost gone at this point, the professor had yet to show up, the desk in the front of the room vacant. A few more students trickled into the room before the clock struck nine. Once the little hand hit nine the door was slammed shut, causing the students to fall silent and turn to see who had entered. 

You presumed that it was the professor, or maybe the TA? He looked young, pale ivory skin with dark hair styled into a neat undercut. He wore a pair of slacks and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. You swallowed thickly as you watched him stalk down the narrow aisle between seats, a file tucked neatly under his arm. 

“No food or drink in class.” He said as he passed your seat, pointing a finger at your nearly empty cup. 

“It’s empty.” It was a white lie, you wouldn’t have lied if you had known he was going to pick up the cup and twirl the little liquid left in the bottom around. 

“Doesn’t feel empty to me.” He said, continuing his walk with your coffee in tow. You consciously had to close your mouth, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. The blonde to your right was staring at you now, in fact, everyone was. You tugged at the collar of your jacket, feeling extra warm with the extra eyes on you. The professor dropped your cup into the trash can by his desk and that was that. You were out five bucks on a coffee you didn’t get to finish and you were thoroughly embarrassed. 

As the room calmed down, the professor was scribbling his name onto the whiteboard in the front of the room. You busied yourself with opening multiple tabs on your computer for no particular reason other than to distract yourself from your embarrassment. 

“My name is Dr. Ackerman, I am the head of the philosophy department here, today we’ll be going over the syllabus.” He said as he put the cap back on his marker, turning to face the class, his eyes were narrow and slate grey. They seemed to still be locked on you and you had a bad feeling he was the type to hold grudges. 

“Lights please.” He pointed to someone in the back of the room, a moment later the lights went out, Dr. Ackerman logged into the desktop and powered on the projector. You brought your pen to your lips as you watched him pull up the syllabus for your class. 

“First thing’s first, here is my contact information. I’m assuming you brats can read, we’re going to briefly cover the syllabus, which you will be quizzed on.” He scrolled down, briefly covering the main points of the syllabus such as the grading system, projects, and classroom conduct. Your ears burned when he addressed the no food and drink policy, which apparently he is exceptionally strict about. 

“Read this in detail later, your quiz will be twenty questions.” He said, closing the window and moving to access his presentation for the lecture. 

“Will the quiz be open note?” A student to your left asked and you clenched your jaw, fearing the answer, the syllabus was lengthy and you hated reading them. 

“No, no notes.” Dr. Ackerman said, leaving his computer with the clicker in his hand. You heard girls giggling in the back, you strained to hear them, and when you did finally make out what they were saying you nearly gagged. 

“-look at those veins!” One of them swooned. 

“I bet he has veins on his-” You swallowed thickly and hoped for their sake that they shut up. 

“Chapter 1,” Dr. Ackerman began, and you splayed your fingers out across your keyboard, readying yourself to take notes. The rest of the class went by slowly, you could barely focus on the material, still hung up on the coffee from earlier. Something else was bothering you though, Dr. Ackerman was eerily familiar. At first, you thought it was because you saw his picture on his canvas page, but now you were looking at the page, and there were absolutely no pictures. You were wracking your brain, trying to recall how you knew him. But you kept coming up empty, and by the end of the class, you had no answers. 

Dr. Ackerman ended his presentation and dismissed the class, telling everyone to check the canvas and complete the first assignment and quiz. You sat in your seat, lingering as the others filed out of the room. You stood up and slung your bag over your shoulder, watching as the last student left the classroom. Dr. Ackerman was preparing for his next class already, opening the next class’s canvas and taking a moment to sip from his water bottle. 

“What?” He said as you stood by your desk, hand planted on the desk to ground yourself. 

“I wanted to apologize about…the coffee.” You gauged his reaction, and you were surprised to see what appeared to be a glimmer of amusement flash across his features. 

“The coffee?” He asked, and you cringed. Maybe it wasn’t as big of a deal you had thought it to be. 

“Y-Yeah from earlier.” You took a few steps forward and Dr. Ackerman arched a brow. 

“Oh, that.” He waved his hand dismissively and rounded the desk to lean against the front of it. 

“I just feel bad, and I wasn’t trying to break the rules-” 

“I get it (Y/n), just get out of here.” He flicked his wrist towards the exit. His use of your name nearly went clear over your head but just as you opened your mouth to thank him for his lecture his words finally processed in your brain. 

“Wait, you know my name?” Your eyes widened and Dr. Ackerman scoffed. 

“I do.” That was all he said, you were creeped out now. You wondered if you had him last year? No, you would remember him, he was very attractive. 

“O-Oh, well thanks again. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” You left before he could say anything else, making a beeline straight for the door. You needed some comfort after that class, so you opened your phone and shot a quick text to your roomies. 

(you) 

Just had the weirdest class in my life. 

(Jean) 

What happened? 

(Connie) 

Probably not as shitty as the class I just had. 

(Sasha) 

Guys come homeeee im bored and hungry. 

Actually, can someone go grocery shopping? 

(you) 

Sasha, I’m having a crisis here.

At least pretend to care :/

(Sasha) 

Get on with it already. 

(you) 

My professor took my coffee and tossed it in the trash. 

So embarrassing. 

He also knew my name?? 

Like what? 

(Jean) 

Ohhhhhhhhh 

Wait a second it’s coming to me now

(you) 

What? What is? 

(Jean) 

It’s too much to text, just come back to the apartment. 

You pocketed your phone and focused your energy on walking after that text. You made the ten-minute walk into a seven-minute trek, entering your small on-campus housing and taking the stairs two at a time to get to your apartment. When you finally got your key card to scan and unlock your door you all but tumbled into the kitchen. 

Sasha was already eating an egg sandwich, sriracha sauce dribbling down her chin. Jean was sipping on coffee, his hair still wet from his shower. You dropped your bag and dropped into one of the chairs at the small table in the middle of your cramped table. 

“So what do you know?” You asked, you had a sinking feeling that it had something to do with your drunken adventure the previous night. 

“Well, I was pretty drunk too. But not nearly as bad as you.” Jean said with a chuckle, placing his cup down to give you all of his attention. 

“So, when you said you were going go vom, I took you to the men’s room.” Jean continued and you felt the blood drain from your face. 

“Ok….” You prompted him to get to the point. 

“So you were throwing up in one of the stalls, Connie was standing at the door. That was when Sasha found us.” Jean continued with his eyes closed, clearly trying to recall the events correctly. 

“Yeah, you were in a bad way (Y/n).” Sasha added and you groaned, planting your face in your palms. 

“Anyway, you were throwing up and Connie was blocking the door when some guy wouldn’t give up. He really wanted in.” Jean continued and you had a bad feeling that you knew who was on the other side of the door. 

“Connie was too drunk to really guard the door, so this guy comes busting in, sees you and me on the floor. Says something about it being the men’s room, then he did his business.” Jean shrugged almost like it wasn’t that big of a deal. But now that he was telling you these things it seemed to jog your memory, of your head in a toilet bowl as your friends yelled behind you. It was still blurry, but you remembered lifting your head and catching a glimpse of the man as he walked to the sink. 

“I only know it was him because I had his class last year. He’s a real hard ass, and he definitely remembered me.” Jean laughed at your misfortune as you ran your hands down the sides of your face. 

“This is just my luck.” You laughed humorlessly as Jean cringed in sympathy. 

“I mean, he was in the bar too. So I feel like he can’t judge you that much.” Jean tried to comfort you, and honestly what he was saying made sense, but it didn’t spare you the embarrassment. 

“Can’t do anything about it now right?” Sasha said around a mouthful of her sandwich. 

“Right.” You agreed, memories slowly seemed to be trickling back to you. You recalled the walk to the bar, ordering shots, even pieces of your trip to the bathroom. 

“Oh wait until I show you the video of you dancing on the pool table!” Sasha exclaimed, reaching into her pocket to fish out her phone. You whimpered and laid your head on the table, staring off into space as Jean and Sasha chuckled over the video. You hoped that this would pass, that Dr. Ackerman would forget about this and you could have a regular semester. 

Of course things weren’t so simple. 

[someonestolemyshoes]

Off the Record

Hello!! I am super excited to finally post my entry for @levihan-drabbles competition :D The prompt was super interesting and I had a tonne of fun writing this one! 

The prompt I received was: Hange posts a picture of Levi somewhere and it becomes a meme.

(For those curious, this is the meme I used for inspiration) 

Hange pushed her plate across the table and grinned at him. "Levi! Fancy seeing you here! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Levi's lip curled.

"You know what," he said. Hange braced her elbows on the table and rested her chin atop her knotted fingers.

"Enlighten me."

Colour rose in Levi's cheeks. For a moment, Hange felt a little guilty. For all Levi's grumbling and grunting, Hange had never seen him angry before.

"That bullshit article."

"Ah. Was there a problem?"

Hange met Moblit in a small cafe a little way down the road from the newsroom. She was in good spirits—her morning had been productive; she'd made steady headway with research for her next interview, finished the final edits for a few smaller tabloid pieces she'd been meaning to brush up, attended three short, perfunctory meetings on tedious company policy, and laid the groundwork for another exciting interview opportunity.  

She felt good. And now she had the pleasurable prospect of a hearty lunch, a passable cup of coffee, and perhaps best of all, Moblit's company. His company, and his camera.

Hange threw herself into the seat opposite Moblit the moment she spotted him, hunched over his laptop in a corner of the cafe. He lifted his coffee cup just in time for Hange to clatter against the table, the thin metal frame rattling precariously. She offered him a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," she said, and then, "got anything exciting?"

"I don't know about exciting. Interesting, maybe, but no breaking news."

Hange flagged down a passing waitress with one hand, and waved Moblit off with the other. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter," she said, then paused to order a drink and her favourite sandwich. "Tell me anyway."

"I got a tip-off from a waiter at Sina's."

Hange's eyes sparkled behind her glasses. She sat forward in her chair, folding her arms on the table top as she leaned closer. "Who?"

"Take a guess."

Hange grinned at him. Moblit was not one to play coy; he did his job and did it well, and reported his findings efficiently. To leave her to question it meant one of two things; he had photographed someone very high profile indeed, or it was somebody Hange was, for better or for worse, well acquainted with.

Or perhaps, if she were lucky, it was both.

"Let me see him, then."

**

Hange had taken far too much time in the cafe with Moblit. He had given her a rundown of all the details he'd gathered during his field work that morning, and shown her through his extensive photo gallery. It was impressive, the kind of archive Moblit could cultivate with only a 45 minute breakfast window.

Hange had been delighted. Moblit was right; it wasn't breaking news, nothing particularly thrilling, but there was a corner of the Internet, Hange knew, that would delight in a trashy little article just like this. Something quick and simple to bulk up the social media feed for the afternoon.

Plus, there was a series of pictures Moblit had snapped, a cluster he'd thought to be of no real merit, that Hange simply could not pass up.

She could lay down no facts with a story like this one. There was no hard-hitting investigative journalism to be had, but she could at least offer some speculation based on her knowledge of the subjects involved, and spin a tale juicy enough to get people talking.

It took little time at all to put the article together. Hange scribbled up an outline for the contents—the location; Sina's in downtown Hizuru, a luxurious restaurant serving five star meals at every hour of the day. High in quality, sickeningly steep in price. The time of day; 9am. To the best of Hange's knowledge, this was rather out of character for the subject. He was an early riser, but according to their interview last March pending the premiere of his newest movie, he wasn't the type to eat much at all before lunch time.

And then, the company. Eren Yeager was a relatively well-known actor, barely an adult at nineteen. He starred in his first role a decade earlier, and had seen commercial success in multiple movies and TV shows ever since. He had been something of a prodigy in his younger years, bold and precocious, possessing a natural talent many actors years his senior couldn't even hope for. As Hange understood it, he had recently hit a rather troublesome phase. An interesting line of inquiry, but despite his talent and his fame, Eren's presence was simply a cameo, compared to the subject of the article Hange was drawing up.

Levi Ackerman.

Levi is a fan favourite and a media delight. He's attractive no doubt, and his performance in any and every role is almost always met with critical acclaim. Outside of his career, however, he's an elusive thing, silent in any matters pertaining to his private life. He avoids any public event like the plague, and rarely shows his face at premieres or award ceremonies if he can possibly avoid it. He gives interviews only when required by some contractual obligation or other, or else when the journalist in question is so painfully persistent that it is simply easier to give in than to keep fighting.

Little of his personal life is known, but it is impossible for someone in Levi's position to avoid interacting with anybody at all, and even the great Levi Ackerman is not above scrutiny.

There are rumours. Several of them, accounts from fellow cast members, from staff, from directors, and even Erwin, his manager, has alluded more than once to Levi's sour disposition. He is prone, Hange has heard, to fits of anger, and is easily disgruntled by minor inconveniences. His dislike of anything unclean or untidy is the stuff of legends—Hange has seen this first hand, at their very first interview. He had entered the room, scowled at the chair before sitting in it, and given Hange a thorough once over before announcing, with no hint of humour, "your glasses are filthy."

Hange had found him both fascinating and quite delightful, in his own strange way. When he acts, Levi sounds eloquent; he is a master of emotive performance, wringing the last drops of anger, despair, or grief out of each and every word, or else injecting the perfect giddy jitter, or a tremor of humour when the scene called for it. As soon as the cameras stop rolling, though, Levi's tone becomes flat, and without a script, his words are clumsy and crass. He communicates poorly, quick to throw insults and crude remarks. Hange has interviewed him a number of times—she counts herself very lucky that Levi will consent to her requests without too much fuss, these days—and each time she finds herself spending half of their time together translating his answers into something a) family friendly, and b) understandable to the everyday reader.

There is nothing for Hange to translate this time. Moblit managed to speak to the waiter after Levi and Eren had vacated in hopes of gleaning any small tidbit of knowledge regarding their conversation, but the venture had been hopeless. The pair had grown silent upon the approach of any staff member, and spoke in tones too hushed for anyone nearby to hear. They learned nothing they couldn't extrapolate for themselves from Moblit's pictures; Eren looked sheepish, avoiding Levi's gaze in favour of staring into his drink, while Levi—

Levi looked furious.

Every picture featured his signature frown, which, in and of itself wasn't enough to assume Levi to be in any mood besides neutral, but some of the photos show a hint of bared teeth or pursed lips, with his brows pulled lower than normal, the space between them deeply creased. Hange found herself curious as both a journalist and as an acquaintance. They may not be friends, but Hange liked to think she knew Levi a little better than most people, at least. She could find nothing in their past interactions to suggest any relationship with Eren beyond the strictly professional. They had over a decade between them, and though they had worked together on more than one set, neither party had ever said anything to insinuate so much as a friendly attitude between them.

There was no resolution to her queries to be easily found. And luckily for Hange, this particular piece didn't require any. It was a gossip article, something spicy, jam-packed with buzzwords, what-if's and more questions than answers, designed to make people wonder. Levi's name in the title would be enough to draw people in; Eren's name was an added bonus. But the star of the show was Moblit's photography. Hange arranged the images she had chosen in a grid. In context, the pictures were intriguing, depicting a particularly ferocious part of Levi and Eren's exchange. Out of context, they looked a little ridiculous. Both would bring readers onto their home page.

Satisfied with her work, Hange queued the finished article for review, and turned her attention back to her schedule.

**

The article launched mid-afternoon. Hange watched, somewhat satisfied, as it was received much as she had expected it to be. The activity on their Twitter account skyrocketed, the tweet in question garnering more likes, retweets and replies in the hour after it's post than any other they’d dropped in the last month.

Hange had allowed it to slip from her mind after the first hour or so. She received praise from her bosses, and a text from Moblit, jokingly demanding she pay him even more handsomely for his work than she already had, and her cousin had called her in the evening on a quest for insider gossip she could share with her friends, but that had been the end of it. Hange thought of it no more until early the following morning, when she had stopped by the quiet little cafe beneath her flat for breakfast and her favourite coffee.

She had been polishing off her pancakes when the bell above the door chimed. She had paid little attention to the newcomer, until a shadow passed over her table, and a familiar voice said, "Oi, shitty glasses."

Hange looked up to see Levi Ackerman himself standing over her, his face twisted in a scowl.

There are perks of being reasonably acquainted with Levi. Hange always gets to conduct his interviews, and Levi only ever turns her down if her request is unreasonable. Like that time she demanded he meet her at this very coffee shop for "just a quick piece, about the cameo you did for the new season of Titans", only to show him she'd bought a new pair of glasses—"look, all clean!"—and, when pressed, admitted there was no interview at all. He had been far more hesitant to indulge her in smaller affairs after that, but Hange was still lucky enough to be his only regular interviewer after big releases.

More interviews means more commission for Hange, and more high profile work with other celebrities. Yes, being acquainted with Levi has its bonuses.

But it also has its downsides. Namely, that Levi will not hesitate to turn up at her regular coffee shop to berate her after she has posted some complete and utter wank at his expense.

Hange pushed her plate across the table and grinned at him. "Levi! Fancy seeing you here! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Levi's lip curled.

"You know what," he said. Hange braced her elbows on the table and rested her chin atop her knotted fingers.

"Enlighten me."

Colour rose in Levi's cheeks. For a moment, Hange felt a little guilty. For all Levi's grumbling and grunting, Hange had never seen him angry before.

"That bullshit article."

"Ah. Was there a problem?"

"You're a piece of shit, you know that?"

Hange sat back in her chair and sipped at her coffee. Levi's face was full colour now, a pale pink flush from his neck right up to his hairline. Hange gave him a measured look, then kicked out the chair opposite her.

"Sit," she said. "If you have issues, I'd be happy to discuss."

Levi looked for a moment like he'd like nothing more than to strangle her. Then he pulled out the chair the rest of the way, and dropped himself into it.

"I don't give a fuck about the article," he said. "It's shitty gossip anyway."

Hange raised a brow at him. She opened her mouth to continue when, without prompt, a young waitress approached their table, practically bouncing on the spot as she stopped and gave Levi a dazzling smile. Her cheeks were flushed prettily, and Hange would have thought she were simply starstruck, if it weren't for the light of mirth in her eyes.

"Good morning, sir. Can I get you anything?" She gave Levi no chance to respond, before plowing on. "Water? Or tea, perhaps? Forgive me, but you seem a little upset. Might a nice tea calm you down?"

Levi grit his teeth. "No, thank you."

Hange almost apologised to the poor waitress on his behalf, but she didn't look bothered at all by his rudeness. In fact, she had barely turned from the table before she snorted in laughter, and caught her giggles in her hands as she scurried back behind the counter. A second passed, before all three waitresses snickered.

"That," Levi hissed, "is your fault."

Now Hange truly was confused. She furrowed her brow at him. "How does that have anything to do with me?"

"You and your stupid article," he said. Hange looked back to the waitress, who looked to their table again before falling into a fresh fit of giggles. Hange turned back to Levi, a little sympathetic.

"I think she just fancies you."

"You're trying to tell me you really don't know the mess you've caused?"

Hange shook her head slowly. Levi watched her closely, searching for proof of the lie, but Hange's earnestness must have shown through, for Levi's anger abated a little, and he slumped back on his chair.  

In lieu of a verbal explanation, Levi pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, typed something out, and scrolled a little way, before placing the phone on the table and sliding it towards her. Hange pulled it closer with a frown.

The screen displayed Twitter, and showed the feed beneath the search for Levi's name. Hange scrolled a few posts, eyes widening little by little as she went.

Levi was right. The contents of the article were of little significance at all. The photo grid, however, had gone viral overnight.

It showed four pictures of Levi and Eren, taken in succession. Each one showed only a portion of the back of Eren's head, but Levi's expression in every frame was more animated than Hange had ever seen him outside of his movie scenes, and each was more distraught than the last. Face tight, jaw clenched, teeth bared, with his finger pointed condescendingly in Eren's face. The second last picture shows his brows arched and his lips pressed into a thin line, and the final one—

Hange had laughed at it in isolation when Moblit had shown her. She had fully expected it to garner a few laughs, but she hadn't expected a photograph of Levi furiously slurping his tea to become a meme in less than 24 hours.  

"I see," Hange said, as she calmly slid the phone back to him. "In my defense, you don't help yourself. It wouldn't be half as funny if you didn't hold your tea cup so weird."

"In my defense," Levi snapped, "If you didn't post it online nobody would have anything to laugh at."

Hange crossed her arms on the table and leaned towards him, smiling pleasantly. "In your defense, you wouldn't have been so angry in public if it weren't for whatever Eren had to say. What was that about, by the way? I'm terribly curious."

Hange expected a very Levi response to her prying; a scowl, perhaps a quick kick under the table, an 'It's none of your damn business, four-eyes', if she were lucky.

What she got instead was a haughty sniff, and a gruff, "He's fucking my cousin."

For a moment, they were silent. Either Levi's anger at his new meme status had temporarily disabled the part of his brain that blocked any mention of his private life from slipping past his lips in the wrong company, or something about Eren's indiscretion had rattled him so much, he couldn't keep silent about it. Either way, he looked increasingly surprised—and horrified—at himself for saying it out loud. Hange's eyes were wide, and Levi's were growing wider by the second. Of all the people to slip up to, he had slipped up to her. An entertainment journalist, the one person in his life who thrived on this kind of insider knowledge.

Hange swallowed. Levi was still staring at her like a deer in headlights, no doubt painfully aware that there was no taking back what he had said now.

Hange doesn't take a great deal of pride in what she does. She feels satisfied when her stories receive the reception she'd predicted, validated in her ability to analyse their consumer base and make accurate assumptions about what will hit and what won't, but the work itself feels dirty, at times. An opportunistic scavenger feeding on whatever carrion they can find, no matter how rotten it may be.

This is a perfect opportunity. Salacious details of Levi's interpersonal relationships, right from the horse's mouth. If it were anyone else, Hange would be scribbling every word verbatim in her notebook.

But this is Levi. Levi, who seems jarred by her last article (though Hange will maintain this, at least, is no real fault of her journalism, and also, absolutely hilarious) and was clearly, for whatever reason, incensed by Eren's actions.

Hange brushed her palms over her thighs, and picked a speck of lint from her trousers.

"This is nice, isn't it?" She said, "having breakfast together. We should do it more often. It feels good to just talk, sometimes. Off the record."  

Levi blinked rapidly at her. He opened his mouth, but, still too shocked by his own loose tongue to speak, he said nothing. Hange pulled her phone from her bag and fiddled around with it some, tapping here and there, until she found what she was looking for. She turned it to Levi, and said, "I think this is my favourite edit so far."

Levi finally pulled his gaze from her, and looked down at the screen. It was truly something, the way the picture snapped him out of his stunned silence. Hange had never seen someone's face pinch up so rapidly.

"Come on, it's kinda funny. And look! That's Tony Stark, right? People are so creative. And maybe, if we're really lucky, Buzzfeed will do a compilation article of all the best ways people have used your new meme."  

Levi rolled his eyes at her. It looked strange, with his face so tightly twisted. Hange chuckled at him.

She nudged his ankle beneath the table with the toe of her shoe. "Lighten up, you look constipated."

"Oi, out of the two of us I'm not the one who's full of—"

"—Full of shit, I know, I know. That honour is all mine."

They lapsed into another silence, this one marginally more comfortable than the last. Hange finished the last of her coffee and checked her emails, while Levi tortured himself some more by scrolling through his Twitter feed. After a short while, he spoke again.

"That...doesn't sound bad," he said.

"Hm?"

"What you said about talking more. Off the record. It doesn't sound bad."

It was Hange's turn to flush. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she occupied herself by rifling through her bag in search of nothing.

"Yeah?" Her voice, an octave higher than usual, cracked around the vowels. She cleared her throat, "will you have more gossip for me? It's almost painful that I can't share it, you know."

"Good. I'll share as many secrets as I've got, if it'll bother you that much."

"Sounds terrible," Hange said. She tore a clean corner off her napkin and scribbled her personal number onto it. She slid it over the table to him. "Text me."

Levi pulled a face at the piece of napkin. "Is that used? Gross, shitty four-eyes." He pocketed it anyway.

Hange didn't know what else to say. Levi didn't seem to either, and so he stood, and tucked his chair back in. Hange turned her eyes down to her empty plate. Her stomach and chest felt strange, almost sickly, but in an oddly pleasant way.

Levi rapped his knuckles on the table. Hange jumped, startled, and looked up at the sound.

"This part is on the record," he said. The corner of Levi's mouth quirked into a small, barely there grin. "I heard from a reliable source that Eren was so scared on the set of Last War that he pissed his pants. Twice."

[luvlorn]

ghost [sapnap]

pairing: sapnap x gn!reader

pronouns: they/them (none mentioned)

synopsis: you left, and all he has left is the ghost of you.

wc: 0.8k

a/n: inspired by justin bieber's 'ghost'. 10/10 song, i definitely recommend. also idk what this is i just wanted to post something!

tw: just angst, no happy ending sorry </3

"since the love that you left is all that i get

i want you to know that if i can't be close to you

i'll settle for the ghost of you

i miss you more than life"

losing someone important in your life is always painful. sapnap knew that. but he’s never felt pain like this before.

it wasn’t physical pain, no, it was emotional pain. and that was much, much worse. because there was no amount of medication that could heal his deeply cut wounds.

it was like a searing sensation in his chest, as though someone had grabbed his heart in their hands and began kneading it relentlessly, squeezing out every emotion he could possibly muster.

it never stopped.

it would never stop.

you were gone from his life.

and he missed you.

he missed waking up next to you.

he missed the cute little yawn that escaped your lips when you woke up, or the quiet mumbling of complaint as you set your alarm to snooze.

he missed the way you would pout when he left your shared bed, begging him for more cuddles and sleep. he could never say no to you.

sometimes, he swore he could still hear the faint sound of your soft, sleepy giggles echo through the room, the ones he’d receive after placing gentle kisses on your face in the early hours of the morning.

he missed the way you expressed yourself.

he missed the sparkle in your eyes when you brought up something you were passionate about, or the doe-eyed expression you’d give him when you felt uncertain and needed his reassurance.

he missed the way you always talked with your hands, emphasizing your points with random gestures and catching everyone’s attention. he thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

he missed your personality.

he missed the way you sang at the top of your lungs and danced around the kitchen when you thought no one was home, or that he was busy. and then how you would get flustered when he made himself known.

he missed how you would skip when you were happy, how you would become super cuddly when you were upset, how you would beg him to take spontaneous adventures with you at 3am in his car blasting shitty music and taking stupid pictures on your polaroid camera.

he missed you when he streamed.

he missed hearing the floorboards creak under the weight of your feet while he was streaming, a reminder that he was not alone. though he was comfortable with his streams, having thousands of viewers watching you could be quite overwhelming, and your presence always grounded him.

he missed when you would quietly knock on his door, making sure he was muted before offering him a variety of snacks, drinks, or anything he needed. you always made sure he was taken care of, and he couldn’t believe he took that for granted.

he missed falling asleep next to you.

he missed the way you would throw yourself on the bed carelessly, provoking squeaks of protest from the mattress. he missed the way you would start spontaneous pillow fights, making a mess of your freshly made beds.

he missed your comforting presence next to him as he drifted off. he missed the way you used to draw shapes on his chest with your head resting next to the mindless scribbles. he missed having his legs tangled with yours as you fell asleep, having the security of each other's embrace as you fell into another nights’ slumber.

he missed you, more than life.

everything reminded him of you.

whenever he saw a poorly parked car, he remembered teaching you how to drive. whenever he saw a cat running across the street, he remembered when you’d found a stray and the two of you had brought it to a shelter, successfully rescuing it.

whenever he passed the coffee shop, he remembered the first time he laid eyes on you from across the cafe.

as if he wasn’t being tortured enough, the apartment you two picked out - together, mind you - seemed to have a permanent mark of you.

a ghost of you, if you will.

every building has its own unique sounds and creaks, but sapnap could not have possibly been unluckier. because every sound he somehow connected to you.

the creaking floorboards from the neighbors upstairs reminded him of your own feet pattering down the hallway to visit him, hard at work. the dripping of the leaky faucet echoed off the empty walls and to him, sounded like the soft morning giggles he missed so much.

he was reminded of you cooking each night when he used the oven. he was reminded how you tumbled down the stairs every so often when he heard the cat hopping down by his own free will. he was reminded of your silly antics every time he sat on his bed and heard the familiar creaking.

he couldn’t escape.

a part of him found it all oddly comforting, in a way.

because if he couldn’t be close to you, he’d settle for the ghost of you.

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

The Revived - Chapter 22: Preparations

This is chapter 22 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @dramaticsnakes​ and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur

Word count: 3,093

Cw: pain, brief loneliness, implied derealization

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

Wilbur was somewhat thankful that the early morning interaction had been disheveled enough, for Wilbur not to have been asked to leave. It was kind of funny really, that even though Wilbur had been caught trespassing where he shouldn’t, the young boy had been far too distracted to kick him out. Far too confused and awkward. It seemed to be a general trend whenever Ranboo was talking to him.

Though perhaps Wilbur couldn’t act as if he was above that awkwardness, as he hadn’t even gotten around to asking exactly what kind of party it was. He assumed however, for natural reasons, that if it was a party for a toddler, presents for said toddler would be involved. Regardless, Wilbur didn’t think giving a present to a child would be looked down upon in any case. If anything, it might repair what he previously damaged. Even if it was an infinitesimal amount, it could still help.

“Oh oh oh! What should we get him?” Ghostbur asked excitedly, “What does he like? Red, gold, nether things, books…” He chuckled as he jokingly added, “Us! We could wrap ourselves in a present.”

Wilbur chuckled despite himself. “We could,” he said with a smile, feeling a bit of exhaustion dragging at him, but finding it easier and easier to ignore. “Let’s see if there’s anything we can use in these chests.”

Wilbur rummaged through them for a while, only managing to find four gold ingots that could perhaps interest the child. He briskly crafted them into a pair of gold boots that he figured would suit Michael’s size. He narrated the action to Ghostbur as he did it.

“They’re like rubber boots!” Ghostbur had commented excitedly.

“Mhm.”

“Oh, I have an idea!” 

“Shoot,” a smile lingered in his voice as he grabbed a dark gray satchel nearby. It was light-weight and durable. Perfect for a gift or two. He carefully put the golden boots inside it as Ghostbur rambled on cheerfully.

“So, hear me out. I’ve got the best idea ever in the whole universe. We should make him a card! He can hold and look at it, and you can be nice in it too!”

Wilbur walked downstairs, grabbing some sugar cane from the farm as he quickly pressed it into paper. A quill sat nearby as he picked it up. “Alright, so a simple message…” Wilbur’s voice trailed off.

“Okay, how about, ‘Oh, Michael, you are the most amazing person to exist and I hope you continue existing forever.’”  

Wilbur looked into the air as if he was on The Office. “Or we could go with something more general.”

“I gotcha! We can do ‘You are the most amazing person to exist and you are so cool that I hope you continue existing forever.’”

“First of all, I thought I said more general, not less.”

“I did make it more general! I removed Michael’s name from it.”

Wilbur facepalmed gently so it wouldn’t hurt Ghostbur. “I meant for it to be less… emotional? I don’t think that’s the right word, but I want the card to be neutral.”

Ghostbur hummed in agreement. “Okay. We can say ‘I feel neutral about your existence, but I do agree that you chose to exist at this current time, and by the way, you are also very cool.’”

Wilbur sighed, “I’ll take over the writing.” He narrated the words on the paper, “Dear Michael, The world will be at your feet someday! But for now, it's just these gold boots.” A smile slipped on his face at the words replaying in his mind in company with Ghostbur’s noises of approval.

“Oh can we do a drawing at the bottom? Michael likes drawings.”

Wilbur nodded, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Ghostbur excitedly squealed, “Can we- oh my, I have so many good ideas.”

Wilbur chuckled, pleased to hear the ghost being his typical self again. “I can start with drawing Michael?”

Ghostbur clapped, “Yeah! And- and holding hands with him?”

“Sure, just give me one second.” He might have been a leader of a nation and a general for many soldiers, but Wilbur certainly was not an artist. He tried genuinely drawing a face, only for him to scratch it out and get a new paper out and transfer his original message onto it. Instead, he imitated Michael’s drawing style- stick figures. 

He drew playful lines across the bottom of the paper. He eventually formed a small stick person with little pig ears, a big smile, and black boots. He would have colored them, but he didn’t want to risk Michael eating the paper as he did just days ago. 

Next to Michael, he drew a slightly bigger person. Curly hair at the top and a rough trenchcoat around the body. He hesitantly finished the picture with a small smile on his own face. It felt a bit silly to draw like that. To be making a card for a child after everything, drawing handholding and smiles. Yet Ghostbur’s excitement was strangely infectious. It was sort of relieving in a sense, even if Wilbur wasn’t the type to fall for such bright positivity.

“Alright, the drawings are finished.” 

He was about to fold the paper into his pocket when Ghostbur called out, “Wait, did you put any stars on there?”

“No?”

“What kind of drawing is it if there’s no stars?!”

Wilbur sighed quietly as he quickly scribbled some stars in the corners. “Alright, I’m putting it away now-”

“Wait! Did you sign it?”

Wilbur furrowed his brow, “I’m giving it to him. He knows it’s from me.”

Ghostbur pleaded, “But cards always look better if they’re signed. Just a quick, ‘Love, Wilbur and Ghostbur’ makes the card a thousand times better! No- a billion!”

Wilbur sighed as he remained frozen in place before the words settled in. His mind easily processed the ridiculous request, but not the fact that Ghostbur wanted to be signed on the card too. Wilbur should have probably assumed it, but the idea didn’t fully settle with him. “Alright.” The words were quiet as he quickly wrote down, ‘Sincerely, Uncle Wilbur’.

"Is there anything else I need to add?"

"Hmm, I don't think so."

Wilbur gently placed the card in the satchel as he quickly ran up to see the clock once more, but he slightly frowned to see the hour hand still lingering between the four and five. He brushed it off though. He could easily occupy himself anyway. His eyes glazed over the books on the table before he internally groaned at the thought of hitting the books once again. 

He walked over to the table, placing the satchel onto it, before grabbing one of the books before Ghostbur spoke, "Oh, we're reading again?" His voice sounded slightly dismayed.

Wilbur shook his head, "Nah, I'm just putting away some books." Ghostbur made a pleased sound  as Wilbur quietly pushed the leather-bound book back into its spot. 

He sighed quietly at the odd silence of the room. He focused on the ticking of the clock. It

was a nice sound to focus on. It was a constant reminder he was still alive. Even if he wasn't

the happiest in his position, he was alive. 

An alive man that was going to attend a toddler's party with a homemade card that had poorly drawn stickmen inside.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as he finished putting some of the books away. Most of them held no useful information anyhow, and perhaps leaving them out would appear suspicious, should Tubbo return.

He wondered for a brief moment if Ranboo intended on telling Tubbo about Wilbur’s presence in the bunker. He imagined Tubbo insisting on having a talk as soon as Wilbur arrived. Prime, Wilbur despised talks. He just hoped the awkwardness of the interaction, and Ranboo’s apparent secrecy, was enough for Ranboo to leave it out.

Wilbur walked downstairs, finding that his leg had almost healed during his days in the bunker. He was going to harvest some watermelon, simply to pass the time. As he was about to do so, his eyes fell upon something dusty, peeking out of a chest he hadn’t bothered looking much at before. He knew what it was. He closed his eyes momentarily, to get a hold of his thoughts, before walking to the chest, and taking out a dusty mirror. 

He rubbed the shiny end of it with his sleeve. The mirror was still vaguely cloudy, but it still showed him nonetheless. Well- not exactly him, but rather his body. The man who stared back was nearly unrecognizable with gray bruises scattered along his face that easily complemented the bags under his eyes.

Complement was a rather strong word as all of his features seemed off-putting to him. His greasy hair hung close to his pale-ish skin. He squished his face with one of his hands, truly making sure that his reflection was his own. Of course, the mirror version moved along with him, but he strangely wished it didn’t. 

His mind drifted back to his encounter with Ranboo. Had they really intended on inviting Wilbur to the party in the first place? Or had that been done out of pity?

The only good thing about his reflection was that he couldn’t see the burns along his chin anymore. He touched it gently, finding the skin to be a little softer than before. 

He automatically put the mirror down as he headed towards the shower that laid in the bunker. He stopped two steps away as Ghostbur chimed in, “What time is it over there?”

“Oh… I don’t know.” He was pulled out of his thoughts quite easily as he stayed frozen in place.

Confusion laced Ghostbur’s voice, “You can’t check?”

Wilbur shut his eyes tightly for a moment before taking a sharp breath, “I could, but I have to ask you something.”

Wilbur despised the cheeriness in Ghostbur’s response. “Ask away!”

Images of Wilbur’s face flashed through his own mind as he hesitantly asked, “Alright, Ghostie, there’s not an easy way to bring this up.” Ghostbur hummed in acknowledgement, not wanting to interrupt Wilbur. Despite Wilbur not wanting to continue on, he forced the words out of him, “So- do you know what a shower is?”

“Yeah! It’s one of those plants on the ground with pretty petals.”

A dry chuckle left Wilbur, “No, that’s a flower.”

“Oh. Is it what Tubbo uses in baking?”

Wilbur sighed this time, “No, that’s wheat flour.” As Ghostbur was about to give another guess, Wilbur cut him off, “I’ll just tell you.”

Ghostbur sounded slightly dismayed at his refused answers, “Alright.”

“Alright. Alright,” the words were quiet in his mind as he forced himself back on track. “A shower is something people do to get clean. They use soap and… water to do this.”

“Aww, I was about to guess that too.”

“Right.” It was now or never. “I think I need to take a shower.”

“Okay!”

Wilbur furrowed his brow, “You’re… okay with me taking a shower? You know it’s going to require water, right?”

Ghostbur’s breath hitched at the realization. “Ah. I thought you meant soap or water.”

Wilbur exhaled, the tension flowing through his body. “Yeah.”

“So why do you need to take one? I know people in general do it, but you can explain to him that water hurts me.”

Wilbur shook his head, “He can’t know about you.”

Child-like curiosity filled Ghostbur’s voice, but it was slightly dimmer than what it should have been, “Why?”

Wilbur pursed his lips. It was too risky to describe in words. With how little trust Tubbo had in Wilbur, it would most likely foil their plans of Ghostbur’s escape. The suspicion and worry in Tubbo’s eyes wouldn’t temporarily go away at a joke. There wouldn’t be a moment alone with his thoughts as everyone whispered about the mind of his. They wouldn’t say anything bad either, just harsh truths that hurt more than he’d like to imagine. The truths he thought he could escape by finishing his unfinished symphony. 

Wilbur’s failed nation transitioned to a mind that couldn’t go a day without the desperate need to talk to someone again. The need for someone to reassure him he was alive and he wasn’t imagining something in the train station again. He was quite imaginative in there. He made fantasy worlds with so many new people, but at the end of the day, he imagined Tommy by his side laughing or cooking breakfast with Tubbo again. 

On the rougher days, he would imagine Fundy there. Sometimes he talked about his problems to him, only to cry harder when he remembered his son wasn’t actually there. Or he would imagine Niki running a hand through his hair, telling him all the things he needed. He’d been without that real warm touch for thirteen years that holding himself made a shaky sob leave. It had been pathetic of him to imagine such things, but the silence got to you after a few years, after he had spent a long time growing bitter. No one could see him anyway, so maybe it hadn’t counted at all, as he thought about those potential blissful moments.

The moments he never got. Perhaps he was still at the train station after all, the slight buzz of the lights being the only noise he could hear. No one laughed with him when he came back. The most he got was a dry chuckle that he happened to witness. There was no one to hold or listen to him. Not a single person smiled at his return. He was alone in the train station he thought he escaped days ago.

Tears blurred his vision as he wrapped his arms around himself. He pushed his body against a wall as he slid down it. The gray wall that accompanied the gray floors and flickering fluorescent lights. The tunnel that didn’t stop seemed to stop his mind. It blocked him in every direction that led to happiness before his murmuring thoughts entered.

It took a moment to realize it wasn’t his thoughts, but rather an echoy version of them. “Wilbur? Is everything okay?”

Wilbur swallowed back a cry. “Yeah,” his voice shook for a moment as he tried to breathe normally. “Sorry I spaced out for a second.” There wasn’t a train station. He wasn’t back there. He was in the bunker. “What were you saying?”

Ghostbur quietly answered, “Nothing. Oh- earlier you said you wanted to take a shower?”

The words brought Wilbur back to a more tangible reality. “Right…” he said with a nod, pushing himself up from the ground, his posture wavering slightly. He swallowed something in his throat. “Are you… Are you okay with that?” he quickly added, “I’ll make it as brisk as I can I promise! It’ll mostly be to wash my hair, and to look and smell just a little more presentable.”

Ghostbur had very little reason to trust him. Wilbur was incredibly aware of that at this point, his promises losing all meaning at his forgetfulness, or plain dishonesty. “Of course. Just- Just don’t take too long please.”

“I won’t,” Wilbur said. “I promise,” he repeated, trying to add as much weight to the words as he could. Engrave them, so his mind wouldn’t drift away from it. To keep his mind from drifting away in general.

Gently he put his clothes aside, placing the familiar old trenchcoat and blouse in a little pile. He had associated the outfit with himself for so long, that looking at it apart from him, was almost surreal. Slowly, he walked into the shower. He put the temperature to be as cold as he could, unsure if there would even be hot water in a bunker like this. It would serve as a good reminder that he should make this quick. “I am going to turn it on now. It’ll… It’ll probably reach my entire body.” 

“Okay…” Ghostbur said. Wilbur caught himself missing the excitement from when they were making the card together. Frivolous. 

He placed his hand on the shower knob and turned it, careful not to let his hand too much under the water. It proved to be a rather needless endeavor though, as his face and body were immediately drenched in cold water. He immediately shivered from the feeling as he felt his movements become jittery and robotic. He heard hurried breaths from his mind, and whimpers of pain, though it was surprisingly silent this time around.

Wilbur let his hand through his hair, massaging his scalp. He grasped some soap next to the shower, and mixed some into his hair and on his body, quickly using the water to wash it off. His heart was beating fast, as he rushed to turn the knob once more, some soap still lingering on a few strands of hair. He bolted to the other side of the room, to dry all the remaining water off with a towel, almost as if the uncomfortably cold water was burning him too. The second he could no longer find a drop he let out a few breaths. “There we go. Done.”

Ghostbur took a moment before he replied, his own breathing calming down as well. “Okay… Okay, that’s good! T-thank you.”

Wilbur cringed slightly at the gratitude, not entirely certain what he was being thanked for. “Of course,” he said quietly, his breathing quite obvious and echo-y in the empty room. He suddenly realized that he missed the ticking of the clock. He shook his head, and put on his clothes again, unsure if the warmth they brought was comfort or something that settled heavier in his chest. He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

He walked out of the room, grabbing the satchel with Michael’s present in it. He glanced at the clock once more, finding that it was only around 5:30am. He stood in the middle of the bunker for a good minute, closing his eyes tightly, and holding on to the sound of the clock. When he opened his eyes once more, they settled on the potions he brewed over the past few days. There weren’t many, but they comforted him nonetheless. He absent-mindedly packed three strength potions into the satchel, perhaps planning on giving some to Tubbo and Ranboo as a gift. 

Then, with determined steps he started walking towards the exit. It felt as if a weight was slightly lifted as he walked out the bunker, though he had grown so used to the weight that he wasn’t sure if that was comforting to him or not. Once he found himself in Pogtopia, he decided to focus on the ground beneath his feet, rather than the buttons lining the walls.

When the sun reached Wilbur’s face, the rays seemed to make his vision less blurry in a sense. The darkness that was so welcoming before, and still called to him, was shoved away in favor of the sunrise.

He remembered right then, when he had declared the first sunrise he saw when he returned, his sunrise. A reminder of life, and opportunity. He stared at the bright sky for a little while. Gently, he placed the satchel on the ground, the glass bottles quietly clinging against each other, and sat down in the grass next to it. He breathed the air into his lungs, as his shoulders untensed. He watched the sunrise intently, as he waited for the party to approach.

[senju-sekhmet]

Irenic. (Ch. 11, Tobirama x OC)

Sometimes life is decided in a mere second. A decision Akiko Uchiha, younger sister of Madara Uchiha, believes in with all her heart - and yet one that seemingly cost her everything. But for as long as she could remember, she had one dream: peace. And for this dream, she is forced to give up everything indeed. Yet sometimes the brightest things are born of the deepest tragedies and thus, when Akiko Uchiha took up her arms and ran, she had no idea what fortune had in store for her. Warnings: Grapic violence, (canon) character death, canon violence, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, hurt/comfort

Length (this chapter): 5,5k Chapter elven of Akiko’s story. Living in Tobirama's space might be the greatest challenge Akiko faces so far in the Senju compound. And then there still is that uncomfortable thing about the unsolved case of arson floating around.

I was looking forward to this chapter for a long time simply because of the unhinged dialogues here. I had them written as early as May/August 2021. 😅 Hope you enjoy it. As always, thanks so much for beta’ing @kuramakakashi​ and the lore genius, @kaiseaya​!! 🤗💖💖💖

Read here on AO3!

Excerpt below:

Life in Tobirama Senju’s machiya was not easy.

It wasn't because of the restrictions - far from it; Akiko was content with a bedroom, the washroom and the kitchenette in which he really had made enough space for her. The house itself was in pristine condition and the sparse furniture was of the same, simple excellence that she had encountered in the guest room of the clan head house.

No, it wasn't the living conditions.

The problem was her landlord. The man who didn't even live in this machiya - who only ever came here to conduct who knew what kind of research. And while he had guessed very correctly Akiko  was  intrigued by it - after all, he utilised a seal that allowed him to teleport around at will - she did well to respect the immense personal boundary he… required. But that wasn't it, either. 

The problem were his working hours.

Apparently Tobirama Senju functioned on a few hours of sleep, at most.

A skill Akiko lacked.

And the Senju had little respect for her personal space - she, a naturally light sleeper. A side effect of a life of war, maybe.

The first time, the woman assumed he had some kind of epiphany that prompted him to stomp into the house well past Akiko's bedtime - it must’ve been midnight. He rummaged around in the living area and while Senju houses indeed utilised quite strong wood - a lot of it - in construction, the walls still were not silent. 

He worked until three in the morning. Something perhaps exploded.

The next morning, Akiko woke up a dishevelled mess and again, the man was behind the huge research table, furiously scribbling down notes. When he noticed her descend down the stairs, he acknowledged her presence with a gruff greeting first - and a second take at the deep rings under Akiko's eyes.

"You don't look good," as elegant as ever the deep voice commented, an eyebrow rising slowly.

Akiko's head tilted around to shoot him a most incredulous look. "And damn, I wonder why that is," before she dragged herself to the kitchen to prepare herself some tea.

Tobirama's forehead scrunched into his trademark frown immediately. "By your sarcastic tone I am to presume it has been my doing."

"You never cease to prove your genius," she drawled with poorly feigned amazement as she prepared the leaves.

[commander-hanji-zoe]

Can I request for both Levi and Moblit moving in with their s/o in their first apartment ever. Like they have good jobs, and a good income but an appartement is not finished right away. So relationship phase where they are trying to make their house feel like a home and make ends meet. Can you write something like that for Moblit and Levi and their s/o’s ? Thank you!

Hello! You most certainly can, I apologise I went a bit off topic and more into the 'how they'd make the apartment feel like home'. But tried to bring it back round to fit the criteria! I do think they'd both be wonderful to move in with ♥

Moblit

When Moblit and his s/o finally decide to move into an apartment together, Moblit couldn’t be more excited. Due to his nature he would have to be absolutely certain before agreeing to this and therefore it’s likely he’ll have been with his partner for some time (and also discussed the move with Hanji at great lengths).

Before the move Moblit wants to plan everything to ensure nothing goes wrong, he packs up his belongings in a fashion where everything is carefully wrapped, everything is labeled and moved in order of how much the two of them will need things. He also helps his s/o with their packing, labelling etc.

Moblit buys a bag’s worth of items needed in the apartment for as soon as he and his s/o get there. It includes tea bags, milk, toilet roll, some biscuits, soap, a hand towel, air freshener, candle. He also leaves out a picture that he and his s/o bought together while on a trip away. So before they go to sleep for the first night the picture is up in the apartment and starts to feel like it’s their own.

Moblit is pretty organised and so the apartment wouldn’t be too messy for long and soon starts to feel like home.

He struggles a bit with the new routine and both him and his s/o have silly fights over the bathroom/shower in the morning. They also struggle with putting things back into the same cupboard and what to do when the other moves something they need.

But all of the above is teething issues, the same for anyone who is getting used to living with someone for the first time. Although Moblit finds it a little frustrating at first, he isn’t angry and rather he’s more worried his s/o will think it’s a bad idea and change their mind.

But due to Moblit’s kind nature and his ability to see the positive in situations, he and his s/o see the workings out of the new apartment as a fun challenge they have to figure out together and soon instead of petty arguments they have playful fights and end up dancing together in a silly fashion in their small kitchen or sharing showers.

It’ll take a few weeks to a month while he and his s/o are unpacking and figuring things out.

There’s far more takeaway than they initially imagined.

They buy little herb trays to keep in the kitchen so they can source a few fresh ingredients when they do start to cook. The first lot die as they realise they’ve both been watering them at the same time, or thinking the other one will do it. They are far more successful with the second lot, from chives to lemon balm, they have quite the selection.

When it comes to decorating, there’s a few rooms where they decide together and then they have one room which is ‘their’ project, they can choose the colour scheme for half of the room each. What they each do ends up matching.

It takes around three months for Moblit and his s/o to really settle in, be completely unpacked, decorated and used to sharing a living space. But once they’re settled Moblit thinks it was one of the best decisions they’ve ever made.

Whoever is home first starts dinner, they share the cooking/cleaning/laundering and so everything is done fairly equally with no pestering or reminders.

Either Friday or Saturday night every week is their date night, whether staying in or going out, it usually finishes with romantic dancing in the kitchen and being silly/playing pranks.

Moblit is usually the first to wake so he’ll be up and opening the curtains in the living areas, making tea/coffee, feeding any pets they have and watering plants on their balcony. He always let’s his s/o sleep in unless they really have to be up in which case he wakes them gently.

They have a flat warming party, it’s themed, likely 1920s/gangster/flapper girls themed with a table to play poker and cocktails including the old-fashioned, and dark and stormy. Hanji has never been prouder of Moblit.

Getting used to paying rent together is something new and with the bills, food, tax etc. the first few months are certainly a learning curve. They get creative with dinners and DIY, learn how to fix things instead of relying on buying new.

Baked beans on toast with a little cheese, a bowl of cereal, or soup and homemade bread that’s risen poorly end up becoming staple meals for a while until things are more settled.

But the joy of waking up next to one another means the world and makes their financial situation worth it. Having enough money to survive and occasionally treat themselves/do nice things is all they need when they have the other by their side. Moblit will frequently remind his s/o of this and just how rich they each are to have one another.

If they’re cold in winter they have a large supply of over-sized jumpers, cosy socks and blankets. And love nothing more than to cuddle up together.

Any money spare they have for small simple pleasures like coffee out, hiring a rowing boat for half hour, a few beers to drink in the park, a drive-in movie… All these things will be reflected later on in life as some of their happiest moments shared together. The simplicity and how grateful they both were for those small moments of joy, simple pleasures and to share it with one another is the greatest gift of all.

Levi

Before he and his s/o move into their new apartment, Levi cleans it from top to bottom. No area of the apartment goes untouched by him, he needs it to be perfect not just for him but also for his s/o.

Levi isn’t someone who would go into this lightly and it would take a long time (much like with Moblit) to feel ready to move into an apartment with his s/o. There would be a lot of long conversations with them about the pros and cons and Levi would want to establish some rules before they commit. Not in a controlling way you understand, more so that both he and his s/o have a chance to air any concerns and things they would want/expect from one another if they were to move in together and to ensure they were on the same page.

Levi would also want to go to the apartment with his s/o before they move to put a few homely touches in place before they technically move in so it already feels like theirs and has their ‘scent’ as it were. Even if they move into a bed and breakfast or with friends for a few nights before the apartment is ready. Levi would rather do this than try to achieve everything in one day and be in a panic.

Levi’s cool and calm nature certainly means that the move isn’t stressful, things are orderly and if anything goes wrong Levi is on hand to amend/sort and help keep his s/o calm. Although Levi isn’t into PDA, he knows just how to reach his s/o and say he’s there for her. It might be a squeeze of the shoulder, a quick hug when no one is looking, a glance with a small reassuring smile or a quick ruffle of his s/o’s hair.

The first night in the apartment sees them sleeping on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes. There’s a few candles lit as they haven’t topped up the electric meter (despite how organised Levi is, he curses himself a bit for that). They have a takeaway and make a fortress of pillows etc. It’s romantic in a way Levi didn’t think he’d be capable of.

Of course the first thing to be unpacked is a kettle, tea bags etc. Before any work commences they sit down and enjoy a cuppa at the kitchen table. There’s a small vase with a few flowers Levi has bought in it. That first cup of tea in the apartment is the best Levi has ever taken and it’s the moment he knows he’s made a great choice.

The first week of unpacking and sorting the apartment goes really well and the two of them work together perfectly. Within just a few days their bedroom is pretty much sorted and things start to fall into place.

Unfortunately, the rest of the unpacking doesn’t go as smoothly, everything is tidy, yes, but a lot of it is tidy in boxes. This is mostly because they’re both so busy with their jobs and agree they’d rather just unpack one box at a time to keep things tidy instead of opening loads of boxes and living in mess.

They end up writing up a Rota for painting/DIY etc. at weekends.

Levi and his s/o buy several simple recipe books and learn to cook new, simple and cheap meals together. It becomes an activity they really look forward to as it brings them closer together and often there’s little moments of laughter, sauce on the nose etc.

When they are settled and everything is in place they invite a few of their closest friends over for a sophisticated dinner party to celebrate.

Their apartment becomes quite the hub for their circle of friends with dinner parties and cocktail making classes. Levi is in his element, it takes him a while to allow others to help him clean up and trust them but with reassure from his s/o he does start to relax.

When Levi and his s/o are experiencing little income (or rather little spare cash) they like to pretend they’ve gone out for a meal.

One of their other favourite past times is going for long walks in the woods, countryside, round a lake. They take a picnic to save money with flasks of tea and a few items that they’ve made together. They also take food for the ducks/geese. Levi likes to sketch his s/o while they’re reading. They read poetry to one another, scribble little creative notes and love to roll round in the grass when no one is around.

Much like with Moblit and his s/o, some of the happiest memories Levi and s/o have from their early days of living together are these moments of making the best of what they had.

[greatshell-rider]

Jerry leaned against the open doorway to Lani’s room. “Hey, I killed a guy in the back alley.”

His sister sat hunched over her desk, a lamp pooling light around her head as she scribbled rapidly on a notepad with one hand and flipped quickly through a thick book with the other. Jerry was hardly surprised to find her still awake; it was only an hour or two past midnight. “Cool,” she said without looking up. “Put it over there.”

She didn’t gesture towards a “there”, so Jerry lugged the guy’s corpse into the room and dropped it against the far wall with the window. After a second’s hesitation, he cracked the window open. He didn’t know how soon Lani would get to the body, and while she might not care about a stench, he had to live with her.

“Didn’t think Dalpho would act so soon,” Lani commented as Jerry made to leave. He slowed and she continued, “Might throw a wrench in our current plan.” He saw a smile curve up her cheek at that.

Oh no. No. “Wasn’t Dalpho,” he said hurriedly. “Just some crook jumped me wanting my purse.” He scowled, flexing his hands and feeling the blood drying on them. “Tried to warn him off with my sword, but he was determined.”

“Or desperate. Don’t you ever spare a thought for all those poor souls out there? The whole city’s starving, Jerr-Bear, and you only think of yourself. Tsk.”

Clenching his jaw, Jerry reminded himself of the resolution he’d made this morning: No responding to Lani’s taunts. If he succeeded, he’d promised himself a spoonful of peanut butter (or the closest approximation to it this ’scape could produce) as a reward.

It is not worth it, he told himself. He took a deep breath and walked toward the door.

“It’s funny,” she mused idly, “how this keeps happening. Whenever I get jumped, we’re all friends by the end. But for some reason, showing off your pretty blade always makes things worse. What’s up with that?”

He threw a dirty look over his shoulder, opening his mouth to remind her how her “friends” always ended up. But he saw her smirk, recognized that glint of honed mirth in her eyes, and forcibly swallowed the retort.

“Shut up,” he growled, and slammed the door shut behind him.

She snickered behind the wood, and Jerry nearly turned right back around to tear the door off the hinges and smash it over her stupid head. He stood before it, hands clenching and unclenching, anger radiating through his body so painfully he had to bite down on his tongue so as to not scream. He’d just killed a man and, as always, his sister. Didn’t. Care. So why did he?

Spoonful of peanut butter, Jerr-Bear.

Jerry forced one lungful of air in, then out, then in, then out. He drew back his foot and slammed it against the door, found the shudder that went up the wood to be satisfying if not relieving, and limped into the kitchen to get that peanut butter.

“I’m going to eat the entire fucking jar,” he muttered.

But his sword, still dirtied, was lying on the table. He couldn’t put it away until he saw it cleaned and inspected it for damage. And he couldn’t eat with it dripping on the floor like that.

He sighed, dragging his hand down his face before remembering that it, like the sword, was also covered in blood. Swearing by the names of every deity he knew in both English and Wide and the other alien curses he’d picked up over the years, he went to the sink and scrubbed himself clean as well as he could, though the blood on his tunic was likely going to stain—the fabric was off-world, and so far had reacted poorly to most materials on this ’scape—and he got too frustrated to finish picking his fingernails clean, then stomped over into his room to get his stupid maintenance kit to get the stupid blade all nice and sparkly for its next stupid victim.

“Who’s the real victim, me or them, huh,” he muttered as he sat down with a towel over his knees, the kit set out on the table, and the sword in his hands. “Who’s the one who has to clean everything up in the end?”

Speaking of, there were smears and drips of blood all over the apartment from dragging the corpse in. That needed to be cleaned as well.

“Everything needs to be cleaned around here,” he snarled, scrubbing harder than what was polite with a rag at the blade. “Should just burn it all down and don’t bother building anything on top. Or else the ghosts will get at it.”

He was rambling nonsense. It was too late. He should be in bed. He should’ve been in bed hours ago. No, he wouldn’t have slept, but at least there were no random strangers to murder in bed. Not so far on this ’scape at least. Yeah there had been that one time, but that had been one time—

Rambling.

Jerry determinedly finished cleaning his sword in silence, not letting himself think a thing but focus solely on the monotonous, repetitive motions that had become familiar habit so long ago they should’ve been comforting now. Should have.

When it was done, he held the sword up, tilting it back and forth to watch the steel be highlighted at different angles. It wasn’t reflective enough to mirror his own face in it—which would have been far too thematically symbolic for Jerry to hold his lunch—but as he held it he couldn’t stop picturing the moment again and again, sliding the blade into the man’s gut before he could plunge his knife in Jerry’s throat or arm or whatever his wild swing had been aimed at. One moment, as shiny as it was now, the next, slick with gore. How quickly a thing became spoiled, and how easy to wipe it all away as if it had never happened.

Rambling.

Scowling, Jerry slid the sword into its sheath—good leather and metal, not flesh and bone—and put it on the table again. He tossed the towel onto the nearest puddle of blood (He was not scrubbing floors tonight. Not tomorrow either. He would make Lani do it. New resolution.) and, feeling exhausted, went to the cupboards. He didn’t even really want to eat anymore, but he did deserve at least one spoonful. Miserably, he pulled a cabinet open and dug through the mishmash of their rations gathered across the ’scapes and dumped in here in case of emergency to the fake back he’d installed early on. He pried the cruddy door open and wrapped his hand around the one remaining jar of air quotes peanut butter he had left.

The moment his fingers touched the plastic, he knew something was wrong. The weight was off.

Slowly, he pulled the jar out, dragging it through the rations without trying to maneuver it safely out. Old dusty packs of dried oatmeal and crumbled crackers fell to the floor, piling around his feet, as he held it up to his face.

He stared at the jar.

It was empty. Licked clean. Drawn on the lid in black marker, a smirking face winked at him.

Oh. Oh! Two murders tonight, then. It was a pity he’d already cleaned his sword.

The plastic squeaked. Jerry blinked and realized he had squeezed the empty jar so hard it was now crumbled in his fist, twisted in painfully distorted warpings.

“I’m going to do that to her bones!” he announced, cheerlessly, to no one.

“Wuh?” came a muffled yell from Lani’s room.

“You ate my peanut butter!” he called back, since apparently she’d been listening at the door. Waiting. Knowing. Giddy with excitement, no doubt.

“It wasn’t even good!”

“I am going to kill you!”

“Can’t! Locked the door!”

“There’s a window!”

“Ha! Wait, let me get a camera, I want to remember this!”

“Lani, I’m going to kill you! Straight up!”

“Thought you were bi.”

“You should see what I did to the jar.” He brandished it, though she wasn’t even in the room. “I didn’t even mean to.”

“Funny, the similarities between that statement and what I said about thugs in alleyways . . .”

“Going to kill you!”

“The day you say that sentence in past tense or at the very least present, I might start believing you!”

“Haha!” His voice dropped. “I’m going to bed.”

He closed his ears to whatever Lani said next and did that, crashing face-first onto the cot, which nearly buckled underneath his weight, and lay there with his eyes open, staring at the pilled fuzz of the mattress. He’d forgotten his sword in the kitchen. He always meant to have it on him, or close enough to be within arms-reach. He’d always had it, ever since Lani found out it in the sewers . . . he should go get it. Just in case. It was all he had to keep himself and his sister safe.

From the ghosts?

Rambling.

It could stay in the kitchen. For one night. Please, give him one night.

Jerry covered his eyes with his hand. Maybe that would help him sleep. But he could feel it, the dried blood still under his fingernails. He should’ve just cleaned that out, so it wouldn’t distract him. But it seemed, no matter what he did, he could never get every little bit out . . .

[taehyungiejiminie95]

BTS Reactions – They try to win you back

He clutches at his chest, trying to slow his racing heart down. This isn’t right. He knows it. It’s not been the same since he left you, and he doesn’t know how to cope. In all of his life, he has never made a mistake this big, and he has never wanted to turn back time more. He’s not a time traveller, so the only fix is to do his best to win you back. It has to work. He has no other choice.

Jin

It’s been… some amount of time since you last saw Jin. It hasn’t actually been that long, but at the same time it feels like an eternity. You’ve got this Jin-shaped hole carved into you, and there’s nothing that can fill it. No amount of time, distraction or food could ever come close. You’d know. You’ve tried. You’ve been trying since he left you, but nothing’s changed. It still hurts, but you’re not using it as an excuse. With all the effort it takes, you’ve been going out everyday to the bakery you run with your soon-to-be-retiring parents and acting like you’re okay. For the most part, you very nearly believe it.

You normally get in before your parents do, so you can fire up the ovens and set up for the day ahead, so you’re not surprised to find the bakery in complete darkness. It smells like home here, somewhere you can truly forget your worries. Today’s special pastry is going to be churros, and you know it’s going to smell even better. A nostalgic scent, you always felt. You flip on the main lights as you go, heading straight for the back room. Stopping short, you realise that something feels odd. You have that feeling you get when someone’s stood too close, but you know there’s nobody around. You’re probably just being weird. That’s quite normal for you at the moment, really, so you do your best to shrug it off and you push your way through to the office to put your coat and bag down,

“What on earth…” You mutter under your breath, seeing the state of the office. Flour. Literal bags of flour covering every inch of the desk where you do the accounts. Your brow furrows as you step forward to where a sole red rose rests atop the bed of flour bags, next to a small note, “I’m outside,” You read aloud, a sense of dread filling you from the toes up. If you couldn’t recognise Jin’s handwriting after how long you spent together, who even are you?

The question of whether or not to respond to this gesture makes you wonder. Is it worth seeing what he wants? Or should you just ignore it, clear the bags into the pantry, and pretend this never even happened?

Your feet move of their own accord, propelling you back through the shop and out of the front door to where Jin is waiting, looking as handsome and as serious as the day you met him, when he was running late for his friend’s birthday and needed something – anything – sweet to take in means of a gift,

“You always said you had no use for flowers. Flour on the other hand… that you need an abundance of,” He half-heartedly teases, looking at you with poorly concealed fear, “Please, will you let me explain myself to you? I know I don’t deserve it but…” He trails off, eyes wide and fearful. Your words fail you. What are you meant to do here?

Yoongi

Your alarm goes off with a harsh buzz, making you wince as you’re rudely woken. It’s cold this morning, you realise with a huff as you get up. You flick the kettle on for your coffee and turn on the radio. Ever since Yoongi left you, you’ve hated the silence. It only amplifies how alone you are, how empty the apartment has been since he left. You rub the sleep out of your eyes as you reach for a mug, the kettle screaming to you that it’s ready. That’s when you hear it,

“In a surprise move from BTS member Suga, a new song has been realised under his own name. This is unusual for him, as the rapper uses many aliases for his different work, but never his birth name…” A cold sweat breaks out over your body as you fumble to get to the radio. You don’t want to hear the new song. The feeling of dread in your stomach tells you what it is, and the soft sounds of piano confirm that for you when you’re not quick enough to the power switch.

Time stands still. Nothing moves as the song plays. You know it’s for you. The melody is something he wrote for you in the early days of your relationship. He always joked that he’d release it under his birth name, because it was so personal. He never did. But now, as you listen to the song which is so clearly dedicated to you, your heart aches for him. His art. This is far more than a melody, than a simple piece of piano he wrote for you. This is pain mixed with poetry and poured into a track. This is true beauty, and you can’t deny it. You can’t move as the words wash over you, and your emotions quickly follow. Tears threaten to break rank as your lip trembles and you’re forced to see how much you miss him.

The last notes of the track wrap themselves up in melancholy, the final one dragging out as if it doesn’t want to end. You don’t want it to. It feels even emptier now, without that song. The radio DJs begin to discuss the unusually heartfelt track, comparing it to First Love, only more pained. You’re still stuck in the kitchen, holding a mug so tight it’s groaning and threatening to break.

Minutes pass as you try to process what you’re feeling, and what this means. Does he want to talk to you? Does he regret what he did? Or is he only using pain as inspiration, with no real intent?

Your phone rings. “Min Yoongi is calling…” You lurch to pick it up before it goes to voicemail.

Hoseok

It’s just gone 11. You pull the covers up over your head in an attempt to try and pretend like you’re any closer to sleep than you were 2 hours ago when you got into bed. It’s been… hard lately. Without him. You can’t even bring yourself to think his name anymore. You’re not someone who lets their life halt for some man, and you’re not letting that happen now. You refuse to huddle down and let this ruin you, which is why you confine your sadness and dysfunction to night times only. During the day, you’re fine. You don’t even let yourself entertain the thought that you want him to come home, to climb into bed and sing you to sleep like he always did. It’s too painful to think about wanting-

Your thoughts are rudely interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. With a groan, you slide out of bed and head towards the door. You fumble around for a moment with the lock before you’re finally able to swing the door open, your very best glare ready for whenever this visitor comes into view. You’re surprised to see… nobody. It takes a huff and an eye roll before you cast your vision down to the floor, where you see a small box. The words “From your Hoseok~” are born on a gift tag, and the tidy scribble of the handwriting you recognise so well. It’s hard to resist scooping down to pick it up.

The box sits in your hands for the rest of the night. You don’t sleep. You barely even blink as you try to work out whether you should open it – just so you don’t have to live with the painful curiosity – or put it in the bin – just in case whatever it is hurts you.

As night turns into dawn, you sigh and put your head down on the back of the couch. Your first movement for hours. It’s taking everything in you to not just throw this damn box back onto the doorstep, or post it straight through Hoseok’s letterbox and be done with it, but you know you need to open it. You lift the flaps carefully and look inside, somehow terrified about what you’ll find. It’s a small note, written in the same tidy scrawl.

‘Meet me by the river tonight. The one we met at, outside your apartment. Let me show you how sorry I am’.

You’re out the door before you can stop yourself,

“You’ve been here all night?” You shriek, seeing Hoseok sat under a willow tree, one of many that line the bank of the river. He nods slowly, gazing unseeingly into the flowing water. You tear off your dressing gown and drape it around his shoulders as best you can, “You’re still an idiot, then. It’s the middle of winter, and you’re hardly dressed appropriately,”

“You didn’t come, but I couldn’t accept it. I needed to be sure you really didn’t want me anymore,” He whispers, finally turning to look up into your eyes, trying to find his answer. The truth is that you’re not even wholly sure on one yourself.

Namjoon

The pigeon hole with your apartment number on it never has anything interesting in it, other than bills and spam, but you still make a habit of checking it every day. Just in case, you suppose. You’re on your way in from work when you check it, today. You barely even glance in, about to walk away when a small package catches your eye. You take it into you hands curiously, not recalling having ordered anything, You take it up to your apartment anyway, seeing as it isn’t a case of someone else’s mail in your pigeon hole. It’s clearly addressed to you. Maybe one of your friends has sent you a care package to get through your low period.

An hour or so later, you curl up on your couch with a hot cup of tea. You’ve showered off and had a snack, and your mid had wandered back around to the mysterious package tantalisingly awaiting you on the coffee table where you left it. It feels quite dense, you realise as you carefully tear back the brown wrapping paper. It’s a book, you find out. You’ve opened it from the wrong side – you’re looking at the back, where the blurb should be. Instead, it’s just a plain matte black. Turning it over, you see the title embossed in silver against the black – “My Last Love by Kim Namjoon”.

Your heart drops to your stomach, but you can’t stop yourself from carefully opening the cover, flicking to the acknowledgments in the front.

“To my greatest loss, and my greatest achievement. We always spoke about me publishing this book, but I never had the courage. Now, I have nothing lose. I hope you’ll read this, although by now you’ll know the story better than I do. It may be selfish, but I also hope you’ll reach out in the way I’m too afraid to do”

You fingers trace over the words, not written in the traditional font but printed in the front of every book in his own handwriting, smudges and all. Tears shine in your eyes without you realising as you see what this is. For years, Namjoon was writing a book. It was based on the story of your love, although he was always unsure of his skill, whether it would be good enough to ever publish. He kept it in his archives for a while, forgetting about it until he broke things off with you. He was right, you do know the story better than anyone, but you can’t resist flicking to the first page and allowing yourself to get lost in his world. A world you sheared, it used to be.

You’re only a chapter in when your phone lights up with a text. It’s your friend. They want to know if you’re going to reach out to Namjoon, the way he clearly wants you to. The thought makes your throat close up. Do you want to?

Jimin

Turning your phone over, you sigh. You miss the days when you would be able to pick up your phone at any given time and see a few notifications waiting patiently for you. Jimin was someone who liked to keep you updated always, even if it was just with the occasional picture or a few seconds of video. It’s almost painful now to turn on your phone and see ‘No New Notifications’ waiting for you. At times like this, it’s too painful to look at. At least if you’ve turned the screen away from yourself, you can’t jump up every time the flashes across it, making it look as if it’s lit up again.

You try your best to go about your day as normal, running errands around the house in time for work tomorrow. It’s boring, but well overdue. You scrub the inside of the oven, do your laundry, sweep the floors, bleach the toilet and you’re just about to re-organise your wardrobe when your phone rings,

“Hello?” You answer, only to immediately be spoken over by your very excited friend,

“Look out of your window right now! Just go, do it! You will not believe what it is!” They all but scream, causing you to panic slightly as you rush to tear your curtains open, fully expecting to see an alien spaceship threaten to destroy the earth if you don’t comply. But it’s not anything like that. Somehow, it’s worse. It’s a large white blimp, with Jimin’s face plastered onto each side. In his own enlarged handwriting, a message is shown clear for the world to see – ‘you will always be my safe place’, “Oh my God, I need to go for a second and call my boyfriend. He needs to up his game. I’ll call you back!” Your friend promises, but you barely even hear. Your phone is loose in your grip, and your breath is scarce in your lungs as you’re forced to see what the whole of the country is currently photographing and talking about. They’re literally sending Jimin’s over-the-top attempt to win you back viral. You don’t know how long passes before your friend calls again. You pick up instantly,

“I honestly can’t believe this. He broke up with me, why would he-“ An all-too-familiar voice cuts you off,

“Because I made a huge mistake,” Jimin’s broken voice whispers, marred with tears.

Taehyung

You smile politely at the security on the door as you breeze past them. They don’t bother to stop you, knowing well who you are. The event looks as grand as you were hoping, and a sense of satisfaction bubbles up to the surface as you cast your eyes around the gallery. This was probably your most ambitious project yet – you’ve combined the art collections of 25 of the greatest connoisseurs in the world, having to rent out 10 different venues to hold everything that encompasses your art show. Your colleagues shake your hand as you sautés further into the venue, knowing you’ll be bored of all this by the time the final one opens. But for now, you’re enjoying it on night 3 of 10.

Something grabs your attention from the corner of your eyes – a tallish man, wearing a beret and an unusual combination of clothes but… no. You refuse to let false memories of Taehyung plague your night. You plaster a smile back onto your face as you take a glass of champagne.

As your exit time comes near, you decide to simply observe as much of this wonderful art as you can. The pensive look on your face wards off conversation partners as you wander through the work you’ve compiled. You recognise some of the work here, but not all of it. Some of it is to your taste, and some isn’t. That’s what you love most about this. Seeing things from the perspective of others, and not always agreeing with what you find.

But one painting stands out more than anything else in the room. It’s… unique. It’s a clash of colours that shouldn’t work, but do. It’s confusing and loud, but you can’t tear your eyes away. It gives you a sense of nostalgia that you can’t shake, and it speaks to you in an odd way. It feels like pain and longing,

“You haven’t stared at a single painting as long as this one,” A familiar voice remarks from behind you. Your eyes dart to the corner, and you see the artist who created this. It’s called “Desire” by Vante. With a deep breath, you turn around to face Vante. Your Taehyung, “Do you like it?” He asks, eyes as wide and as curious as when you first met him,

“It’s different to your normal work. What prompted the change?” You reply civilly, feeling your hand start to shake around your champagne glass. Funnily enough, you already know the answer to your question,

“Losing you,” Taehyung whimpers, taking a step forward, “Look, I know that I’m the one who left you, but I made a mistake. Please, let me talk to you. I can’t lose you like this,” he pleads, voice cracking as he tries to reach for your hand. You don’t know whether or not to let him.

Jungkook

Your Jungkook, your love, the one you cherished above all else, was never that into big romantic gestures. He was small things that made you smile. He was doing the dishes when he got in past midnight so you didn’t have to. He was buying you a bouquet of flowers every now and then because of how you love fresh flowers. He was leaving you a home cooked meal on the side when you were getting home late. He was carrying you to bed when you fell asleep. Your Jungkook was not a big gesture. He was the little things that kept you smiling.

Maybe that’s why everything going on right now has been such a shock to you. This isn’t like your Jungkook at all, but somehow it’s just as real and genuine. The video on your phone plays again, stuck on a loop, just as your mind is. It hardly makes sense at all, that he would do this. He’s the one who left you, and yet he’s gone to such a length to get your attention again. You cast your eyes back down to your phone, needing to watch it one more time to try and grasp that it really did happen,

“ARMY!” Jungkook calls, waving his hand up. The crowd screams loudly before finally falling quiet again, “ARMY, you do so much for me, and for BTS. You know our love for you never ends,” He confesses, sending the crowd wild again. He waits patiently for their focus to come back to him, “That’s how I know that I can ask this favour of you. Will you all do something special for me?” Jungkook calls, spinning to cast his eyes around the arena. It’s the end of the concert, and everyone is tired, but he can’t let this go. He knows it will work, “Everyone, get your phones out! Put your camera on, turn the video on, film this! I want you to record something for me, and then I want you to post it to every platform you have. Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, everywhere! You, my Kinds and Queens of trending, I need you to make this go viral,”

Jungkook’s eyes somehow meet the lens of every camera in the arena at once as he speaks your name solemnly. The crowd hushes each other so Jungkook can speak. His eyes are red, and he’s not sure for how long he’ll remain composed, “Forgive me. I’ve done something stupid, I know that now. I see that I’ve hurt you, and I’m ready to grow and mature and become the best version of myself. Baby, I need you. Will you please call me? I know you’ll see this. Please, all I want is to talk. Even if you decide I don’t deserve a second chance. Please,” Jungkook closes his eyes, blinking back tears, “ARMY, please make sure they see this. Post it everywhere. I want them to know that I love them more than myself,” His voice cracks on his last word as he starts to break down, “Please,”

[lostinmymindpalace-m]

The Light of Knowledge

Chapter one, part 2/2, in which the thoughts are free

I want to make good use of my time and get a general idea of the material, so I return to my room directly after dinner and skim through the school books. They seem to be quite advanced in English here and the topics in mathematics and chemistry look more complicated than anything I have done so far, too. I take a deep breath, rub my glasses clean on my blazer and start taking notes. Outside it's getting dark and I have to turn on my desk light to be able to read my tiny, compendious  handwriting. But I manage to make connections between the new topics and my body of knowledge. Now that's not looking too bad. I surely won't be easy, but I think I can handle the work load. Finally, I take my diary out of the drawer and write down what happened today. The words are flying so fast my hand struggles to keep up, but I feel more relaxed with every sentence. When I put the pen away, there is just half an hour left until lights-out, so I put on my pyjamas, take off the glasses and go to the bathroom. Fortunately, it's empty. I brush my teeth, stare into the mirror and think about tomorrow. The class representative Neil and the other guys seem really nice, I sat with them during dinner and they treated me very well, better than I'm used to. But I assume they were raised to be more polite than the boys at my old school. Hopefully the rest of my classmates are the same. Hopefully I get good teachers. What if they treat me different because I'm a girl? Only the foam that's running down my wrist from the endless brushing bringst me back to reality. 

The next morning I jump out of bed at the first ring of the alarm clock. Put on a fresh uniform and admire it in the bathroom mirror as I fix my tie. The only one I recognize during breakfast is Richard Cameron. He is sitting alone and reading and I intend to do the same. Just like last night, students start to whisper when I walk by, some of so younger ones even point fingers at me. It makes me feel like I don't belong here and I can't let that happen, therefore the book. I have the right to be here and go to an ivy league college and so do so many other girls. Just get used to it. My first class of the day is chemistry, so I get my school bag from my room and head for the chemistry building. I'm way to early, but the laboratory isn't locked. I push the door open carefully and sit down in a row of tables in the middle of the room. A teacher comes in from the secondary room and, before I can say a word, tells me to hand out a thick pile of papers. While I walk around and put a project list on every table, my classmates enter the room in small groups. Neil and Todd are the last ones to arrive, they scurry into the lab just as the bell rings. As soon as class begins, I stop looking left ans right and note down what Mr. Hartley tells us. A laboratory experiment every five weeks, 20 questions due tomorrow. I make a note to read through the project list later today. The rest of the lesson is a lecture about acids and bases. When the bell rings, I have to shake out my hand. I grabbed my pen so hard it started cramping. Next is Latin with Mr. McAllister, a man with a Scottish accent who is walking up and down in front of the class, repeating diffrently conjugated and declined words that we have to echo. I hardly manage to write them down. What a stupid way to teach us the conjugational and declinational classes I think as I examine my poorly legable notes. There is a system that the words follow depending on their basic form. It's easy enough, but not when you just repeat random words. I scribble nominative, genitive, accusative, ablative, dative and singular, plural onto the page and decide to copy all of this again correctly. Math class on the other hand is no problem for me. Dr. Hager makes us stand up and recite definitions and methods of solutions from memory, but since I prepared myself last night, the questions aren't too difficult. When I repeat the definition of a cosine correctly, he gives me an approving look. Then he announces that any missed assignment will cause the subtraction of one point on our final grade. I quickly note that down and underline it twice. Not that I planned on not doing my homework, put this does increase the pressure. All in all, I'm a bit stressed when I sit down in the English classroom. The teacher, Mr. Keating, is sitting in front of the class, looking outside of the window and ignores us completely. That's kind of weird, but a nice break. I clean my glasses and try to relax a bit. Mr. Keating got up by now and is pacing around the room. Meanwhile he's swinging a ruler through the air and randomly points it at students. They look just as confused as I feel. „Ha! You flexible young brains!“, he suddenly shouts, which doesn't really help to clarify the situation. Then he jumps onto his desk and recites loudly: „Captain, my Captain!“ The others exchange looks. „Does anyone know who this is from?“

After the lesson, when I follow the stream of students to lunch, Keatings words are still stuck in my head. He made us go to the entrance hall and look at the pictures of former students while Gerard Pitts read out a poem. Infront of the walls I wished my picture upon just yesterday, he talked to us about our own finiteness. That was... something different. We are food for worms... I can hardly wrap my young and flexible head around it. I eat lunch, but whatever it is, it leaves no impression on me. Carpe diem, seize the day, make your lives extraordinary. I feel like this should move something inside of me, make me wiser, somehow. But all I can think of is that I am working to make my life extraordinary, that one day, my picture will be among these boys in the entrance hall. I only have two years here, assuming everything goes as planned. I can't let my concetration slip, not on my first day, not ever. So I take Mr. Keating's insistend words, open a little drawer in my head and lock them away.

The sports lesson in the afternoon helps me to shake of the memory of English class. All we do is run rounds in the hall and when it's finally over, and I'm done changing in the bathroom, my legs are wobbly, but my mind is free. I once again register how beautiful the school grounds look in the sunlight, so I take my homework and sit down on the lawn at the lake. I wonder what's going on at home. It's hard to believe that I've only been here for a day. How are Mom and Dad? Do James and Betty miss me? Ich shake my head. It doesn't matter. Thinking about them will only make you miss them and that won't help anyone. So I take a deep breath, watch a bunch of seventh graders throw someone's homework in the lake and start studying. By the time I'm done with math and chemistry, the air has cooled down considerably. I stroll back to the housing and think about my plans for the rest of the day. My Latin notes nedd to be rewritten. Should I do that in the common room? Other people will be there. But it's surely going to be loud. But you'll have to make contact eventually.Or not. They will only distract me. I'm still working on this question at dinner, when a tipping on my wrenches me out of my thoughts. It's Neil. „Do you have any plans for tonight, Diana?“, he asks kindly. „We are doing a study group later, you're welcome to join us if you want.“ Some of the other boys are peeking in our direction, their clearly hopefull expression makes me smile. But I refuse. „Thanks for asking, but I think I would rather do my homework in my room. Maybe another time.“ So I spend my first full day at Welton exactly how I planned it: With undistracted studying. I finish my work and write in my diary, then I put on my checked pyjamas and read poems from my English book before I go to sleep.

The next days proceed just the same: The classes are hard, I am prepared, Mr. Keating's lessons are extraordinary. Each one is fascinating and thrilling, but I'm not sure I like that. Sometimes I almost back of a little, as if too much contact with Mr. Keating's way of thinking could cause some kind of harm to me. Once, he makes us rip pages out of a school book. I hesitate for a moment, because as funny as this idea is, I can't afford to get in trouble. As if to confirm my foreshadowing, Mr. McAllister enters the room just when I'm tossing the introduction into the understandig of poetry by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard PhD into the dustbin. Thanks to Mr. Keating aren't in trouble, but my heart still misses a beat. I just hope we learn everything we need for exams.

I do my repetitions and the homework in the afternoon and fill the remaining time with exercises, reading and studying. As time goes by, I feel more and more at home at Welton, the boys seem to start accepting my presence, some of them I really like by now. My extracurricular acticities are interesting and I attend every meeting, thus I frequently spend my afternoons in the company of Meeks, Charlie, Cameron, Knox or Todd (I don't really get why some of them are referred to with their surname, but whatever). The pupil's magazine is my favourite. We have a lot of fun every time and I really like writing articles. Charlie says, I could easily make the team of chief editors, but I don't want to. Writing is amazing, but I would rather prepare myself for my classes than go to two extra meetings a week. Sometimes, when I'm done with my school work and the sun is just setting, I go to the entrance hall to look at the awards that are illuminated by the last warm rays. In these moments, I feel like my heart will explode with happiness and pride. I'm so excited for the future.

It's a paticularly autumn day, I sit with my back against a tree, let she sun warm my face and work on my translation for Latin. Or at least I try. But something keeps distracting me. It's not the boys playing soccer and cricket on the school grounds, that's for sure. I sigh and read what I unconciously scribbled on the edge of my paper.

The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse

That's what Mr. Keating told us at the end of class today. It has been stuck in my head ever since. Or maybe it has been bouncing up and down in my brain, messing up my vocabulary and causing the throbbing pain behind my temple. I shove the Latin book away and rub my eyes in frustration. I want to contribute a verse. I really do. That's why I'm here, that's why I study every day. I have been given the opportunity to be so much more than I could ever hope for. To be able to contribute a verse when I'm done with school. I will be the girl that gave generations of female students the opportunity to attend the best preparation school in the USA. If I only work hard enough, the project will be successfull. It has to be. So why do I keep thinking about these words? I slowly open my eyes and notice my former welcoming committee rushing across the lawn. They talk to Mr. Keating and show him something. Is it a book? Maybe they had a question about something we did in class. Whatever. I put my glasses back on and give Latin another try. Honestly, what was Ovid thinking. A logical sentence structure never hurt anybody. The next time I look up, Mr. Keating is gone, but the boys are still huddled together for what seems like a heated discussion. I wonder what is going on. When the dinner bell rings, they move back to school, still talking vividly.

It starts to rain during dinner. But it's a study night anyway, so I pack up my books and go to what I call the big homework room. Dr. Hager is supervising and pollutes the air with his pipe smoke. Aside or that, I like study nights. Doing school work can get lonely in the long run and here I have company without getting distracted. Normally. There is a lively whisper coming from the table in the back. The guys seem to continue their discussion. They are bowed over something on the table and whisper so agitatedly that Hager looks up from his book and admonishes them to be quiet. Todd isn't with them. Usually, him and Neil are inseparable... I put the pen away and let my gaze wander over the bent necks. Actually, Todd is sitting a few tables apart from the others, looking up from his work every few minutes and watching the guys unhappily. What is going on? When Dr. Hager calls them to order again, I guiltily turn back to my homework. But just a few minutes later, a movement catches my attention again. Neil got up and is sneaking to Todds table. Whatever Neil is trying to convince him of, Todd doesn't seem to like it. Suddenly Neil jumps up and speeds to the others with a smirk. I watch Todd who is looking after him in a slightly desperate way and somehow our eyes meet. For a moment, we look at each other over the tables and open books, then I give him a small smile and go back to my work.

Shortly before lights-out, someone knocks at my door. It's Neil. „May I come in?“ „Yeah, sure, wait a minute.“ He closes the door behind him and I take my books from the desk chair and shove the candles and socks aside so he can sit. „What is it?“, I ask as I drop down onto my bed. Neil hesitates for a moment, then he says: „I just wanted to see if you're alright. I mean, you're always by yourself studying“, he smiles, but his eyes seek mine, „so we hardly get to see you. But Todd said you looked kind of sad tonight. You aren't afraid to hang out with us, are you?“ „No, of course not. What makes you think that?“ „Hm“, he says and absentmindedly lights one of the candles on my desk. „So if I asked you if you wanted to come to a club meeting in a cave across the river, let's say, tonight, you would come?“ I rise my eyebrows. „It's late and we have school tomorrow.“ He starts laughing. „It's Friday, Diana.“ „Well, it doesn't matter. I have work to do tomorrow and there is a debate club meeting I have to attend. I'm sorry. I really like you guys. It's just... I have to focus on school, you know.“ He nods slowly. None of us talks for a moment. „I heard you got a part in a play, how is that going?“ His face lights up immediately. „It's so great. We only started rehearsing like two weeks ago but“, he seesaws back and forth in excitement, „I love it already. Acting is great. Makes me feel alive.“ He looks away with a beaming smile and notices my diary on the desk, dangerously near the lighted candle. „You write a diary? About the fascination of Welton?“ I shrug and pick up the worn out notebook. „I used to, but I haven't written in a while, actually. I didn't feel like it I guess.“ I can feel his eyes on me as I stroke the cover with my fingertips. He gets up. „I'm glad you came by, Neil.“ For a moment, he stops, still looking at me pensively. „You know what you told me when I showed you around the school, on your first day?“, he asks. „The thoughts are free? Doesn't look like it to me.“ Then he leaves. I bite my lip and slowy sink down on my desk chair. Watch the flickering flame he lit. For a moment, I let myself wonder, patting the notebook in my hands. Then I take a deep breath and blow the candle out.  

The days go on and the weather keeps getting worse. The sun seems to drown in dark grey clouds and cold rain and I can't go outside anymore. So I do my homework in my room and read out poems to the ceiling until I know them by heart. I've gotten only As in all my assignments. The teachers seem satisfied with me. I should be thrilled. But the truth is, my mood is as dark as the sky outside. Maybe I miss my family. Right know, I'm not even sure what I feel. Kind of numb. I'm rewriting my notes from today's chemistry class under the light of my desk lamp. Outside of my window, a rainstorm is raging. Huge drops are drumming on the roof and I have several unmeant lines on my paper from when I winced at the thunder. When I finish a paragraph about aldehydes, the room goes dark in a flash. I try to switch the lamp back on, but it doesn't work. A riot starts in the other rooms. Seems like a blackout. Annoying, but what can I do. I take off my glasses and rub my burning eyes. I can't focus anyway. Once again, Mr. Keating's lesson is stuck in my head. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way. We stood on his desk today. It felt weird, but also... As if it could make you wiser, in a Mr. Keating way. For some reason, I find my dark room unsettling, so I take out a candle. As I light it, I suddenly remember Neil doing exactly the same. He told me my thoughts weren't free anymore... I frown, because that doesn't make any sense. In fact, I think I have never thought more than I do right now. But still... What he said touched something inside of me and I don't understand why. Try to see it from a different perspective. Carefully, I move the burning candle to the side and crouch on my desk. I can't stand up because the ceiling is too low, but it's a start. Unfortunately, I still don't get it, I just feel silly. What a mess. I really miss home. What happened to me? I used to be so excited about this school, about every single day, every single class. I try to listen for the joy, for the feeling of freedom, but my chest feels empty. And alone. I feel so alone and it's dark and my knees start to hurt from cowering on the table. Tears make the candle flame look blurry. I remember what Neil said about acting: It makes me feel alive. I want to feel alive. Crouching on your desk and sobbing in the dark doesn't. I remember the boys whispering at dinner, excited, planning. Maybe they went to this cave Neil mentioned, before the rain started. For a minute, I sit still, my mind racing. Then I blow out the candle, grab my coat and run out the door.

It appears that I have underestimated this blackout-causing thunderstorm, because I'm dripping wet by the time I reach the edge of the woods. But I don't care. I understand how stupid it is to run through the forest in a thunderstorm, looking for a cave you have never seen before. But I don't care. The rain is cold, but at least my body has stopped feeling numb. When I finally hear voices and stumble into the mouth of a small cave in the hillside, I am facing six dumbfounded boys. Pitts looks like he is choking on a cigarette. I can't blame him.

When the shock and confusion are over, I'm welcomed to sit next to the fire that somehow is still burning, but besmoking us all. Nuzzled into Knox' and Todd's jackets, I explain why I the hell I'm here. And while Charlie tells me this sounds like some hard marrow-of-life-sucking to him, while I watch the bright flames and take in deep breaths of smokey air, I feel it.

Free. Alive.

[prettiestvulcan]

confessions

read on ao3

pairing: tadashi yamaguchi x OFC

word count: 5256

warning(s): alcohol use, drug use (marijuana)

status: complete

summary: they get paired for a project. she never imagined he would feel the same way.

a/n: just a cliché “5+1″ i had stuck in my head forever and finally finished.

                                                          ➀

She’s never noticed him before and, as they discuss plans for the group project, it’s obvious why.  He’s soft-spoken, a very nervous individual, who keeps his eyes somewhere on the floor rather than looking directly at her.  It’s obvious by the way he acts that their circles never touch.  He stays out of the way, out of sight, to the point she wonders if sometimes the professors forget about him.  They’re just so different.

In spite of their differences, she can’t help but find him cute.  With his timid smile and freckled face, something about it draws her to him.  Her, boisterous and outgoing; him, quiet and withdrawn.  They would make an odd pair, but it’s not going to stop her from trying.  When has anything ever stopped her from going after what she wants?

She exchanges numbers with him under the guise of better communication for the project, but mostly so she can text him late at night or early in the morning to ask what he’s doing.  He always responds, even though he’s under no obligation to do so.  She thinks it’s a good sign.  So when they finally meet to work on the project, a full two weeks after it was assigned, she decides to go for it.

They’ve been working for a few hours, the library practically empty and the sun long since gone down.  The ice from her iced coffee has melted, the condensation from the cup leaving a puddle on the laminate tabletop.  She wipes at it with her hoodie sleeve, having forgotten napkins.  He notices and passes her a few of his napkins.  She gives him a wide smile before using them to sop up the moisture.

Deciding her coffee is a lost cause, she shoves the napkins into the plastic cup before taking it all to the nearby trash can.  When she comes back, she sprawls her upper body along the table with a sigh, head resting on an outstretched arm, fingertips barely brushing the back of his laptop.  She can hear him typing, taking her scribbled notes and diagrams and making them into a PowerPoint.  She had tried to make her own slides, but they were so poorly made that he offered to redo them.

She looks up when the typing stops, finding him looking at her.  His cheeks pink when he realizes she’s looking back, eyes quickly darting back to his laptop and pretending to read over whatever is on the screen.  She knows he’s not actually reading anything because his eyes aren’t moving, staring directly at a spot on the screen.  She grins, deciding this is her chance.

“Hey,” she drawls, waiting for him to look at her again.  “Go out with me.”

She watches his eyes go wide, his face turning a deep shade of red.  It really highlights his freckles, making them stand out in contrast.  She waits for him to think about it and give her an answer, still lazing on the table.  Eventually, his blush starts to fade as his eyebrows come together, forming a cute little crease.  His cheeks remain a light pink as he opens his mouth to speak.

“It’s not nice to joke around like that.”  He scolds.  “Someone might get hurt.”  She frowns.  Does he think she’s messing around?  “Besides, we should be focusing on our presentation.  Please pay attention and share in the work.”

She flounders, mouth opening and closing a few times before she huffs.  She sits up, crossing her arms over her chest and slouching in the chair.  Share in the work?  He offered to redo those slides!  If she knew he felt she was taking advantage of him, she would’ve just asked a friend to help her spruce them up.  She looks away, glaring at a bookshelf, but mumbles an apology anyway.

She only looks back over when she hears him start typing again.  Did he really think she was only joking around?  And what he’d said had seemed almost rehearsed, like he’s used to people asking him out as a joke.  That thought doesn’t sit well with her.  She’ll just have to do more to show him that she’s being serious and not playing with his feelings.

                                                          ➁

They’re friends, she thinks.  They do homework together for the class they share, sometimes they grab lunch, but mostly they text.  It’s off and on throughout the day, but it’s every day and they discuss everything from classes to TV shows to how they’re doing that day.  They even share memes!  So when one of her friends invites her to a huge sorority/fraternity party, she doesn’t hesitate to invite him as her plus one.

Surprisingly, he agrees.  He says that classes have him stressed, so a party might help him think about anything other than his grades.  She takes it as a good sign, one that suggests they’re friends and he trusts her.  She’s hopeful that maybe he might believe her if she asks him out this time.

She’s nervous, which is out of character for her.  It makes her feel weird, almost jittery.  She drinks more than she probably should, but they don’t call it liquid courage for nothing.  After a couple shots, she’s not feeling the nerves as much.

He drinks, too.  Not as much as she does, but he agrees to shots with her.  Afterwards, he sips on a beer for most of the night.  He won’t dance with her, but that’s fine.  She doesn’t need him to dance with her to have fun with him.  He’s more than happy to be dragged from group to group as she talks to friends, not saying much but offering her a small smile when she looks towards him.

Finally, after she’s finished talking to everyone and sufficiently confident (and drunk), she tells him she has something to show him.  He obliges, letting her drag him out of the frat house and into the backyard where the garden is.  She leads him deep into the garden before plopping down on a bench.  He mimics her actions, sitting beside her.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she tells him.

“Thank you for the invite.”  He offers her a gentle smile.  “I’m not usually one for parties.”

“I know,” she giggles.  “That’s one of the reasons I like you.”  Her vision may be a little blurry, but she doesn’t miss his blush.  “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Go out with me.”  She grabs his hand to show him her sincerity.

“You’re drunk,” he points out.  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes I do.”  She pouts.  She crosses her arms over her chest.  “Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I don’t want to go on a date with you.”

“Okay, I get it.”  He shushes her and she realizes tears have welled up.  “Don’t cry.  Just...if you’re serious, ask me again when you’re sober.”

“Fine,” she agrees, wiping at her eyes.  “Let’s stay out here, though.  I like the stars.”

“Okay,” he agrees.  She grabs his hand again and he doesn’t protest.  Little victories.

                                                            ➂

He’s been avoiding her, though why she doesn’t know.  Every time she asks him to hang out or do homework with her, he always has a convenient excuse.  She doesn’t like it.  It feels too much like he’s trying to get rid of her.  They’re supposed to be friends.  Right?

She doesn’t like feeling insecure.  It’s new for her.  It makes her feel a bit queasy.  Her nerves are on edge and she jumps every time her phone vibrates.  It’s not him, of course.  It’s been a week and he’s not texted her unless she’s texted him first, but even then his replies are short.  Brief and to the point.  It’s weird and she doesn’t like it.

She knows where his dorm is, of course.  She’s been there countless times to study and do homework with him, so finding it without him is easy.  She just has to know why he’s ignoring her.  If it’s something she did or something she didn’t do.  She’d like to fix it if she can.  Even if she has a crush on him, his friendship is more important to her.

No one in the dorm building pays her any mind, so she slips easily up to the fourth floor.  She knocks on his door, hoping he’s actually there.  She doesn’t hear anything at first, so she knocks again just in case.  A few seconds pass before she hears movement inside.  Hopefully he wasn’t sleeping.

“You’re not Tadashi,” she says when the door opens to reveal a tall blonde with black glasses.  Did she go to the wrong room?

“Is that a girl?”  A voice from inside screeches.  Soon the tall blonde is pushed out of the way to make room for a smaller, female blonde.  “Hi!  You must be—”

“Yachi!”  She hears him shout.  Yachi must be the girl.  Soon his face comes into view above Yachi’s head.

“Um...hi?”  She feels awkward now.  “Have I come at a bad time?  I can leave and—”

“No!”  He interrupts, nearly shouting.  “I mean, no, you’re fine.  You don’t have to leave.”  She can feel two extra sets of eyes on her.

“Okay.”  She hesitates.  “Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” he stutters.  He pushes the other two out of the way to make room for her.  His already small dorm room seems even smaller with four people inside of it.

“You must be the girl Yama talks about.”  The blonde girl says.  “I’m Yachi, by the way, and this is Tsukki.”  She gestures at the tall blonde.  “We’re just visiting.”

“Cool.”  She’s never met any of his other friends.  He’s only mentioned them a couple of times.  “Are you the Tsukki that plays for the Sendai Frogs?”

Her question seems to set off an avalanche of information, with Yachi doing most of the talking.  She seems like an excitable person, but it’s rather endearing.  She can see why Tadashi is friends with her.  They share a lot of similar traits, though it seems like Yachi has grown out of most of her shyness.  It probably helps that Tsukki is there, a comforting hand on her lower back.  She wishes she could do that for Tadashi.

She finds out a whole lot about him, too.  He’s apparently a lot more outgoing than he was in high school.  It makes sense, considering the bullying he endured in middle school.  Old wounds finally scabbed over, that sort of thing.  Volleyball and his volleyball team likely helped a lot, too.

She gets asked questions, too.  All things Tadashi already knows, but ones she’s fine with answering.  Where she’s from, what she studies, how she met Tadashi.  Then comes the inevitable.

“So, are you two dating?”  Yachi asks.  Tadashi chokes trying to get an answer out.

“Not yet.”  She answers because she’s determined to get him to go out with her.

“Not yet?”  Tsukki repeats, patting Tadashi on the back.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He doesn’t believe me when I say I like him.”  Tsukki looks at her knowingly.  Yachi looks sad.  “I’m still trying, though.”

“Good!”  Yachi exclaims, smiling.  She can’t help but smile back.

They talk for a while longer, about school and TV shows and random other topics.  Eventually, Tsukki announces they have to leave.  Yachi complains, but leaves after she gives the other girl her number.  She lingers after the two have left, wanting to still speak with Tadashi.

“You didn’t have to say that,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.  “About liking me.”

“Why not?”  She questions.  “Does it bother you?”

“No,” he answers.  A little too quickly.  “Not really.  It’s just hard to believe.”

“I’ve waited this long,” she begins.  “I’ll wait as long as you need to believe it.”

“Thank you.”  He offers her a small, private smile.  His cheeks are pink.  She loves that about him.  Shy, but honest.

“Well, I guess I’ll head out too.”  She stands, stretching her arms above her head.  “It’s getting late and I’ve still got an essay to finish.”

“Okay.”  He stands, too, following her to the door.  “Video call me, okay?  I know you won’t write that essay unless I’m there to keep you on track.”  It’s her turn to blush.

“You know me too well,” she laughs.  “But alright, I’ll call as soon as I get home.”

                                                            ➃

They’re drinking in his room.  A celebration for finishing finals.  She’d brought something extra for them to try.  A joint.  He said he’d never smoked before so she’d offered to bring it.  He’d agreed.

The room is a little warm as summer approaches, his tiny fan doing nothing to cool them.  She’s thankful for the shorts she decided to wear.   She takes a swig of her beer, watching him struggle to light the joint.  The alcohol seems to have made him more nervous instead of less.

“Here,” she says.  She reaches for the joint, carefully pulling it and the lighter from his hands.  “I’ll show you.”  She places the tip of the joint between her lips, freeing up her hands.  She cups one around the flame, using the other to strike the lighter.  Once it’s lit, she takes a deep drag.  She holds it for a few seconds, until she feels the back of her throat tingling, then releases.

She hands the joint back to him, his face flushed from the alcohol.  His freckles seem to stand out more when he’s red-faced.  She watches him bring the joint to his mouth, lighting it for him, before he inhaled.  He sputters and coughs, which she’d expected, and smiles.

“Takes practice,” she assures him.

“How often do you smoke?”  He asks, voice rough.

“Not often,” she answers.  She wonders if that’s what he sounds like during sex.  If his face gets red like that.  She quickly takes another drag before any of it shows on her face.  “Here, let’s try something.”

She turns so they’re facing each other, knees touching.  She doesn’t miss how his face goes a shade redder.  She takes the joint from him, ashing it, before giving him her full attention.

“We’re gonna shotgun it,” she explains.  “I’m going to take a drag, then lean in towards you.  Open your mouth and I’ll blow the smoke into it.”  She takes another sip of her beer.  “It’s a lot easier than trying to smoke it.”

“Okay,” he agrees.  She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but it’s probably lopsided now she’s high and drunk.

He follows her instructions.  When she leans in, mouth full of smoke, he parts his lips for her to blow smoke into his mouth.  He inhaled it, coughing only a little, and she pulls back.

“See?”  She grins.  “A lot easier, wasn’t it?”  He nods.  “Want to do it that way for now?”  She asks as she takes another hit.

“Yeah,” he agrees.  He’s looking a little glassy-eyed and she wishes it was because of her and not the high.

She continues to blow smoke into his mouth, but pushes her luck with each hit.  She gets closer and closer each time, until their lips are nearly touching.  She feels the high more than the buzz from the alcohol, but teasing herself like this is more of a high than the joint.  She’s always wanted to kiss him and this is probably as close as she’s going to get.

“How are you feeling?”  She asks when half of the joint is smoked.  He just nods.  “That good, huh?”  She laughs.  “Let’s save this for later, then.”  She puts it out on the ashtray she brought for this occasion, setting it aside.

“Is it always like this?”  He asks, staring at her intently for someone who is both high and drunk.

“Smoking a joint?”  He nods.  “Depends.  You get more of a high directly from the source, in my opinion.  Some people also just have a low tolerance for it.”  Her tolerance is probably moderate, considering she smokes once a month.  Usually at a party.

He’s quiet after that, staring down at his hands where they rest on his thighs.  She tries not to laugh, all too familiar with that intense first high.  She wants him to enjoy this.  They’ve earned it, after all.  It’s been a long, difficult semester.  Not to mention she’s not going to see him for a while after this.  Not until next semester.

The thought is a real bummer and she frowns, but quickly tries to cover it up.  She doesn’t want him to catch on and feel bad.  That would be the worst thing considering he’s calmly enjoying his very first high.  She wants to keep it that way.

She finishes off her beer, reaching into the cool for another.  Most of the ice is melted, making the bottle slippery, but she uses her shirt to wipe it down.  She pops the top off, tossing it into the garbage, and takes several long swigs.  If her mouth is busy, she won’t be able to say anything or make a face to betray her emotions.

“Hand me one,” he says even as he reaches over her to grab one.  He sways slightly and she can smell the mix of his deodorant, the beer, and the marijuana.  She tries not to let it affect her, but she really wants to kiss him.

She manages to reign in the urge by taking another deep swig of beer.  He settles back down beside her, although it feels like he’s much closer.  Their arms brush with every subtle movement and she blushes, turning her face away and pretending to be staring at something on his door.  Anything to distract her.

“What do you do with the other half?”  He asks and she has to look at him.  He’s pointing at the joint resting on the ashtray.  “Do you just...throw it away?”

“No,” she shakes her head with a fond smile.  “You can still smoke it.  Just thought you might like to wait a little between hits.”

“Oh.”  He drags his warm brown eyes up to her.  “How long do you usually wait?”

She can’t help but laugh.  He seems so earnest in his curiosity, yet eager for more of that high.  She reaches for the joint and the lighter, knowing what he wants.  She hands it to him, but he shakes his head with a frown.

“The other way,” he explains before she can ask.  “It was easier.”  She feels her face grow hot, but if he asks she’ll just play it off as a combination of the beer and the sweltering heat of his room.

She puts the joint to her lips, lighting up.  She takes a deep drag, holding it in her mouth, so she can lean into Tadashi.  He meets her halfway, lips parting, and she blows the smoke between them.  She hears him suck on deeply, holding his breath, and she lingers longer than necessary.  When he releases his breath, she finally pulls back.

“Good?”  She queries as she takes her own drag.

“Yeah.”  He looks a little flush.  She tries not to stare as he rolls his shirt sleeves up to his shoulders, muscles flexing.  He’s surprisingly built.  She knows he works out occasionally, but in these moments she can really see it.

She takes another hit to keep from saying something, leaning towards him.  He misjudges the distance and suddenly their lips are touching.  He pulls back quickly, ready to apologize, but she puts her lips over his.  She breathes the smoke into his mouth, savoring the moment before pulling back.

He’s looking at her with wide eyes, mouth still open.  She wants to feel bad.  That could’ve been his first kiss she just stole.  She doesn’t feel bad about it.  It was too thrilling and she’s too drunk to feel guilty.  She should still apologize.

“Too much?”  She asks.  He shakes his head.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I like you.”  She takes another drag.  “I’ve told you before.”

“You have,” he agrees.  He shakes his head slowly.  Maybe it’s finally getting through to him.

She decides to test the waters.  She takes a drag, holding the smoke, and leans in.  He doesn’t flinch.  He gets as close as he can and she presses their mouths together, releasing the smoke into his mouth.  He tastes like chapstick and cheap beer.  She loves it.  She wants to stay here forever.

But she can’t.

She pulls back, letting him breathe and orient himself.  She goes back to her beer, chugging the rest of it.  Her mouth is getting dry.  She should probably switch to water.  She’s going to have trouble walking home.  Maybe he’ll offer to let her stay and they can curl up in his tiny twin-sized bed.

Finally, they use up the last of the joint.  She puts the remaining paper in the ashtray.  She’ll have to find somewhere to dump it.  Maybe the dumpster outside.  It’s not like anyone is going to tell on her for smelling like pot.  All her roommates smoke, too.  She really only needs to worry about being caught by someone in Tadashi’s dorm building.

“I should head out,” she says.  “It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” he agrees.  A part of her wishes he’d ask her to stay.  Another part of her wonders how hopeless this crush is.  “I’ll walk you out.”

She thinks about kissing him at the door, but decides not to.  She doesn’t have the excuse of sharing smoke anymore.  He might push her away.  This is going to be the last she sees him for a while.  She shouldn’t risk their friendship.

Her walk home is filled with doubt.  Maybe she shouldn’t have done that.  Maybe she should have done this.  So many what if’s and no real answers.  She’s just glad he hadn’t pushed her away.                       

                                                        ➄

Her mom got remarried during the semester and moved in with her new husband, meaning she’s not going to her childhood home for the summer for the first time since she started university.  She’s going to tiny Miyagi Prefecture to her mother’s husband’s modest house settled among farms.  It’s all very quaint.  At least they have a convenience store within walking distance.

The owner barely pays her any attention, sitting behind the counter smoking a cigarette.  She can hear the cicadas chirping outside in the blistering summer heat.  Her tank top clings to her with sweat and the cool interior of the shop is a relief.  She walks to the back, to the coolers, and grabs a six pack of cheap beer.  Something to help her get through the heat.

Her attention is drawn from the snacks by the bell tinkling above the door.  Her eyes slowly move to the newcomer, wondering if she’s in their way, when they widen with recognition.

“Tadashi?”  She didn’t know he lived here.  Or is he visiting?

“Hey,” he smiles.  “I didn’t know you lived near here.”

“My mom just moved here, actually.”  She explains.  “Her, uh, new husband lives here.”

“It’s a nice surprise to see you.”  The way he says it makes her stomach flutter.  It’s only been three weeks.  “What are you buying?”

“Beer,” she answers with a shrug.  “Some salty snacks.  Something to keep the heat away.”

“It really is a scorcher.”  She can’t believe they’re discussing the weather as if they hadn’t shared a joint three weeks ago.  As if her lips hadn’t been on his.

“Right,” she agrees.  An awkward silence passes.  “Well, I should get going.  I’m supposed to be watching the house while my mom is on her honeymoon.”

“Maybe I could come over,” he quickly says.  “That is, if you want me to come over.  I don’t have to.”

“That would be great,” she interrupts his rambling.  “The house is pretty lonely, actually.  I could do with some company.  Wanna come over and help me drink these?”  She holds up the six pack.  “My treat.”

“Sure,” he agrees with an easy grin.

She pays for the beer and their snacks.  They walk side by side to her mom’s house, neither saying much.  The sun is starting to set, but the heat is still near unbearable.  She can’t wait until the sun finally goes down and it starts to cool off.  She much prefers cooler temperatures.

She unlocks the door for them, ushering him inside.  They place their shoes by the door.  She flicks on lights as they go, leading him down the hall to the kitchen.  She puts the beers in the fridge, keeping two out for them.  She wonders if he wants to watch a movie or something.

“So is this where you grew up?”  She asks, pulling the tab on a beer.  It hisses open and she takes a sip.

“Yeah,” he answers.  “My parents still live in the area, so I come stay with them on breaks.  Sometimes I bump into old classmates.”  He opens his own beer.  “The owner of that shop is actually my high school volleyball coach.”

“Small world,” she comments and he agrees with a nod.  They stand in the kitchen, sweat cooling in the AC, drinking their beers.

She doesn’t know what to say or do, which is a first for her.  Usually she’s impulsive, acting before thinking.  It’s gotten her nowhere with him, though.  And she’d rather not ruin their friendship by being rash.  Again.  Once she’d sobered up, she regretted kissing him.  Not the act itself, but the selfishness behind it.  She had vowed to never do that again.  Unless he asked, of course.

“Let’s go to the living room and watch a movie or something, if you’ve got the time.”

“Sure.”  He trails after her, sitting on the opposite end of the couch.  She feels a little weird being so far apart from him, but if it’s what he wants then she’ll deal with it.

She turns the TV on, flipping through the channels.  She finally finds an old All Might movie and lets it play in the background while she sips her beer.  The noise of it drowns out most of her thoughts, which she’s grateful for.  None of them are very helpful.

“I’m going to get the snacks,” she says after at least thirty minutes have passed.  She stands up, bringing her empty beer can with her.  She hadn’t meant to drink it so fast, but it was something to keep her mouth busy.  She didn’t want to blurt something embarrassing.

When she comes back with the snacks, she puts them on the coffee table in front of the couch.  She sits beside him under the guise of being close to the food, but really it just helps her feel more normal.  Sitting so far away from him feels formal, unfamiliar.  They usually sit pressed thigh to thigh or, if they’re across from one another, knee to knee. Having space just feels weird.

The movie plays on, the sun setting and the room growing dark.  She thinks briefly she should turn the lights on, but then he’s putting his arm on the back of the couch behind her and she’s too busy pretending it means more than it does to get up.

By the time he leaves, the beer is gone and so is the sun.  The streetlights are on, so she feels less guilty about keeping him.  At least he won’t need to walk in the dark.  It makes her feel a little better.  She walks him to the door, where they both stand awkwardly.

“Thanks for hanging out with me,” he says.

“I like hanging out with you.”  She says, the words coming easily.  “I like you, so any time spent with you is time well spent.”

“Thanks.”  His cheeks are pink.  “I should get going, though.  I’ll text you when I get home.”  She nods, watching him go.

She feels stupid as soon as the door is shut.  She shouldn’t have said anything.  He’s never going to like her as more than a friend.  She should just get over this now.  It’s a waste of time and effort.  She should just accept they’ll only ever be friends and live with it.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t cry about it.

                                                  ⓔ ⓧ  ⓣ  ⓡ  ⓐ

She’s a masochist.  There’s no other reason to explain why she agreed to let him come back over for another movie.  She should be spending the break getting over him and she can’t do that if he’s around her.  She must be a masochist.  Or just stupid.

Much to her surprise, he brings a joint this time.  It’s oddly endearing how proud he looks when he shows her.  She wonders if it’s the real deal or if some kid off the street sold him some oregano.  She hopes for the sake of his pride that it’s the real deal.

She’s a little disappointed when he takes the first drag and doesn’t choke.  A piece of her wanted it to be like last time, so she could get an indirect kiss.  She tries not to let her disappointment show.  She chugs her beer and stares at the TV screen.

He nudges her and she looks, going cross-eyed because he’s a lot closer than she expected.  He taps at her arm and she realizes he’s trying to shotgun.  She chuckles, but obligingly parts her lips for him.  It’s kind of weird to be on the receiving end, but it’s Tadashi.  She’s willing to give it a shot.

They’re a couple beers in at this point, which is probably why he’s feeling brave.  She’s not complaining.  She rather likes it.  His breath is warm and, beneath the smoke, she can pick up the mint from his toothpaste.  She thinks she can barely taste the cherry from his chapstick.  She closes her eyes without meaning to.

He kisses her.  Well, not really a kiss so much as he seals their mouths together to blow smoke into hers.  It’s reminiscent of that night and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to savor every second.  She wants to remember this.  The warmth of his mouth.  The taste of his lips.

When he pulls back, she’s flush and glassy-eyes for reasons unrelated to the booze or drugs.  She hopes he doesn’t think too hard on it.  He hands her the joint and she takes a drag, leaning forward to blow the smoke into his mouth.

They continue passing back and forth, mouths pressed together, until he doesn’t pull back.  It takes her a moment to realize he’s kissing her.  Like, actually kissing her.  She forgets to breathe, only to gasp into his mouth when she remembers.  She feels him smile against her mouth, laughter bubbling up from his chest, and quickly kisses back before the moment passes.

It’s everything she hoped it would be and more.  His lips are chapped, despite the chapstick, and he tastes like smoke and cherries.  His kisses are delicate, like he’s afraid she’s going to pull away.  She’s not going to.  She presses closer, as close as she can get without climbing into his lap.  She muffles his laughter with her mouth, until he’s finally quiet.

It’s everything she had hoped for and more.  His mouth is warm and wet and eager.  She doesn’t want to stop.  Her head is spinning, her heart pounding.  She’s elated.  She never thought she’d get this.  She pulls away, breathless.

“Why did you kiss me?”  She asks because she has to.

“Because I like you.”

She kisses him again and she can feel his smile.

[starkerforlife6969]

Secretary Peter, Boss Tony. With a twist ;)

Tony’s the best goddamn salesman in the office. Hell, in Wallstreet. He can move stocks, he can sell stocks, he can throw a life raft to the drowning man or sink the ship himself. 

He’s charismatic, handsome, and about as in style as his tailored three piece suits, which is to say- very and always in style. He’d graduated from desk jockey to cubicle drone to glass corner office in three short years and he has a floor full of people desperately in awe of him, vying for scraps of attention or pieces of wisdom. 

And Tony loves his job. He loves talking to people, he loves working his charm, he loves winning and he loves money and he loves not having to answer to anyone. 

And he doesn’t answer to anyone, except from- aside from that one pesky exception- in Nick Fury. 

He owns the whole company, so technically Tony reports to him, but Nick’s practically never here so Tony’s the one in charge. 

Apart from this week, apparently, because when he walks in on Monday morning it’s to see Nick in his office, that trademark furious glare that’s really poorly concealed behind what Tony supposes is meant to be a welcoming smile. He doesn’t break stride though, just saunters into his desk and grins. “I see you helped yourself into my office.” He says cheerily. 

“It’s not your office, Tony.” Nick growls, closing the door and standing in front of it like he thinks Tony might run out. “They’re all my offices. Every thing in this building is mine, do you understand that? Even those ugly ass lion statues in the lobby, they’re mine.” 

Tony sighs and eases into his leather desk chair. “That’s unfortunate. Maybe give ‘em to charity or something.” 

“Stark.” Nick’s tone is flat, unamused, and Tony looks up at him with his best ‘I’m listening’ face. “I was able to just waltz into your office because I notice- you don’t have a PA.” 

Tony’s eyes flicker to the desk just outside his office. Sure enough, it’s empty. “I wondered why I wasn’t getting any messages.” 

Nick is, again, unimpressed. 

“Pepper’s off on maternity leave,” Tony shrugs, tossing his stress ball into the air and catching it again. “I can go without a PA for a year, Nicky.” 

“Don’t you ever call me that again, and no, you can’t. Do you know why I’m here-” 

“-I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me-”

“I’m here because none of your sales have been recorded and stored, none of your hours, none of your billables. I haven’t had a hard copy receipt of any of your transactions and that makes you liable, Tony. And you may be one of my best workers, but I do not give a shit about you. But you being liable, makes me liable, which makes my company liable. And we wanna work as a team, don’t we?” 

“That seems like a rhetorical question.” 

“You are so backed up and you don’t even have a clue.” Nick growls, massaging his temples like he’d very much like to annihilate Tony right on the spot. 

Tony feels a little bit bad. He may have forgotten about those pesky little paper trails. “It’s not like I’m breaking the law, Fury, c’mon-”

“Oh, I’ll just tell the bank that you’re not breaking the law and send them on their merry fucking way, shall i? Or, should you get a secretary?” 

“Hire me one, then,” Tony rolls his eyes, bored with the conversation and reaching forward to grab a random sheet of paper off his desk. He peruses it idly. It’s a shopping list, and scanning the items, he’s not entirely sure what for. A baby shower? There’s too much alcohol for that- someone’s birthday? Whose list even is this? Is it in here by mistake?

“Do you know how many secretaries you went through before Pepper, Tony? Over a hundred. You have to hire one yourself. I do not want to be sued for abusive language again-”

Tony looks up sharply. “She was being an imbecile, Fury, and I stand by what I said-”

Nick lifts a hand to cut him off. “Hire a secretary before the week is out, Stark, or it won’t be such a friendly visit next time.” 

He leaves in a whirlwind of leather and disapproval and Tony stares bemusedly. 

He doesn’t even have to touch his phone before it buzzes and he sees the text from Pepper. Heard someone got a nasty visit. I’ll have someone for you before Friday. 

Tony smiles softly. He misses her, he should buy her something- 

suddenly, he remembers what the shopping list is for.  

When Tony gets into the office on Friday morning, he’s riding on a bit of a high. Everything’s been going so well recently. He’s signed more clients than ever in a three day span, one of his biggest competitors missed a big meeting and Fury hasn’t left any menacing phone calls. Pepper had liked her presents, people still stare after him, and- life all around is good. 

He’s in his office, just taking a moment to savour how triumphant and successful he is, when he reaches out for a sip of his coffee. 

It’s a fucking delicious blend. Expensive and Italian and the stuff that you can only get from a very pretentious cafe on the other side of New York and-

He pauses in his drinking. 

He never got himself coffee. 

He looks at the cup in his hand and lowers it marginally. It’s hot and just the way he likes it. He looks around his office then too, and suddenly all the differences appear and slap him in the face. His desk is clear- not just clear, clean, and his laptop keys are shiny and polished like new. His papers are organised and there are highlights and annotations and his certificates are hanging on the wall and not crammed into a box in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet where he left them. In fact, his whole fucking office looks professional and goddamn nice. 

His dry cleaning is hanging neatly in the corner too. He gets up, and looks at the desk outside his office. 

Sure enough, there’s someone sitting there. 

A male from what Tony can see, with short brown hair and a headset on. He's typing into the computer and diligently scribbling onto a notepad. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

Who the hell is he?

Tony’s laptop pings and he looks down to see a new email from Fury. 

Well done, Stark. Everything looks to be in order. I knew you could be reasonable. 

He clicks on the attachments, already knowing what he’s going to see. All his backlogs, all his logged hours, all his receipts, ordered and neatly filed and chronologically placed and there are even little notes underneath each one with extra details and- how the fuck does his new secretary know that yes, actually, the Milton case had required an extra emergency meeting when they’d discovered a conflict- Tony hadn’t made a note of it anywhere. 

Curiosity truly peaked now, he takes his perfect coffee and saunters out, walking around the front of the desk. 

His new secretary looks up and Tony’s penis twitches a little. Okay, yes, Tony Jr approves. He’s young, maybe twenty, with brown hair and big brown eyes, cream skin and a delicate nose. He’s slender, but in shape, in a white shirt with the top few buttons undone, giving a lovely view of those sharp collarbones. He’s wearing black trousers and the the microphone wire against his cheek and in his hair contrasts nicely with his pale skin. 

He looks up at Tony and smiles pleasantly. “Mr Stark, is there something I can help you with?”

Tony spots a calendar on the corner of the desk. He picks it up and flips through it. His meetings and deadlines for the next six months are all neatly pencilled in. The most important ones are starred with a red pen. He sets it down carelessly and watches as the young man straightens it without a word. “So, how long have you been here, Mr...” 

“Peter Potts, Sir.” Peter says, and ah, this makes sense. The only way Peter could be so clever was if he had the Potts gene. “I started on Tuesday.” 

Tuesday, fuck. No wonder things have been going so well. “Pepper’s little brother?” 

“Half brother,” Peter corrects, “and soon to be uncle.” 

Tony can see the resemblance. The soft skin, the sweet eyes. “Well, Peter and Pepper. That’s cute.” 

Peter doesn’t say anything to that, but his pretty pink lips twitch in amusement. 

But Tony doesn’t have any qualms. Peter is quite clearly capable, he’s related to Pepper, he’s eye-candy, and he’s gotten Tony his favourite coffee. So, the older man simply tips his head and goes back into his office. But as soon as he’s sitting down, his curiosity flares up again. He presses the button on his intercom and clears his throat. “You go to college, Peter?” 

He watches through the glass as Peter’s chair swivels around, and the boy talks into the microphone with an intrigued smile. “Yes, Mr Stark. Top of my class at Harvard.” 

“What did you study?” 

“I majored in Engineering with a minor in Journalism. Graduated last year.” 

An early bird then, Tony can relate. That Potts gene really is something else. “And what have you been doing for the past year?” 

“Odd jobs,” Peter says evasively. “But when Pepper said she needed my help, I was all too happy to oblige. I’m a very big fan of yours, Mr Stark. There’s no bigger name in Wallstreet.” The phone rings and Peter shoots Tony an apologetic, but polite smile, as he picks up the phone. “Tony Stark’s office.” He nods, turning to the computer as the person talks. “Yes, I can see that here. No problem. Thank you. Yes, yes, Mr Butler, I will let him know.” Peter chuckles and Tony stares: amazed. “Alright. Thank you, goodbye.” 

“Mr Butler?” Tony shakes his head, “That was Jerry on the phone?” 

“Yes, Mr Stark. Would you like me to get him back on the line for you?” 

Jerry Butler is the coldest man in the world. He doesn’t laugh with secretaries. He’s no reason for any smile ever. But Peter had chuckled like he was talking to an old friend. Not even Pepper had achieved that. “No, no.” Tony frowns, “you carry on.” He clicks off the intercom and strums his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. Something doesn’t feel quite right- if something seems too good to be true...his mind warns. 

Maybe the catch is that he can’t sleep with Peter and the more he talks to the boy, the more he wants to. 

He does his best to ignore it for now. 

Things continue to go brilliantly. Life is even more effortlessly amazing than it was before. Nick even drops the hints of a promotion in the future if things keep going like this. When Tony gets to work, his favourite coffee is waiting, sometimes even a bagel or a croissant like Peter magically knows when Tony hasn’t had breakfast. He eats or drinks in his office as he checks emails, before Peter comes in with a notebook and a rundown of the days events, and then Tony gets to work. Peter comes in throughout the day, silent and unobtrusive and sets down water or coffee or occasionally- an apple- and sets it by Tony’s elbow and leaves again. 

When Tony steps out to meet a client for lunch, he sees Peter taking his lunch break at his desk- his headset is still on, and he’s still scribbling away, but it’s into an old worn science textbook. In his other hand is a sandwich he’s nibbling on. 

Tony prods at the book as he pulls on his coat. Peter had it dry cleaned specially and waiting in his office before Tony even knew he'd be out for lunch. There’s probably already a cab waiting downstairs. “What’s this?” Tony asks, trying to peek at the cover. 

Peter lets him easily. “It’s a bio-chemistry textbook. I’m thinking about taking some night classes. Work towards a masters, or if I don’t qualify- a second degree.” 

Tony may not have much pull in the science world, but his father sure did. He knows that name and money can go a long way, and Peter’s been exceptional. “I can get you in for a Masters anywhere you wanna go.” He assures, and Peter looks up at him with wide eyes. 

“Mr Stark-”

“It’s not a problem. Now, who am I meeting?” 

“Mrs Aberelle. She loves shrimp and it was her granddaughter’s birthday last week.” 

Tony’s not sure whether he wants to ruffle Peter’s hair or give him a filthy kiss on the mouth. He settles for neither. 

Mrs Aberelle practically gushes and swoons in her seat when Tony orders her the shrimp platter and asks how her granddaughter’s birthday was. She makes a higher bid than Tony even asked for. Peter’s a godsend. 

The next day, the CEO of of another major competitor comes down with the flu, and Tony’s pitch goes down brilliantly. 

He’s on cloud nine. 

Careful, a voice warns, when you’re this high, there’s only one way to go. 

It sounds suspiciously like his father, but he listens to it. “Hey, Peter,” he greets one morning as he strolls in. Peter’s in his office, just setting down his coffee and a- fuck, a danish pastry. He might be in love. “I got you a little something.” 

Peter blinks in surprise, but smiles sweetly, and crosses his hands in front of him as he waits. Tony sets his briefcase down and clips open the gold clasps and lifts out a brand new, just released bio-chemistry textbook. Peter takes it with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Mr Stark...” he whispers, shaking his head, “this was- I know for a fact that this was over a $100. I can’t accept this-”

“Kid,” Tony chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s pocket change. Besides, I’m not giving it to you for nothing.” 

Peter’s eyes flash to his and Tony’s a little surprised by what he sees. Peter looks almost-fuck, almost dangerous- but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with that sweetness and hardworking, subtle smugness that’s usually there. 

“I want you to attend the meeting with Lawson tomorrow. As a sit in, alright?” 

Peter nods immediately, but frowns. “Is there any particular reason why, Mr Stark?” He’s clutching the book to his chest almost reverently. 

“Not really,” Tony admits, rubbing his chin, “just wary. You up for it?” 

“Always.” Peter murmurs, and Tony thinks he must be imagining the demure little almost-wink he gets. 

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it again that night. 

He shakes Lawson’s hand in the morning as the man and his associates sit opposite him at the large oakwood table. Tony and Peter on one side, Lawson and his men on the other. Peter has his notebook out and is writing away- he always seems to be writing, Tony has no idea what- and then they start talking. 

Tony’s not sure what he was worried about. The contract is brilliant, more lenient than expected and has nothing but benefits for both sides. He’s giving Lawson a hard time, but that’s just part of the game, and he’s about to seal the deal when-

Peter slides a piece of paper over to him without looking up. Tony frowns at him, but Peter doesn’t make eye-contact, continuing to write, and Tony looks down. 

He’s lying. Don’t sign. 

Well fuck, that’s a fucking thing to write. What is Tony supposed to do with that? He sets it down and tries to look unaffected as they keep talking but when Lawson’s side slide over the contract, Tony pauses with the pen in his hand. Peter isn’t making a sound. 

“Let me just talk to my secretary real quick,” Tony grins, wearing his best winning smile, “why don’t you fine gentlemen wait outside, take five, catch a breather, and then we can come back and sort this out.” 

They look a little confused, but they leave and then Peter and Tony are alone. 

“What the hell is this, Peter?” 

Peter looks up bravely, his jaw locked. “I don’t trust him, Mr Stark. There’s something not right-”

“I’m gonna need a little more than your hunch, kid. No offence, but I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you. You don’t know the contract, it’s a good deal-”

“It’s too good a deal,” Peter insists, lifting the thick contract up. “I’ve read through it, Mr Stark. I read through all the contracts you’re about to sign and there’s something about this that doesn’t add up. Why would they offer such a beneficial claim with us? Why not one of your competitors?” 

Tony shrugs a little smugly. “My competitors haven’t been stepping up to bat, lately.” 

Peter shakes his head. “I’m serious, Mr Stark. When things or people are too good to be true, they usually are.”

There’s something in his tone. Something...something Tony’s unsure of. 

“Did you see anything in the small print that can back up- what is at the moment- just a feeling?” 

Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, and he shakes his head. “No, Sir.” He whispers. 

The older man sighs, rubbing at his eyes. Only Pepper or Peter could ever make him feel like this- torn between the rational, sensible option, and listening to their fucking hunches-

“He knows!” A voice outside the door hisses, and both Peter and Tony look up sharply. 

“He doesn’t know, Lawson-”

“He must know! Why would he tell us to leave like that? He knows about our deal with Oscorp! I knew Norman couldn’t make this go away, the dirty son-of-a-bitch-”

“There’s no way Stark knows, just calm down-”

The voices disappear again, down the hall, and Tony stares in amazement. Peter just looks earnest. “Do you believe me now, Mr Stark?”

“How the hell did you know?” He whispers, collapsing into one of the chairs.

Peter bites his bottom lip. “Sometimes i just get these feelings,” he says, as he scribbles on the paper in front of him. 

Unfortunately, knowing that Lawson has a back door deal with Oscorp is not something that can be easily proven, and when Fury finds out that Tony blew would could be one of the biggest contracts of the year, he reacts with, what is understandably, a lot of anger. 

Tony does his best to get Peter to screen all his calls as the two of them work all night to try and find a way to prove what they heard. Tony wants to think that maybe his word will be enough, but Nick’s always been a stickler for the rules and Tony...has not. 

Even as absorbed in papers and numbers as he is, Tony can still appreciate Peter here beside him. The kid’s saved him a huge one here. And he’s still here, when he should probably be at home sleeping or watching Netflix, helping Tony try to prove the unprovable. He’s smart and quick and for someone who’s never worked with stocks like this before, he sure knows his way around it. 

“Hey,” Peter whispers when it hits three am. “I bet they keep a hard copy of all their emails in a data storage room.” 

Tony looks up and rubs the bleariness from his eyes. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Peter breaths, getting to his feet, more energetic now, “a lot of stock companies do it. It’s an automatically backlog, it can stop you getting into a lot of trouble. All we have to go is get in.” 

Tony shakes his head, but gets to his feet, knees groaning. “How? I’m the most recognisable face in Wallstreet.”

“But I’m not.” Peter insists, already heading for the door. Tony’s hot on his heels. “I can talk my way in.” 

“Not that I doubt your ability, because you’re a Potts, but do you really think you can just waltz in and-”

Yes, as it turns out. Tony just stares in awe as Peter plays the apologetic, desperate intern who just has to get this work done for his brutal boss Norman Osborn. Tony’s hiding behind a potted plant as he watches Peter’s performance. “I’m so sorry,” Peter weeps, eyes shining with tears as the large, female security guard clutches at her heart through her shirt. “I’m such an idiot, and it’s only my first week and I forgot my keycard and- I’m gonna get fired and I deserve it and-”

“Oh, no, honey,” the security guard croons, already unlocking the barrier for him. “No, baby, it is not your fault, okay?” 

Peter sniffles, eyes red and smile grateful. “Thank you so much, I-you have no idea what this means to me and-”

She blows him a kiss. “Go, honey. Go.” Peter waves at her, and jogs around the corner. 

They have to wait about fifteen minutes till she goes to the bathroom, before Tony runs out and Peter lets him through. “How did you- wait- how did you even unlock the door-”

“I pickpocketed her,” Peter whispers, as they get into the elevator. Tony stares at Peter in shock. 

“Shit, kid. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Peter gives him a look. “We’re breaking into one of the most famous companies in the world, Mr Stark. I don’t think now’s the time.”

“Sure- I guess-” Peter grabs his hand and tugs him out of the metal doors as soon as they get to the right floor and shit- how did Peter even know what floor- before Tony knows it, Peter is picking the lock of a storage room and- seriously, what the hell-

and then he’s hacking into a computer and downloading a memory stick onto it. 

Tony is staring in slack-jawed awe. “Seriously, Peter.” He whispers, as Peter scans through emails. “What the fuck?” 

“Tony,” Peter murmurs, a little irritated, as his eyes flicker across the screen as he scrolls rapidly. “Not the time.” 

“Not the time? You- you cried on cue. You knew all this stuff about me, you pick-pocketed her- you got into that locked room, you just hacked into a computer and a memory stick, are you- were you a criminal or something? Like a tech-whiz kid? You can tell me, I won’t judge-”

“I know you won’t,” Peter says softly, and suddenly there’s that doe-eyed, cocky secretary who smirks whenever Tony ends up liking whatever weird type of sushi Peter brings him when he’d insisted he wouldn’t. “But not right now. Later, I promise- ah! Look!” 

There’s the email. It’s not explicit, but it’s interaction between Norman and Lawson which can’t easily be dismissed. Peter sends it to the printer and the two of them are waiting for the damn thing to connect, when footsteps sound along the carpeted floor around the corner. 

Peter shoves Tony into a stationary closet and Tony watches through the crack as a middle-aged man comes around with a stack of papers to photocopy. The man blinks at the sight of Peter, surprised, and Peter half smiles. “Hey,” he greets casually, and Tony is seriously in awe of this kid’s acting. “All nighter for you too, huh? Osborn’s a real dick.”

The man chuckles, nodding, and comes to join Peter by the printer. “Yeah, I know. I’m Barney,” 

Peter takes his hand. “Lucas,” he says easily, “It’s nice to meet you. You couldn’t help, could you? The damn thing’s not working.”

Lucas peers at the printer, and smiles good-naturedly. “You have to enter your user access code.”

Tony pales and if Peter panics at all, he doesn’t show it. “Fuck,” he sighs, smacking his forehead, “I forgot mine. I keep it written down on this post it- shit, I’ll have to run downstairs, unless-” he looks up at Barney hopefully, “I could use yours? Save me the run.” 

Barney looks torn. “We’re not supposed to...”

For a second, Tony thinks Peter might pull the same crying act he used with the security guard, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, Peter steps forward, lifts his chin and catches his plush bottom lip between his teeth. 

Shit. Shit. Tony and Barney are both hypnotised. “Maybe we could forget the printer altogether,” Peter murmurs, his hands drifting to Barney’s belt as he fiddles with the loop. “Working for Norman gets me so stressed, you know? Sometimes you just want some-” he sighs a little, and the sound goes straight to Tony’s dick. “-some stress relief. You ever feel like that, Barney?” 

Barney looks utterly besotted, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. 

Peter pushes impossibly closer, tilting his head up more. “You can touch me, if you want,” he says, barely above a whisper, “I want you to. Right here.” He grabs one of Barney’s hands and places it on his perfect ass. 

Tony’s leaking in his pants. 

Barney grunts with desire, grabbing at Peter’s ass gracelessly, his other hand coming to do the same as Peter presses their groins together. “What’s your access code?” He whispers into Barney’s ear, palming at his crotch. 

Barney looks like he might cum any second. He’s probably a virgin, Tony thinks. Or maybe Peter is just that hot. Either one is plausible. “A-ah, it-it’s 4598-”

Tony lets out a cry of surprise when Barney falls heavily to the floor. 

Peter turns and taps in the code to the printer as Tony bursts out of the closet. “Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at the man. There’s no blood which is...a relief? “Is he dead?”

Peter rolls his eyes as the printer starts chugging out paper. He grins victoriously. “No, Tony, he’s not dead. I don’t kill people. He’s just unconscious.” He gives Tony a look like the older man is acting a bit slow. 

There’s a wet spot on Barney’s pants, Tony feels for the guy, but there’s more pressing matters. “Peter, what the fuck, seriously-”

“Oh, come on, Tony.” Peter snaps, whirling on him with righteous indignation. His pupils are blown wide and Tony wants him so bad it hurts, but he’s also- he’s also confused out of his mind. “You’ve known this whole time. What- you think it’s coincidence that all your competitors have been missing meetings? Falling sick? You think these new clients are just falling into your lap? I’ve been doing all of this for you. You know that.” 

Jesus Christ. Tony stares. “I-I don’t- how-”

“I like seeing you succeed. It gets me even hotter for you than I already am.” 

Tony can’t form words. 

“I know you like me too. I’d have to be blind not to- aha!” He lifts the papers happily, all printed and sorted. “As much as I’d love to have you fuck me right here on this printer, we need to leave.” 

Tony’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to form words, but fucking Peter is something he’d very much like to do. 

“We’re gonna go back to your office, and you can do me right up against the glass, okay?” 

Tony has to pinch his arm to not cum right then and there. Peter notices, and smirks, tiptoeing to kiss him lightly. 

“Come on, Mr Stark,” he grins, his eyes twinkling with a satisfying mixture of innocence and mischief, as he guides them towards the door. “You have work to do.”