#someone ring the pretentiousness alarm

[moni-logues]

A Fine Line Bonus 1

The first A Fine Line bonus chapter!!!!

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Genre: just fluff, love that for them

Word count: 6.4k

Content: no real warnings for this one. A mention of cum and a penis, that's basically it.

A/N: FFS I have written this post out twice and then accidentally deleted it all so I fucking give up lol it's here and it's unbeta'd and I hope I'm back, baby!!!

Epilogue 4 | Masterlist | Bonus Chapter 2

Bonus Chapter 1 - Fear and the First Date

“Does this mean I can ask you out now?” he asked as his hand trailed lightly up and down your back. It had barely been five minutes. You were still sitting on him, soft and sticky and sated.

You lifted your head from his chest and looked at him, perplexed.

“What do you mean?”

“On a date,” he said, as though it were obvious.

“A date?”

“Yes, a date.” Slower now, like you were stupid. “Like dinner and a film, or we can go to a museum, or I don’t know, fucking bowling or something. You know, a date.”

You did know. You knew what a date was. You just didn’t know you were going to go on them. You’d sort of already skipped that part, you thought. Weren’t you past the dating part now? You couldn’t picture it: sitting across the table from him, in some restaurant, some expensive, pretentious restaurant he would take you to. Just you and him, looking at each other, saying what? It wasn’t as if you hadn’t had conversations with him. But a date? Were you going to go on a first date with a man who already knew what you looked like naked, how you sounded when you writhed underneath him? A man whose soft cock was still inside you, whose cum was drying down his length? A man you’d been living with for the better part of a year? Did that make sense?

“Just so you know, you have to say yes.”

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck. Half of you felt that fluttery kind of excitement that you supposed you should feel when asked out on a date. The other half of you felt blind panic. It wasn’t so much about whether or not you wanted to, but whether or not you thought you even could.

Namjoon prodded you lightly in the side with a finger.

“Look, I get it.” His voice was soft and quiet. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want. But you picked this, right? You want this? I said this—this-”he gestured to the two of you there, naked, entangled, “this matters to me. It means something to me. You said it did to you, too. I get it if you feel like running away. But... You can’t actually run away.”

He sounded calm; he spoke evenly, slowly, but you could feel his heart in his chest, could feel him heat, flush, could feel him swallow when he’d finished talking.

You hadn’t forgotten what you’d said. It did mean something to you. Too much. You had made the decision and you had thought that was the hard part. They said it would be easy; you just did it; you just let someone into your life and that was that. You had believed them. You had said yes. But now you were here, having to say it again. The alarm bells ringing in your head telling you to evacuate, to cut and run, to quit while you were ahead, to not expose yourself to that kind of hurt.

The kind of hurt that Namjoon was exposing himself to. Had repeatedly exposed himself to. For you. Because he wanted to be with you.

It hit you again, the realisation that he has feelings. He was nervous. Nervously kind of joking about you running away, bailing on him. Nervously kind of not joking, reminding you of your words, holding you to them. You were awash with guilt and shame because you had to realise this, again, that he had feelings, too. You were so wrapped up in yourself that you had to be reminded of it. It made you wonder why he wanted you. It made you think about him saying he had terrible taste in women. It made you feel, in a small, quiet way, that he still did, that you would be another of his mistakes. You decided then and there not to be.

“I’m not running away,” you replied quietly. “It does matter to me.”

It wasn’t easy. You had to accept that maybe it wasn’t going to be easy, at least not yet. But you had to try. You owed it to yourself. You owed it to him.

“Good.”

He turned his face into yours, nudged your nose, and made you look at him.

“It’s ok, you know,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “It’s going to be ok.”

“How do you know?”

He kissed you then, cupped the back of your head to bring you closer, to press his lips to yours.

“I don’t know.”

“Then how can you say that?”

“Not everything has to end in disaster. Even if it has every single time you’ve tried before. Maybe this time, it will go right.”

“That sounds like the definition of insanity.”

He huffed a small laugh, a little exhale blown over your face.

“Well maybe you make me crazy, huh?”

*

“You’re nervous!”

“Yes! Of course, I’m nervous! You don’t have to sound so fucking happy about it!”

“But it’s sweet! It shows you care; it’s nice.”

“No, it’s not!” you cried down the phone. “It’s horrible and I hate it and I don’t know what to do! Honestly, it makes me want to take everything back and just run away.”

“You’re not going to do that,” Lina replied and you thought you heard a hint of a warning tone in her voice. You tried not to let it get your back up.

“Obviously I’m not! God, I’m fucking trying, ok? But this is stressful! How, how do people do it? Date? DATE?! I mean... We haven’t even-” You paused in your pacing, mid-step, mouth open. “We haven’t- we literally have not spent any time together outside the four walls of this apartment.”

Lina was quiet on the other end, as if running through her own memories to confirm.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“YES, and it’s weird! And scary! And like- god, is dating always this stressful?”

“You’re talking to a woman who met her husband at 18. I have no idea.”

“Fair point.”

“Also, your situation isn’t exactly normal-”

“Which makes it worse! How do you go on a first date with someone you live with? When you’ve already fucked them a million times?!”

“You may be overthinking it.”

Of course, you were overthinking it. You had gone from trying not to think about Namjoon at all to thinking of nothing else. But not like before, when you thought about him fucking you, thought about unravelling—you and him alike—thought about all the things he’d done to you and the things he would do again. Now it was just him. His hands. His dimples. The softness in his gaze when he looked at you sometimes.

It was terrifying. The idea of him, of you, of the two of you. There were parts of you resisting, still; you were aware of them all the time. They made you want to flinch when he reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear. They made you stew in your bed at night, unable to sleep, telling yourself that it was never going to work out, that it was time to cut your losses, to get out while the getting was good. It had been only days since he asked you out, since you had finally said yes to this, but they had somehow stretched into lifetimes, each lasting longer than the previous and every hour more stressful than the last. You should have been eagerly anticipating this date. You were dreading it.

But there you were, dressed and sweaty and panicking, waiting for him to pick you up, convinced it wouldn’t work out, he wouldn’t want you, the world would see you together and utter a swift, definite ‘no’.

“He’s coming to pick me up; did I tell you that? What’s he going to do, buzz at the door as if he doesn’t know the codes? Pretend it’s not his apartment he’s coming to?”

You swore you heard Lina sigh dreamily.

“He’s romantic.”

“You know how long it’s been since I’ve been romanced? I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’ll learn. Just let it happen. Stop resisting it.”

“I’ve been resisting for so lon-”

“Exactly. Stop. Follow his lead. Trust him.”

“You say that like it’s so easy.”

“It’s not easy, but it’s necessary if you want to-”

“I know, I know. I don’t need a lecture.”

“Sorry.”

You sighed this time.

“No, sorry, I’m just-”

You heard the doorbell ring and froze. He was here. Fuck.

“He’s at the door. He’s standing outside the door of his own apartment, waiting for me to open it. “

“Well don’t leave him waiting! Go on! Have fun! Make good choices!”

You rang off and smoothed down your dress—or wiped your sweaty palms all over it, one or the other. You walked slowly to the door and slipped your shoes on before opening it.

You hadn’t stopped being bowled over by the fact of him, the physical reality of his being. That he was so tall and so handsome in his crisp, white shirt with his too-short hair and his eyes that always saw right through you. The power of him hadn’t diminished at all: the way he made your heart flutter, and your pulse race. It was, in fact, stronger now than ever. You were going down so, so badly.

His cheeks dimpled as a smile spread across his face when he saw you.

“Hello, beautiful.”

You blushed, tight-lipped, and tried to accept the compliment graciously. It was still new to you.

“I’m ready to go,” you said and he nodded back at you with a scrunched-nose smile.

“Tell me,” he began as you shut the door and walked together down the hall. “Do you hold hands on a first date?”

You looked at him, shy and embarrassed all over, and he looked a little the same.

“I, uh, I don’t know?” You laughed awkwardly. “I haven’t been on a first date for... a while, a long while... Do you?”

There was a pause that went on a little too long and felt a little too strained. You couldn’t believe you might have already put your foot in it; you’d only been on the date twenty seconds! Then he said,

“What about Hoseok?”

You almost stopped in your tracks, your steps falling out of rhythm with his, and when you looked at him, he only glanced over and then away again.

“Uh, well, I... It wasn’t really, we didn’t. It wasn’t like, dating. We weren’t dating. We didn’t- it wasn’t. We didn’t do... dates.”

“Oh. Right.”

You didn’t know if it was the wrong answer or the right one. It was the honest one.

“Well,” he said, taking your hand in his. “I do hold hands on a first date.”

He grabbed your hand and gave it a squeeze and you felt your knees tremble.

*

Namjoon was good at this. Dating. Sitting across from you in a restaurant, eating, drinking, talking, smiling at you and joking with you and being so unutterably charming, you almost couldn’t believe it was the same man who had routinely pinned you up against a wall and fucked you so hard you couldn’t breathe.

You had sat down, stiff and self-conscious, all too aware of the tables on either side of you, the couples sitting there, over-hearing you—listening to you? It didn’t matter if they did; you wouldn’t be saying anything salacious, but you felt so exposed, sitting there so publicly, announcing to the world that you were trying to get this man to like you, a man so much better than you were on every measure. You assumed everyone could see right through you, see who and what you were, see that he would be better off without you.

It made you stupid. You felt embarrassed and conspicuous and it was so distracting that you kept forgetting to listen to Namjoon when he spoke. Your leg bounced under the table incessantly; your eyes were darting about, scanning the restaurant behind him, looking for people looking at you, talking about you. As if you had never been out in public before now. As if there was something so strange and unusual about a woman being on a date with a man.

Though it was strange and unusual for you. Was it strange and unusual for Namjoon, too?

He wasn’t acting like it. He was talking to you as if you were the only person in the restaurant. He didn’t notice when the woman next to him almost spilt her glass of red wine on herself. He was sitting with his back to the restaurant so he didn’t see every person, couple, and group come and go. He just kept his focus on you. Always looking at you, seeing through you. You had no idea what he saw.

“Are you listening?” he asked.

“Oh yes! Sorry, no, what did you say?”

He laughed and turned to glance over his shoulder.

“Looking for better options?”

“No! No, of course not. Sorry, I just...”

How could he understand? Sitting there so comfortably, so confident, so at ease in himself. You couldn’t sit there and tell him you were nervous, that you were so nervous, you couldn’t concentrate. You thought of all the differences between you, wondered how this could ever work. He was ready to receive the world and you had nothing to give.

He interrupted your thoughts with a hand over yours.

“You’re not having fun.”

He wasn’t asking.

“No, I am! I...”

“It’s ok.”

You caught the guarded disappointment in his eyes and wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Then he stood and offered you a tight smile before walking towards a waiter. He gestured to your table as he spoke and, when the waiter moved off, he didn’t come back to, but went to the counter. He took out his wallet and paid for the dinner you had only just started.

Was it over?

A different waiter approached the table and took your almost-full plates away and you were trying not to cry when Namjoon returned.

“Here-” he shared the last of the wine from the bottle between your two glasses. “Drink up!”

You took the glass on autopilot and gulped at the wine. You didn’t want to ask what was happening. You would put this off as long as you could. If it was over already, if you’d messed it up before it had even had a chance to begin, you were going to make him do it. End it. Dump you? Does it even count as dumping if it’s only your first date? And where would you live? Where would you go? What would you do? It would be the final nail, the last straw. You would ship yourself off to the outback and live alone where no one else could be hurt by you, where you couldn’t get anything wrong.

A waiter approached with a bag of packaged-up food and Namjoon stood again, extending his hand to you. You took it and he led you out of the restaurant. You had somehow missed the moment he ordered the taxi, but it was there, just outside, waiting for you; Namjoon opened the door for you to slide in.

“Where are we going?” you asked, quietly, when he sat down beside you.

“Home.”

“Oh.”

With the bag of food wedged securely on the floor between his feet, he took your hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. You didn’t know what that meant. Maybe he was just waiting until you were back in the privacy of your home. The backseat of a taxi was no place for it and he was a considerate guy, after all.

He kept hold of your hand the whole way home. He also kept quiet. So did you. As you slipped your shoes off in the hallway, he gently told you to go and sit at the table. You followed the direction without protest. You took your phone with you and furiously tapped out message after message to Lina, filling her in and pleading for help.

You: what does this mean?

You: I don’t know what he’s doing.

You: should I ask?

You: do I help? I can’t even bring myself to look!

You: what do I say to him? How do I know what to do?

You: tell me what to do!! I’ll actually do it!

Namjoon was clattering about in the kitchen; you were doing your best to ignore him. You had buried your head in the sand and ignored the truth for long enough; you’d had the practice; you’d wait for him to break through, pull you out, then maybe kick you out.

Lina was not replying.

“Here.”

Namjoon placed a steaming plate of pasta in front of you—the very one you had ordered at the restaurant—and he placed his own dish opposite you. He returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

“Ok, well,” he called, “there’s half a bottle of white-” he grabbed it and then opened a cupboard to the left “-and a whole bottle of red, but I’m pretty sure this is the red Taehyung got me and it’s completely undrinkable. What do you reckon?”

“Uh... I guess... both?”

He laughed—it was almost a cackle—and brought them both over to the table with a pair of glasses. He poured the white wine out, two big glasses, emptying the bottle, and lifted his, gently clinking it against yours.

“To Date One version 2.0.”

“Oh,” you replied. “So... we’re still on a date?”

“Yeah!”

“But here?”

“Yeah!”

Namjoon hesitated then put down his wine glass with a quiet thunk. He tapped his fingers lightly on the table for a second and then spoke.

“Look... I want you to enjoy this date. You were not enjoying it at the restaurant. And I’m trying not to take it really personally that you don’t want to be seen with m-”

“No!” You flung a hand out to grab his; his fingers, still dancing on the tabletop, stilled. “I don’t... I don’t want you to be seen with me.” You had to pause, take a deep breath. You owed him what you were feeling because you had made him feel bad. He was, as ever, being honest with you and letting you in and you had said you were going to try. You had said you were going to do this. Practice makes perfect. No time like the present.

“I felt so embarrassed because it felt like everyone was looking at me, or us, looking at you and wondering what the hell you were doing with me... Because I still don’t... I don’t get it. I feel like a mistake.”

“You feel like a mistake?”

“Yes, I feel like I’m going to be a mistake for you. Another one.”

Namjoon almost chuckled but only almost.

“Because I have terrible taste in women.”

“Yes.”

He sighed and nodded.

“Yeah, I guess it was my fault for saying that. Maybe I should have said I had terrible taste in women... Do you want to get into it?”

He looked like he didn’t.

“No, not if you don’t want to. I’m sorry for ruining our date.” He didn’t want to get into his but that didn’t mean you couldn’t get into yours a little. “I was—am—nervous. I was so nervous I forgot to be excited, which I am! I am excited about this, but I still find it so hard to believe. I- I said to you before that I’m not a person yet and I’m not. I don’t feel like I can give you what you deserve.”

Namjoon straightened up in his chair and folded his hands across one another.

“Didn’t we decide that I get to be the judge of that?”

You shrugged. You knew the logic was on his side but you couldn’t accept it.

“Well, then, unless I say otherwise, you are welcome—encouraged—to assume that you’re giving me everything I want.”

You couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that and it must have shown on your face.

“How about this,” he suggested. “An agreement, a deal: if I want something from you, I will ask. If you want something from me, you will ask. Straight up.”

The fact that he believed you were capable of being that upfront about your needs, wants or desires almost made you choke on your wine. Half the reason (or even the whole reason) you had got into this mess together was because you weren’t capable, not even of being honest with yourself.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What makes you think I can do that?”

“Sometimes I think I know you better than you do, y’know? You don’t see yourself like I see you at all. I do think you can do it.”

It didn’t seem like you were going to get out of this one. So you nodded, hesitantly at first and then more surely. You could try, at least.

“Good. So now you have to trust that I will ask you when I want something. Maybe like right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. I want something from you right now. I want you to enjoy this date, please.”

You giggled, relieved.

“Ok.”

“Think you can?”

“Yes, I think so.”

He smiled and nodded and picked up his fork.

*

Namjoon was good at dating. And it turned out, when you let yourself relax, you were good at it, too. The laughing and joking and flirting did come easily; the other stuff might not but you had this at least.

“I’m your equal,” you said suddenly, not knowing it was true until you said it out loud.

Namjoon’s eyes raised high on his forehead.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I mean, you think I’m your equal.”

“Yeah... Should I... not?”

You felt like you were beneath him, were convinced of it, but he never acted like he thought that. He never treated you like that. He treated you like an equal. He gave to you and he asked you to give back. He wanted this to be equal between you. As if you were equals. As if you—

“We’re in this together.”

A second passed and he blinked. Another second passed and his face softened, then relaxed into smile.

“Yes. We are equal. We are in this together.”

That was new for you.

“You like me.”

He laughed.

“Yes, I do. And you don’t believe me when I say it.”

“It’s not—well, I suppose... I don’t know. It feels hard to believe. Sort of. One the one hand, I believe it, because we’re here; you’re here and we’re having fun and you- you asked for this, you wanted it. You want it. So, I believe it. But, at the same time... Dating has not been a part of my life for a long time. Being wanted hasn’t been part of my life for a long time so it feels—I guess I thought I was over it? That part of life? I guess I thought that was it, y’know? I couldn’t leave and my husband didn’t like me or love me or maybe he did but not how I wanted it, not how he used to, not—I don’t know. That makes it hard to believe.”

You paused and sighed, inwardly rolling your eyes at yourself. Because you were making this all about you. You could hear yourself doing it now.

“Sorry,” you continued. “I keep- it's not- I-… I know I keep bringing it up, making excuses or something. I’m just always dragging my baggage into everything-”

Namjoon shook his head and you paused long enough for him to speak.

“You can’t let go of your baggage; it’s your past and it’s part of you and you’re talking about it like it’s ancient history but it’s been less than a year. Things take time. And, you know... You won’t ever be able to put the baggage down, but there are things you can do to make it easier to carry.”

“Like what?”

“Therapy?”

“Can’t afford it.”

“I can pa-”

“No.”

“Why n-”

“No. I said no.”

He rolled his eyes playfully.

“Ok, well have you ever considered talking about your feelings?”

“Hey! I’m trying!”

“And I’m teasing.”

And he was. Because he could. Because he knew you well enough both to make the joke and to know that he could. He knew you. And he was sitting here across from you teasing you about it. Teasing you about your shit as if it were endearing. As if he liked it.

Because he did.

*

“Ok, then, Namjoon,” you swivelled your now-empty wine glass in his direction, “tell me this: do you kiss on a first date?”

He leant back and tapped his hands on his stomach, tipping his head side to side as he looked at you.

“Well, that depends.”

“On?”

“How well the date has gone.”

“And how well has it gone?”

His eyebrows raised.

“Oh, is this date over?”

You gestured to the empty plates in front of you, the wine bottles emptied, too. He leant forward then, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands.

“You mean you don’t want dessert?”

A shiver ran through you, part-delight, part-relief. This was the part you could do. Sex was… It was easy. You were well-practised now. Namjoon was familiar. You fit. You were comfortable. It was so much easier to physically expose yourself to him than it was to be emotionally exposed. And it was a relief that he still wanted it, too.

“Well,” you said, leaning in to mirror his pose, “I didn’t say that exactly. What dessert do you have in mind?”

He held your gaze for a second, maybe two, then he scooted his chair back across the tile floor with a screech and walked over to the freezer. You snorted with laughter when he started digging through it.

“Hm, we’ve got… one frozen hotteok and… most of a tub of mint choc chip which must be yours and, honestly, is kind if making me re-think this whole thi-“

“I am not having this argument with you again. You have known this about me for long enough now. Either accept it or kick me out.”

He looked over at you as if he were considering it, kicking you out, as if he were considering making the joke, pretending to kick you out. He put both options back in the freezer and kicked the drawer shut.

“I think I’ll keep you around a little longer.”

“Is that right?”

You stood and carried the empty plates over to the sink, placing them down gently before slotting yourself between Namjoon’s legs as he leant against the fridge.

“So… Dessert?”

“Oh, you actually want the mint ice-cream? I c-“

He was half-turning, as if to re-open the freezer and you pushed his shoulder back into place.

“No.” Moving even closer to him, close enough to smell him, close enough to have to tip your head up to see his face. “I was thinking… something else.”

You lifted onto your tip toes and he bent his head to bring you almost nose-to-nose.

“If you kiss me right now, that means it’s a good date, right?” you asked, whispering into his mouth.

His only reply was to do just that, kissing you gently, his hands resting light on your hips. But it didn’t stay gentle, didn’t stay light. Because it had actually been days since you’d been this close to him; not since he’d asked you on this date had you tasted him. You slid your hands up his arms and linked them behind his neck; you let your balance fall forward into him so he was more lifting you than you were standing, the tips of your toes just grazing the ground now. His hold on you was tight, secure, like it always was, like he didn’t want to let you go.

Until he did. He broke from you and lowered you to the ground once more. Your brain whirred in a series of question marks as he straightened up, the distance from your mouth to his bigger and bigger.

“To be clear-“ his voice was lower now, a little strained. He cleared his throat. “I want to be clear: I don’t fuck on the first date.”

You tilted your head to one side, mouth still hanging open.

“Uh, you… don’t? I mean- we’re not… We aren’t going to have sex?”

He shook his head, eyebrows pulling down over his eyes.

“Is that a problem?”

“No! No, of course not. It’s fine. I just… I’m just… surprised, I guess.”

Surprised and disappointed. Surprised, disappointed, and confused. Because it was entirely reasonable for him to not want to have sex on a first date, or even a second, or a third, or any time, but… this wasn’t really a first date. You’d had sex before, plenty of it. Just days ago, even. Had something changed? You weren’t sure what. You didn’t know how to do this, after all.

“Ok, no sex on the first date. How many dates does it take?”

You needed a number to shoot for; you needed to know when it might end, the not having of him, the nerves, this anxiety and vague discomfort unsettling you.

“How many?”

“Yeah, if you don’t have sex on the first date, which? Second? Third?”

“You sound like you just want to get in my pants.”

“Well, yeah, I know what’s in them.”

It was a joke. You had thought it was a joke. You expected him to laugh, or grin at least. Smile a little.

The joke fell a little flat and silence fell between you for a beat too long.

“Is it that important to you? The sex?”

You’d mis-stepped. You’d got it wrong but couldn’t work out why. The sex always worked between you. This was the part that was supposed to be easy. Did dating really have to complicate everything?

“I don’t know what you mean… Isn’t it important?“

There was a pause before Namjoon replied.

“You remember before I went away, when I told you I didn’t want to sleep with you anymore?”

“Yeah.”

“Because I wanted to get to know you?”

“Yes.”

“That still applies.” He shrugged. “We’re dating now, right? I want to date you. I want to get to know-“

“You do know! You do! You said yourself you think you know me better than I do!”

“But there’s still so much I don’t know! The dating stuff: where did you grow up and what is your family like and all of that stuff. I don’t know any of that… Look, I’m not saying I never want to have sex, obviously, and I’m not trying to… hold it ransom or something I just…”

He trailed off and you didn’t try to fill the gap for him. You couldn’t. He just what? He just what?

He shuffled and averted his gaze, staring down at his fingers tapping on the counter.

“I just don’t want it to be the only thing you want from me.”

It hit you like a ton of bricks. The only thing? But you wanted everything.

“I know you’ve said you want this,” he continued, turning back to look at you, his eyes inscrutable and his courage in being able to look at you unfathomable. “I know that. And like I said, I’m trying not to take any of it personally because I know this is hard for you and I know you’re trying and I don’t want to make you feel bad—I’m really not trying to do that—but I just… when I have doubts, I doubt that you really want all of me.”

You blinked. You could’ve been knocked down with a feather. HE doubted? HE doubted that you wanted him? Before you could reply, a little voice piped up in your head:

‘Well, can you blame him?’

No. No, you couldn’t.

So much time passed in your surprise that Namjoon sighed and moved past you, reaching for the tap and sponge. He turned on the water and started to wash up while you still stood, unmoving, struck dumb by the revelation that… he felt the same way as you. That… he knew how you felt. That he could understand.

It began to dawn on you that maybe this was what sharing feelings was all about. Maybe this was what it got you: understanding. Maybe if you had shared your feelings before now—long before now—so much of your trouble and strife might have been avoided.

You didn’t share feelings. You didn’t grow up in a family that shared feelings. And you grew averse to it, cautious of it, sceptical of it. Then you grew scared of it. Scared of all the secrets you were keeping. Scared of letting them out. You were so scared of your feelings that you had let the fear of them control you. Maybe sharing them wasn’t weakness after all.

“I don’t think you want all of me.” It wasn’t a radical statement coming from you; you’d basically said as much before, but it felt different now that you were echoing him.

He paused and you realised he was waiting for you to continue.

“I- I don’t just want sex. I do want it but I don’t only want it but I-”

Fuck, you could feel your skin prickling knowing what was coming. You could feel sweat begin to gather in your palms. You couldn’t look at him as you said it. You weren’t as brave as he was. You took a deep breath and looked at his feet.

“I feel like it’s the only thing I have to offer you.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest but you didn’t let him interrupt.

“I told you before I’m not a person yet. I don’t have things to give. I’m… I’m blank. My life is blank but you, being with you, sex is… You make it-”

You squirmed, uncomfortable, horrified by your own act of disclosure. You looked pointedly away from him, reducing him to a blur in your peripheral vision, the only way you felt you could continue.

“… Colourful.”

It was mumbled, barely audible.

“Huh?” Namjoon asked and you groaned.

“You make my life feel… not blank.”

“Hm? Are you sure that’s what you said?”

A flash of frustration burst in you and you turned to glare at him, only to see him grinning, almost laughing, at you.

“Namjoon!”

Your hands balled into fists and you couldn’t stop your left foot stomping the floor.

“Say it. I’m going to make you say it.”

“I don’t want to!”

“You have to!”

You cried out to the ceiling and continued staring at it as you said it, a little too loud and a little too aggressive.

“You make my life feel colourful! You bring colour to my world! And I hate you!”

You heard him laugh and then you felt his arms around you and his lips on your cheek.

“You’re cute.”

You made a show of trying to push him away.

“Shut up. I don’t like you anymore.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be honest with me.”

You sighed and leant into him.

“It’s not just about sex,” you said, muffled against his shirt. “It’s just that sex is the only time I feel… It’s the only time I don’t feel this gulf between us.”

“There’s no gulf.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You think there is but there isn’t.”

You looked up at him, pouting, stubborn. He rolled his eyes playfully.

“Ok, fine, let’s say there is a gulf. You know what also exists? Bridges. Transport. A gulf is not uncrossable.”

“I know it’s not, because it’s not there when we have sex.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you tonight-“

“I know! I’m not- sorry! No, I know. I’m not trying to pressure you, sorry. Sorry. I-“

“It’s ok, just making sure we’re clear.”

“We are.”

He stepped backwards and took your face in his hands. He kissed you, just a little, just enough to make the noise in your head turn down, to make a soft hum start up where the anxiety had been.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” he said quietly, his face still close to yours. “I do. But we’ve done this all in the wrong order and I want to…” He moved back and you didn’t flinch this time when he tucked your hair behind your ear. “I want to do things right. For you.”

You broke the eye contact first, swallowing hard as you willed the moisture in your eyes to disappear. You nodded.

“But—” Namjoon lifted your chin and tilted your face to his—“We can kiss as much you like, what do you say?”

“Yes please.”

*

It was late now. Make-up off, pyjamas on kind of late. You were lying in bed, all too awake because you could feel Namjoon next door, knew he was there, and felt his absence in your bed like a new kind of presence. It was keeping you up.

So you did the only thing that made sense to you. You got out of bed and knocked on his bedroom door. He came to it, blinking and dishevelled.

“I know we can’t sleep together but… can we sleep together?”

He frowned, confusion written large across his sleepy face. You walked past him and climbed into his bed.

“Like, sleep. As in, actual sleeping. Just sleeping,” you called across the room as you shuffled down and pulled the covers up.

You saw him shrug as he shut the door and made his way back to you.

“I’m not sure this is very first date behaviour,” he mumbled, his voice low and groggy.

He nevertheless wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close against him.

“We’re not on the date anymore,” you replied. “This doesn’t count.”

He kissed your shoulder.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

Silence followed his responding hum and you felt sleep tugging at you quickly, surrendering yourself to it more easily than you had managed just five minutes ago.

“Besides,” you whispered, your words slow and thick and fighting against sleep, “I always sleep better with you.”

“Mm, me too.”

You weren’t sure if he was really awake; in the morning, you didn’t even remember the exchange. But you did sleep better next to him and you woke, happy in his arms.

Epilogue 4 | Masterlist | Bonus Chapter 2

[yngai]

when i talk about ada & materialism, i specifically refer to materialism in layman’s terms, putting value in the acquisition of physical possessions .  i think it’s a interesting topic to cover particularly because of how much the objects we surround ourselves with come to define the spaces we inhabit as much as we do, & how ada wong, a woman who avoids definition actively & severs ties between herself & the material plane as necessity interacts with materialist desires & perceptions, particularly in how women are viewed as shallow, materialistic creatures .

when it comes to materialism in philosophy, more precisely, when its correctly defined, ada is very much a materialist in the broadest sense .  she doesn’t pay credence to any perspective of the world beyond its material conditions, she has very low opinions of people who view themselves & the world as something greater than what is physically observable, fancying herself a realist in terms of mental attitude ( learning political philosophy in university really ruined my ability to use any terms that overlap with normal conversation, god ) .  an example of this perspective is albert wesker, whose vision & stated purpose was too grandiose for her liking .  though she might, in some sense, respect his resolve to shape the world in his image, she thinks his path is one of self-destruction, of blindness caused by lust for power shielding him from truth or reason .  his desires weren’t something she was willing to help enact, beyond their monstrous nature, they would only lead him to his grave, & so she betrays him the moment another, better opportunity presents itself .

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Terribly Confounding

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader Rating: T Notes: Based off of this ask that I got and went way overboard with. Point of view switches between Sherlock and the Reader. Also gigglemug is Victorian slang for someone that smiles all the time. Length: 6.2K Warnings: Angst; fluff; Sherlock Being Sherlock™ Summary: One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you. 

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Mycroft used to try to introduce him to eligible women all the time, but had stopped being so forthright when Sherlock had done nothing but openly disapprove of both the idea of being married and the women that Mycroft introduced him to. After a dozen or so attempts, Mycroft took more care to couch his suggestions, and was more selective with the women that he brought forward as potential matches.

--

Terribly confounding. A swath of robberies had taken place among some of London’s wealthiest businessmen. Servants had been fired, brought up on charges, but not a single piece of missing goods had been recovered. While Sherlock had been approached by a number of them to reclaim necklaces, rings, silverware, he had yet to respond to a single inquiry. Accepting one would bring on a deluge of irritation from those that had reached out to him and hadn’t received a response; refusing any and all would bring on an offer of raised rates, as well as an equally unwelcome letter from Mycroft asking for a favor toward a someone that he was trying to curry favor with. One particularly large robbery had been perpetrated only the night before, at the home of Mr. Enoch Mulvohill. It had been written up in the papers; the police had taken a report. Sherlock had met the man once, had found him pretentious and proud, if not a fair bit underhanded. He hadn’t liked Sherlock, either. But the man had not fired a single servant as a result of this theft; he hadn’t raised the alarm. It was for this reason that Lestrade had called Sherlock in. An entire set of silverware, an antique clock, a purple garnet brooch, a ruby and diamond necklace, and a seed pearl and diamond ring were all that had gone missing. Not a single charge laid, not a single alarm raised. There was something terribly confounding about Enoch Mulvohill. “Sherlock, are you listening to me?” Mycroft glared at his brother. Sherlock glanced away from the article he’d been scanning about the incident, considering what Lestrade had told him about it all that very morning. “Just,” He nodded. Mycroft sighed. “I know how you loathe the prospect of marriage--” Sherlock was careful not to roll his eyes. Ah. Mycroft was back on that tack. “But this particular situation is one of great advantage. The girl is the only daughter of a very rich gentleman,” As if such matters were of any interest at all to Sherlock, “And I have been told that Ms. Mulvohill is not … Unintelligent.” Sherlock stilled, lifting his eyes from his paper again. “... I’ll meet her,” He said after a moment. “You will?” “Yes.” “Why?” Sherlock folded the paper, turning to look at Mycroft fully and finding his glare replaced with a look of great confusion. “I’ve heard of Ms. Mulvohill’s wit,” He fibbed, “I should be interested to see if there is any truth in it.” That was fabricated entirely; he had no idea Mulvohill even had a daughter. Mycroft hesitated before giving a single nod. “I’ll make the arrangements.” -- “He’s supposed to be very handsome.” You tried to muster a smile. Luella, your maid, was much more excited at the prospect of your suitor than you were. It seemed awfully old-fashioned, a man coming over to meet you this way. All of you friends had met their suitors and husbands at balls or dinner parties. But your mother had been very particular about the men that had come to call on you, and had deemed none of them suitable (which was quite alright with you as you’d been none too fond of any of them). However, when your eldest brother Thaddeus had told you that his old school chum, Mycroft Holmes, would be coming by for a visit, you hadn’t the faintest idea that it would lead to Mycroft bringing by his younger brother for you to meet - and potentially marry. You’d heard a lot about Sherlock Holmes, had read his name in the papers (which your other brother, Phineas, often snuck you - your mother didn’t like you reading the paper; she was worried that it would put ‘dangerous thoughts’ in your head and ‘expose you to the evils of the world’); you knew that he was a detective. And maybe Luella was right, maybe he was attractive. The sketches that were done in the paper were not...Unflattering. 

“There now,” Luella sighed, looking at your reflection in the mirror, “I’d say you’re quite ready for the day.” She gave you a bright smile, and you did your best to return it.

-- 

He was staring at you. A lot. Was that good? Or rather… Well, was that focus that he was fixing you with or was he simply frowning? It was quite difficult to discern what exactly was going on in Sherlock Holmes’ head when he was saying so little; Mycroft had done most of the speaking that afternoon. You didn’t particularly like Mycroft. You’d met him exactly twice, and both times, he’d been incredibly rude. He’d seemed to manage to do it without realizing it, though. Sherlock was still staring. You glanced at him before averting your eyes. One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you; you’d hardly said more than five words since you’d entered the room. -- You seemed a church mouse to him. You’d entered the room, curtsied, murmured a greeting, and then sat down beside your brother Thaddeus. That hardly concerned Sherlock, frankly. What he was more interested in was the discussion that Thaddeus and Mycroft were having about Enoch’s stolen items. He was careful to set his eyes on you, however. Your hands were folded in your lap, and your eyes set on them, though you’d glanced at him twice now; your dress was pristine, as were your shoes. Clearly you’d yet to leave the house that day, though Sherlock had a hunch that you wouldn’t be undertaking such a trip at all. It was already quite late in the afternoon. You’d have to dress for dinner soon, surely. “A damn shame-- Oh! Quite sorry, Miss Mulvohill,” Mycroft hurried to correct himself, turning to you. Sherlock watched as you glanced at his brother and gave him a small nod before Mycroft turned back to Thaddeus. Mycroft didn’t catch the way you rolled your eyes, but Sherlock did. His lips quirked into a small smile. A smile that you didn’t see. “Well?” Mycroft asked as he and Sherlock strode away from the Mulvohill home. ‘Well’, as if Sherlock could really have any opinion on you, as if he could be flushed with love for a woman that hardly spoken. Instead he declared, “I like her.” Mycroft had his suspicions, of course. He pressed Sherlock for his reasons, what he saw in you, and Sherlock was able to draw his answers from what he did see: your respectfulness, your quiet grace, your clean appearance, which showed a certain pride in yourself. “She hardly said a word. You said you were curious about her wit,” Mycroft reminded him. “Oh, she showed her wit, in a way,” Sherlock thought back to the roll of your eyes. Mycroft hesitated before shaking his head, “I will never presume to understand the workings of your mind or heart, brother. I will reach out to her father--” “Better yet, let me,” Sherlock interrupted Mycroft, “If I’m to marry this woman, I ought to go to her father myself.” “Very well.” But Sherlock would reach out to Lestrade, first. The game was afoot. 

--

It wasn’t the proposal of your dreams. For one thing, your mother had already told you that your father had consented and given the marriage his blessing, and that your father’s consent and blessing meant that the deal was as good as done. The deal. Not that your happiness was in hand, but that the deal was as good as done. Sherlock Holmes had come in, handed you a box with an engagement ring, and given you a firm nod before bidding you a good day. Your new fiancé hadn’t even stayed to see if the ring fit. You sat at your vanity, eyeing the gleaming solitaire diamond on the gold band. You weren’t naïve; you’d always assumed that your marriage would come with some feelings of trepidation. But you’d hoped that you would at least know the man a little better. You’d hardly even spoken to him- and he'd had the chance to stay and speak with you, to propose properly, but he had chosen not to. You just couldn’t imagine what it was that your father and mother had seen in Sherlock that they hadn’t seen in your previous suitors. He’d certainly spent less time with you than the others; you doubted he had made a good impression on Thaddeus, who had likely been consulted on the matter. Of course they’d go out of the way to consult your brother and not you, who would ultimately have to marry Sherlock.

You sighed, shutting the ring box. You hadn’t tried the ring on yet; you hadn’t even taken it out of the box. All of your friends had perfectly darling stories about how they'd been proposed to. How could you bear to tell them about your own? 

Yes, he handed me the box, nodded, and left. It was quite sweet. 

--

If this was any indication of how your future marriage was going to be, you were almost entirely certain that your life would be dull, and very, very quiet. For the first time since your somewhat untraditional engagement, Sherlock had come to visit you. You’d written to him once to try and get to know him better; he hadn’t answered that letter. You’d asked him a couple of questions since he’d arrived, and he’d answered with simple, one-word answers. He had asked you a few questions, but they’d all been about your father. You’d spent the last week convincing yourself that perhaps this wouldn’t be all that bad, that Mr. Holmes may just be shy, and may need some time to warm up to you. Surely there was something that he had seen and liked about you if he’d chosen to propose. Your father’s wealth aside, he couldn’t find you wholly repugnant if he was choosing to spend the rest of his life with you. But now, well. Now you were just running out of patience. “-- Are you listening, dear?” You turned your head sharply to look at Sherlock at the use of that pet name. Who on earth did he think he was, calling you that after how he’d dared to act? “I thought that might catch your attention,” He hummed, turning back to the small bookshelf by your usual chair in the sitting room. You felt your stomach twist into knots at his condescension. “I asked you what you thought of your father,” He added, plucking one of your books up. Your irritation flared. It was your favorite-- and why was he touching your things? You stood, crossing the room. “My father is an unfeeling and self-involved man,” You answered. Sherlock turned to look at you, brows rising. “You have no love for him,” He observed. “Well, it’s difficult to have any love or respect for a man that would marry me off to the likes of you,” You took the book from Sherlock’s hands, snapping it shut and tucking it back into its place. You looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes travelling your face, a single brow raised. “... You’re not wearing your ring,” He pointed out. He was right, you weren’t. You’d hardly looked at the damn thing since he gave it to you. “Oh, is that what was in that thing you handed me?” You feigned ignorance, folding your arms across your chest, “I meant to look, but it slipped my mind.” 

Sherlock’s expression darkened just a touch. “Well, perhaps you’ll find time somewhere in your busy schedule of nattering and needlepoint to give it a look sometime soon.” Your eyes widened for just a moment, and your face grew hot at the smug curl of Sherlock’s lip. “Of course,” You answered coolly, “I’ll happily give it a glance once you’ve gone.” “Am I to be leaving?” “I think that may be for the best, Mr. Holmes.” “But we’re just getting acquainted.” “It’s a wonder you’ve gone out of your way to propose to me when I’m certain you could have ascertained the information you wanted about my father from his doctor, his barber, and any number of gentlemen at his club, of which your brother is a member.”

“What makes you think I’m particularly interested in your father? Perhaps I was merely trying to better understand the family that raised my future wife.” “Well, then, what questions have you about my mother?” You allowed Sherlock only a half-second before tacking on, “Of course, you’ll have some about Thaddeus and Phineas as well.” “Of course.” “Go on, then.” “Where was your mother the night of the 17th?” The 17th? The night of the robbery? 

“Interesting that you’ve questioned her location and not her character.” “Interesting that you’ve deflected rather than answer me.” “She and I were both at the McKerras’ ball.” “And your brothers?” “They were there as well.” “Why not mention that along with yourself and your mother?” “Because you didn’t ask about them.” “And your father?” “Perhaps you’d best ask your brother that. He knows very well where my father was. Now, if you have no more questions, then I’ll bid you a good day, darling,” You drew the endearment out before you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room. --

Sherlock watched you go, brow raised. You were quite… Sharp. Quick. Irritatingly so. His first impressions were rarely wrong, but he had been quite misinformed in your case. A church mouse, he’d thought. No indeed -- a lioness may’ve been more suited to your spirit. Lioness or not, you were infuriating, and prideful. Had you really not looked at the ring? The shop assistant had reassured him that you’d like it. No matter. This engagement was a sham - the sooner he pried answers about Enoch Mulvohill out of you, the better. And Mycroft, what did he know about Mulvohill’s whereabouts the evening of the robbery? 

-- “Well he’s quite the gigglemug, isn’t he?” You hid your smile at your best friend’s scathing question behind your fan. Alice Teague was your dearest confidant. She’d been married the year before (to a man who she had the fortune of actually loving and knowing beforehand - some people had all the luck). Your family had arranged a small dinner to announce your engagement to your closest family and friends. Your family was in attendance, as well as Alice and her husband; Sherlock, Mycroft, and his younger sister, Enola, were all there as well. You’d only gotten to speak to Enola for a few moments, but you quite liked her. She seemed very unlike her brothers. But there was also an air of apology about her - about what, you hadn’t been able to ascertain; perhaps she simply knew what a brute her brother could be and pitied the fact that you’d be married to him. You had to admit that Sherlock looked quite nice in his eveningwear. He’d looked quite nice when you’d argued with him a few days prior as well, but you’d been a little more focused on the argument at the time. “He’s quite the busybody, as well,” Alice added, “He’s been speaking to your father and brothers all evening.” “Yes,” You sighed, “He’s quite enamored with Father.” “Oh, come now,” Alice nudged your elbow with her own, “He’s got to cozy up to him some, he is taking you away from him. You are your father’s only daughter, it’ll be difficult for him.” “This will not be difficult for my father. As mother tells it, he gave me to the man in the course of an hour-long conversation for a ‘lighter dowry than expected’. My father wants me out of the house as soon as possible. I’m a disgrace as it is, making it through three seasons unmarried.” “What’s that, dear?” In your discussion with Alice, you hadn’t noticed Sherlock breaking away from your father and walking over to you. You slapped a sweet smile onto your face, returning, “Nothing, darling.” It was Alice’s turn to hide her knowing smile behind her fan. 

--

The more time you spent in Sherlock Holmes’ company, the more you were certain you loathed him. He was nosy, had a habit of rifling through your things, asking questions without any care or tact. You were obliged to see him; you’d faked a headache to avoid him once and had gotten a scolding from your mother, the likes of which you hadn’t had since you were a child. Luella actually grimaced when she came to tell you that Sherlock had arrived these days. When you came into the sitting room, you found Sherlock at your bookcase again. He’d taken to lingering near there. You couldn’t help but wonder if did so deliberately, knowing how it irritated you when he touched your things. Rather than walk across the room and whatever book it was out his hands this time, you stayed by the door, watching him for a moment. You couldn’t help but try and consider the man’s motives. Was it money? Surely it had to be something along those lines. Perhaps the detective business wasn’t particularly lucrative; perhaps Mycroft wasn’t willing to help him when things were difficult. Your father may’ve lowered your dowry price, but Phineas had still told you what Sherlock would receive; it was nothing to laugh at. You glanced down at the engagement ring on your finger. You hadn’t bothered with gloves - which, in any other circumstance, would be an absolute scandal, but this man was technically to be your husband. He was permitted to be alone with you, to touch your hand, or kiss you, should the urge ever arise. Not that Sherlock had ever given you any indication that he had any interest in any of those things, of course, or you, really. Something in your chest twisted when you saw him now. It wasn’t anxiety, or anger, it was… Hurt. A sort of hurt that didn’t make you want to curl up and cry, but the kind that sat with you through the day, through your ‘nattering and needlepoint’, as Sherlock had scathingly put it once before. It swirled about you as your mother reminded you of what wedding preparations remained; it sat with you and Alice when you had tea together, so much its own presence that it practically had its own seat, its own saucer, its own cup. Sherlock glanced back toward the door once, and then again when he spotted you. “There you are,” He said, turning back down to the book. “Here I am,” You confirmed with a sigh, finally venturing deeper into the room. You felt Sherlock's gaze follow you as you settled down in an armchair by the fireplace. 

-- 

As much as he’d tried not to absorb them, Sherlock was quite attuned to your moods now. You weren’t the type to pout and give hints, to try and make someone tease out what was bothering you. No, you seemed to prefer to dwell on your troubles in silence. Initially, that suited him quite well; he was able to ply you for answers about your father, and he had ignored whatever little thing it was that was smoothing your face into a neutral set. But now, after weeks in your company, he found that he preferred that little spark that you got in your eye when the two of you were bickering. He even preferred it when you smiled, though the only smiles he’d ever been graced with were scathing. He’d seen you smile sincerely, once or twice, but never at him; they’d been directed at Enola, or at your friend Alice. Sherlock hadn’t meant to spend so much time with you or in your company to know precisely what your frowns, glares, scoffs, sighs, or rare smiles meant. He’d assumed that this case would come into focus once he spent more time in Enoch Mulvohill’s presence. There had been a number of thefts since he’d taken the case on for Lestrade, and he’d been to a number of the homes as a result of engagement festivities and visits. Rather than gaining insights into the case, Sherlock had been able to gather information about you, such as your dislike for your family - well, for your parents, at least. You had affection for your brothers. Thaddeus was a voice of reason for you, a guiding hand where your father had left you rudderless; Phineas offered you knowledge through books, pamphlets, newspapers. Sherlock had found a number of pamphlets tucked away in your books, and while he’d always meant to ask you about them, the two of you always fell into some argument before he could.

Sherlock watched you for a few moments, taking your countenance, your lack of gloves, where your engagement ring sat on your finger. You’d taken to wearing it daily, like some sparkling sackcloth and ashes, a public penance for being a woman in your position. Enola disapproved of his tactics regarding this case, and had told him as much twice over. He’d reminded her of the time she pretended to be his assistant, but she’d argued that that was entirely different. “When the case is over,” Enola had told him after the engagement dinner, “You will be celebrated. She will be ruined.” He had thought that Enola was being a touch dramatic. Surely you wouldn’t be ruined. He’d never touched you or acted in any way that could be deemed untoward. Your reputation would surely remain intact. Sherlock watched you still, even as you turned your eyes up at him, to take in his look and the book in his hands. -- 

“You’re awfully quiet today,” You said after a few moments. “I’m thinking.” “Yes, I’ve heard that you do that.” You saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly as he snapped the book shut and replaced it on the wrong shelf. Excellent. You’d have to rearrange those later. “May I ask you what’s put you in such a lovely mood this morning?” “Only your company, Mr. Holmes.” He let out a humorless little laugh, one that grated at your nerves. “I understand why you’ve yet to be married, Ms. Mulvohill. You’re quite the rose - bright, alluring petals, but riddled from stem to root with thorns.” 

You clenched your hands, ignoring the feeling of the band of your engagement ring tightening as you did. “And I understand why you are not married, as low as you are,” You retorted. “I take it that that is some comment on my social status, Ms. Mulvohill.” You rose from your seat. “No, Mr. Holmes, it is a comment on your character. You may be a clever man, and you may make an excellent outward show to my father -- and that may be all that you care for, but you seem to have forgotten that you’ve gained me in the deal that you made with him. I do not expect you to grow to love me, as I’m quite certain you’re incapable of feeling that for anyone but yourself, but I had expected you to at least make a decent showing of getting to know me, as I tried you--” “You--” “No!” You snapped, “I am not through, Mr. Holmes. I did try, at the beginning. I wrote to you, I tried to understand you, but you’ve chosen to shield yourself -- for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend. You’ve been nothing but unknowable and unmoveable from the first.” Sherlock watched you for a long moment before he lowered his eyes to the bookshelf. “... I am working with Scotland Yard to investigate the robberies that have been perpetrated against your set and your family.” It was said so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it. Shock curled around the hurt that had made a home in your chest and squeezed at it until it was choking. “I beg your pardon?” You managed after a moment. “Your father’s circumstances were most suspicious, and I…” He lifted his head from your books to meet your eyes again, “I made a choice.” A choice. He couldn’t have just befriended one of your brothers? You were careful to hold his gaze and not to recoil, to fold in on yourself, or to run and hide as you suddenly wished to do. “...You were using this engagement as a ruse to get closer to my father because you suspect him,” You clarified. “Yes.” You nodded a little. “Then you’re less than half of the man I thought you were.” You tugged the engagement ring off and tossed it at his feet before striding out of the room. 

-- 

Damn and blast it, why had he told you? You were sure to tell one of your brothers, and they were sure to tell your father. Sherlock left the Mulvohill home flustered and in a huff. He had considered leaving the engagement ring behind, on the mantle, but such an action could invite suspicion - your mother returning it to you, asking why it was where it was. He would have to work, and quickly - gather the insights he had, use the invitations remaining to try and solve the case before you told everyone what was going on. He wouldn’t have much time.

-- “You’ve a letter.” One glance at it confirmed that it was from you, your home. “Throw it away.” “Sherlock,” Enola frowned, looking down at your letter, “What if it’s something useful?” “It won’t be. Throw it away.” Enola ignored him, and he rolled his eyes at the sound of the envelope being ripped open. “...Sherlock.” “I’m not in the mood, Enola.” “No, Sherlock… You need to look at this.” -- Eight. Eight additional robberies that had never been reported to the police that you’d known of and never told anyone about. They’d been perpetrated against Alice Teague, a few of your other friends, and another two against your father, at your country estate. He hadn’t reported them, as they’d been quite small. Your mother had insisted on reporting the robbery in London. You’d taken pen to paper, listed off the items and dates to the best of your recollection, and done so to get Sherlock out of your life as quickly as possible. The sooner he solved the case, the sooner this ruse could end. 

-- 

“Where is that sweet, ever-smiling fiancé of yours?” Alice asked as she settled on the settee beside you. You’d arrived at the Blakely’s dinner party alone, had made no mention of Sherlock, and was quite hoping you’d be able to get away without talking about him that evening. “Oh… He’s--” “Incredibly sorry that he’s late,” Sherlock’s voice cut over yours and Alice’s. You turned to see Sherlock smiling down at the two of you. You lowered your eyes, turning away from him as he and Alice greeted one another properly. “May I borrow you, dear?” He asked. “No,” You answered flatly. Alice’s brows rose. “It’s quite important,” Sherlock pressed. You sighed heavily before you excused yourself, rising off of the settee and following Sherlock out of the room. He took hold of your hand, hurrying you down the hall and into a study. He didn’t say anything as you tugged your hand out of his; he was more set on making sure there was no one else there. “What on earth are you doing here?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest. “I’m quite certain the robber is here tonight,” He said, turning back to you, “But I need your help.” “Why would I help you?” “Because the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll never have to see me again.” Well, that was tempting. 

--

Sherlock had managed to keep it quiet. Well, quiet enough. Enoch Mulvohill was no longer the primary suspect, but rather quite complacent in a plot perpetrated by one Mr. Larkin Teague. Your eyes had widened when he told you; he had assumed that you would tell him off, that you would insist that your father was blameless and that you knew Larkin well, that he could never be the man Sherlock was looking for. What had, instead, come out of your mouth was, “Alice will be devastated.” 

For all of your rage and anger toward him the day before, all that had settled over your features in that moment was concern for your friend. And in that moment, Sherlock found himself quite taken with you. He nodded, dislodging the thought in favor of the matter at hand. “The Blakelys are quite known for the jewels that they acquired during their last trip to the continent, are they not?” He asked. “They are, yes. What can I do?” “Keep everyone in the parlor. If you see Larkin leave, do not raise the alarm. I have police from Scotland Yard surrounding the house and waiting for Larkin.” He watched you nod and take a deep breath. “Alright.” You left him without further instruction or another word. 

--

The night’s end found you comforting a weeping Alice; your mother seemed too stunned to cry, and you were certain she’d never dare let herself show that sort of emotion in front of you, anyway. You stayed at Alice’s that night; you didn’t see Sherlock after you spoke to him in the study; you didn’t care to. You were quite certain that you’d be happy to never see Sherlock Holmes again. -- “Mr. Holmes is in the parlor-- Though I cannot think why,” Luellla told you. You frowned. You couldn’t think why, either. You hadn’t seen the engagement ring since you’d thrown it to him, so he couldn’t possibly look for its return; all of your family’s missing items had been returned to you, as well as the other families that had lost items. Sherlock’s case and your engagement had been written up in the papers. It had been positioned that you had been in on the plot, working with Sherlock to help crack the case from the start, and a wave of suitors had followed once the story and the engagement had officially broken. “Thank you, Luella,” You gave her a small smile, “Please tell him I’ll be down in a few moments.” “Yes, ma’am.” You watched her go before you turned back to the mirror and looked yourself over. You’d seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock since that night at the Blakely’s home. He hadn’t reached out to you through a letter or an invitation (though Thaddeus had received precisely two letters of apology from Mycroft, and you one from Enola). You really couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want from you now. -- Sherlock was at your bookcase again. It seemed to be his customary place. You cleared your throat as you entered the room, but he didn’t bother to look away from whatever it was that he was looking at. “I did always wonder about this,” he said, holding up one of the many pamphlets that you kept hidden. It was one on fforeign trade that Phineas had brought you from father’s office. Your eyes widened, and you darted forward, snatching it from him and smoothing out a wrinkle in it. You glanced up at Sherlock to find him smiling at you, amused. “What would a businessman’s daughter want with a pamphlet from The Mercantile Guardian Office?” He added. “Phineas brought it to me so that I could better understand how father operates his business, and what he could be doing differently.” “Of his own volition?” “I asked him to.”  You glanced up at Sherlock before you took the book from his hands and tucked the pamphlet safely away again. “What are you doing here?” You asked, stepping between him and the bookshelf to put it away. You’d never bothered to get this close to him while the two of you had been engaged, but now that he had been clear about his intentions, you didn’t see any reason to shield yourself from him. He hadn’t told anyone about any of the pamphlets that he’d clearly found, you were certain he wouldn’t now. “...I wanted to speak with you.” “What about?” You turned around to face him and found him close by, still. Gigglemug, liar, or no, Sherlock Holmes was quite nice to look at. And if you didn’t know any better, there was a touch of remorse in his handsome features. “I should have been clear about my intentions from the first,” He said quietly, leaning against the arm of the armchair behind himself, “I… I was not considering your side of this when I undertook this case with such an approach. It was shortsighted and unfair of me to prey on your feelings in such a way. I apologize, Ms. Mulvohill. It was, indeed, quite low of me.” You were taken aback for a moment. You certainly hadn’t expected that. “I accept your apology.” Sherlock gave a nod of thanks before adding, “I also wanted to thank you for assisting me the evening of  the Teague arrest. It went off without a hitch, and I would not have been able to do so had there been people wandering the house. I couldn’t have done it without your help.” Criminy, you weren’t anticipating that, either. “Well, your...Particular method aside, I’m glad that you were able to undertake and solve the case. Many of my friends and my family are grateful to you, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock chuckled, nodding a little. “I was happy to assist.” He watched you for a moment, and you watched him in turn. For the first time in all of your acquaintance, you didn’t have the urge to look away from him. “Am I to understand that congratulations are in order yet?” He asked. You raised a brow. “Excuse me?” “My brother tells me that you’d… Had quite a number of suitors since our parting.” “Well, your brother is something of a gossip. But, no, no ‘congratulations’, as you’ve put it. I think I should like to actually talk to someone before I become engaged to them this time.” Sherlock smiled, and you felt your stomach fluttering, and your own lips pulling to mirror it. 

-- 

You were smiling - really smiling - at him, because of him. Sherlock needed to see that again, and again, and again, and again. “I must be off,”  He said, glancing at the clock, “But… Might I call on you tomorrow?” Your brow furrowed at the question, and you asked him, “Whatever for?” “Well, so that we might actually talk before I speak to Thaddeus about you.” He watched you take that in, the narrowing of your eyes, the slight parting of your lips, the hesitation - and damn the hesitation, but that was his own fault. It was his own fault you didn’t trust him, it was his own fault that he’d lost you, and his own fault that he’d have to win your trust back. He’d work for it, though. He’d find a way to come by every day, if you wanted him. The ring that you’d thrown at him had been burning a whole in his pocket since you’d tossed it at his feet, and he was itching to do this properly, to slide it onto your finger and look you in the eye. “...Tomorrow should suit fine,” You finally answered him. He felt a burst of warmth in his chest at your answer, and he grinned. He glanced back toward the door. No one had been by to disturb the two of you; perhaps it was their habit, the two of you had had the right to be left alone when you were engaged, but now that that had ended, the two of you technically shouldn’t have been. Sherlock straightened and stepped closer to you. You were watching him like he was a living puzzle, a walking mystery. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I will be back tomorrow, then, Ms. Mulvohill,” He murmured as he leaned away. 

--

“I will see you then, Mr. Holmes,” You answered in your steadiest voice. You watched Sherlock leave the room, smiled as he turned back to look at you before he disappeared from the study. As soon as you were certain he was gone, you raised your fingers to brush where his lips had lingered briefly.

Sherlock Holmes was coming back to see you, simply for you. He planned on asking for your hand again, not for a case, but because he wanted it.

Sherlock Holmes wanted to marry you.

Terribly confounding.

[sscoutregimentss]

could you please do L, U, V, Y and Z for Armin Arlert Please Queen, i just passed by and i already love ur your account💕💕

i teared up a bit at how nice this ask is (´•ω•̥`) i wrote this in modern au again oopsy daisy

edit: added a read more bc this post is kinda long

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Armin is not terrible with kids, but no where near great. Growing up with no parents and having his grandfather die at such a young age led him to grow up fast, so he can't really relate to kids and what they... do.

Like he will see a baby and just talk normally to it. After doing some reading on why baby talk is important, he makes an effort to babble more to them but he really struggles. Or when he's with Gabi and Falco he asks them about quantum physics and Gabi is just like "uhhh I like fortnite."

He really tries. And it's not like he dislikes being around them, he just struggles, and kids don't really like him much either.

Also he cannot stand IPad kids. He blames it more on the parents then on the kids, because they're just kids, but one of his biggest peeves is crying, whiny children with snot on their bright blue silicone cases, eyes glued to a screen instead of dealing with the world. Since he is Armin, he's still polite and gentle with them, but the minute you're out of earshot he's complaining about it for a good 30 minutes.

In terms of his own children, he's actually a really good parent. He did a lot of research on how to raise kids well and he does his best to make sure his kids get what he couldn't in terms of upbringing. He's some what distant? Like his kids aren't ranting and raving about their new crush to their dad, but there's a really good bond between them and they go to him whenever he needs anything.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Armin is prone to telling a little white lie to get what he wants.

In general, he's subtly manipulative. Not in like an abusive or generally scummy way, but in a... human way. We all use manipulation to get what we want, in the end. Like puppy dog eyes or pouting.

He's always transparent about what he's doing, and it's not like he's causing any harm to you. In fact, most of the time its for your own good. Like if you're feeling a bit self conscious, he'll pretend not to notice until you manage to work up the nerve to think better of yourself, stuff like that. Or if something is bothering you, he'll figure out a way for you to bring it up instead of him so you get better at communication. He'll come clean after his little rouses work, but sometimes you wish he'd just tell you what he was doing as he was doing it.

He also takes a while to even consider you a priority. Even though his whole thing is taking your relationship slowly, you're quick to find out that he may call you his partner, but you're under school work, work, family and friends in the "Armin's Important Stuff" scale. He's not an easy shell to crack, so it's kind of expected, but unless you confront him, he will not even realize that he's doing wrong.

Chronic nail biter. Even when he's not nervous.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

On a scale of "beauty guru" to "horrendously stinky" he's a "I care for aesthetics."

He's got a very distinct dark/light academia (depends on his mood) aesthetic that he must keep up. His clothes are always ironed, never tattered, and though most of it is second hand he looks very put together and sometimes even expensive.

But in terms of beauty, it's not his priority at all. He likes the way he dresses because it makes him feel like he's ready to take on the day, and he showers everyday for obvious reasons, but he doesn't wear makeup, and his skincare routine is just washing his face and sunscreen.

Speaking of skincare, he has effortlessly flawless skin and hair. So smooth, so silky, and he barely puts in effort other than the basics. You're convinced it's because he's blessed by the gods, but he says its because he gets enough sleep every night.

His hair grows back super fast, so he has Mikasa cut it since he can't afford to go to the hair dresser so often. He liked the long hair as a kid, but now he finds it annoying, so he keeps it neatly cropped. She's a good hairstylist.

He's also... surprisingly ripped. He looks super skinny but he's got abs for days. Unlike most of his friends, only works out for mental clarity, and not muscles or gaining strength, so he's not like huge and bulky but he's pretty fit.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He doesn't like overly judgmental people. It's only natural for people to assume things, but people who dedicate their free time to just assuming things about people annoys him to no end. Like people who assume the worst out of him because he hangs out with Eren, or people who think that he's some single virgin loser because he gets good grades.

Also, playing into Armin our semi-pretentious angel trope, he prefers a well read partner. Someone who he can make references too or will take his recommendations of classic literature, or maybe even watch ocean documentaries with him. They don't have to like every last thing he likes, and if they just haven't been exposed to things he won't mind at all, they just have to be open minded and not write off things he enjoys as "nerdy shit."

Piggy backing off that, he wants someone who somewhat cares about their academics. They don't have to be the next Einstein, or a straight A wonderchild like him, but rich brats who's parents are paying for their schooling just for them to party annoys him. It's not fair that he has to work so hard to keep his scholarships and other students are working hard to pay their tuition just for people to come because their Mommy and Daddy said so.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Armin falls asleep at 11 pm and wakes up at 7 am, without fail. It's amazing. You question if he's even a college student.

He uses an old fashioned alarm clock that's at the opposite side of his bed, but sometimes he wakes up on his own and forgets to turn it off, making him run out of the shower to stop the ringing before his roommates wake up.

Before you two started dating, he just slept on his side. But once you two got close, he can't sleep without hugging something if you're not spending the night.

When you do spend the night, he likes being little spoon, or facing you and having you nuzzled in his chest (or vice versa, he's not picky).

He's quite a neat cuddler. No limbs haphazardly thrown over you or anything. His legs are very gently intertwined with yours, he has his arms in a very specific spot to make sure you're comfortable, and he doesn't snore or anything.

Sometimes he sleep talks. Very rarely, though, but when you catch it, it is the funniest thing ever. He has really wild dreams for such a down-to-earth person— you caught him babbling about turning into a 150 meter skinless giant once. Weird.

[sumsebien]

by design prologue // Prince Friedrich

series masterlist

summary: y/n and friedrich find out who exactly they are betrothed to

word count: 2,6k

warnings: bad parenting

a/n: this is the 5th time i have rewritten this how crazy and has been changed 3 times since i posted that sneak peak :)) i am nuts. also, i am running out of gifs so i am working on a collage i promise

When Friedrich Wilheim Ludwig was born, his father had asked his advisors to draw up a route. Friedrich would study in Prussia, marry a Prussian lady and ascend to the throne as a true son of this great nation, like all of his predecessors.

What he did not plan, however, was that his wife, Frederica had no intention of continuing that tradition. Frederica had other plans for her son. She wanted Friedrich to be the man he wanted to be, not the prince or the king that his father wanted him to be.

She did everything in her power to teach her son just that. Before anything, he was a human being first. Not his title, not the heir, a person.

The King, had he stayed at home for more than a day, would have seen that Friedrich was shaping into a different man than his father had envisioned. He was independent, easygoing and humble.

When the King did realize it, it was too late. It was the summer before Friedrich was to enter a prestigious Prussian university. His aunt Charlotte came to visit with an invitation for his son to study at Cambridge. The King laughed, there was no way his son wanted to go there. Then the next morning, Friedrich had gotten everything ready to go, he was dead set on Cambridge.

There was nothing more the King could do.

The next thing he knew, his son wanted an English wife. It was a complete disaster. And it was all his incompetent wife’s fault. “Let him live on his own. Get all the reckless impulses out,” she said. Stupid women.

“My love, whatever is bothering you.”

The King looked over to his side, meeting the eyes of his mistress. Sweet Bernadine. She was the only thing he looked forward to all day. “Friedrich. He’s not accepting any of the women he was supposed to marry.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because they are not his type. Nice sensible Prussian girls. What is wrong with him? He asked me for a deal. Ridiculous!”

“Maybe you should agree.”

“That is the most absurd thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Is it?”

What the King was going to find out was that Bernadine had a sister who became a Duchess in England. And she had all the gossip sources in the world. She knew absolutely everything about the ins and outs of the ton and she had a beautiful daughter, unwed.

The English girl his son had been eyeing was already in love with someone else. And Friedrich did not seem like the type to force her into a marriage against her will.

If he took his son up on that deal, he’d win.

...

One can count on many things in life. For the ton, it is that grief will not put a stop to Lady Trowbridge’s annual balls. The recently widowed lady’s celebration seemed to be even more flamboyant than when her dear husband was still alive.

And even more scandalous.

Last night, the Incomparable of the season was seen changing her horses in midstream.

To refresh your memory, dear readers, Miss Bridgerton caught the eye of the Duke of Hastings at the beginning of the season. However, for reasons unknown, the Duke was hesitant in asking for her hand, letting Miss Bridgerton slip from his grasp into the hands of a Prince. Our most promising Debutante was then seen exclusively with the Prince of Prussia-the royal suitor of our dreams at balls and promenades for the whole of last week. It would also appear that the Duke had moved on with Miss Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence and heiress to their lush family fortunes.

There were talks today that both men might even take their final steps in securing a ring on their ladies’ fingers by the end of the night.

Miss Bridgerton did emerge from the Trowbridge estate engaged. But not to whom we thought she would. It was the Duke of Hastings that captured the heart and hand of the Diamond of the Season. Miss Y/L/N and Prince Friedrich were both left empty-handed.

This Author is seasoned enough to say she is not easily shocked by scandals nowadays. However, that is not to say the events that transpired last night didn’t raise her eyebrows.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

...

“Your Highness. Pst. Your Highness!”

Friedrich sighed, turning over in hopes silence would return to him. He had just fallen asleep finally. It couldn’t possibly be morning already.

“Your Highness.”

The voice grew from a whisper to a normal speaking voice which was too loud for someone who was hoping for silence. He peaked open one eye and closed them again after he recognized the familiar face of his valet, Heinrich.

“Not now. I am sleeping.”

“Your Highness, it’s urgent.”

“It can wait until I wake up.”

There was a pause. “It’s your father, sir.”

Friedrich sighed. “Then it can definitely wait.”

Getting out of this bed would be to accept the truth. He should have known that his father would always get his way. But that was definitely for later. Right now, sleep.

Friedrich waited for the sound of footsteps and the click of the doors so that he could finally get the peace he was aching for. But it never came, which meant: ”Why are you still here, Heinrich?” he mumbled into the pillow.

No answers came.

Friedrich groaned and sat up.

Of course, Heinrich was still there. At the sight of the Prince finally giving in, Heinrich rushed to open the blinds but was stopped by the hand Friedrich raised. “If you want to wake me up and listen to what my father has to say, you’ll leave those curtains alone.”

“Very well, sir,” Heinrich nodded, folding his arms behind his back and cleared his voice. “Your betrothed is Lady Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence. Your father also asked that you confirm a couple of details for your wedding at Sanssouci Palace.”

“I am not getting married at Sanssouci.”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Heinrich, I will not look at his smug face when he sees that he has won. I will get married here.”

“But you leave today.”

“Then I will marry before I leave.”

Heinrich had been his valet ever since he moved to England. At first, Friedrich thought Heinrich was spying on him and reporting all of his activities to his father. But after one incident which involved a very drunk Friedrich, a lost key, Friedrich trusted Heinrich with his life. They had even grown to become close friends.

“Very well, sir. I will get the carriages ready.”

Before Heinrich left, he placed a small stack of paper on the desk, telling Friedrich to read it. There were numerous types of documents, all on the Lady Y/N Y/L/N, his betrothed.

Friedrich flipped through as he continued on with his morning routine.

Highborn. Excessively rich. The typical lady of the ton. So far there was nothing that gave Friedrich a reason not to dread his future. Because there was probably nothing. He thought bitterly.

When Friedrich suggested the deal, he didn’t think he’d lose. If Friedrich found himself a wife by the end of the London season, he would get to marry her. If he did not however, his father would have every right to intervene.

How hard could it be to fall in love?

As it turned out, it was not. It was quite simple. He met her, spoke to her and knew. He loved her the moment she laughed ridiculously loudly at his compliment. Her hair, her eyes and of course her laugh which very much alarmed the Queen. She wished to have a large family, like he always wanted as a kid but never got. She was wonderful at conversations. She was perfect...well she would have been perfect, had she been in love with him.

Now, he had lost both the girl and control of his fate. He was now doomed to live the rest of his life with a choice made by his father. Someone who was definitely pretentious, incurious and worshipped titles-everything his father wanted in a wife. Friedrich knew his father would have done anything for his mother to be like that. He felt fortunate that she had never been and never would be one of those things.

Now he could only hope his future children were going to be half as lucky.

...

You were stirred from a dreamless night of sleep by the click of the doors. Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping that well these past few days, even the slightest of noises could wake you. You prompted yourself up on your elbows, seeing Olivia-your lady’s maid at the door. She peeked her head in, only coming in when she saw that you were awake.

“Do you have my Whistledown?” was the first thing you asked.

It had become your custom. Your mother wouldn’t let you read the words of that vile woman, lest you learn from the actions of those scandalous ladies. She always acted as though she was above gossip when the entire ton knew the centre of her existence was the scandalous tales told behind the curtains at Madame Delacroix’s fitting room.

Olivia handed you the papers and rushed to your dresser, digging for a dress. “You must be quick. They are asking for you in the drawing room. I told them I was coming to get you.”

You immediately jumped out of bed, knowing your father’s temper all too well. “They’re home again?”

Olivia nodded. “Another cook has been fired. I am scared I might be next.”

That was odd, to say the least. Everything around the house had been a little off lately. Normally, from the moment you woke up until afternoon tea was served, you had all the peace and quiet to yourself. Both of your parents usually left by this time, your father was with his business partners and your mother with Madame Delacroix and her gossip sources. A couple of household staff had also been sacked. It was probably because your father had been even more quick-tempered lately.

Or could the events of last night be the cause?

You knew they were disappointed when you came home without an offer from the Duke of Hastings. But the season hadn’t ended yet. There was still time to consider your other suitors. Besides, it was absolutely no surprise that his heart had belonged to Miss Bridgerton. The dances and the flowers he gave you were nothing more than politeness and perhaps to sooth the jealousy he felt seeing his love with another man. A Prince for that matter.

You got ready quickly, racing down the stairs. At the sound of your footsteps, your mother swung the door open and tugged on your wrist.

“Quickly!” she spat and gave Olivia a glare before closing the door in her face.

Your father sat with his eyes closed, barely breathing. He was completely still, almost statue-like.

“Darling,” your mother chirped, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as if to send some life into him. He opened his eyes. Dull grey, stern and void of hope or happiness.

You knew this look. It had been the source for all of your childhood terror, the look of disappointment and ominous news.

“Get ready. You’re marrying the Prince of Prussia.”

You choked back a breath, feeling all of your blood draining from your face to your neck. You felt like you were burning but at the same time freezing cold. You couldn’t say anything. Not just because you were speechless. You were not allowed to. The only thing you could do was nod, say ‘yes, sir’ and do exactly as you were told.

You were their only daughter.

Throughout your childhood, your father made no attempts to hide his disappointment in you. And your mother was always too afraid to ever do anything. She couldn’t give him another child so they had to learn to tolerate you. They would rarely take you with them anywhere. It was as though you had never existed. You’d always feel proud after finishing a piano piece or after a painting was fully colored but they never cared. For a long time you thought that all parents acted this way, that it was normal. It wasn’t. Other parents took their children to the park, bought them puppies when they succeeded. For you, it was your job and you got no pay, no praise. Nothing. Ever.

You accepted that because there was no other way. And at some point along the way, you stopped looking for their approval. It didn’t mean that they stopped having control over you though. If you wanted a peaceful life, you had better obeyed.

...

Friedrich pulled on his gloves as they made their way quickly into the abbey.

He hated being late and he was late. They were running behind schedule too. Had Friedrich not squeezed a last minute wedding ceremony, he would have already left for Prussia by now.

Needless to say, there was no time for a traditional ceremony. They were getting in and out of the abbey in half an hour or else they would have to wait until tomorrow for another ship.

At the end of the aisle, Friedrich was greeted by his father’s old friend and his future father-in-law, the Duke of Clarence. The man was the picture of a typical aristocratic Englishman with his hair styled neatly, a cane in his hand. Next to him was the Duchess of Clarence, a lanky woman with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. There was an air of intimidation about them. Friedrich did not know enough to be afraid of them, though, he could imagine most of the ton were.

“Welcome, your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed his head. “You’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you at Sanssouci Palace.”

Friedrich only smiled. He did not remember ever meeting the man at all but did not mean to be impolite.

The Duchess spoke in a sweet voice, extending her arm towards the door. “Well, come, Y/N! We shouldn’t keep his Highness waiting for long.”

Friedrich felt his throat closing as his heart picked up its pace. It wasn’t the good kind of nervous butterflies one got from being near their beloved, it was anxious anticipation for his fate to be revealed.

From behind the archway came a beautiful young lady. He recognized you. You had briefly met before at the Salisbury ball before but never engaged in a dance.

“My Lady.” Friedrich bowed his head.

You were a little distracted, as if you did not hear him at all. He smiled, about to greet you again when the most bizzare thing happened.

Your father cleared his voice and flicked his cane against the skirt of your dress. That snapped you right out of your daze, your eyes lowered immediately as you bent your legs into a curtsy like a well-oiled machine. “Your Highness.”

Friedrich could not believe his eyes.

He turned to Heinrich to find his friend’s eyebrows tipped inwards. So it wasn’t just him who saw the strange way your father treated you. Like some kind of circus animal.

Friedrich nodded to you but kept a close eye on your father. The man smiled when he caught Friedrich staring. But there was something eerie about it. His mouth stretched into a smile but his eyes stayed stern.

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[omniscientreaderr]

hi! need input lol i found out about the villain wrangler au and got so inspired :) haven't actually written in a hot 5 years but apparently i can bang out 1.1k words for a story but not my homework :" i actually wanted to write more but didn't know if it be offensive in any way. so yes input thank you - be kind djfkdkke I'm scared but I'm really open to feedback :)) ok dankes to whoever actually sees this! have a great day

- (this is after the VW gets saved, and the one that saved him is meeting to give the girl a pep talk) -

The villain shuffles into the hospital, meeting with the eyes of the VW as he glances up from his clipboard.

VW: “hey! Thanks for saving me the other day :) appreciate it! You ready to meet the girl?”

B: “yeah…as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess? What am i suppose to say? I don’t do fancy motivational speeches like that captain, I don’t know how i’m supposed to encourage and help her…she’s going to be insecure, she’s going to be wallowing in a pit of uncertainty over whether she’s ever going to be…accepted. How am i supposed to help a girl with that?!”

The VW looks over at him with a gentle smile, steering B into a nearby seat, setting his clipboard on the nurse’s tray next to them.

“Hey. Hey. The fact that you know how she will feel, the fact that you worry about whether you can help her, is all that matters. You don’t need fancy words designed to psychologically rouse the masses - i personally have always found them pretentious - you just need to tell her what you’ve always wished to hear. Speak from the heart. Words really don’t come easy, but the rawest, most truthful and touching ones are those that come from the place of absolute vulnerability. Words from the mind, touch the mind. But words from your heart? They touch the heart.” He laughs, taking a pause. “Honestly, I could go on a whole spiel about why is it the speeches of villain appeal to the masses, and how they always gain so much support. You’ve got this.”

B simply nods, giving the VW a small smile, before resuming chewing on his bottom lip. Standing outside the girl’s door, he lifts his hand to knock on the door, before dropping it again. He pauses, leaning backwards against the adjacent wall. “What am I doing? Me? A fuckin pyromaniac helping a little girl? Heck, I can do fighting that obnoxious righteous moral spewing jackass in tightey-whiteys. I can do getting dropped from 10 stories. I could even do pickin up ladies with just my words. But this? No. No way in hell am i walking in there, just to disappoint that kid.”

He walks away, ready to tell the VW that sorry to disappoint, but he couldn’t do this.

The door to the room swings open, a nurse bustling out with her cart. He presses himself against the corner, hiding from the view of the nurse. He glances over, catching sight of a tiny, fragile girl in that all-too-big white sterile room, sitting up on her bed with a sad smile on her face. The door closes all too soon, but that sparks something inside him. He walks towards her door and knocks, as if guided by some impulse, a duty towards this little child.

“Come in! Did you forget something, R? I promise you that if it’s your stethoscope it’s gone!”

He takes a step in, still shrouded in the darkness that the entryway is covered in.

“OH! Hello! Are you lost? Do you need help getting somewhere?”

She beams at him, turning her body slightly to see him, and he sees it. He’s struck by the image of a child scarred across half her body, snaking past her uncovered arms and legs…and across her face, where a pure, warm and joyful smile sits.

He brushes his long fringe back and finds himself rolling up his long sleeves, almost unconsciously. For the first time, in possibly his whole life, he was willing to let someone see him. See him, with his scars on display, not hidden behind a mask, or his hair, or the long sleeves he always wore. He wanted someone to see him. He…wanted to let this girl know she was not alone, that she was not broken.

He stepped forward into the light, quirking his lips into an awkward, unsure smile.

“Hi, Emilia, I’m B, and a little birdie told me you wanted to meet me, so here I am.”

The child shoots upright, nearly clambering out of bed to rush to him.

(Ok she becomes quieter because the dialogue is meant to be poignant. The atmosphere is quiet. It’s two people reflecting, basking in the presence of the only person who understands their pain. There’s no need for pretences, to push the traits that make you likeable.)

Alarmed, he takes large strides to her bedside, catching her before she topples over, having gotten tangled in her blankets. He lifts her back up, before scratching his head, taking a seat next to her bed.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to touch you without your permission.”

The child says nothing, simply nodding her head excitedly, grinning at him. She reaches for his arm, and he places it in her open hand. It’s so tiny. She’s so small. She’s adorable.

She traces his scars, and he waits for the wave of insecurity to hit him. For the voice that urges him to pull back his sleeve and not let anyone see his wounds. But today, it stays quiet. She points to her own healing wounds from the grafting surgery, saying, “Same.”

Now that he’s near her, he’s hit by the full brightness of her smile, the enthusiasm at seeing him, the anticipation of what he would do or say, and something pulls at his heartstrings, and loosens the string of tension and worry that has been restricting his tongue.

“Sorry. I’m not very good at this, haha.”

He pauses. The child offers another encouraging smile, holding his calloused hands with both of her hands.

“I guess…I wanted to let you know that these scars don’t matter. They don’t. They don’t take away the warmth of your smile, the fact that you brighten up the day of everyone around you. They don’t…they don’t…take away your worth. Or any of your beauty. Fu- AHahah don’t listen to anyone who tells you this. It’s a long road, but you’re not alone.”

“Not alone”, the kid repeats. “Not alone”. He notices tears in her eyes, tears that he doesn’t realise are reflected in his own eyes, and he is struck by the comfort that he finds in them. He isn’t alone.

He wills his tears back, giving her a brighter grin. “Did you know that in some cultures, scars are actually seen as signs of bravery? The more you had, the more brave you were among the tribes. They were warriors, feared, esteemed, respected for their wounds. You must be a mighty fine warrior. I bow in your presence, my lady.”

Their peals of laughter reverberates through the ward, ringing in the ears of concerned nurses, hiding watery smiles, in the ears of the kid’s anxious parents, sobbing into each other. She’s laughing. She’s happy. Not those calculated smiles and calculated giggles that hide a lot of pain and insecurity, full of the desire to be…desirable, but one of pure joy. One, of a child rediscovering their youth.

(Unfin.)

[nickydestati]

duolingo tog prompts #13

prompt: Now he is just a normal citizen (Adesso è solo un cittadino normale)

i am aware this is a superhero au for what technically is a superhero movie already but oh well, i hope you enjoy it anyway!

*

In general, Yusuf likes being Joe. On some days, though, he feels like screaming. Only yesterday night he was chasing down some stalker scum to teach them a lesson and make sure they would never even think of harassing anyone ever again, and now he is just a normal citizen. Just a face in the endless, dreary morning commute. 

He wants to grab someone by the shoulders and yell his secret in their faces. Just so someone knows he’s doing it all for them.

But he buries his hands in his pockets and walks on.

A bell rings when he enters the antique shop. The Old Guard, it is called. And of course, it’s just a facade, but to his surprise, Joe genuinely likes working there. He likes being surrounded by ancient and not so ancient objects, he loves walking around in the chaotic assortment of precious art pieces and absolute junk. He often wonders how Andy has gotten hold of all these things, but however sneakily he tries to coax it out of her, she always sees right through his schemes and just shrugs.

He puts everything ready and turns the sign of the door around so the ‘open’ side is facing the street. He glances at the numerous grandfather clocks lining one of the walls. Booker is late. Maybe on a job Joe forgot about, so he guesses he’s on his own for today.

He’s staring at some lists with a lot of numbers he doesn’t understand much about because 1) this is usually Booker’s job and 2) he’s running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, when the phone rings. He picks up immediately, grateful for something else to do.

“The Old Guard Antiques, with Joe, how can I help you?”

“I’ve got a job for you.” Andy.

“Hello to you, too,” Joe says, glancing about for customers, though the bell hasn’t made a sound yet all morning. He lowers his voice just to be sure. “And a job? So soon? I just finished the last one this night.”

He can barely hide his excitement, he quickly checks his free hand, making sure he doesn’t start glowing by accident.

“It’s urgent. We’ve got word that someone is after Lykon’s bracers.”

“Lykon’s bracers?” Joe’s happy mood sobers. Lykon was one of their team once. But the life of a superhero is never without danger. Things went terribly wrong on a mission a long time ago, and Lykon had sacrificed himself so the rest could get out with the people they were saving. They went back later, but despite his healing powers, he hadn’t been able to use them on himself in time. 

His bracers still hold fragments of his powers, though, just like Joe’s rings will when he dies. Every hero has such a token, and there are rumors it might grant the powers to someone else if used right. But so far, no one has tried yet. All superheroes agree that it’s simply too morbid and intruding.

“Yes.” Andy sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have given it to the museum. It would’ve been safer with us after all.”

“Hey, boss, don’t beat yourself up. It was the best option back then. So, who’s after it?”

“Some rich megalomaniac called Merrick. You know, the usual. The theft is planned for this Friday. Booker is at the museum now to find a way to get you inside and get a layout from the building. He’ll be on it for the rest of the week so you’re on shop duty alone for a while.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll send you some more details you can look through. How did it go last night?

“It went well,” Joe answers, but it’s a tad too late and of course Andy notices.

“But?”

Joe sighs. “But the Shadow showed up and I had just gotten them right where I wanted them, but when I rounded the corner, he’d taken care of them already.”

“The guy’s good,” Andy says and the appraisel in her voice makes a spike of jealousy flash through his chest.

“Maybe you should ask him to join us, then,” he says and he hates how annoyed he sounds.

Andy chuckles on the other end. “Have to figure out who he is first.”

Just some pretentious bastard thinking he’s too good to talk with other superheroes. But Joe is tired talking about him.

“So how are you and Nile? Have you found her yet?”

“No, no sign yet.” All mirth has left Andy’s voice and Joe’s heart clenches.

“It’s only a matter of time. We’ll find her. Or she’ll find us again, she wouldn’t leave us like that.” She wouldn’t leave you.

“Let’s hope so,” Andy says with a heavy sigh. “Gotta go, I’ll send you the information. Keep me updated, okay?”

“Sure thing, boss. Say hi to Nile from me.”

He’s breaking his head over the lists again when the bell makes him startle. 

His throat runs dry when he looks up because the most beautiful man in all the universe has just entered the shop. Joe really shouldn’t be so dumbfounded by the man, because objectively speaking he is rather plain-looking with that simple hair cut and those pants that are really doing nothing for him, but still. Even like that, he has something incredibly mesmerising to Joe.

He pretends to look back at the lists for a while, but glances at the customer every now and again from the corner of his eye.

When the man has been wandering around for a while and has been staring at those small angel statuettes for five minutes already, Joe slips from behind the counter and goes to him. 

“Good morning, sir, can I be of some assistance?”

The man turns around and a small smile appears around his mouth when he sees Joe, melting Joe’s heart into a puddle.

“Maybe. I’m looking for a birthday gift for my nonna, but I don’t know which archangel she would like more.”

And to Joe’s surprise, the man goes on to explain the different meanings behind them which is incredibly fascinating - and not only because his hand gestures are so elegant and his eyes are alight with a passionate glow that Joe would describe as moonlight in one of his poems. And Joe is all too happy to chip in with his own knowledge of art and iconology. 

They get so caught up in their conversation that Joe jumps when the grandfather clocks start their various announcements of the fact that it is twelve o’clock. The man startles too by the cacophony and glances at his watch. 

“Oh, I should get going. I’ll take this one.” And he picks out Joe’s favorite. 

He follows Joe to the cash register and pays. 

“I am Joe, by the way,” Joe says when he’s wrapping the statue in bubble plastic to protect it.

“Nicky, nice to meet you,” Nicky says and Joe can’t keep the wide smile from his face.

“We should do that again some time,” he says, gathering all his courage. “Talk, I mean, not necessarily buying or selling angel statuettes.”

Nicky laughs, and the little snort makes Joe’s heart jump to his throat. “Let’s grab some dinner then, when are you available?”

“Only Friday wouldn’t work for me,” Joe says.

“I can’t make it on Friday either, so let’s say Saturday? Here, let me get your number,” Nicky says and picks his phone from his pocket.

They exchange numbers and say their goodbyes, Nicky flashing a last smile at him from the door before leaving Joe helplessly lost behind his cash register. 

*

Focus, Yusuf! Yusuf chastizes himself when his mind has wandered off to what he’s going to wear for his date tomorrow for what must be the millionth time. You’re supposed to be watching out for a thief, focus!

Yusuf takes a deep breath and scans the room again. He’s hidden in a very uncomfortable position against the ceiling, holding on to a pillar that grants him a view of the entire exhibition room. If he didn’t have his powers, there was no way he could have endured this position for so long, and while it would have been even easier if the sun was out, he manages. 

The minutes are ticking by, no sign of a thief yet. The bracers are still safely in their display case beneath him.

Then there’s a movement, ever so slightly, by the windows. Yusuf’s eyes latch onto it, but it’s gone so soon that he almost thinks it’s a trick of his mind. 

Always trust your instincts, Andy told them over and over again. Our minds don’t play tricks on us.

Sure enough, there’s another flutter in the shadows. No, not in the shadows. Of the shadows.

One of them is moving.

Joe curses inwardly, of course Merrick has hired the Shadow.

He waits for the Shadow to reach the display case. Then, when he reaches over the glass, Yusuf slides down right behind him. He reaches for him, letting out a sound of victory when his hands guess correctly and circle around the Shadow’s neck. He lets his hands glow, unleashing the heat he’s always containing. 

Surprised by the sudden attack, the Shadow turns visible and Yusuf stumbles back out of pure shock.

He’s all clad in black, with a balck version of a mask not unlike Yusuf’s own, but Yusuf would recognise the eyes peeking through it anywhere. Those eyes that are unmistakably glowing with moonlight now.

“Nicky?” Yusuf exclaims.

“Joe?” 

Nicky seems just as confused as Yusuf who’s still looking him up and down as if he might change into someone else after all - and oh man, these tight pants are definitely doing things for him. Nicky recovers faster from the shock, though. 

“Sorry, but I really gotta take these,” he says and before Yusuf can make his muscles move again, Nicky already has the bracers in his hands and is dashing for the windows.

“Wait no!” Yusuf sprints after him, but Nicky whisps away into shadow-form again and slips through a slightly opened window. 

“Nicky!” Yusuf screams after him. He opens the window wider - not alarming the guards be damned - and looks out over the city. But there’s no trace of Nicky.

His heart is pounding. Nicky, the beautiful man he is already head over heels with, is the Shadow. Not only is he the Shadow, but he has also stolen Lykon’s bracers for some capitalist asshole.

Shit.

“Is our date still on tomorrow?” Yusuf calls weakly into the night.

[demetriandelibinaryboyfriends]

What if after the party Hawk decided to get revenge by sharing Demetri's secrets as well. Demetri's mom let's him in when he's not home and he finds his journal. What he wasn't expecting was all of the pages about he regrets saying all of those things and he's pretty sure he's in love with him

Oof ouch there goes my goddamn HEART I didn’t need it anyway

I can honestly totally see this happening though??? Like Hawk slipping into “Eli mode” the same way he does to fool the school counselor and using that to break into Demetri’s house because he’s counting on Demetri not being able to bear to tell his mom the full extent of how bad things have gotten with “good old Eli”...and Hawk’s absolutely right. The most Demetri has mentioned to his mom is that there’s been a “bit of tension” and “Eli and I have been arguing a lot.” So of course Hawk gleefully goes up to his room to find the most embarrassing dirt he can and get the most epic vengeance.

And, sure enough, there’s Demetri’s goddamn diary. Of course he would keep a diary, the lame fucking nerd. Who the hell even keeps diaries anymore??? And he reads it from the beginning, and realizing the first half or so is from when they were still best friends. It’s a lot of geek nonsense, rants about video games and Lord of the Rings and what have you, sometimes drawing parallels between scenes from his own life being harassed by Kyler and the plight of Middle Earth being ruled by Sauron. All typical nerdy Demetri. But...there’s also a lot about Eli. About some present he got for Eli that he’d been especially excited about. About how proud he was of Eli for winning that coding competition with him. About how frustrated he was that he couldn’t stand up for Eli more against the bullies. About how much he hated that Eli felt like he needed to constantly cover the scar above his lip. How grateful he really was to have Eli around because “at least someone will listen to my ingenious insight!!!”

And then comes the fateful school year everything changed. Hawk reads through Demetri’s confused delight at Miguel befriending them and seeming to genuinely enjoy having them both around. He reads through Demetri’s bafflement at the emergence of Hawk, and his barely-concealed terror that his best friend would decide he didn’t want someone like Demetri around anymore, now that more people liked him. He reads through Demetri’s concern at Eli’s anger slowly boiling up into something violent and unnerving. He reads through Demetri’s betrayal at Eli blowing him off after Demetri was assaulted by Kreese, and his worry at having his two best friends training with a man who has no issue beating up random high schoolers off the street. He reads through how lost Demetri was after Eli jumped him in the mall, desolate and spiraling and feeling like he’d never quite feel whole again. How broken Demetri had felt looking at Eli’s nearly-unconscious body on the food court floor. 

And then comes a long ramble about the latest season of Doctor Who, and--Hawk notes with an oddly painful twinge--how much Eli would love it. “He’s all about badassery now, he’d be SO into this if I could get him to watch it.” And then a long, giddy ramble about how maybe this is how he’s finally going to get through to Eli--how he’s going to get his Eli back. How he missed him so much he barely knows how to function anymore.

And then come the pages after that fateful party, the one where things almost went right and then everything went so very wrong. It’s just line after line of things to the gist of “Oh, god. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up SO fucking bad. I’m a piece of shit.” Even after everything that’s happened between them, Eli feels himself getting...alarmed. Demetri is never this...concise. Or vulgar. He prides himself on being wordy and pretentious, and not having to curse to make a point. Now it’s like he can’t stop swearing, can’t stop repeating what a piece of shit he is. Which can really only mean he’s gotten so emotional and fallen so deep into devastation that it’s somehow temporarily overridden one of the most prominent parts of his personality.

The last line in the journal is “I never even fucking told him I’m in love with him. He’d fucking kill me if he knew. He’d be so disgusted. But I wish I’d said something anyways. Is that fucking stupid?” Hawk just...slams the journal shut and sits there for several minutes, having no clue what the fuck to do now.

Okay bUT IMAGINE THIS ISN’T EVEN AN AU AND HAWK ACTUALLY READS ALL THIS AND STILL HUNTS DOWN DEMETRI AT THE SCHOOL FIGHT AND LATER BREAKS HIS ARM, HOW UPSETTING WOULD THAT BE

The fucked part is I could SEE it, like this kid already projects all the “pussy nerd shit” he hates about himself onto poor Demetri, like imagine the internalized homophobia??? This kid who wants to seem like the most macho tough guy ALIVE must have??? And imagine he has/had a crush on Demetri and has been suppressing it like there’s no tomorrow and now oh god oh FUCK he has to be reminded of it??? And these feelings are just yet ANOTHER part of his past self that Hawk hates, and with the love Demetri feels for him...well, how could Demetri more PERFECTLY and COMPLETELY represent the “weak” parts of himself that Hawk now despises??? And Demetri becomes Hawk’s absolute prime target after that, because he HATES what he sees of his past self in Demetri and, most of all, he HATES that all of that is still there inside of him. By making a bitter enemy of Demetri, he figures, by alienating him and antagonizing him to the point where any connection they ever had or could ever have is completely broken, maybe he can finally be free of being that Weak-Ass Lame Gay Nerd that nobody liked and everybody mocked.

On a slightly happier note, maybe seeing that final journal entry is part of what spurred Hawk’s eventual change of heart. Like he’s just watching the destruction around him caused by the Cobra Kai kids, and remembers Johnny saying that Kreese doesn’t give a shit about him. And he just has this epiphany like “Demetri loves me.” (And he knows this has to be true, because he was never meant to see it. No reason for Demetri to lie in the privacy of his own journal. No manipulation or tricks here...not like what Kreese has learned how to pull.) “No one at Kreese’s Cobra Kai ever did.”

And he decides in that moment he’s going to fight for a person who loves him as he is, rather than a person who only likes the image that he made for himself to feel like he could be something other people respected. Hawk still doesn’t love the weaker parts of himself, the more vulnerable parts, the parts that people can easily jeer at and mock and use to make him feel awful about himself--but maybe if Demetri sees something worth loving, then Hawk eventually can, too.

[thelittlebirdthattoldyou]

for the song fic drabbles! Could u do star by loona and kyouhaba? Ty!

heheh,,, imagining kyoutani having dreams about yahaba and being SO mad about it.

star - loona

pairing: kyoutani kentarou/yahaba shigeru

content: fluff, getting together, flustered kyoutani

wc: 1038

-

Snatches of hair, soft between his hands. Warm skin. A smiling mouth, pretty enough to kiss but wicked enough to give voice to scathing words.

Kyoutani frowns in his sleep, fingertips twitching as if to reach out for something he doesn’t have. Everything is hazy, his subconscious thoughts playing out golden and blurred. The boy in his dreams evades identification; no matter how Kyoutani cranes his neck, all he gets is the vague impression of someone he should recognize. A bright laugh, equal parts gentle and mocking. Turquoise on his back and callouses on his hands, and Kyoutani is dying, drowning, to slide their palms together until they fit, nestled together like a key in a lock.

The boy turns, finally, and Kyoutani holds his breath, doesn’t blink -

His alarm rings. He sits up in bed with a gasp, and all the warm contentedness of his dream sours into cold discomfort. Yahaba. Again.

These dreams have been tormenting him for weeks. He can’t go a night without his mind evoking images of Yahaba - his voice, the delicate twist of his wrists every time he sets the ball, even his goddamn eyelashes. Since when has Kyoutani cared about eyelashes?

Grumbling, Kyoutani rubs his hand over his face as he kicks his legs over the side of the bed. The worst part of this whole thing, he thinks, is going to morning practice afterward, when he has to face Yahaba and put on his normal scowl and pretend he doesn’t want to melt into the floor out of embarrassment.

He doesn’t even like Yahaba that way. He can’t. That pretentious pretty boy wannabe, who had the audacity to lay hands on Kyoutani in front of their entire team, in the middle of a game? He’s the farthest thing imaginable from Kyoutani’s type.

Kyoutani ignores the heat that blooms on the back of his neck when he dwells on the memory of their moment from the Karasuno match. It means nothing. This is ridiculous.

Morning practice is hellish. For some reason, Kyoutani finds himself unable to keep his eyes off Yahaba. He wonders whether his hair is as soft in real life as it was in his dream. His hands clench into fists at his sides. He hits Yahaba’s next toss to him with particular vigor.

“Kyoutani,” Yahaba calls. Kyoutani freezes.

“Can we meet up after school today?” he asks. “I want to go over our plans for the team this year.”

Ah, right. He relaxes. Since the Spring High, the third years have taken a backseat, and Yahaba and Kyoutani have had to step up in their roles as captain and vice. This is nothing out of the usual. This is fine. Kyoutani grunts something at Yahaba that almost sounds like a yeah, sure, and turns away.

But no affected air of nonchalance can hide his jitteriness throughout his classes for the rest of the day. Practice with Yahaba is one thing, but being with him outside it? Alone, with no volleyballs or nets in between them to distract from Kyoutani’s feelings? That’s something else entirely.

Not feelings, Kyoutani reminds himself. Because he doesn’t have feelings for Yahaba.

He’s waiting outside the locker room after afternoon practice, slumped against the wall, when Yahaba joins him. “Hey,” he greets. “Mind taking a walk? I was thinking we could go to a café."

With a shrug, Kyoutani pushes away from the wall. They fall into step together, and Yahaba hums contemplatively. "You're unusually agreeable today," he comments.

Kyoutani shrugs. "Shut up," he says, but a feeling of unease runs up his spine. Since these dreams started, it's like he's forgotten how to be normal around Yahaba. "It's just too much of a pain to argue with you."

Yahaba laughs. "Took you long enough to realize that."

They settle into an amiable silence; when Kyoutani risks a glance at Yahaba, he finds that the other boy's lips are quirked in a small grin. Flustered, he promptly looks away.

This is nice, though. Walking side by side. Yahaba knows when to stay quiet, doesn't feel the need to fill the silence with irrelevant conversation; it's something Kyoutani appreciates about him. He's more tolerable when his mouth is closed.

"Oh, we're here," Yahaba says.

Kyoutani stares at him.

Yahaba frowns. "Don't look at me like that."

“Yahaba,” Kyoutani says. “This is a couples’ café."

There's no way Yahaba doesn't know that. This is the place every girl at Seijoh gossips about wanting to be taken. It's the number one date location in this part of the city. Kyoutani barely bothers to pay attention to his classmates, and even he knows that much.

Yahaba looks unperturbed, save for the faintest tint of pink to his cheeks. "Yeah," he says.

Is he smirking?

Kyoutani's jaw drops. The asshole does know. He knows exactly what he's doing. "Fuck off," Kyoutani growls, and he turns and walks away. Is this some sort of stupid prank? Yahaba finding out about his not-feelings somehow and wanting to humiliate him? Yeah, the guy's a dick, but Kyoutani hadn't thought he would -

"Stop running away, idiot," Yahaba cuts in. He grabs Kyoutani's wrist and tugs him to a standstill. If Kyoutani's pulse jumps at the contact, well, that's none of his business. "I don't know what you think this is, but I'm trying to ask you out, here."

Something in Kyoutani's stomach feels oddly fluttery. "I don't see any asking going on here," he argues. "You basically kidnapped me here."

Yahaba rolls his eyes. "You came willingly."

"Under false pretenses." Kyoutani wonders whether Yahaba ever had plans to talk about the team at all, or if this was his intention all along.

"Kyoutani," Yahaba says. "One date."

Kyoutani does not have feelings for Yahaba. But then again, it's one date. People go on dates with people they don't like all the time. Probably.

He lets himself be led into the café, and he lets Yahaba keep their hands clasped together while they order, and he ignores the smile that grows on Yahaba’s face with every second that he doesn’t pull away.

Fuck off, dreams, Kyoutani thinks, because the weight of Yahaba’s hand in his is better than anything his subconscious could ever come up with.

[yngai]

honestly, though tying ada to a symbolic process of rebirth would befit her butterfly motif from RE4, rather than viewing her escape of the tragic fate which befalls femme fatales as an act of rebirth ( & since her defiance of this narrative trope is limited to one game ), i look at her constant survival as just that, survival .  it is a more simplistic interpretation, perhaps, & though who ada is before & after raccoon city is a topic i’ve discussed & plan to cover in more detail, to interpret it as rebirth is to wander into the metaphysical, areas that while resident evil may flirt with throughout the franchise, i have grounded my portrayal & interpretations of ada & the world she inhabits in something akin to realism ( defining her nebulous spy-work as industrial espionage, for example ), combined with the science fiction of ressie’s viruses & monsters, along with its approach to grandstanding action set pieces .  there’s also an element of purposeful cheese & self-awareness to my portrayal, which is drawn directly from RE4 ( the best game ) .  as such, rather than ada being reborn in the ashes of raccoon city, her actions, the changes she undergoes, assuming the narrative role of a femme fatale & undoing its limitations to form her own self-identity, define her own existence & purpose in the stories she inhabits, is the natural process of survival .  adapting & thriving in a series of new environments, much like why a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, to exist beyond limitations of one form & to continue its life cycle :) .  ada’s narrative has always been one of survival against stacked odds, like every ressie protagonist, & though she undergoes a drastic shift between the second & fourth games, it always ends with her as the winner .  the only time i reference ada wong & rebirth is in her own internal monologue, how she interprets her constant need to change & shift to fit each mission, how she sees the many identities she discards .  as with many aspects of ada, there is always dichotomy, even in her realm of endless & hyper-aware self-analysis, she is bound to embellish her story, view herself as something other than what she truly is, many women at once rather than just the one .  her ability to fully interpret the self against the backdrop of the world around her is inhibited by her depersonalization disorder, of course, always an endless storm of questions & doubts about who & what she is, to whom her emotions belong, a detachment from her lived experiences & relationships .  ada wong exists in myth, a world renowned spy who survived the destruction of raccoon city & stole umbrella’s secrets, & so too does she mythologize herself .  the dehumanization of the female spy, a self inflicted tragedy .

[phantomrose96]

Did you finish great pretender completely? Im just asking because i watched it recently and it was a 10/10 for me until the last arc where i felt my love for the show just completely bitch slapped. Like i def wasnt against the show tackling heavier crimes but THATS A HEAVY CRIME n i felt show just kinda...used it as spicy window dressing, the characters barely seemed to care about it at all, my love for Makoto all but shrivled put of existance. They just used this heavy and horrifying crime to play their story business as usual with the main characters barely more bothered by it than by a pretentious art fuck. Idk it just felt like too heavy of a topic to be brought on to a show who just barely gave it a glance and the fates of the victims seeming to be an afterthought in the larger scale of things, completly ignoring very many children Makoto would have sold into hell by the time the plot caught up with him. Idk if u liked it even then more power to you, i just remember how startling and disconcentrating it was, i was almost unable to care about the plot or the characters because THAT was going on in the background and idk i guess i just wanted to hear opinion from someone who seems to have ended up really liking the show despite all of that, idk maybe to return some love of it for me? Sorry if this is bothering you ;;;;

You know what, that’s COMPLETELY valid, and somehow something I hadn’t even had at the forefront of my mind until now. Perhaps because the show itself kind of directs your attention away from the trafficking element of the arc by never making it a true focus.

I’m thinking back through the arc, and realizing it would have sat so much better if - say - it was an international high-profile drug trafficker ring and not a child trafficker ring they had been targeting. Because you’re right, it’s... weirdly out-of-focus and taken too lightly for child-trafficking. Like I think the show lulled me into the sense of “the good guy characters will come out on top” that it makes you comfortable believing the kids will be saved. But with the amount of time that passed, there’s really no WAY every kid was saved. And the lack of alarm among the main characters kind of infects the audience too, and made me not consider that.

I liked everything they did AROUND it in that arc. I like how the show is able to go so over-the-top extravagant with both its execution and its twists that you hardly have any time yourself to keep pace with it all - the double-interpreter grift they pulled with Makoto and Laurant acting as interpreters for each side blew my MIND. And now I’m realizing how much more benignly enjoyable that would all be if the criminals at the center of the arc were just drug traffickers and not literal child traffickers.

I need to THINK about this now...

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/12 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus content. This chapter only: alcohol use Characters: All Pairings: Moceit, background Prinxiety, background Intrulogical (yes I played a little game of "pair the spares") Additional Tags: Hey it's the fic I published on Anon because I was embarrassed of how utterly pretentious it is!, post-PoF, sickfic, dirty poetry, humor interspersed with philosophy and Janus-typical pontification, this is VERY speculative and will get Jossed in the future lmao Summary: After claiming his place in the Light and coming face-to-face with the consequences of his actions, Janus finds himself unwillingly re-calibrating his moral compass. For selfish reasons, of course. But one apology snowballs into several, and soon he's running around the Mindscape with a low-grade fever and a guilty conscience as he desperately tries to regain some sense of self. Oh, and he's definitely not falling in love with Patton, so don't even bring it up. One Last Note: I wrote this in an ADHD fugue state. It is HEAVILY influenced by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but there are also references to poetry and various other works of literature. I also deliberately used symbols, themes, and motifs. Most of them are pretty in your face except for the recurring ouroboros, which is used as a symbol of rebirth. ...Told you it was pretentious.

When you wake up to the promise of your dream world comin' true With one less friend to call on, was it someone that I knew? Away you will go sailing in a race among the ruins If you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon

Janus appeared in the Dark side of the Mindscape, elation swelling in his chest. Even the ringing headache and bitter taste in his mouth couldn't hollow the unfamiliar triumph that warmed him to the core. Caught up in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to register the sight before him: Remus, upside-down on the couch, his brow furrowed and face an alarming shade of purple.

For a moment, Janus stood stock-still as he tried to get his bearings. He must have been more flustered than he'd realized-- He'd been aiming for his bedroom.

But here he was, staring down at Remus, who was definitely going to burst a blood vessel (or several) if he didn't flip over soon.

"That's not horrifying at all," Janus said, thinking it would be rude to dismiss Remus, especially since he had probably been eavesdropping. He had likely heard everything. Everything. Even the ugly parts.

"Do you remember when Thomas read that post about Nutty Putty Cave?" Remus asked in a strained, strangled voice. "That spelunker who died because he got stuck upside-down?"

"No," Janus said, before realizing his mistake. "Yes." He definitely wanted Remus to remind him of the gory details.

"That's what I thought," Remus said with a wicked grin.

Janus sighed through his nose. Remus, though he thrived on attention, seemed content enough to continue his experiment by himself. On the other hand, if Janus didn't bring up a certain insult he'd levied at Roman, Remus most certainly would, and at a time where it would cause the most upset and turmoil. Better for Janus to deal with it now, even if he would have to fight the tension pulling his muscles taut. He wanted to dance. He wanted to scream.

Hesitation proved to be Janus' downfall, and by the time he'd opened his mouth to broach the subject at hand, Remus had beaten him to the blow. "You're not usually this quiet, Oralboros. Snake got your tongue?"

Janus, again, sighed. Rather than answer, he doffed his hat, set it on the coffee table, and clumsily arranged himself upside-down next to Remus. The change in position immediately made his head throb. He ignored it. "I definitely meant it when I called you 'evil'."

Remus' eyes widened in faux-shock. "You called me evil ?" he shrieked, voice ringing out high and clear. "Me? How dare you. I'm an angel!"

At least Remus was taking it well. "Sarcasm is my thing," Janus said, realizing that he might make it out of this without having to properly apologize.

For some reason, Patton's face flashed into his mind, and a subsequent twinge of guilt made his tongue go sour. Fine. If there was ever a time to start telling uncomfortable truths… "But I am sorry I said that."

"Wow!" Remus laughed. "You must be upset." A red stain began to spill across his left eye. "You don't apologize."

"It’s not like I care about your feelings or anything." Janus would have liked to have drawn himself up to his full height, but it was impossible to do while upside-down. "As much as I'm enjoying watching your blood vessels slowly burst, would you please turn over before you hurt yourself? I've suffered enough psychological trauma for today."

"Oh, fine." Remus kicked his legs and landed neatly on his toes like a gymnast.

Janus, by contrast, got his arms tangled in his capelet and nearly folded himself in half before he found his balance again. "I meant to do that," he said, turning to grab his hat so Remus wouldn't see the blush on his face.

The sudden sensation of blood draining from his head made the room whirl. He steadied himself against Remus' shoulder until it slowed somewhat, but nothing could dampen the horrible ringing in his ears.

"Well," he said, adjusting his shirt. The sudden appearance of his conscience had taken the wind out of his sails more than he cared to admit, and all thoughts of dancing bled out of him along with a good deal of energy. "I'm not going to go scream into my pillows until I tire myself out."

"Being an agent of chaos is hard work," Remus said with a sage nod, "but that doesn't sound very relaxing, Mr Self Care."

"It's a form of meditation, if you think about it," Janus said.

Remus made a face. "You know I don't do that."

"...Meditate?"

"No, think."

"Ah. Well." Janus made only a token attempt to hide his fond smile. "Good night, Remus. Please stay up late and injure yourself."

"Can do, Snakeypoo.”

Janus turned. It was close enough, he might as well walk to his bedroom, especially considering how well his last attempt at appearing in it had gone.

The reason why that had been so difficult became apparent in mere moments. Janus froze in the hall and dropped to his knees at the giddy wave of horror and delight that made him too light-headed to stand.

He knelt in front of the empty stretch of wall where his door had been previously.  Heat flooded his face.

"Jay?" The rounded toes of Remus' boots appeared in his line of sight. Janus zeroed in on them, the mud splatters and stains on the soft leather. "You have an aneurysm or what?"

Janus, unable to speak, motioned for Remus to turn around. He couldn't deal with this right now.

"Ohhh," said Remus. "Well. Good luck with that ." He hauled Janus to his feet. "So you're a boner fide good guy now, huh?"

Janus stared over Remus' shoulder at the empty stretch of wall where his door used to be. "That depends entirely on who you ask."

Remus shrugged and rose up on his toes. "You can scream into my pillows instead, if you want."

"As tempting as that is…" Janus trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the wall. It was tempting, despite the constant chaos in Remus' room. But he'd have to face the Light side sooner or later. It wasn't like he could move his room back, not without psychologically damaging Thomas and undoing all the work he'd done. "I'm really looking forward to getting insulted some more."

"Alright," Remus said with a shrug. "Try not to throw me under the bus this time, alright? Unless it's a real bus…" His gaze became dreamy, unfocused. "And it's doing 50 in a school zone and there's a whole pack of screaming kids in the crosswalk--"

"Goodbye, Remus." Janus turned and left.

--

The barrier between the "dark" and the "light" sides of Thomas' brain had been a joint venture. It would have been there in some form no matter what, but it was Janus and Roman (with Patton's tacit blessing) who had worked to put up something more physical between them.

Janus ducked under the red curtain, trepidation percolating in his stomach, but what he found on the other side was anticlimactic to say the least: It was dead silent on this side of the barrier.

Janus wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew by now that the so-called "Lights" had issues working out their interpersonal issues, and this most recent conflict wasn't the kind of thing you just got over. It did follow that they would all go off to lick their wounds for a time.

Hesitantly, toe-to-heel, Janus crept down the hall. It felt for all the world like he was sneaking around a vast hotel, right down to needlessly ornate design on the plush carpeting. That was probably Roman's doing.

Janus focused, trying to call the Mindscape to work for him. He wanted to go to his room.

The Mindscape listened. Janus turned a corner and found a row of doors stretching down yet another brightly-lit corridor. His eye was immediately drawn, not to the brilliant yellow of his own door, but to the figure huddled in front of it: Patton sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on his knees.

"Looking for someone?" Janus asked, slightly louder than necessary.

Patton jerked his head up. "Oh! Janus!" He plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "You sure pop star-tled me."

Scaring Patton hadn't brought Janus nearly the level of schadenfreude he'd thought it would. He crossed his arms over his chest, extending a third to help Patton up. "Take your time getting to the point.”

"Oh." Patton accepted Janus' proffered hand and got to his feet. Warmth spilled from him, permeating the fabric of Janus' glove and gently heating his palm. "Well, it's just…" He took a deep breath. "I noticed your door and I thought-- Well, I wanted to make you feel welcome!"

A high-pitched tone resonated in Janus' skull. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the mounting pressure-pain-exhaustion in his temples. "Aren't you just a saint ." Patton's face fell. Janus fought the urge to swear aloud. He usually had a better handle on himself, and he knew better than to alienate potential allies. "I mean, thank you, Patton. Truly. I appreciate it." Patton had proven himself useful. Janus should at least cultivate that relationship, even if it meant a little discomfort.

"Have you eaten?" Patton asked. "It's a little late, but I could make something if you wanted." He paused. "Maybe we could play cards or something." Another pause. "O-only if you want to, I mean."

Janus let his face remain impassive even as he internally cringed at the idea of staying awake for even another second. It would be so easy to brush Patton off with a few honeyed words and disappear beyond the barrier of his door. But Patton had stood up for him today, or at least he'd tried to. Janus sighed. Quid pro quo. "That sounds like an utter waste of time."

"Are you… I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell when you're…"

"Yes, Patton. That sounds lovely."

Patton actually hopped in place, an adorable little jig that absolutely didn't send a confusing little shockwave of fondness through Janus' ribcage. "Really?"

"Really," Janus lied.

He followed Patton down the hall into the living room, which opened into the dining room and the kitchen. Janus studied his surroundings, trying to take in as much as his exhausted faculties would allow. Even in the absence of other Sides, the living room felt warm and welcoming. All the lights were on, and they bathed everything in gentle golden light .

"You're awfully quiet," Patton said.

Janus shook himself. "I was just getting my bearings."

"I guess you've never really been over here, huh?" Pattton opened the refrigerator. Was he actually going to cook , instead of just manifesting something? How quaint. "Do you like grilled cheese?"

It had been a long, confusing day. Doublespeak came to Janus as naturally as breathing, but he was obviously running circles around Patton even when he wasn't trying to. "Yes," he said, hoping to telegraph his sincerity by not emoting at all.

It seemed to work. Patton studied him for a moment before turning back to the fridge. "Then that's what I'll make."

Janus took advantage of this temporary distraction to clamber onto one of the barstools. The slick velvet of his capelet tended to disagree with surfaces like wood and vinyl, and he needed a moment to arrange things so he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.

He watched Patton work in the kitchen, a detached coolness washing out the scene. Quid pro quo, he reminded himself when he felt his facade begin to slip. He owed Patton this.

He certainly didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt, that he had been the one to orchestrate this breakdown. Yes, the Light Sides had loaded the gun, but in the end it was Janus who had pulled the trigger.

He shook his head and thought about playing cards, good Bicycle playing cards with holes punched through them like they'd come from a casino. "What should we play?" he asked, pulling the deck from his breast pocket.

Patton looked up from the stovetop, his eyes flicking to the cards in Janus' hand. "Do you know Kings in the Corners?"

"Not personally, no."

Patton laughed, but there was something cold about it. "It's really simple," he said. "I'll show you how to play and you can tell me if you like it."

--

It was nearly impossible to cheat at Kings in the Corners. Janus doubted this had been a calculated measure on Patton's part, doubted he had the capacity for that kind of foresight, but he respected it just the same.

They played in funereal silence, staring each other down across the light wood of the dining room table. Janus, ill-inclined to take off his gloves, utilized a napkin to keep from staining them with melted butter from the grilled cheese Patton had made. Neither one of them smiled. Neither one of them spoke.

Janus pulled a card from the deck to indicate the end of his turn and glanced up at Patton. His face was somber, almost sorrowful, and it clashed against the gentle domesticity of the dining room, with its floral table runner and mismatched placemats.

Janus started to laugh.

"What is it?" Patton asked, cheeks darkening. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Janus swallowed down another peal of laughter and cleared his throat, unable to wholly restrain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You look like I’m holding you here at gunpoint." It was somewhat ironic, considering Janus was the one who felt like he couldn't leave.

"What?" Patton smiled, but it was more akin to an offering than an expression of joy.

"It’s not really funny. " Janus wasn’t quite sure how to make Patton understand.

Patton sat back with a sigh, placing his cards facedown on the table. "But I guess it is pretty funny, huh? In a really sad way."

Janus almost asked what was sad about it before realizing that Patton probably missed his friends. Instead he said, "Yes" and stifled a yawn behind his free hand.

"I'll make coffee!" Patton leapt to his feet and was off to the kitchen before Janus could so much as blink.

The newfound solitude made it that much harder for Janus to ignore his headache, which had only worsened in the hour or so he'd been playing cards with Patton. Despite the nonchalant facade he'd tried so hard to project, he'd been holding himself tense.

Maybe the night (or morning, at this point) would be easier to tolerate if he had, say, a bit of gold rum.

The corner of a flask dug into Janus' hip. He smiled.

"Just how late are you planning on staying up?" he asked Patton when the latter returned holding two mismatched mugs.

"Oh, I don't know," Patton said. Lied. He set a mug down in front of Janus and then resumed his seat, the cards forgotten by his elbow. "I'm… A little scared of what tomorrow will be like."

Janus eased the flask out of his pocket. "Rum?"

"Oh, um," Patton said, staring at the flask. "I don't know…"

Janus raised an eyebrow, working something out. He landed on it a millisecond later: Patton wanted to be convinced. Easy enough. Janus opened the flask and poured what he hoped was a shot into his own mug. It was black, he noticed, except for the yellow snake that wrapped around it, its tail firmly in its own mouth. Ouroboros. "Surely you don't intend to make me drink alone?"

As Janus had expected, Patton buckled the second he was pushed. "I guess not."

It was funny, Janus mused as he carefully tipped rum into Patton's coffee, how lying was only off-limits when Janus suggested it. Hilarious.

But now wasn't the time for bitterness, now was the time to repay the debt he owed Patton. "Cheers," he said, pocketing the flask once more.

"Cheers."

Janus sipped his coffee. "You put milk in this," he observed.

Patton's smile was surprisingly sly. "I know you want me to think you take it black. Virgil did too, at first. I know you ‘Dark Sides’ have an image you like to uphold."

"And how does Virgil take his coffee now?" Janus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"With Snickers-flavored creamer."

"Well, I do take my coffee black," Janus lied.

Patton's smile never faltered. "We'll see, kid-- Uh, Janus."

"Patton," Janus said, before he could start thinking about the implications of Patton wanting to call him 'kiddo,' "you are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"Maybe eventually," Patton said, suddenly unable to look Janus in the eye. "At some point."

"Tomorrow will come whether or not you sleep. It's definitely better to pull an all-nighter and feel like garbage instead of facing everything with a clear head."

"I know." Patton leaned forward so he could rest his head on his hand.

For a moment, Janus was tempted to mirror him. Sitting up straight was becoming quite the chore. "I know how the others love a calm, rational discussion."

"Oh, I wish." Patton's expression turned wistful.

Janus stifled a yawn behind his hand. He had half-expected the coffee to counteract the depressant effect of the alcohol, but all he had to show for the combination was a racing heart.

"I'll be fine out here if you want to go to bed," Patton said. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, he brought his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

It was a tempting offer. A day ago, Janus would have taken it. After all, it wasn't like he cared about Patton outside of professional courtesy. They weren't friends. But guilt nagged at him and wouldn't let him entertain the idea of abandoning Patton for longer than a second.

"That's a remarkable impression of a window," Janus said, waiting for Patton to look confused before elaborating, "I can see right through you."

"You got me." Patton smiled sadly. "That's something I've always admired about you, Janus."

Now it was Janus' turn to be confused. "What?"

"You're so… clever."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "Please do keep trying to change the subject."

"It's just… I don't want to have to lie there and, and think about today and everything I did wrong. I hurt Thomas. I hurt my friends." Patton's eyes were shiny behind his glasses; the unshed tears sparkled in the light when he locked eyes with Janus. "Aren't you going to think about the same thing?"

Anger flared, perhaps prematurely, in Janus' chest. "About what you did wrong today?"

"About what you did wrong," Patton said timidly.

"I," Janus said icily, "didn't do anything wrong." He stared Patton down across the table, jaw set, daring him to push back. Let him lecture and nag, let him prove that he hadn't changed no matter what he said.

But Patton only nodded, his face lined with misery. "Okay," he softly. "I think you're right, Janus. We should go to bed."

Janus thought about how much faster he could get to bed if the table was cleared, and all the dishes and cards vanished in a blink.

"Um, Janus?" Patton said.

"Yes?"

"I don't regret everything that happened today."

"Oh?"

Patton only nodded and sank out.

Janus made a beeline for his own room; better to find his way there on foot rather than risk appearing in the wrong spot.

Once inside, he looked around to ensure nothing was amiss, eyes roving over the dark wood of his bookshelves and desk, his mirrored closet doors, the leather armchairs across from his bed.

Everything was exactly as Janus had left it. He nodded, satisfied, set his hat on the nightstand, and sprawled out of top of the covers without bothering to further undress.

One hazy thought crawled to the surface of his mind before he fell asleep: At least he wouldn't be one of the regrets haunting Patton tonight.

[bellakitse]

I was born Thursday's Child

“It’s Carlos, sir,” Judd gets out quickly, and TK feels an ice-cold fear run up his spine at the urgency he hears in his friend’s voice. “He was a step behind me, the floor caved, and he went through into the basement.”

*

Carlos gets hurt on a call.

30 days of Tarlos - Day 18

Part Three of Firefighter Carlos! AU, Part One, Part Two

It’s eight pm on a Thursday, TK is rolling up the water hoses they used on their last call with Carlos’ help while the rest of the team details the truck as they try to guess what the letters of his name stand for. It’s become something of a game to the crew when they have downtime. His dad walked away as soon as the game started. He can never keep a straight face at all the ridiculous combinations his crew comes up with and instead headed to his office to do some paperwork.

“Thomas Kayden,” Paul shouts out from the top of the truck, rolling his eyes when he shakes his head.

“Tristan Kristopher,” Mateo points at him with a grin. “Christopher with a K, that feels very ‘city boy.’”

“Tanner,” Marjan starts, smirking at him when he makes a face. “Kingston.”

TK scowls at his friend, and then turns it on Carlos when he hears him snort quietly next to him. He tells his stomach to quit it with the butterflies it gets from Carlos’ beautiful unapologetic smile.

“No, Marjan,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes again. “My initials don’t stand for Tanner Kingston. Did you really have to pick the douchiest name ever?”

Marjan lifts a slim shoulder, shrugging as she sweeps the floor. “If you would just tell us, we’d stop.”

“Let me think about that,” he says, bringing a finger up to his face, tapping his cheek as he pretends to give the suggestion some serious thought. “Nope, I don’t think so. Request denied.”

TK grins as more than one of them scoffs or shakes their heads at him. Judd being the loudest.

“This is ridiculous,” the cowboy grumbles as he turns his sight on Carlos. “Reyes, what’s your boyfriend’s real name?”

Carlos looks up from the water hose, his eyes going wide as he finds them all staring at him. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “He hasn’t told me.”

“Please,” Judd scoffs again.

“I’m serious,” Carlos says standing up straight, he throws him an accusing look, and this time it’s his turn to smile at him unapologetically. “I have been trying to get it out of him for months now; he won’t tell me, and trust me, I have tried everything.”

“He has,” TK pipes in with a shameless grin. “And I have enjoyed every attempt he’s made.”

TK laughs at the team’s collective groan as they go back to work, he turns towards Carlos, his laughter turning into a soft chuckle as he spots the sweet pink blush on his face.

“Brat,” Carlos scolds him when he sees his grin. “Stay where you are.”

TK shakes his head, dropping the hose to close the small distance between them. He smiles as he places his hands on Carlos’ hips, and he lets him.

They’ve been dating for four months now, they told his dad and the team after their first date, surprising absolutely no one.

The team has been nothing but supportive, but it still took a while for Carlos to be completely comfortable with displays of affection in the workplace, the old habit of keeping this part of himself on the DL at his old station lingering. Now when TK places his hands on his hips, Carlos wraps his around his neck.

“That’s a cute blush you got there, baby,” he whispers teasingly, loving how it makes Carlos turn pinker.

“You are a brat,” Carlos repeats but doesn’t pull away. “You’re lucky you’re also adorable.”

“And hot,” he adds, laughing when Carlos rolls his eyes at him.

“And humble,” he retorts sarcastically.

“Mmhmm,” TK nods, pressing his lips into a firm line to keep from smiling like an idiot. It doesn’t help; he can’t not smile when he’s in the presence of his boyfriend.

Carlos shakes his head softly at him; the look he gives him is tender and fond. “Are you ever going to tell me what the letters stand for?” he asks curiously.

“Does it bother you that I haven’t yet?” TK asks, his brow creasing in the middle with sudden worry. He’s never really considered that it might upset Carlos not to know what his initials stand for. He’s been called TK for as long as he can remember, that sometimes even he forgets the letters stand for something. It’s only when he has to fill out a form and sees his name in full that he remembers with a roll of his eyes. It’s not that he hates his name, it’s just that it’s so pretentious that he can’t help but groan when he hears it out loud.

“No,” Carlos says, shaking his head again. The hands on his shoulders now give the back of his neck a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, I’m curious as hell, obviously, and you keeping it a secret makes me think it’s something hilarious like Thacker Kale.”

“Thacker?” he questions incredulously. “Kale?”

“Hey, the Captain loves kale,” Carlos argues. “He totally could have named you after it.”

TK opens his mouth to answer only for the alarms of the firehouse to go off over their heads.

“To be continued,” Carlos says with a half-smile as he lets go of him.

TK gives him a nod, before turning to get ready. It takes them minutes to get into their gear and into the truck, his father in the front speaks to them through their headsets.

“Alright, we got a two-story house fire,” he starts. “Neighbors called it in, said they heard screams from inside, from what they told dispatch it’s a family of five. Two adults and three kids, it’s after nine, we have to assume they’re all home.”

TK looks around the truck; the crew is quiet and serious as they do last minute checks on their gear. Everyone's expression turns more severe as they turn into the street; the flames in the house are high; they seem to lick the sky.

They jump out of the truck before it completely rolls to a stop, right behind them is Captain Blake and her EMTs.

TK watches as his father assesses the situation quickly before giving them a sharp nod.

“Okay, I want Reyes, Ryder, and Strickland to start making their way inside the house,” his father says looking at the three men in question, they all nod back to him before going for their axes. “Strand, Marwani, Chavez, you’re on the hoses. We need to start controlling this now.”

TK looks at the house, the smoke is getting darker by the second, never a good sign and he feels a moment of trepidation. As Carlos starts to walk by him, he grabs at his turnout coat tightly.

“Be careful,” he says quickly, swallowing hard. It’s not the first time he’s told Carlos this. Usually, one of them says it if the other is going in, and it’s always met with a cocky grin. TK can see the beginnings of it on Carlos’ lips, but he must read the fear in his face because instead of a smile, Carlos gives him a serious look.

“Of course, baby,” he says softly, he gives the hand holding his coat a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

TK nods, reluctantly letting go of him, getting to work himself. He, Marjan, and Mateo handle the hoses with his dad; he focuses on the flames that are blessedly diminishing and not on the fact that the rest of his team is still inside.

Over the radio, he hears them as they go through the house and starts to breathe easier as they bring out members of the family. Once Paul has gotten the last civilian out – the father, Michelle and her team already treating the rest of the family – his dad calls out for everyone to evacuate.

“Reyes, Ryder, time to pull out, we got all of them,” he speaks into the radio, it takes a moment for the receiver to static back.

“Roger that, Cap,” Judd's voice rings out through all their sets. “We’re – shit!”

“Judd, report,” Owen says sharply as they hear a crash, the house, now fire-free, creeks ominously.

“It’s Carlos, sir,” Judd gets out quickly, and TK feels an ice-cold fear run up his spine at the urgency he hears in his friend’s voice. “He was a step behind me, the floor caved, and he went through into the basement.”

TK is moving towards the house before Judd is even done explaining the situation; he’s halfway across the lawn when a hand comes down hard on his shoulder, holding him in place. He swirls around, ready to curse whoever is daring to stop him, only to find his father giving him an unshakeable look that tells him before his father even speaks that he’s not going to let him go in.

“Dad – “ he tries anyway, pleading, letting out something between a scream and a sob when his father shakes his head at him remorsefully.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, still shaking his head. “You’re too close, TK; it can’t be you.”

TK wants to argue, but he sees that his father is already nodding towards Paul and Mateo.

“Get him out,” he tells them, his voice cracking as his eyes sting. “Please.”

Mateo and Paul look at him, worried but resolved. “You got it, brother,” Paul says softly as they head back inside.

“I’m climbing down, Cap,” Judd’s voice comes through again.

Judd keeps his radio on as he works, and TK can hear every grunt and huff as he moves, for a moment, that, and Paul and Mateo reporting in is all they hear. Carlos’ radio is silent even as his father keeps trying to call him.

“I can see him,” Judd shouts, it’s followed by more heavy breathing before he speaks again. “Carlos, bud, come on man, I need you to open your eyes for me now.”

TK covers his mouth; it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from screaming. He feels someone behind him, and then a small hand on his shoulder, he knows it belongs to Marjan without turning around. Her hand on him is the only thing that keeps him up when he hears a low groan come through the radio.

“That’s it, man, keep your eyes open,” Judd speaks, and then another pained filled groan follows it.

“T – “

TK grabs his radio quickly, bringing it to his mouth. “Carlos, sweetheart, can you hear me?” he asks, his heart races as he waits for an answer.

“TK,” Carlos gets out, his voice rough from the pain. “It hurts.”

“I know, babe,” he sniffs, not being able to stop the tears now. “Paul and Mateo are coming; they’re going to help Judd get you out, just hold on.”

Carlos doesn’t answer right away, when he does, what he says strikes TK with fear. “Tired.”

“No, Carlos,” he growls. “Don’t go to sleep; stay awake.”

“T-tell me,” Carlos starts, it’s obviously a struggle for him to stay alert. “S-something.”

TK lets out a choked sob at his words; they remind him of when they first got together, of Carlos being there for him when he needed comfort and a distraction from his own pain.

“Tyler Kennedy,” he says into the radio, not caring that everyone is listening. “That’s what TK stands for.”

 ֍֍֍

 Waiting at the hospital is a nightmare, waiting for the man you love to wake up while in a hospital bed is hell on earth.

Paul, Judd, and Mateo had carried out an unconscious Carlos straight to Michelle and her team. TK had watched frozen as they worked on Carlos enough to get him conscious before they were speeding away in the ambulance.

It took everything to keep from climbing in with him, but he knew they still had a job to finish.

Now at the hospital, everyone lingers around the waiting room while he sits with Carlos waiting for him to wake up.

“Your mom and sisters are here,” he says softly. “I finally met Lola, she’s intense, and has decided she and I are going to be best friends and annoy you together. Be ready for that.”

He reaches out, touching Carlos’ face softly, making sure not to touch the bandage on his head. The doctors had run down the list of injuries, concussion, cracked ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The fall Carlos had taken was a rough one; the debris falling on him didn’t make it any better.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispers, squeezing his hand. “We’re all here.”

TK closes his eyes when his words are met with silence. Carlos is the quieter one of the two, while TK is the one with restless energy. Usually, it’s a calming force for TK as Carlos will listen until he tires himself out, now the quietness was driving him crazy.

“I love you,” he continues. “I know you know that, but I don’t say it nearly enough. I love you so much. I’m grateful every day that Judd recommended you to us. You walked into the 126 and became my teammate, my best friend, and the love of my life.”

He runs his fingertips down Carlos’ cheek, over his neck, and then lets it rest lightly over his heart, letting out a breath as he feels the steady beat.

“Can you open your eyes now for me, baby?” he asks pleadingly. “I told you my name, it’s not Thacker Kale, but it’s still ridiculous. I’m sure you have thoughts. I’ll let you make all the fun you want if you open those pretty brown eyes of yours for me right now,” he continues hopefully.

He lets his head drop on the bed next to Carlos’ hip when his request is again met with silence. He’s taking deep breaths to keep from crying when he feels a hand move over his hair.

“I think Tyler Kennedy is beautiful.”

TK lifts his head quickly, taking hold of the hand that is touching him as he finds Carlos looking at him with tired eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak only for a choked sob to come out, pressing his mouth into a firm line, he breathes deeply again until he can talk without breaking down.

“It’s pretentious,” he says shakily, as Carlos gives him a loving look.

“It’s beautiful,” Carlos repeats softly. “Just like you.”

TK lets out a wet laugh; he can’t stop the tears now as he stands to hover over Carlos.

“Hi,” he whispers with a watery smile on his face. “You scared me.”

“Hi,” Carlos whispers back, looking up at him remorsefully. “I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he assures him, leaning down he touches the tip of his nose against Carlos’. “Please try not to do it again though. It turns out that I love you more than anything in this world and don’t handle you getting hurt very well.”

Carlos closes his eyes as he smiles, a tear running down his face. “Okay, Tyler,” he whispers.

TK pulls back to look at him, pouting when Carlos grins. “I’m going to regret that.”

[super-unpredictable98]

Hard Candy (~Misfits AU~)

Chapter 2: The Secret Banksy Code

Warning: Strong language, sexual content, blood and gore (a little), death, mention of alcohol and drug use.

(Hand Candy Masterlist)

The next day I was up way before my alarm went off, so I kept trying to figure out my powers to kill time, still no luck... 

When I arrived at the community center, I spotted Nathan coming out, which was weird since it was still closed. He froze when he saw me watching as he jumped out of a window.

- Hey there - I smiled - wanna tell me what this is about?

- Would you believe me if I told you it was a burglary?

- No, not really...

- Well, I got drunk yesterday and didn't wanna go home and be lectured by my mum - he stretched, his shirt riding up, showing me his waist. I hate to admit how much that startled me.

- That is more believable.

Nathan gave me a grin, placing a cigarette between his lips, of course he used to be a smoker... We walked towards the others, everyone else was already waiting for Tony to arrive and analyzing the weird graffiti on the wall: "I'm going to kill you" in bold red letters.

- This is a joke, did one of you do this? - Curtis asked.

- Don't look at me, cuz I didn't do it - Kelly said.

- I'll tell you who did it - Nathan lit up his cigarette - it's that Banksy prick, there's a hidden meaning.

- And why would Banksy bring his pretentious arse to this Godforsaken town? - I chuckled.

- You don't know Banksy, you don't know what he's capable of - Nathan narrowed his eyes with a conspiratory tone - or maybe you do...

- Maybe someone wants to kill us - Simon looked a bit scared.

- Why would anybody want to kill us? - Kelly asked.

- Right, come on you lot, let's get changed - Tony arrived, looking much better than the day before.

- Have you seen this? - Curtis pointed at the wall - Someone's taking the piss...

- Yeah, it's terrible, isn't it? This anti-social behavior - Tony shook his head.

- Oh, is he havin’ a dig at us? - Nathan took a long drag.

Alisha's phone started ringing and Tony flipped the fuck out, I wasn't sure if that was due to the storm or just his general assholness. He took all of our phones for the day like we were a bunch of little children in school. 

I'm pretty sure he wasn't allowed to do this, but I wasn't gonna argue with him, especially not after the storm, knowing what was about to come. I just prayed none of my students decided to call or text me about something important.

In the locker room, I stuffed my backpack in my locker and shed my clothes to slip into my uniform. I nearly jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder, behind me Nathan only had half of his jumpsuit on, the top of it hanging behind him.

- I was only jokin’ yesterday about your nipples gettin’ hard when I'm around, but look at that... - He stared at my chest right before I finished zipping up.

- Someone thinks highly of themselves... - I teased.

- Look, it's not my fault your body reacts to me like that.

- Those are my piercings, you twat - I laughed, throwing my head back.

- Piercings... - Nathan's face shifted with glee - I'm not being funny, but I don't believe you, mind if I take a look?

- Ha - I slammed my locker shut, turning around - you'll need to work harder than this.

- You little tease... - He leaned over me - Alright, I'm willin’ to work for it. 

Is he serious or Is he just winding me up? With Nathan you never know, that charmer... I grabbed a bucket and followed the others outside to take care of that graffiti. 

- You know, after the storm did any of yous feel like dead weird? - Kelly stopped  scrubbing and looked at me.

- Yeah, I had a strange tinglin’ sensation in my anus - Nathan said.

- Was there a cock inside of it? - I snickered.

Nathan simply stuck his tongue out at me and went back to scrubbing.

- What? Did you feel weird? - Kelly turned to Simon.

- You don't wanna hear about my anus? - Nathan sounded almost offended.

- Do you really need to ask the question? - Curtis huffed. 

- Something happened - Simon finally mumbled.

- What's that? Squeak up... - Nathan encouraged.

- Something happened to me - Simon continued.

- Are you a virgin? High fi...

- Shut up! - Kelly shouted and he retreated - What was it?

- It's nothing - Simon looked like a deer in the headlights.

I felt bad for Kel, she was probably struggling with her new power, it must be  horrible to be forced to hear that shit all day... I was brought back to reality when Kelly shoved Nathan out of the blue. 

He stumbled over the bucket behind him, splashing water everywhere, and nearly fell on his ass, but luckily I held him in time. 

- What was that for? - He whined.

- What were you thinking about? - I asked, knowing there was probably something stupid going through his brain.

- What does that mean?

- Nothing - I shook my head - are you ok?

- No, I feel weak! - He threw himself even more in my arms - There's only one thing that can make me feel better right now... 

- And what's that? - I giggled.

- Seein’ a pair of pierced nipples, d’you know any girls who might have them? 

- Oh, piss off... - I pushed him slightly.

After we were done cleaning, none of us was able to find Tony (or Kelly, who stormed off right after pushing Nathan) to ask what we were supposed to do next, so we just went inside and wandered around for a bit.

I nearly lost it when I found a room filled with musical instruments. Given they were pretty beaten up, there was some seriously cool stuff in there. I went straight for the beautiful guitar hanging on the wall, it was completely out of tune, but I could fix that in a second.

When I came out to find the others and show them, I was surprised by a very interesting conversation the boys were having next to the table football:

- Whatever, couple o’Bacardi Breezers, man, I reckon she'll be good to go - Nathan said - sounds like the girl for you, weird kid.

- So you get Lydia then - Curtis laughed.

- Exactly, I’ve been wantin’ to find out how many licks does it take t’get to the center of that Lollipop... - Nathan waggled his brows with a grunt.

- Alright, do the girls have a say in this? 

- A group of young people doin’ mindless shit all day... Face it, man, it's gonna happen, it always does! It's biology or physics, one o’those. So do we have a deal, gentlemen?

- I can't believe my ears - I shook my head with a smirk.

All three boys turned around, Simon and Curtis seemed mortified, Nathan just smiled and bit his lip. 

- I-I-I wasn't gonna take the deal - Curtis stuttered.

- Me neither - Simon agreed.

- You're not even gonna pretend to be embarrassed? - I looked at Nathan.

- Why would I be? - He shrugged - Just tryin’ to make a nice arrangement for  everyone. Are you not happy with the pairing?

- Smug bastard... 

- That wasn't a no - His grin widened.

- Well, what I came here to ask in the first place is if any of you play any instruments, I just found this room full of them over there.

- I play the spoons - Nathan raised his hand.

- The spoons? - Curtis looked at him confused - Like the ones we eat with?

- Yes, I've learned it in school - he said.

- How the fuck do you play a spoon? 

- Find me a couple and I'll show you.

- I was expecting something more on the realm of piano, drums, bass... - I said - But I guess it works.

I sat down on a couch where Alisha was and slowly started tuning the guitar. Nathan was beating the vending machine like it owed him money, trying to get a Coke. Once he succeeded, he sat down on a wheelchair that was laying around. Curtis and Simon were bringing back the buckets and cleaning supplies. 

Alisha and Nathan took it upon themselves to give Curtis grief for being caught with the drugs, I don't know why they decided to pick on him out of all the people, but Curtis wasn't happy about it. Lisha then decided to tell the story of the night she was arrested.

I didn't hear much of it, since I was too focused on the guitar and getting it to sound perfect. I nearly popped one of the strings when Kelly came through the door, falling on her face.

- He's gonna kill us! - Kelly screamed.

- Nice entrance, very dramatic! - Nathan clapped.

- The probation worker’s gone mental, he just attacked me! Something really weird is happenin’! I'm hearin’ these voices, it's like I can hear what people are thinkin’. 

- Have you been sniffing glue? - Alisha mocked.

- The storm, the lightning! I don't know, it's done somethin’ to us! - Kelly was  very nervous.

- Ok, if you can hear our thoughts, what am I thinkin’ now? - Nathan squinted with disbelief.

- You think it's bullshit - Kelly said.

- Of course I think it's bullshit, you don't need to be a mind reader to know that!

- Why are you in a wheelchair?

- It was the storm - Nathan cried - the weird tinglin’ sensation in my anus has spread through my body and now I can't feel my legs.

- I'm serious! - Kelly kicked him in the shin.

- Guys, I think she's telling the truth - I put the guitar to the side and got up.

- What do you even mean the probation worker attacked you? - Curtis asked.

- He's out there and chased me! - Kelly shouted.

- Something happened to me too - Simon admitted. 

- Did you pop your cherry? - Nathan took another sip of his drink - Ah, we're all very happy for you! 

- Earlier on when we were in the locker room - Simon ignored Nathan, which is always a good strategy if you ask me - I turned invisible.

- So, she's psychic and you can turn invisible? - Curtis snickered - That seems likely...

- Did anyone witness this miraculous disappearance? - Nathan asked sarcastically.

- You were all there - Simon said.

- I think we would've noticed you vanishing into thin air - Alisha rolled her eyes.

- You didn't - Simon looked around - I was standing right there, you couldn't see me.

- Alright - Nathan wheeled closer to Simon - go on then, do it... Turn invisible.

Simon concentrated for a few seconds, trying to make it happen, I tried very hard to keep a straight face, poor Si...

- Oh my God! He's disappeared! - Nathan gasped.

- Can't you see me? - Simon believed it...

- No - Nathan threw his empty can at him - you're invisible! You two are hilarious, keep takin’ that medication.

- Guys, I think we should listen - I urged them - really, this seems serious.

- I can't believe you're buyin’ this load o’crap - Nathan turned to me as he wheeled towards the door - you seemed smarter than this, Lyds.

- I feel it, Nathan, I know something’s wrong!

- Don't go out there, he will kill ya! - Kelly held him by the shoulders.

- Of course he will, cause he's such a bad...

- Don't! - Kelly screamed.

- She's telling the truth - Curtis suddenly interrupted.

- And you know this how? - Nathan asked - I suppose you're a psychic too?

- All this... - Curtis was panting - It's already happened once. I opened the door,  the probation worker killed you. You were right there, you were dead and everything froze, then time went backwards.

- You're saying you turned back time? - Alisha sighed.

- This just gets better by the second - Nathan got up.

- Everything happened again, exactly the same! - Curtis warned - I'm telling you, don't open that door.

Nathan didn't listen, he opened the door only to close it again a second later and lock it, his face was taken by fear. 

- He's right - he gasped - the probation worker's gone mental.

We started hearing banging on the door and Nathan screamed, running away from it. The silhouette of that monster on the glass made my stomach drop. We all stood together in the middle of the room, too scared to stand alone.

- Maybe he's on crystal meth, that stuff makes you crazy - Alisha said - my friend did it once and she almost shagged her brother and he's really ugly...

- Oh, so that's the issue with that situation... - I scoffed - He's clearly possessed by something.

- The graffiti - Simon looked at me - he wrote it!

- I said there was a hidden meaning - Nathan moaned - or not...

- Did something happen to the two of you? - Kelly turned to me and Alisha.

- Not yet - I said.

- No - Alisha shook her head - we should call the police.

- He has our phones - Simon said.

- He stopped - Curtis pointed out, it was the calm before the storm (no pun intended).

- Why the fuck did you come here? You should've gone for help - Alisha yelled.

- What do you know, bitch? - Kelly yelled back.

- Shut up, you chav...

- If you call me a chav one more time, I'll kick you so hard in the cunt your mum will feel it!

- Her mum will feel it? How does that work? - Nathan asked.

- Shit, don't make me laugh now! - I pushed his shoulder, covering my mouth.

- He tried t’kill me - Kelly turned to us - I came here to warn yous lot, I could've left ya. I'm sick of you all judgin’ me, you can fuck off!

- Kelly - I tilted my head - come on, it's not like that.

- Whatever, I'm getting out of here - Alisha headed the other way.

- Yeah, out the back, c’mon! - Nathan held my hand, pulling me with him. 

What happened next all fit in one second: Nathan slipped on something wet on the floor and was about to fall and pull me with him. I closed my eyes waiting for the shock, but there was none.

- Shit! - Nathan's voice made me open my eyes.

We were both floating slightly above the floor, inside of a thin blue-ish glowing bubble. My mouth fell open with excitement.

- Am I doing this? - I asked.

- I think so - Nathan gaped.

- You can make force fields... - Simon was amazed.

I took a deep breath and suddenly the bubble was gone and we landed softly on  the blood-covered floor.

- Is this blood? - I looked at our red-covered hands.

- Oh Fuck! - Nathan got up - Jesus Christ! Get it off of me!

He started frenetically wiping his hands on his overalls while gagging, I simply wrinkled my nose from the smell of iron.

- It's from the locker - I pointed.

We all stared at it for a while until Curtis walked up to open the door. By the looks of it, I knew who was inside...

- Oh shit, it's the other kid - I winced.

- I did wonder what happened to him - Nathan hid behind me, very heroic I might add.

- He's gonna kill us - Alisha cried.

- Turn back time, stop this happenin’ - Nathan suggested as if that was the greatest idea ever.

- I don't know how it works! - Curtis replied.

- Oh great! Very useful! 

- Stop it, Nathan! - I scolded - You're just making it worse.

- Don't look at him - Curtis said right before trying to hold Alisha's hand and losing it completely - I gotta have sex with you right now! You're so beautiful...

- Shit! - I pulled Curtis away - Let go of her! 

- What? - He looked at me and then at Alisha - What did I do?

- When you touch her, you go crazy and start saying creepy shit - I explained,  hoping it would stop that from happening again - I think she can make people wanna shag her.

- You were gettin’ your chap out - Nathan chuckled.

- Shut up... - Curtis turned around.

Alisha looked down at her own hands and slowly reached to touch me and Simon at the same time. When I felt her warm skin around my neck it was like a blast of electricity going through my body, I couldn't see or hear anything, it was like I had no control over my actions.

- What is happening to me? 

I heard Alisha scream when she let go and I started to recover my senses. 

- You sick bastard... - Nathan looked at Simon and then at me - And you! You're way freakier than I thought.

- What did I say? - I was turning red from embarrassment.

- I don't even think I have the nerve to repeat it - Nathan smiled in admiration.

Next thing I know something bursts through the door, it was Tony, he had a big metal pipe and a terrifying look on his face. Kelly grabbed a can of paint and used it to hit him in the head.

- Thanks - Nathan smiled at me and I noticed there was another glowing bubble  surrounding the both of us and Simon, who was standing next to me.

- Oh - I shook my head and the bubble disappeared.  

Tony was on the floor with the back of his head open, we stared at him for a few seconds.

- What did you do? - Nathan looked at Kelly.

- Is he dead? - Alisha asked.

- I'm no doctor, but... - Nathan whimpered - Y’see the way the back of his head is caved in like that?

Seems like he wasn't dead after all, because Tony tried to grab Kelly's leg, we all screamed as we watched her smashing his head with her free foot, the noises made me almost gag.

- That should do it - Nathan was holding onto his hair. 

- You killed our probation worker - Alisha was agape.

- This is very, very bad... - Nathan's voice was breaking.

- No shit, Sherlock! - I probably sounded harsher than I intended.

- He would've killed us - Kelly tried to justify.

- We should call the police, it was self-defense - Curtis said.

- Yeah, we show them the dead boy in the locker, they do some CSI shit and figure it out - Alisha agreed.

- That's not gonna work - I shook my head - they won't believe us.

- We just tell them the truth! Stick to our story - Curtis pleaded.

- What's that story? He can turn invisible, she can make force fields and you rewind time? - Kelly yelled - Doesn't matter what we tell them, they'll say we're lying. They're gonna say we killed them both! No one's gonna believe you, not anymore!

- If there's no body, there's no crime - Simon mumbled - we should bury them under the flyover.

- How do we do that? Someone's gonna see us - Alisha asked.

- No! We put them in those wheelchairs, we wheel them up there - Nathan said enthusiastically - and if anyone sees us, we're just a bunch of young offenders takin’ a couple o’specials for a walk in the sunshine...

And that's exactly what we did, it was harder than I thought it would be, especially carrying the dead bodies to the chairs and cleaning the mess, but nobody seemed to care when they saw us, it was the perfect cover. 

Digging the hole was another pain in the ass, but I guess it was a good work out for all of us. When we were finally done, we dumped them both in the hole and started shoveling the dirt back in.

- I'm pretty sure this breaches the terms o’my ASBO - Nathan looked at the scene with one hand on his hip.

- We don't tell anyone about this, yeah? - Kelly said - About the storm, the powers, or anythin’.

- We're buryin’ out probation worker, we don't need to be drawin’ any attention to ourselves - Nathan agreed.

- I don't want anyone to know, I cannot be a freak - Alisha seemed to have her priorities sorted...

- What about you? - Kelly pointed at Curtis, who just stared at her with doubt.

- There's no goin’ back now, man - Nathan said - you're just as screwed as the rest of us, you're black and famous, you're probably more screwed!

- I shouldn't even be here... - Curtis replied angrily.

- Hey, can we talk about how you said you wanted to piss on her tits? - Nathan looked at Simon - probably best to keep that kind o’thing between you and your internet service provider.

- What did I say, Nathan? - I was scared of the answer.

- You said you wanted her to tie you up and drip hot wax all over ya - he raised his eyebrows.

- Ah, that's not bad - I felt relieved.

- Not bad? Jesus, you really are a sexual deviant! - Nathan cackled.

- Can you stop? - Kelly looked at Nathan - Stop thinkin’ of that, that's gross.

- Sorry, mate, Lydia just fueled my imagination quite a bit - he looked me up and down.

- Well, knock it off! - Kelly grunted.

- Hold on, all of you have some kind o’special power. Everyone can do somethin’ except me... Weird kid can do somethin’! He can do somethin’ and I can't! - Nathan ranted - That's ridiculous, look at him! Really, how does that make any sense? 

- Maybe you can do something, you just haven't found out what it is yet - Simon said.

- Yeah... Right - he smiled - what if I can't feel pain?

Kelly slapped him and I laughed, he did deserve that one.

- Did you feel that? - She asked. 

- Stop hittin’ me! - He hissed. 

- Trust me, I think your power will be awesome - I huffed a laugh.

Out of all of them, Nathan's was my favorite power. Reality-warping was quite fascinating, back in the future he used to create a whole starry sky for me to spot constellations, and sometimes when I was upset he would make fireworks with his fingertips. Marnie once mentioned he had another power as well, but I think it was a load of bollocks, cause I've never seen it.

That night I wasn't able to sleep, I guess I didn't take into consideration how disturbing this whole scenario was before inserting myself into it. I didn't regret it, but I wish I was more prepared. 

In the morning I dragged myself to the community center, and changed into my uniform, my eyes nearly closing, when I felt a pair of freakishly long arms wrapping around my waist.

- Hey, Lollipop - Nathan rested his chin on my shoulder - someone's tired.

- And what gave that away? - I yawned.

- I spent all night thinkin’ about what you thought you said to Alisha that made you so scared...

- And did you come to any conclusions?

- A few, but I'd rather you just show me.

- Maybe one day...

- How about right now? I bet I can shag the sleepy out o’you.

- Stop screwing around, the new probation worker is here - I chuckled.

- So you're sayin’ that's the only thing stoppin’ us from shaggin’ right now?

- Shut up...

The new probation worker, Sally, looked like a Tim Burton character, she didn't  seem threatening at all and that's what freaked me out, I think I've heard enough of their stories to know when something looked harmless, it was anything but.

- Gary and my colleague Tony have both been reported missing, the families are very worried about them - she said - have you seen anything unusual? Anything at all?

Nathan discreetly raised his hand and I looked at him worried, what the fuck was he thinking?

- A few days ago, I go into the toilets - Nathan was dead serious - Tony and Gary were in there, they're butt naked, Tony has Gary by his hair, and he's just doin’ him... Doggy style.

What followed was a very disturbing reenactment of the events, we all stared at Nathan as he carried that uncomfortably long demonstration. I have no clue how no one laughed, that was probably the funniest shit I've ever seen in my life, but again... I was also very sleep-deprived, so that might be part of it.

- So I'm guessin’ they ran away to continue their illicit homosexual affair - Nathan continued - and I ask you, in this world of intolerance and prejudice, who are we to condemn them?

Sally simply shook her head and left the room, the silence was only broken when I started cackling uncontrollably. I had no idea what the fuck was that, but it was just brilliant. Nathan had the biggest smile on his face, like a little boy opening Christmas gifts.

- Well, I think we got away with it - Nathan said.

- Do you actually believe that or are you just really dumb? - Curtis rolled his eyes.

- I actually believe that! I've been thinkin’, though... I was there too, I should have one o’these bullshit powers.

- You can have mine - Kelly said - wanna hear what people are thinkin’ about you?

- Not so much, I want somethin’ from the A-List - Nathan lit up a cigarette and took a long drag - like Lyds, her power is badass.

- So what happens now? Are we gonna be like this forever? - Curtis asked.

- What if we're meant to be like... Superheroes - Simon suggested.

- You lot, superheroes? No offense, but in what kind of fucked up world would that be allowed to happen? - Nathan mocked - Superheroes, I love this guy, you prick!

- Hey, quit being an arse - I snapped my fingers in front of him.

- What if there's loads of people like us all over town? - Kelly wondered.

- No - Nathan dismissed - that kind o’thing only happens in America. This will fade away...

Oh, Nathan... How I wish you were right.

[herradhighpriestess]

Deliberate Exchange

Summary: Elka Green is at work the morning the Exchange. She is one of the hostages pulled onto the motorcycles and not released. Elka is married to a conservative judge, in a loveless marriage, there's all sorts of drugs, sex and violence and political references/quotes that could offend, I hope you enjoy, xoxo I don't own any of these characters etc.

Chapter One: A Personal Note

Elka Green climbed the steps of the Exchange building, her eighteen hundred-dollar Gucci heels sounded in staccato clicks on the pitted and well traversed steps of the Exchange.

She tossed her hair back and adjusted the silk scarf that was loosely wrapped around her slim neck. Elka’s dark blonde hair fell long past her shoulders.

A sharp breeze blew in her direction, and a single tendril of her macadamia nut oiled hair caught in the loose knot of her scarf. As the wind died down, the single strand of warm blonde hair pulled free of her scalp and settled in the silken valleys of the designer fabric.

Elka paused at the top of the steps when she heard someone call her name.

“Elka, hey Elka!”

She forced her lips into a welcoming smile as Jerry Reynolds jogged over to her.

“Hey Elka, how was your weekend?”

“Good morning Jerry, it was pleasant. Thank you for asking.”

Jerry ran a manicured hand through his seventy-five-dollar haircut. Elka started walking again and kept her matte lipstick smile fixed in place as she headed in the direction of an organic coffee cart.

Jerry kept pace and prattled on about his weekend, completely oblivious to Elka’s disinterest. She struggled to not roll her eyes as Jerry rattled off story after adventure about his wild weekend.

Elka’s smile turned genuine when Albert Phinney pressed a white lid on a recycled paper cup and passed it to her as she walked up. “Good morning Mrs. Green, I hope your weekend was well,” he added as she accepted the hot cup from his hands.

Albert watched her intently as she took a sip of the steaming soy concoction. She smiled warmly when the sweet espresso flooded her mouth and coated her taste buds.

“Today, it’s a soy hazelnut macchiato with a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg.”

Elka took another sip as Albert whispered that he had added some light agave syrup. Monday through Friday, Albert made Elka a mystery espresso. It was a tradition that had started more than seven years prior and showed no signs of stopping unless one of them ceased to live.

It had been Elka’s first day at the Exchange, she had started on the lowest part of the totem, barely clinging to its wooden splinters. She had been obscenely early for her first day, not many people had been around. Albert had been brewing coffee and unwrapping and arranging sweet pastries and Bavarian cream filled delicacies onto plastic platters.

Elka had straightened the stiff collar of her stark white blouse and pinstriped blazer as she approached Albert’s coffee cart. He had offered her a warm smile and didn’t tell her that he wasn’t quite set up for business yet when he saw her nerves peeking out from behind her statuesque and stoic facade.

Elka stood a little over 5’8 and in her Jimmy’s, she came in just a hair under six feet. Albert’s smile broadened when Elka couldn’t decide on a coffee and held up a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand to pause her indecisive litany.

“Allow me to make you a drink not on the menu,” he had whispered in a low conspiratorial tone and bustled about steaming soy milk and adding an amber colored sweet syrup.

Elka had smiled gratefully and accepted that first drink which started the long-running weekly tradition of Albert creating her morning coffee. She always abstained from one of the tempting and delicious looking buttery pastries. Every great once in a while, Albert would top one of her morning espressos with whipped cream and fat light-brown raw sugar crystals.

Elka put a few dollars in the battered paper tip cup and headed to the large revolving doors of the Exchange with Jerry hot on her highfalutin shiny, leather heels.

Elka breathed a sigh of relief when Jerry said he’d catch up with her later and hopped into an already packed elevator to head to the bustling seventh floor. She casually waved at him and continued in her preferred solitary fashion of the carpeted floor of the Exchange.

She sipped at her macchiato and reveled in the sweet coffee as she readied her mind for the day.

Elka was Mrs. Elka Alsina Green. Married just under four years to Justice Calvin Patrick Green of the Supreme Court.

They had met when Elka had been a key witness in a defense case against a legal firm CEO caught up in a masterful Ponzi Scheme. Judge Green had waited until the verdict had come in and had slammed his gavel down before asking her out for dinner.

In their short marriage, Elka’s bullish behavior and competitive drive led to her being promoted to her current position of an Information Systems Analyst Supervisor. Her intense focus at the Exchange led to people loving or hating her, unfortunately Jerry was head over heels for her, smitten beyond belief, despite Elka’s multiple reminders of her marriage.

She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings by adding that she held zero attraction towards him.

Elka swirled the coffee in the dull green paper cup as she stalked through the Exchange and paused to say hello or offer a few passing words to several colleagues. After she finished the coffee, she fished a pack of gum from her burgundy Louis Vuitton bag. Soon the sweet and artificial peppermint coated her tongue and chased away her coffee breath.

Elka adjusted the shiny plastic badge over her heart as a familiar and delightful nervous energy filled her body, leaving a vast tingling in its wake that danced through her limbs as she waited for the opening bell to ring.

As Elka’s heartbeat increased and she snapped her gum faster, Jerry had remained at the Exchange entrance and looked down at the older man running a stiff bristled brush over the tops of his shoes.

Jerry could nearly see his reflection in the buffed surface of his shoes.

“You can’t short the stock because Bruce Wayne goes to a party,” Jerry said loudly to the man sitting next to him. The man whose name Elka couldn’t seem to remember. Dennis.

“Wayne coming back is change. Change is either good or bad. I vote bad.” The man who Jerry was looking down upon in his current sitting position as well as in life was a very loyal man with five grown daughters. Esau pretended to be every part the simple-minded man who was shining the shoes of the pretentious, all in hopes for a few crisp bills and shiny coins to rain down around him.

Esau continued to work the brush over the tops of Jerry’s gleaming shoes, urging a glow to swim to the surface. As Jerry and Dennis continued to discuss Bruce Wayne, Esau let his eyes wander over to his black nondescript backpack which held a loaded automatic weapon.

“On what basis?” Dennis asked.

“I flipped a coin,” Jerry answered casually before adding. “Come on let’s go scalping,” he said as he tossed a fresh five-dollar bill to land next to Esau‘s leg.

Esau watched Jerry adjust and smooth down his royal purple tie that stood out proudly against his bright blue and white striped shirt.

While Elka covered a deep yawn, Scott Carthwright pulled a creased ten dollar bill out of his pocket when the delivery guy from Antonio’s, a stellar delicatessen, walked up with a brown paper bag.

Scott opened the bag and pulled out the parchment wrapped sandwich that was supposed to be a mortadella on wheat with a fat pile of pungent pepperoncini and thick rings of Vidalia onion. He was looking forward to the olive oil and balsamic dressing that would soak the bread and impregnate it with the progeny of sweet, bitter, spicy, and savory. Scott let out a dramatic exasperated sigh and looked at the delivery guy who sported sharp features and a hooked nose. “It says rye, I said no rye man.”

The salt and pepper haired delivery man, Joshua, flicked his eyes over to the clock before his gaze landed on Scott’s plastic badge and ID number, G13689.

While Scott continued to bitch about his sandwich, on the marble landing of the carved staircase, Karl pushed a wooden handled mop along the floor after a pair of traders walked past. His beige monochromatic clothing made him almost disappear in the sea of ostentatious bustling busybodies with their platinum money clips, excessive caffeine consumption and high blood pressure.

Karl glanced down at his sunny yellow mop bucket filled with sudsy water.

Submerged in the soapy water was a matching automatic weapon to Esau’s, which laid in deadly dormancy, waiting to take lives.

Elka glanced up at the large clock and made her way to her glass-walled corner office, which was sprawling and spacious, she smiled at the fresh peonies her secretary Janice had left on the corner of her desk.

No sooner had Elka taken her seat and booted up her computer, when her life changed irreparably by a masked man in a leather jacket.

The metal detectors began to blare their alarms as Bane walked into the lobby of the Exchange, armed guards milled about with their federally issued .40 caliber handguns.

Bane’s broad shoulders were encased in a well-worn and creased leather jacket. DCS Downtown Courier Service, was emblazoned across the back in dull brick red letters.

Bane’s thick and heavily corded muscular neck and body were obscured by the fire engine red helmet that drew the attention of Sandra, a full-time member of the Exchange’s security team.

Sandra approached Bane and began to recite her repetitive litany for newcomers to the Exchange.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and she struggled to not roll her eyes in irritation at yet another person not being able to read the sign that clearly stated to remove all headwear, from hat to motorcycle helmet.

“Hey rookie, lose the helmet. We need faces for camera.”

“Come on,” Sandra managed before the red helmet was off Bane’s head and smashing into her face. The bridge of her nose exploded, and she saw bright blue stars before losing consciousness.

She would awake in a narrow emergency room gurney a while later, a plastic IV line in one arm, keeping the pain down to a dull roar.

In a brutal display of startling power, Bane moved to the right and swung the helmet in an arc, catching another guard in his forward momentum. He dodged left and avoided the next man’s reaching arm and gun. Bane slipped around the man’s extended arm and forced him to discharge his weapon before dropping him to the ground.

Bane looked around at the fallen guards, his veins and arteries swelled and became engorged with lethal toxicity. His body moved with the feral grace of felines stalking in the tall brush of the Serengeti.

“This is a stock exchange, there’s no money you can steal,” Jerry said in a tone that still held the repugnant tone of his obnoxious silver-spooned upbringing.

“Really? Then why are you people here?” Bane rebutted quickly and pulled Jerry roughly by the neck to a nearby desk. Bane slammed Jerry’s soft featured face onto the desk’s paper cluttered surface and ripped the plastic access badge from his chest.

Dennis tried to sink into his seat and disappear off of Bane’s radar, his sweating fingers struggled to not drop Bane’s red motorcycle helmet onto the ground. He felt like he was going to piss his pants, sphincter tightening. His stomach threatened to reject his liquid latte breakfast, acidic bile burned at the back of his throat.

While the metal detectors continued to blare their alarms as the masked group of men stormed the lobby. The masked men were all heavily armed and swarmed the offices and took up post by the elevators.

One of the men sprayed a line of bullets in the ceiling and the abrupt gunfire quieted a lot of screams.

Another anonymous man lifted a bullhorn to his masked mouth and began to speak. His voice reverberated through the lobby and reached Elka’s ears as she crawled under her desk and hugged her knees to her chest, through the glass walls, Elka could see that Janice had taken the same position under her own desk.

“Disobedience will be punished by death,” the masked man began and in a brutal display of startling power, grabbed one of the crying interns who was wailing incessantly and pulled her to her feet. He swung the bullhorn in an arc, catching the crying woman in mid-sob and knocking her unconscious to the floor.

“Cooperation and silence are what will allow you to retain your life.” Elka peeked around the corner of her desk as the masked man looked around at the people shaking in fear, the veins and arteries in his muscular neck swelled and became engorged with lethal toxicity. His body moved with the feral grace of felines stalking their unsuspecting prey in the tall brush.

Elka ducked back under her desk as the man’s gaze took to sweeping across the faces of the scared men and women standing in trembling huddles. They were corralled by their own fear, nearly paralyzed with the thought that the next bullet fired was going to kiss them between their shoulder blades.

Elka took a sharp intake of breath and nearly felt the weight of the masked terrorist’s eyes pass over where she was hidden from view. She flinched when she heard his voice grow in volume as he moved down the hallway, his men had spread out and were dragging people from their offices and impromptu hiding spots.

Elka pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply through her nose, she tried to remember all the jargon her yoga instructor spouted about finding a place of calm and being able to breathe away anxiety. She closed her eyes; her heartbeat was pounding in her ears with a dull roar and she couldn’t shake the image of the masked man. A short film on perpetual repeat, danced behind her eyelids of his predatory stalking around the Exchange floor, his eyes found every weakness among the hostage masses, from their red blood cells to their very warm, wet core.

Elka risked another peek around her desk just as the armed man did another visual sweep. His eyes landed on Elka when her face appeared around the mahogany desk. Elka found herself unable to move, trapped under his warm caramel colored eyes.

As the dangerous man approached her with light footfalls despite his heavy boots, he watched her expression fill with fear. He smiled behind his mask as he closed the distance between them, walking towards her with deliberate and painful slowness.

He stopped in front of her, “stand up,” he ordered and pointed to the floor in front of him. He watched her struggle to stand and found he barely had to drop his eyes to return her wide-eyed stare. His eyes fell to her plastic badge indicating her supervisorial capacity.

The next few moments were a blur for Elka, she was startled back to reality by the feel of his massive hand enclose around her bicep.

From the closeness of his proximity, his voice caused her stomach to clench and her mouth went dry.

“How much longer does the program need?” the intricate metal asked man asked Esau, with his eyes completely trained on Elka and the rapid and rise and fall of her chest.

“Eight minutes but they cut the fiber, cells working,” Esau said as he watched the progress of the computer program weave its way into the monetary network.

She flinched when she heard his voice call again to the man that had until not too long ago, shining shoes.

“Time to go mobile,” sounded the masked man’s musically toned voice as he closed a large hand around her upper arm. From the closeness of his proximity, his voice caused her stomach to clench and her mouth went dry.

The next few moments were a blur for Elka, she was startled back to reality by the feel of his massive hand yank her around by her bicep.

Elka heard the shouting of the masked man’s counterparts and fresh gunfire erupted as she was pulled towards the exit doors of the Exchange.

“Everybody up!” a deep male voice shouted and was followed up by a spray of bullets. Some hit yielding flesh with a meaty smack.

“You two, move.”

Bane paused in front of Dennis and pulled at the red helmet that he was clutching like newborn stock options.

“Thank you,” Bane said in a haunting and melodic tone as he pulled the helmet from Dennis’s sweating hands.

Elka seemed to wake up as the physically imposing man pulled her towards a line of waiting motorcycles.

She began a futile attempt to pull free of his grasp.

He didn’t audibly respond to her feeble attempt at resistance, instead he tightened his grip until he forced a hiss of pain from her lips and yanked her towards the closest bike.

Bane didn’t relinquish his stranglehold on Elka’s arm, even as he swung his leg over the bike and settled on the padded seat. He spared a glance at Elka before he pulled her to perch in front of him.

Her fears were renewed when he started the bike’s engine and began to let it idle as the other men with him gathered the remaining hostages at the exit doors and got on the bikes as they gunned the engines to life.

Outside, SWAT and police milled about and argued about the best approach to the terrorists.

Foley and Blake had their firearms leveled at the Exchange as one of the rooftop snipers squinted and called out. “I’ve got something.”

“Steady….” Foley called.

“Steady.”

The hostages started down the steps of the Exchange and the security chief shouted over the growing Gotham Police Department’s adrenaline buzz.

“Hold your fire, they’ve got hostages.”

In the midst of the shouting, Elka tried to slide out of Bane’s grasp, she almost squealed with victory when the toe of her shoe hit the ground. Her joy was fleeting as Bane wrapped a powerful arm around her and pulled her back until she was flush against his chest. She was forced to shift her body until the smooth, metal gas tank was cool against the inside of her trembling thighs.

As Bane and his men tore through the city on their motorcycles, they dropped their hostages one at a time.

The police force erupted in chaos and officers tried left and right for a clean shot at any and all of the terrorists, while trying desperately to avoid the innocents.

Some of the unlucky guys and gals landed poorly and Gotham’s emergency room had a slew of broken wrists and ankles to grit-filled road rash.

The original objective had been to take temporary hostages in order to ensure a safe escape from the Exchange.

As Bane urged the bike’s speedometer higher, Elka squeezed her eyes shut.

Bane kept his grip on her strong and unyielding, through the razor thin vents of his mask, he could detect the sensual aroma of a high-end parfum, sold only in overpriced blue glass bottles.

The fragrance held the sweet and citrus undertones of rosehips and bergamot.

Bane inhaled a lungful of the subtle fragrance as he continued to maneuver the motorcycle through the city.

As he steered them further from the Exchange, Elka began to fall still under her body’s shock response.

“Where are you taking me?”

Bane was genuinely surprised when Elka’s voice sounded above the wind rushing past them. He responded immediately and without delay as soon as her last spoken syllable had tumbled from her lips.

His single word response caused her vocal cords to temporarily cease to function.

“Home.”

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: It’s all for show, I tell myself. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

Rating: T/M

CW: Very mild cursing. Zero explicit content but there is a fun little tease. It’s all very soft focus, though. Also, at the end, a brief flashback of Jude’s backstory in this fic which might be triggering for some. I’ve marked the start of her trigger with a ~~~ in case you want to avoid.

Part I    |    Part III    |    WAMH Masterlist    |    AO3    |    Fic Masterlist

Part II- Simmer

Unfortunately Attractive Dude leads me around the counter like he owns the place. If a stranger leading me into a back room is not alarming enough, the mirthful bound in his step makes me all the more suspicious.

I glare very hard at the back of his head and hope he feels it.

“Liliver,” the man says to the white-haired barista as we pass behind her, “Another hot chocolate and one large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go. And make it snappy, we’ve got places to be.”

Liliver throws a sneer over her shoulder. “I’d make it much snappier if you said the magic words.”

“Oh, Liliver. Magic isn’t real,” he croons, “And we both know I’m above begging.”

Liliver looks like she’s considering punching him in the face. If it came down to it, I know I’m not above begging for that. Or cheering. Or joining in.

“Whip?” the man says.

I blink. It takes me a second to realise he’s speaking to me. “Huh?”

A wicked smirk settles on his mouth. “Do you want whip?”

I scrunch my nose.

“No whip,” he says to Liliver, backing toward a set of silver doors in the corner.

“Who puts whipped cream on their cappuccino?” I mutter.

“Weirdos, that’s who,” Liliver tells me. “Off his rocker, this one. Be careful around him.” I give her a conspiratorial smile. I decide I like Liliver.

I decide I hate Unfortunately Attractive Dude when, for reasons entirely uncertain to me, he gives me a shit-eating grin and ducks through the swinging silver doors. Against my better judgement, I follow.

Suddenly, I’m in a small kitchen where everything from the countertops to the large fridge in the corner is made of stainless steel. The air is cold and damp, like a clammy hand. An unsettling combination of wet rags and baking bread permeates the air.

The man busies himself, pulling various items down from shelves and out of cabinets.

“Are we… allowed to be back here?” I ask. He knows the barista, that much is apparent. But surely that doesn’t excuse customers from wandering back on a whim to use the kitchens as their own personal laundromat.

“One never needs permission to be anywhere if one never asks and is never perceived,” he muses. I shoot him an incredulous look and he laughs. “I work here.”

“In that?” I jut my chin at the man’s outfit. His jacket alone is garish. Paired with all the prim and tailored rest, it seems more like something strutting down a high-end runway than any work attire I’ve ever seen.

“No, of course not in this,” he scoffs. “Come sit.” He pats the metal countertop next to the sink before continuing his search, a flurry of black and red.

“Why?” I don’t try to hide my scepticism. Better he knows I am wary of him still than try to be accommodating and find myself axe-murdered.

“Because after I’m done with your shirt,” he says, pausing to look at me, “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

How poetic, I think, then narrow my eyes. I mislike the idea of this strange man inspecting an injury conveniently located on my cleavage.

“I told you,” I say, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and setting it on the floor, “I’m fine.” But when I peel out of my coat, a sharp pang shoots across my chest. I cannot help the wince that escapes.

Clearly not fine.

An arch of one dark brow tells me the man agrees with my unspoken thought. His oil-slick eyes rake over me once more, assessing. My traitorous heart does a little leap.

He pulls one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Company policy. Sorry.” His rings clang against the metal as he pats the counter again.

My teeth grit against the sound. “A likely story,” I grumble, though I am not sure he hears me. Already continuing his disassembly of the kitchen cabinets, the man does not respond.

I clamber up onto the counter with no amount of haste and sit begrudgingly amongst his collection of searched-for items: Dish soap, white wine vinegar, rubbing alcohol, a sponge, a large metal mixing bowl. He adds a first-aid kit to the growing horde.

I watch as he removes his many rings from moon pale fingers. They’re long and nimble, and I find myself wondering if he sews, as well. Or perhaps he’s a skilled pianist.

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. Then again, it’s probably a bad idea to think too much on his hands.

He flicks a handle of the faucet and tests the steady stream rushing out. Satisfied, he holds the mixing bowl under the tap.

“It’s my day off,” he tells me while the bowl fills.

“Fascinating.”

“It’s why I’m not in uniform.”

“You’re telling me you chose to wear this?” I wave a hand at his ensemble.

The man turns the faucet off, frowning. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He places the bowl of warm water on the counter next to me.

“Your coat looks like a bathrobe.”

“I beg your pardon?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offence. “This jacket happens to be a masterful work of art by a very coveted designer.”

I roll my eyes. He sounds like the most pretentious kind of asshole. If I hadn’t already decided whether to like him or hate him, this would’ve given substantial weight to the latter.

“Yeah, well, it looks like something an old rich dude would wear,” I say. “Probably while having a post-bath cigar and reading the obituary section of the newspaper.”

“Personally, I much prefer the comic section, post-bath,” he mutters, squeezing a dollop of dish soap into the bowl.

Somehow, I can imagine that. This odd man in a bath full of bubbles and oils that smell like the forest, getting out only when his hands go pruny to read the Sunday comics. Then I very much want to un-imagine that.

I shake my head. I need coffee. Now.

“Lucky for you,” the man says, ripping me from my internal spiral into damnation, “You get the privilege of wearing the old dude bathrobe. Give me your shirt.”

He shrugs out of the jacket and holds it out for me, his free hand waiting expectantly for a swap. Those coal-black eyes sparkle with a dare. It’s then that I realise: They are waiting expectantly, too.

As if he anticipates I will blush and ask him to turn around so I can change in some modicum of privacy. Like a good girl. As if he expects I’m the type of woman who is accustomed to gentlemanly behaviour from men.

Little does he know, I don’t much care for chivalry—and I am most certainly not good. If he does not want to give me the courtesy of privacy, then I will not ask it of him.

It is an effort to swallow my pride. With slow hands, I pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I hold his gaze steady, out of spite.

Surprise steals across his face. It is there and then gone, brief as a breeze, and the only thing he yields.

As my fingers graze the top button, a little thrill runs through me. I must be mad for doing this. Between the interview jitters, my state of panic, and a desperate lack of caffeine, I must have completely lost my mind.

Or more likely, there was already something very wrong with me, to begin with.

Sensing my hesitation, the man’s mouth furls at the corners like unrolled parchment that reads: You won’t do it, in the looping, self-important scrawl I imagine someone like him must possess. That small smirk, the second dare.

I glare at his mouth. The first button is the hardest, but I clench my jaw and undo it; then the next.  

He tracks my every move from beneath the eaves of his thick lashes. The sight of him so suspended by the strings of my fingers makes my heart rush, and I am struck by a mix of irritation and dizzying lust.

Cool air pebbles the skin on my chest as I work. I take my sweet time about it. This prick wanted a show, so it’s a show I will give him.

My fingers move carefully down the line. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I knit my brows in feigned concentration and pretend that this is nothing.

Even though my heartbeat is a war drum in my chest.

Even though his gaze is heady and my head is spinning with it.

Even though I am very glad this task does not require me to speak.

This is nothing. This is nothing but three more buttons. His breath hitches as my shirt falls open further. I am a matchstick under his flint-like gaze.

My cheeks blaze. I think about how every bit of this is his fault. I think about how I hate him and his annoying charm for tricking me into coming back here. About his paramour eyes, his satyr’s smile—I think I hate those things most.

Such ire grounds me.

I pop the final button, slip my shirt off one shoulder, then the other. The pale blue fabric pools at my waist, draping over the crooks of my elbows. A subtle shift and I’m pushing my arms flush against my ribcage, giving him the best view.

It’s all for show, I tell myself, over and over. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

When I meet his eyes again, at last, every second of this humiliation is worth it. The man’s arms have fallen slack at his sides. His precious designer jacket all but forgotten, nearly grazing the floor.

Gone is the taunting smirk. Every sharp edge of him smoothed over by wonderment. Or maybe it is consternation.

Either way, I am plagued by the thought that I should very much like to see him dishevelled.

I should like to see him come undone.

I give a coy smile and bat my lashes mockingly. “Did you get a good enough inspection, doctor?”

To my delight, he swallows audibly. Opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut.

Maybe he needs a doctor, I think and give a little snort. With a roll of my eyes, I try to beat back the tide of my own desire.

I shove my wadded up shirt into his chest, unceremonious. “You’re drooling,” I tell him, my voice miraculously even. That seems to snap him out of it.

He blinks twice, clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t need more than ice and a bit of aloe,” he says, then takes my shirt in his free hand.

I snatch the jacket from his other and shrug it on. My arms slide easily into the satin-lined sleeves. It’s still warm and smells like him. A forest and something burning. I hate that I notice at all—that whatever odious perfume he’s wearing is something I’ve committed to memory. Most of all, I hate the shiver that roils up my spine because of it.

I fold my arms across my chest and risk a glance at the man.

He’s frowning at the bottle of white wine vinegar in his hands. The way he glares at it, you’d think it had committed some heinous crime. There is a slight tinge of pink on his moon-pale cheeks.

A trifle smile tugs at my lips. It’s good to know I get under his skin as much as he gets under mine.

“So,” I say, flipping my hair out from under the jacket, “How do I look?”

He glances in my direction, face unreadable. An unbothered sweep of his gaze. “Not at all like an old man in a bathrobe,” he says, opening the bottle.

With a flourish, he adds a splash of vinegar to the bowl.

“I should hope not,” I say, raising my arms slightly to examine the jacket. “I think I look like the finest baroque rug Insmire has to offer.”

The laugh that barrels from Unfortunately Attractive Dude is genuine. “I’ll pass your compliments along to the artist.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Nonetheless,” he says, “I suspect it’s as close to one as anything you usually give.” He reaches for my shirt and dunks it in the water. Immediately, a bit of the stain lifts away, turning the water a cloudy colour.

He’s not wrong, and it irks me. I shift my gaze back to the jacket.

All things considered, I’m shocked at how well it fits. It’s a little long, and the sleeves swallow my hands in a river of red and black fabric. But what I lack in height, I make up for in other things. The man is lean enough to where the rest of his jacket is filled easily by the swell of my breasts, the sweep of my hips.

“I’ll admit,” he says, swishing the contents of the bowl around with his hands, “It suits you. Might even look better on you than it does on me.”

“Really?” I gasp, a teasing thing.

“I said might,” he mumbles, stirring and pointedly not meeting my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I most certainly will.”

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing and adds dish soap to the bowl.

“You never told me your name,” I blurt. Mostly to fill the silence, but also because my not knowing is starting to get a bit weird.

He furrows his brows as if he’s never been asked the question before. Or he is surprised I even have to ask. Like I said. Self-important.

“I didn’t,” he says, smirking down at the bowl.

I wait. When he does not oblige me, I give him a stern look. “Is that information classified or something?” I ask. “Too personal? Because let me tell you, pal, you’ve seen me in my bra.”

“Yes. And?”

I almost cringe at the reminder. He has probably seen many people in various states of undress. I am no one special.

“And,” I say, pasting a sickly sweet smile on my lips, “I usually like to know the names of people who’ve seen me in my bra.”

“You say that as if it happens often.”

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the blush rising in my cheeks. “And you say that as if you mean to distract me.” He continues to work my shirt around with his hands, dutifully ignoring my glare. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because,” he says, voice contemplative, “I thought you already knew it.”

“Should I know it?”

He shrugs. “We’re in the same politics lecture. With Dulcamara. You sit in the back row every week.”

“So you’re stalking me.” I’m only half-joking. The other half is starting to get worried that maybe I will end up in tiny little pieces out back if I’m not careful. My eyes flit to the bouquet of knives at the end of the counter.

“No,” he says, adding a squeeze of rubbing alcohol to the mix. “I’m just good with people. And faces.”

While he stirs, I cock my head to the side, trying to dredge up his likeness from the faces in my memory. I’m quite certain if I had ever seen a face like his, I would’ve remembered it.

Though truth be told, Dulcamara’s lectures are the most interesting my department has to offer. I often do not notice the people around me.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He looks at me, brows arched in amusement.

I grit my teeth. “That lecture is one of the busiest ones. And why should I pay attention to the people when the lecture is far more—”

“Gripping?” His grin is a slash of white. “You’d certainly be the first to think so.”

“At least I think for myself,” I snap.

“A good quality to be sure,” he says. “But as driven a person as you are, Jude, I’d have thought you’d be more observant.”

My heart skitters to a halt. It’s one thing to know my face but…

“How do you know my name,” I demand, boring a glare into his skull. “You are stalking me.”

“It’s hardly stalking, darling, if neither of us has any choice in the matter of attending,” he points out. “Besides, it’s really hard to not know your name. Since you answer all of Dulcamara’s questions with such… thoroughness.” Some emotion I can’t quite read, settled so perplexingly between admiration and disdain, feeds his expression as he says this.

I am not entirely sure what to make of it.

But I do know what he’s said is true. I am usually the only voluntary participant in Dulcamara’s lectures. And I suppose if he knows enough about my track record for participation, he probably does go to Royal Greenbriar.

I’m weighing my options when Liliver careens through the door.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” she says, making for our counter in the back of the kitchen. She has two steaming cups in her hands, and had I not been sitting so high up, I might’ve dropped to my knees to kiss the ground she walks on.

“Busy out there?” the man-who-has-annoyingly-not-been-named mutters.

“You were at the tail end of the rush,” Liliver says, then frowns. “Though it doesn’t seem like you’re in much of a hurry here.”

She eyes the array of supplies, my shirt in the bowl of now-dirty water, her co-worker’s jacket on my shoulders. She says nothing. Only hands me one of the cups.

“One large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go,” she says, giving me a wink.

I thank her and take a much-needed sip.

Liliver turns to the man. “And one hot chocolate for you, Your Highness.” She makes a mockery of a bow as she hands him his drink.

He scowls but grunts his appreciation, placing the to-go cup on the counter next to him. When he turns back to the bowl, the barista grins wickedly at me. I return it in kind. Yes, I very much like Liliver.

“Any luck with the stain?” she asks the man.

He fishes my blouse out of the bowl. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Lil,” he says, then shuffles over a few steps before wringing the fabric over the sink.

“As star employee, anything that happens in my kitchen is my business.” She offers a lewd waggle of her brows.

I take a sip of coffee to hide the blooming heat on my face. I was sure the door had been closed… Then, a small, dreadful thought bubbles to the surface.

Perhaps her coworker has a reputation for luring potential conquests back here. Perhaps he’s done this one-hundred times before, and Liliver has learned the basic machinations of it.

Though it’s doubtful anyone gave a show quite so revealing as mine. Also doubtful he’s had quite that many conquests, even with his considerable beauty. One-hundred is a very high number. Isn’t it?

Still, if I am correct in guessing his design, I vow to make the man pay in more than just coffee and laundering expertise.

“Need I remind you,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude drawls, “It is technically my kitchen always. So I am under no obligation to tell you.”

His kitchen? He’d been modest before, I realise, when he told me he works here.

“Not like you to pull rank,” Liliver huffs, affronted. “What’s got your panties in a knot, Greenbriar? Is it girl troubles? Because if it is—”

But I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

~~~A single word and everything becomes slow, slanting. I stare down at the tile floor. The world warps around me, as if held on the end of a bungee cord stretched taut, and I am about to be flung helpless back into the air.

Something in my stomach curdles. It has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Anyway,” Liliver is saying, her voice very far away, “You asked me to remind you if you’re still here that you have a meeting in ten minutes.”

I am still staring at the grout between tiles. At the grit there. The grime. My skin is awash with the slick feeling of it.

“Yes,” the man says in my periphery. “Thank you, Liliver.”

“For the record, I don’t get paid enough for this,” she says, and I have the vague sense she is heading for the door. “The personal assisting. The moods. The general… weirdness.”

His laugh is muffled, awful. Like the thud of marbles on carpet. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

“It’s the least you could do,” she sings over her shoulder, and she’s out the door again.

Then, we are alone. But I am not here. I am sometime else.

I feel all that black water clapping at my ears as I swam that day. My lungs burning raw with panic and bile and sea salt. The boat, a little orange firefly flickering in the distance, appearing and disappearing with the rise and fall of waves.

The sea is a lady. When she swallows you whole, she does so without a sound. Drowning is always quiet. So is rage, which is an awful lot like drowning. Everything happens beneath, simmering to the surface like so many bubbles. They were certainly one and the same that day.

I think they are one and the same now.

Flame licks my face, static pricks my tongue. My heart thrashes slow in my chest, a kind of silent drowning. My head is swimming just as poorly. ~~~

When I resurface, I am met with only silence and that one word ringing in my ears.

Greenbriar. Greenbriar. Greenbriar.

☽☽☽☽☽

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AN: Sorry for the major cliffhanger but the evil author in me had to *cue villainous laughter* 😈 so it’s been an age and a half since I last updated this fic, but here it is! Thank you so much for reading!! Hope you enjoyed :) If you did, please let me know in the comments, reblogs, my ask box/inbox. Even if it’s just a keyboard smash, it genuinely brightens my day to read.

I’ve been busy developing the plot for this one and let me tell you, there is SO MUCH to be revealed, I can hardly contain myself. No promises, but I’m about halfway through writing the next chapter so hopefully it will only take me one single age to post that.

If you’d like to be added to the tag list for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here (or any other Jurdan content I post), let me know via comment/ask/message!! Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. 

-em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Simmer by Hayley Williams

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @velarhysismine​ @knifewifejude​ @danieldesario​ @annihliation​ @wickedqueenoffantasy​ @not-tess​ @clockworkgraystairs​