#sorry not sorry. nonsense in my brain > coffee theory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

growup-thatbeautiful · 2 years ago

Note

hellooo, hi, im not sick anymore (more or less) and in surprisingly great spirits! i was thinking, if you wanted to write more Zeffirelli and absolutely and i mean ABSOLUTELY no pressure maybe we could have some sort of university themed kinda fic? not an AU just kind of widening the lens of The French dispatch to see Zeffirelli as a students not just his after school activities. im thinking like a philosophy student poet boyfriend x art and film theory painter reader kinda situation. studying and going to interesting lectures and to cinema in the evenings..idk it would be lovely to have some nice uni vibes to motivate me. also if you don't feel Zeffirelli now Timothee himself would be very much okay too i feel like. it is all up to you. sending you great energy, love you, message me if you want to brainstorm this story or want to talk literally about anything xx

omg hiiii!!! it’s fall now!! zeffirelli would be living his best life. i was really missing zeffirelli and timmy. timothee always renters my brain this time of year so be prepared. it’s movie szn brainrot time, my friends.

coincidentally enough, this happens to be my 700th follower celebration as well! yay!

uhhh so usually i write the translations at the bottom but i didn’t keep up this time i’m so sorry 😭😭

zeffirelli masterlist

ensoleillement (sunshine)

“You’re late,” you say, looking at the clock in the corner of your living room.

“I brought compensation.” Zeffirelli holds up a brown paper bag from the pastry shop down the street as an apology. “There's a pain au chocolat in there for you. I also got you a coffee.”

“I hope it’s not in the bag,” you respond drily, but take the bag nonetheless and rifle around for your breakfast. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Here,” he says absently, placing it on the kitchen counter.

“Dieu merci,” you sigh, taking a sip and shouldering your bag. The leather strap digs into your shoulder through the fabric of your coat.

“Thank me, not God,” Zeffirelli complains, ushering you out the door.

“You’re still the reason I’m late.” There’s a warning in your voice, but you can’t put any real venom behind your words. You never can, with him.

“Oui, but you’re not going to any important classes right now.”

“I’m going to math,” you protest. He reaches across you and takes your coffee, sipping it and grimacing. You slap his hand away and retake the coffee. “No matter how much you try, you aren’t going to like the way I have my coffee.”

“That’s because you have terrible taste,” he complains. “Why are still taking those bullshit classes? There are so many better classes to take.” It’s a conversation you’ve had many times, mostly out of jest, but there is some seriousness behind it.

“You mean math?”

Zeffirelli hums. “That’s the one. Why would you waste your time with math when you could be going to philosophy at noon?”

“Because I’m not some poet revolutionary, Zef,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder with his. “Not everyone is as successful as you.”

“Nonsense. You just haven’t shared any of your ideas with other people. Come on, amor, let me know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Right now there are a few things, but I don’t think you want to hear them,” you deadpan, gathering your books in your arms.

“Don’t get shy on me now, ensoleillement.” The endearment falls easily from his lips, his favorite term for you, meaning, quite literally, sunshine.

Ironically, you got the nickname on a rainy day when you had been giving him a hard time about his tendency to walk in the rain.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you reply, knocking your shoulder against his as you both try to go out the same door to the street below your apartment.

“All that math is filling your brain with nonsense,” he complains, his shoes scraping against the worn hardwoods. “I can’t have a good philosophical conversation with a mathematician.”

“Just because I’m taking the class doesn’t make me good at it,” you correct absentmindedly. He huffs and steps into pace beside you, his hand brushing against yours. The autumn leaves crunch under your feet, warm red and orange bleeding past as you make your way to class, the air crisp and the sun slinking behind the clouds. You really should be trying to make it to class on time, but you know you’ll regret it if you leave Zeffirelli out here alone with that rosy color on his cheeks from the cool air. Fall suits him well, and he wears the chill running through your fingers well.

It’s better to be here, your hands skimming against his, knuckles red and electric when he touches them than it is to be sitting in a class. Especially because he isn’t in the class.

The walk to your school isn’t much further. Just through the town sits a two-storied brick building where you’ve devoted hours to studying, crying, and trying to get Zeffirelli to take breaks unsuccessfully.

The cobblestones underneath your feet are consistently unsteady, and you find yourself, as usual, looking in awe at the quaint town that wakes up as you walk through.

There’s the flower shop on the corner with the green and white striped awning that gives out free roses on holidays. Next to it, stands a stationary store where you go more days than not to get a hand-pressed piece of paper to write home on. Across the street is a cafè where you and Zeffirelli have spent countless sleepless nights discussing movies and poetry when you should be studying,

This isn’t your hometown, and it isn’t his either, but you both know it more than you ever could know any other place on Earth. Zeffirelli’s American rouge, prophetic attitude couldn’t come from a town this small, but that doesn’t stop it from thriving. Here, nothing can stop him. Not living with his parents, which he does on purpose, or not knowing how to start a manifesto. Those things are trivial and unimportant because this place reveres every waking and sleeping moment it has with him. You and

You, well, you can’t claim this place as your home, but you’ve fallen in love with its poetically simple lifestyle. The two years you’ve been here as an exchange student has been the best you can remember, and you aren’t sure how much of that is related to the boy next to you.

A gut instinct tells you that he might have something to do with it, but you would be drawn into the charm of this town anyway, probably. He’s just an added bonus.

Zeffirelli takes the cup of coffee out of your hand and tosses it into the trashcan before you enter the towering, gray stone building that is your school.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” he asks, walking backward down the opposite hall that you’re traveling. “My mom packed cookies.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat and you can tell you’re grinning like a fool. You genuinely don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you don’t doubt the truth of his words. “I can’t even make fun of you because your mom’s cookies are so good.”

“That’s the sweet spot.” His arms are outstretched wildly as he turns back to go to his class. “I’ll see you later, amor. Don’t have too much fun in math without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Zef.” There’s still a grin on your face when you walk into class, and you take your seat next to your’s and Zeffirelli’s friend, Mitch Mitch.

Mitch is radically passionate like Zeffirelli, but, as obvious by his presence in a math class, he’s less utterly devoted to the revolution. Which is to say that he’s still deeply invested.

“Did l'auteur make you late again?” Mitch reaches over you and slides today’s work to you. “I swear, you need to stop waiting for him in the mornings.”

“He did indeed.” You lean back in your chair and try to listen to the lecture, and you think you retain about half of the information.

The teacher at the front of the room drones on for half an hour about something you don’t understand, not that you care enough to pay attention. Despite the nature of his ideas, Zefrilli is correct about the fact that math isn’t your thing, nor is it going to help you at all. Especially not when you don’t have a clue what’s going on. Based on the look on Mitch’s face, he understands even less than you do, which is comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Why did you convince me to take this class?” Mitch groans, flopping onto the desk and banging his head on the wood. “I’m too pretty for math.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” You pat him on the shoulder consolingly and gather your things together.

“Peut être pas, but it makes me feel better about myself.” You walk side-by-side to the next class. You have film studies with Zefirelli and Mitch has some economic class.

Zefirelli is waiting by the door for you, and, when he sees you, he pushes himself off the frame and asks, “How was the waste of time?”

“It was a waste of time,” Mitch confirms, bumping shoulders with Zefirelli, who looks at you for confirmation, which you readily give.

“Let’s do something worthwhile then, mon chéri.” Zefirelli holds out his arm for you, and you take it easily. “To the magical world of film we go.”

“Onwards we go.”

Lunch doesn’t come soon enough, but, slowly, it comes. Mitch, Zefirelli, and you usually eat together, but today Mitch is going to the cafe down the street with a girl in your class named Layla. She’s sweet, and you hope she’s enough for Mitch.

You and Zefirelli find your normal spot in the corner of a courtyard hidden away in the twisted cobblestone streets. It’s nothing special, just a park bench pretty much, but you wouldn’t eat anywhere else. Not when Zefirelli is sitting close to you.

“What are you writing about?” he asks, leaning over your shoulder to try and read the words in your journal.

“How much I hate math,” you deflect, shutting the small spiral and stuffing it into your backpack.

“That’s not what looks like when you write about something as trivial as math. I’ve seen your math face, and it is much more détestable.”

“You’re telling me that you don’t write enthusiastically about math?” you joke, hoping to deflect the attention.

“Only about my manifesto.”

“Yeah, well you have your manifesto, and I have my movie.” It slips out easily like things usually do around him. You’re so used to telling him everything, so it comes as no school that you’re unable to keep this from him.

The thing is, he isn’t supposed to know about the movie you’re writing. Not because he wouldn't support it, which you’re sure he would, but because there’s no doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it. You try to backtrack. “I mean, I have the movie that I’m studying for class-“

“-You’re writing a movie?” he interrupts, his hand frozen where it’s reaching for his food. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m not writing a movie,” you attempt. “It was a slip of the tongue. Fourchement de langue.”

“No it wasn’t,” he denies easily. “You’re writing a movie.” This time he doesn’t ask, but he does return to his previous action, splitting the pink-colored cookie in half. He offers one half to you and you take it. You decide not to respond and focus on the cookie instead.

“So, what is this secretive movie about? Hopefully something dashingly bohemian and revolutionary.” You know he’s tuning down his excitement for you, which is nice. At least he’s trying. Hopefully, he knows that you would never keep something like this from him if you weren’t embarrassed.

“Those are your interests, not mine,” you sigh, despite the deception behind your words. Truly, you do care about those things, maybe only because he cares so much about them.

“Yeah? Then why do you work with me on my manifesto so much?” he prods, a grin on his face. Everything about him screams “got you” and you have no choice but to accept his meaning.

“Maybe I like being around you, connasse.”

“That could not possibly be it,” he dismisses easily. His cookie gets placed on the floor beside him and he leans into you, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. “You’re much too talented to be hanging around me all the time.”

“You can’t be serious,” you chastise, your hand running through his hair. “Zef, you’re the most talented person I know. Not only are you some sort of chess wizard, but you also have such a passion for life that I don’t see anyone else. I’m lucky to be around you as much as I am, honestly.”

“You’re just saying that,” he sighs, but there’s a blush rising to his cheeks that fits him so beautifully.

“We’re poets, Zefirell, we only say things that we mean.” He leans heavier into your side and you relax against him, taking his weight happily. The rest of the world passes by, and time passes by, but you don’t care. This is where you want to be, by his side.

You would lift the sky for him, but right now all he needs is a shoulder to lean on. It’s something you’re ready and willing to give.

“You know,” Zefirelli starts, “there are stories about people like us. You know, people that want to change the world. Usually, they have someone by their side, a second-in-command. Napoleon had Josephine, Pierre Curry had Marrie, Sintra had Garder.”

“I think it be more reasonable to say that Marrie had Pierre, given that she was the one who did most of the research. And you’re forgetting that Sinatra and Gardner broke up after 12 years.”

“But she was the only woman he ever loved. Come on, amore, you know that. Anyway, what I was trying to say-” he looks up at you, smiling softly- “before I was so rudely interrupted, is that most people have someone beside them when they start their journey sur le chemin de la révolution. The road to revolution can be lonely.”

“Everything must start in love,” you agree. “Nothing comes out of nothing.”

“Précisément. Would- would you like to be my second-in-command? We have a long way ahead of us, and I think it would be easier if we stuck together.”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” you breathe, laying your head on top of his and reaching for his hand. “Promise you won’t leave me for someone more antagonistic?”

“You’re enough of an antagonist for me,” he responds in an overly-sweet voice. “Not sure I could handle much more.”

“Good. I prefer you waking me up in the middle of the night rather than anyone else.” You also prefer his head on your shoulder, his hand in your hand, and his figure in your bed, but those are things you keep to yourself for now.

You’ve already got enough of a win for today.

A banging on your door is an unfortunately common event to wake you up. Without checking, you know who’s on the other side of the door. That messy black hair and those piercing eyes are waiting impatiently for you to make your way across your cramped apartment, you’re positive of it.

The floor is cold underneath your socked feet as you make your way over the piles of books, papers, and clothes strewn everywhere across your room. While the trek is short, to your sleep-addled brain it feels like it lasts forever, with you in a dreamlike state of confusion and agitation. You can hear the sound of rain pounding against your apartment roof, a steady rhythm in time with your slow breathing.

With a deep breath, you open your door and you’re met with the familiar, tall form of Zeffirelli. “I have an idea for the revolution,” he says, out of breath, soaked from the rain. “And I need your cinematic expertise.”

“So that’s why you’re at my apartment at three in the morning?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Yes. And it’s only two,” he says as he brushes past you and goes straight to your tiny kitchen. Absentmindedly, he rifles through your counters and grabs the first food he finds; some untrustworthy brown biscuits. You don’t take any when he offers. “I needed to talk to you. Son affaire sérieuse.”

“Right, I’m sure it is. Tell me, what exactly do you need my help with? I’m not sure I can be of much help.” You shuffle into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, accepting the fact that you’re probably not going to get any sleep tonight.

“Absurdité. Who else is going to shut down my best ideas ruthlessly?”

“I would do that in daylight too,” you accuse. He fits beside you at your counter and reaches across you for the sugar bowl, taking a sugar cube and putting it in your cup. Two more are added to the cup that he’s claimed as his own from your array of delicately painted teacups.

“But you admit to having shut down good ideas?” A twinkle in his eyes tells you to give up now and accept your defeat.

“Sure.” It’s worth it to see the victory smile break across his face, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. “I am obviously the bane of your existence. Je suis ta couverture mouillée.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” His consolidation is quick and filled with a teasing lightness that you’ve long since accepted as his trademark. A lot of people would look past him for it, and call it arrogance, but you know it comes from a loving place.

“Don’t make me send you to Mitch Mitch’s apartment instead,” you warn, waving a spoon in his direction. “I would do it in a heartbeat.” It’s not true, you would much rather he be here with you, instead of at Mitch’s. Despite the entertainment that comes with Zefirelli and Mitch’s back and forth, you’re feeling selfish tonight.

“Empty threats.” he tisks. The kettle whistles from its spot on the stove and you both reach for it at the same time, your fingers brushing against his. It’s terrifyingly electric, but you push past the feeling. Zefirelli withdraws his hand hesitantly and you busy yourself with pouring the tea.

He’s come over in the middle of the night enough for you to know how he takes his tea by heart. Two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, no more, no less. He claims that you make it better than he does, which you choke up to him being unable to boil water without making a mess.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “So, what’s this big idea? Care to fill me in on why I’m awake at this time of the night.”

“What’s your movie about?” he fires back immediately, settling into your beaten blue couch.

“Did you come here to pester me about my future?” you ask, eyes narrowed. “Because I will kick you to the curb.”

“No, no,” he laughs, “you wouldn’t do that to me. You have no resistance to my pretty face.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve figured out my one weakness. It seems as though you’ll be taking advantage of it forever.”

“Of course, ensoleillement. What would I do if I didn’t have you to manipulate?” He sits across from you on the couch and grabs one of the blankets you have thrown around. It goes over his shoulders and he huddles into its warmth.

“So what did you come here to talk about?” you ask, taking a sip from your tea and placing it on the side table.

“Oh, right!” His eyes light up as he sits up straighter, splashing tea all over himself. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to care very much. “I thought that I would have my mother’s friend, some writer, is coming into town soon. I was thinking that I should ask her to help me. At the least, she can write about us, no? What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea. What does she write for?”

“The French Dispatch. You know, the one with all the stories they put out once a month or so. I hear that she’s looking for something out here in our petite ville.”

The conversation shifts and he talks about his big ideas and how he’s going to get them done. You could listen to him talk for hours, and, by the time he’s finished, you have, not that you have anything better to do. Not even dreams of him are this real. You could never make up in your mind the way his eyes sparkle and his hands flutter with excitement, or the way his hair falls in front of his face when he’s moving too fast.

Eventually, sleep takes him over, comically mid-sentence. He’s propped up against the side of the couch in a very uncomfortable looking way, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’ve known him to fall asleep in worse situations,

When his breathing stills and his eyes close, you allow yourself to look at him as he is without fluttering hands and excited eyes. He’s calm and motionless, except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Everything about him is usually coiled for action, an easy tension running through his hands and his eyes, but now, now he’s undistributed and serene, laying with his hair splayed like a dark halo around his head.

Before you close your eyes, you tuck yourself close to him, fitting against his warmth like you’ve done so many times in the past, just like this, on deep-silence-ridden nights.

“You’re my movie,” you whisper into the dark, towards his sleeping figure. “You’re the one I write about.”

But of course, he doesn’t hear.

“Medre,” Zeffirelli swears, hopping around and trying to get his shoes on. “I have a test today.”

“You should have thought of that before you came over that early,” you admonish, watching him with amusement. “Why you didn’t think you would oversleep, I have no clue.”

“We’re in this class together, ensoleillement. You’re going to burn with me,” he warns, rushing a hand through his hair carelessly. It sticks up widely in every direction, but you know better than to try to fix it. Nothing can convince his hair to do anything except chaos.

“Yeah, but it’s so much more fun not to think about that.” Begrudgingly, you start to get ready as well. The floors creak under your feet as you shuffle to your bedroom, where a clean outfit is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, you let yourself think of the wild-haired, cigarette-smoking, arrogant person in the room next to you. His infuriating charm and charismatic persuasion captured you years ago, and you haven’t been able to get out of his orbit since then.

You may be his sunshine, but he’s your gravity, keeping you centered but tipping you over and surprising you at times.

“Dépêchez-vous,” Zeffirelli calls, rapping his knuckles against the wall. “Hurry up.” You know he doesn’t really care about making it to class on time, despite the panic, but you also know that he understands you well enough to know that you want to make it on time.

The film class you have this morning is one of your favorites, and you try and avoid missing it as much as you can. While your film studies class is more focused on the aspects of film, this class advises it’s students on the writing and cinematography that you need to make something truly special.

To make something worthy of a manifesto.

“Mon chéri, we have to go,” Zefirelli warns one last time before giving up and aimlessly wondering around your room.

“Don’t touch that,” you sigh, not having to look at Zeffirelli to know that he’s touching something he shouldn’t be touching. When you do look over, you see him flipping through your journal.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Zeffirelli defends, hiding something behind his back. You send a glare in his direction and lean back in the chair by your mirror. The wood creaks underneath you and you stretch out your back, satisfying pops cascading up your spine.

“You have some deep dark secrets written in here?” His tone is joking, and he waves the journal in the air, taunting you.

“Grocery lists and middle-of-the-night thoughts,” you dismiss. “If you want to know when I forgot to pay the electricity bill, look on the fifth page.” You hope with everything you have that he’s going to let it go, but you have no such luck. He’s nothing if not absurdly relentless.

“I know for a fact that you don’t write anything like that down, it’s not worth the time. You just forget things like the rest of us.”

“Peut être. Still, put it down.” He doesn’t. Instead, he keeps reading with a grin on his face that slowly falls as he makes his way through the rest of the book.

“Is this- is this written about me?” he asks, disbelief written on his face. “Is this your movie?”

“I asked you to stop reading,” you defend miserably, hiding your head in your hands. “I know it’s strange, and I know I shouldn’t be writing about you like that. You don’t want to be heroic or some great leader, above everyone else, but I cannot help it if that’s who you are. Please understand, I only wrote what I saw.”

“I’m your movie? I’m what you have been furiously scribbling away at, working on late at night?”

“You’re my everything,” you admit honestly, softly, “How could you not be the plot of my movie too?” Zeffirelli walks slowly towards you and drops the journal on the floor. “I’m sorry, Zeffirelli.”

“Why?” he asks breathlessly, standing in between your legs and settling his hands on your shoulders. “What have you to be sorry for? You have immortalized be forever with your words. How can I be anything but grateful. If- if I ever gave you the idea that I do not burn for you- that I do not turn towards you in every room like you are the sun and I am a flower, then I can do nothing but apologize profusely. There is more than one reason that you are my ensoleillement. You are grumpy and rude and you give me shit for everything I do, but you also light up my days and nights. You are warmth and home. You are everything.” Zeffirelli’s voice is breathless and rushed, his hands coming up to cup your face. They’re shaky and the calluses on his fingertips are rough against your cheekbones, but you lean into them anyway.

“Zef,” you whisper, like it’s the only word you know. Just as soft as his words, his lips come down to yours, hesitantly at first, but more sure as you don’t protest.

He truly is your everything. That’s the only thing running through your mind as he kisses you with everything he has.

“We’re going to be late to your favorite class,” he gasps in between frantic kisses. “Don’t be angry at me when you have extra homework.”

“I make no promises,” you laugh, pulling him back into you. “But I’ll try my best.” For him, you’ll do anything.

He’s your ensoleillement, your sunshine, just as you’re his.

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wendimydarling · 4 years ago

Text

Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112 gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira��for betaing!

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death.

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.”

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already.

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet.

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me.

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls.

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,” she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

#august walker #august walker fanfic #august walker fan fiction #august walker fanfiction #august walker fan fic #august walker smut #vampire!august #non-con tw

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

Text

But Once a Year (4/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

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Rating: T Word Count: Another 9K or so, but with feelings AN: I had every intention of posting this on actual Christmas, but there was a Doctor Who marathon on and, well—I got distracted by other time travel. Hopefully my timelines are more consistent than River Song’s. Sorry, River Song. Here’s a whole bunch of kissing and feeling feelings.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

“Were you ever actually going to paint?”

No eyebrow movement that time, although Killian’s actual eyes widen ever so slightly and that particular reaction is starting to do dangerous things to Emma's ego. He keeps his coffee mug hovering just above his lips, which she’s certain is a carefully calculated ploy to also keep her staring at his lips, but that’s not all that difficult and she’d spent at least seven full minutes kissing those same lips senseless that morning.

In bed.

The one they’ve slept in — for four days straight now, which is probably more time than it should be, but he was right. Falling asleep with his arm around her is far easier than the opposite, and he only occasionally complains about the frost-like tendencies of her feet. Mostly into the back of her neck. That’s just where his mouth ends up.

So, everything is still going great. Not potentially problematic. Because neither Regina nor Tinker Bell have come up with a working time-travel theory, and Emma’s baking endeavors haven’t gone over all that well either, but she’s discovered Killian’s tendency for stealing batter, and that’s even more ridiculously endearing information that’s only sort of skewing with her sense of reality, and— “Is this you volunteering?”

Startling, Emma almost forgot she’d asked a question. His mouth does something else. Stupid, and distracting and he uses almond milk in his coffee.

Claims it’s a modern convenience he’s more than willing to take advantage of.

Great, great, excellent. Possibly falling towards something, in a free-fall sort of way, and Emma shakes her head. Brushes away dangerous thoughts and hard-drawn lines in the much more metaphorical sand, and she wonders if sand ever lingers in their entry way during the summer.

They must go to the beach.

Spend time on the Jolly Roger, and she hasn’t seen much of the ship, but she’s starting to think it’d be nice to pass an afternoon on the water, with the sun and the salt and— “Swan,” Killian says, obviously not the first time he’s tried to draw back her attention. Chair legs scrape across their kitchen floor when he stands, and Emma’s brain barely acknowledges that particular pronoun before he’s crowding her space and bumping his hips against hers and nothing like that has happened yet, because that’s not just a line, it’s an entire rhombus or some other geometric shape that’s more like a tangled mess and knotted feelings and she flinches.

When his hook drifts under the hem of her shirt.

Floral patterned, and far gauzier than anything Emma would even think about owning now. Or then, she supposes. Tenses continue to be their own specific type of issue, and she’s starting to like the clothes hanging in her questionably large closet.

They’re soft.

Which is probably not a commentary, or observation of whatever tense she’s willing to use, but it’s definitely different and possibly better and Killian chuckles in her ear as soon as her head falls to his collarbone. He kisses the top of her hair.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Scoffing into his shirt threatens to rumple the fabric, and she doesn’t really miss the billowy fabric of what’s now years past, but she also wonders if he kept them and where he docks the Jolly during the winter, and she can’t start giving pirate ships nicknames. Not now. Not yet. Not when she’s got to leave, and that only makes, like, half her muscles ache, so it’s probably not as bad as it could be.

“They’re not worth that much,” Emma mumbles, the soft laugh she gets warming her from the inside out. A mix of magic and much more, and she’s back on the alliterative. As a defense mechanism or something.

For her heart, maybe.

“Luckily for you, I’ve got something of an eye for undiscovered treasure and—” “—Is this a line?” He laughs again, noses at her temple and the crown of her head and neither one of them mention how tightly Emma’s arms wrap around his middle. “If you can’t decipher when I’m flirting by now, we may have some issues.” “Some is a vast understatement.” “It’s going to be alright,” Killian promises, but it rings a little hollow and part of Emma knows. Still dark and distant, it doesn’t want to acknowledge everything it’s ignoring and a pointed voice echoes between her ears. With the same mantra.

Magic is emotion.

And Emma’s emotions are decidedly split. Just like Pan thought they’d be. Maybe she’s not just a coward; she’s selfish and greedy and inching dangerously close to a crying jag in the middle of the kitchen, but then Killian’s fingers drag across her spine and it’s a rhythm she can time her breathing to.

“We’re running out of time.” “That’s not entirely true. Time travel’s apparently heavily involved, makes deadlines rather defunct, don’t you think?”

Emma scrunches her nose, but the voice is back and it’s sharper and a little angrier and stamping on several different parts of her brain if the growing pain is any indication. All magic comes with a price. “Talk to me about paint instead.” “Not much to talk about,” Killian says, but the caution in his voice makes it obvious they’re both all too aware of what they’re avoiding. Possibly even dreading. Emma is, at least.

She’s going to strangle Peter Pan when she sees him.

“But you haven’t done it.” “Some other things have been going on, you see.” “Don’t you want to paint?” “It’s not particularly high on my list of ways to occupy my time,” he admits, one side of his mouth tugging up. Flirting is getting easier. Some joke about practice, Emma is sure. “But, if it’s something you’re willing to help with, and it will get those thoughts of yours to settle for a few moments, then—” “—Who says my thoughts aren’t settled?” Tapping the all-too-noticeable furrow of Emma’s forehead, Killian’s eyes widen again. “Absolutely God awful at masking them, m’dear.” “Maybe that’s just a you thing.” “Aye, my mind-reading talents have been well-documented, but I suppose if we’re going to wait for Her Majesty to come up with yet another pointless—” “—Kinda harsh,” Emma mumbles. He kisses the furrow. Traces the lines of her brows, and hovers just on the edge of her eyes, grazing cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, until Emma's skin is buzzing and her magic threatens to pour out of her, and she’s only just able to contain whatever wave joke is pressing against her lips. Good, since those lips can be put to much better use against Killian’s. “Better plan, anyway,” he mumbles, working his arm back around her waist. So he can tug her up, and pull her closer to him and neither one of those things feel like the multitude of other problems Emma’s overactive brain is dealing with and they do eventually get out of the kitchen.

Finish the coffee, and figure out where Hope’s favorite hat has disappeared to, because Emma’s rather quickly learned that this hat has legs that quite often move from its spot on the shelf into the hallway, and the overall width of Mary Margaret’s smile when she opens up the farm’s screen door isn’t as jarring as it would have been a week earlier.

Getting back home takes longer than it probably should — ducking into the alley behind Granny’s for at last forty-two seconds of totally uninterrupted kissing, and Emma’s not entirely sure this is what being a newlywed is like, or was, she supposes, but it’s still pretty fantastic and she doesn’t want to name the sound that works its way out of her.

Part giggle, a hint of overjoyed, and some sort of lingering fear because this isn’t quite real, but feels like the exact opposite, and they find old drop sheets in one of their half a dozen closets. Right next to the shirts she’d been wondering about before, and that’s probably not serendipity or fate or anything except Killian’s own sentimental tendencies, but she’s got to change her clothes anyway, and she doesn’t drown in the fabric like she worried she would.

Likely not a metaphor, either.

“Cheating,” Killian accuses, reaching for Emma anyway and moving the furniture isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Until Emma also remembers she’s got magic, and the ability to be very attracted to the guy who can’t seem to keep his hand off her, and she only has to blink once.

For the furniture to move into the basement, at least for the time being.

“Impressive, right?”

“Look who’s fishing for compliments now.” “C’mon, that was a shit ton of—” She doesn’t get the rest out, far too busy gasping and blinking and he’s swiped paint on her nose. “Are you kidding me?” Shrugging, he dances out of her reach before Emma can totally react and the paint’s already starting to dry. And crack. The signs are just getting obnoxious now. Makes much more sense to keep ignoring them.

“No, no,” she argues, not bothering with the brush stuffed into the top of her leggings. Twisting her wrist, paint soars towards Emma’s fingertips, curling around her wrist and practically vibrating with the energy she’s flush with.

Killian takes a step back. One more, another. A quick shake of his head makes the strands falling across his forehead shift again, and she’s not counting how often that happens, but she’s also paying fairly close attention to it and—“Revenge is never wise, love,” he advises, not able to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Pots and kettles, and all that, right?” “I’m completely reformed now. Ask anyone.” Humming, Emma advances on him. Magic ripples up her arms, power she’s never quite experienced before and it’s oddly intoxicating. Not in an overwhelming, potentially villainous sort of way. It’s far too warm for that.

Villainy has to be cold, Emma’s sure.

As it is, she’s not quite sweating, but she’s decidedly comfortable and all of her internal organs are functioning with an ease that belies their situation, or the problems it presents, and none of the paint ever touches her skin. Hovers in the air around it, wholly controlled and that’s not something Emma’s particularly familiar with.

It’s nice. It’s—much more than nice, but she fell once while trying to do the long jump in that one Minnesota high school she spent a few months in when she was fifteen, and the prospect of something similar makes her wary of leaving the ground again. The line’s still there. Drawn with precision, and possibly permanent marker, and they can’t paint over that.

Not yet, at least. Not entirely.

“It does kind of match your eyes,” Emma says, hoping Killian doesn’t notice the shake in her voice. No such luck, she knows. Can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, but he’s able to push away. Not from the wall, and there’s something cyclical and symmetrical about this too, emotion almost visibly hanging between them. Another thing they haven’t talked about, and likely won’t have time for.

Totally fine. Absolutely great.

Falling for—

No, no falling. Standing and walking and Emma lifts her chin. Lets her magic twist its way up her spine, and flicker towards her bare feet, and Killian’s mouth twitches again.

“Care more about the dress, really.” “What’d it look like? And where was Elsa’s—you said it was a wedding, right?”

“Her wife was here, you saw Mulan yesterday.” “No shit!” “Always with the perfect response,” Killian grins, “but yes. Met while Mulan was doing ambassador work for Aurora and Phillip, and love conquers all or so I’ve been told.” “Say it again without making it a joke.” Not shuddering under the force of his ensuing gaze is another victory Emma’s going to relish, even when she’s wherever she’s actually supposed to be, and she hopes she remembers this. In picture-perfect detail. “Conquers all,” Killian repeats, “as far I know.”

“Personally?” “Deeply so.”

Emma licks her lips. Killian stares. Tries not to, but she really is getting better at reading him and he doesn’t put up as much of a fight about information anymore. Seriously, everything’s so fine, the word barely holds any meaning now. But, like, in a positive way. “So, we went to Elsa’s wedding because—” “—You and she are rather good friends. Hope’s godmother, in fact.” “Oh. That’s—wow, that’s kind of nice.” “It is,” Killian agrees, not adding to it. He doesn’t have to. They both hear what they haven’t said — how few and far between friends are for Emma, and she briefly wonders if he knows about Lily or the kids who showed up, only to disappear just as quickly, and it would be second-nature to tell him. Part of her wants to now.

Rehashing seems silly, though.

“Anyway,” he adds, “Elsa and Mulan got married, and there was a dress that I will admit to thinking quite a lot about still, and it was blue. With these…” His eyes flutter closed. Magic roars in the very center of Emma. “Little bits of twisted fabric on top, looked like starbursts.” “Like the candy?” Gods, she an idiot. An entertaining one, if Killian’s smirk proves anything, though. So that’s something, at least. “Did we dance?” Nodding, his eyes keep darting back towards Emma’s hand and the paint that’s become some part of a questionably romantic thing, but she’s also starting to get the suspicion he’s using the wall to stay upright. Something thumps into it.

Light bursts from the end of Emma’s hair.

“Oh,” Killian groans through clenched teeth, and a jaw that can’t possibly be comfortable, “that’s hardly playing fair, sweetheart.”

Huh.

The light grows. Flares, even — until it’s casting streaks across the floor and hovering just under Emma’s skin, because apparently she can glow now, and she almost feels like she’s floating. On endearments and sentiment and the air blowing through windows opened solely so they didn’t suffocate on paint fumes suddenly smells a little sweeter.

“You’ve got your hook embedded in the wall,” Emma points out, none of those words all that even either. She doesn’t sound like herself, but she also didn’t know she was a person who reacted quite like that to one ten-letter word, yet here they. So, whatever really.

Wider eyes and slightly parted lips meet her somehow still-lifted chin, and Killian’s nod barely warrants the description. Leaves his chest shifting, but Emma’s also admittedly staring at his chest because for as big as the shirt she’s wearing is, his is just as tight and touting a college she figures Henry thought about going to at some point, and she seizes her opportunity.

Paint flies — literally. Soars across the barley-there space between Emma’s toes and Killian’s socks, and she genuinely cannot cope with how he only ever takes his socks off to sleep. He gasps when color splashes his cheeks and his shoulders, hangs from the ends of his hair, and threatens to find the edges of his lips. “Gotta close your mouth,” Emma advises lightly, getting the exact spark in his eyes that she was hoping for and she yelps all the same. When he ducks his head, nosing at her neck and the line of her collar. Which is technically his color, but she’s been using all those collective pronouns, that it can’t possibly matter at this point and she definitely giggles. While his fingers trace patterns across her stomach and the side of her waist, dragging lines of blue paint over skin and fabric and she’s not sure when they fall over, just that they’re a tangle of limbs and slightly ripped sheets and— “Do you think I could magic the paint on the walls?” Emma asks, flipping her paint-covered head to her side. Without opening his eyes, Killian mumbles an agreement, his fingers fluttering against hers until they lace between them and she’s only like seventy-four percent positive he does it on purpose.

Concentrating on the twenty-six percent that absolutely knows it’s that same instinct and inherent habit from before, Emma twists her lower lip between her teeth. Feels the first brush of magic, and the small inferno that erupts between her ribs doesn’t actually set her on fire. So, more victories.

And it only takes about twelve seconds.

Give or take.

Blue walls appear around them as if by—well, magic. Not a streak out of place, or mark on the baseboards and Emma’s only a little annoyed that they bothered to move any of the furniture. “Single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Killian mutters. “Your eyes are still closed.” “Aye, but I know it’s happening.” Not letting go of her lip or his hand, Emma’s heart thunders in her chest as soon as she notices the question sitting on her tongue. “When did that start? Because—well, as far as I know you can’t tell in Neverland.” He doesn’t respond. Not immediately, anyway. And that’s only momentarily terrifying, before a slightly different and passably darker shade of blue meets her. “That’s not entirely true. It gets a little confusing, though.” “Don’t offend me like that.”

“I’m not saying you won’t understand,” Killian laughs, “just—the other time travel adventure? Well, that happens rather early in my timeline. And, uh...well, by that point you’re feeling some things and—” “—Kissing as a distraction,” Emma breathes, realization shaking her and this version of the puzzle is equally surprising and wonderful.

“You’re an eavesdrop.” “Piracy excuse.”

He laughs again, kisses her cheek and pulls her closer to his side until nearly all of him is touching all of her and that’s another word much bigger than nice. “As far as I’ve been able to reason it, that sets off a chain of sorts. Magic exists in you, can be felt by me, I don’t entirely remember it—” “—You don’t entirely remember it?” “Making it difficult to tell the story.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s always been this sort of—presence, I suppose. In the back of my mind, a reminder of something. Good and possible, and it makes it rather easy to tell when you’re agitated, actually.” “Seems like cheating.” “Piracy excuse,” he repeats, and Emma’s mind trips over itself. Falling across line and thoughts and leaving here might be one of the hardest things she’s ever done. Part of her wonders if she knows how, though.

“You know about Neal. Everything that—” Her breath catches, out-of-place tears already threatening to fall, and that’s kind of lame. Killian’s cheek brushes Emma’s. While he nods. “For what it’s worth, your parents do feel bad about the naming legacy one they realize.” “He’s not here.” “No, that would be rather difficult for him. He’s—” “—Dead?” “Honorably,” Killian says, even through the hint of acid and Emma drapes her arm across his stomach. “And he does care about Henry, quite ardently. But...well, I don’t imagine I’ll ever entirely forgive him for everything he did, and it was difficult to rationalize the Bae I knew with he Neal who acted like that.” “Probably weird to be attracted to that, huh?” Chuckling, his lips press against her hair. “Whatever way you’re willing to be attracted to me, is something I wholeheartedly approve of.”

“I’ve got another question.” “Waiting with baited breath.” “You’ve got a ship still, right?”

Tensing the way he does isn’t really the reaction Emma anticipates, although she should probably be ready for anything now, and Killian mumbles, “aye, I do.”

“Could we—I mean, I’m capable of teleporting, right?” “I’ve got no doubt. But it might be cold.” “Good thing you just radiate heat, huh?” His tongue pokes between his lips. Emma’s staring again. Has a hard time stopping, really. Which makes the magic return all the stronger and all the more suddenly, and Killian’s soft hitch of breath is oddly pleasing, even as the smell of salt replaces half-dried paint.

Strictly speaking, Emma hadn’t spent much time exploring the Jolly Roger before they got to Neverland. Portal-based travel, and those mermaids and massive rain storms, all made it difficult to notice much else, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s blinked them into the captain’s cabin.

“Efficient,” Killian observes, already perched on the edge of the room’s lone cot and the bedding looks crisp. Military-grade folds, and pillows that aren’t quite as fluffy as the ones in the house, but Emma’s already glancing at the shelves to her right. Books line them, in what is obviously alphabetical order, while the desk nearby is covered in instruments for navigation, and maps of several different realms, and she knows Killian’s watching her.

Feels the force of his stare as it tries very hard to read her mind again, baited breath that’s not quite as much of a joke anymore. He's hoping. For the response, and the reaction, and she belatedly realizes what a big deal this is.

Falling into the deep end of it all is really the only reasonable thing to do now. And appropriately water-based pun.

“Give me another random fact,” Emma says, failing to keep the demand out of her voice. “Royal decrees are coming much easier for you now, Your Highness.” “Something good.” “I’d hardly give you a bad fact.” “Weird, I’m still waiting for one.”

Stabbing a finger into the space next to him, Emma’s leg bumps Killian’s when she sits down and she’d been right about the body heat. All of the blankets stay exactly where they are. “We go to Boston one weekend, relatively soon after we get married. To—” He clicks his tongue, as if he’s deciding what details to include. “Get some stuff out of your apartment. That’s not the important part. But we bring Henry with us, and drive out there. Spend a few days, and go to all of the tourist spots you say we should avoid, but Hope learned that eye trick from Henry, and it works all the time. So we go to Quincy Market, and that one brewery. Tour guide makes some history jokes, which in turn make you roll your eyes, but we get free samples, and Henry tries very hard to steal one of his own.” “Doesn’t work?” Killian shakes his head. “Not as such, no. I’m rather good at observing, you see.” “All those nights as lookout?” “Something like that,” he agrees, “It’s the first time in a very long time that we don’t have any looming threats. Nothing to worry about, no villains to contend with. We sit and walk and eat, and then eat some more, and it’s not the first time I let myself believe this is real, but it might bet the first time that reality seems to linger.” She’s holding her breath. Lungs burn in Emma’s chest, letting go of a shuddering exhale that also comes with tear-filled eyes, and Killian’s fingers hover near her neck. With the chain around it, and Emma knows it’s important — that ring that hangs just behind her stolen shirt, but she doesn’t ask and she wants to live it, anyway.

Wants those moments to come of their own accord, at their own pace, until they linger as well. Settle into her and take root, building a foundation for everything else.

“Can I do something?” she whispers, another imperceptible nod and he doesn’t object. When she unbuckles the leather at his brace, trying very hard to keep her pulse steady and her magic relatively quiet, but neither one of those things work very well and it doesn’t take very long.

Snaps and pieces of metal give way under Emma’s touch, eventually pulling away from his skin and the scars aren’t worse closer up. Just more obvious, maybe.

It’s another stupid sign.

Following the lines with her fingers, Killian’s not much more than a statue. With exceptionally wide eyes and slightly erratic breathing, watching her like he’s bracing himself for impact or the inevitably of her disappearing. Emma sits. Presses her feet into the floor, and there’s no dust on the floor. She has to swallow more than once while she accounts for every mark on him, though — emotion clogging up her throat and her thoughts in equal measure, and it’s not really instinct to bend her neck and kiss the first spot she can reach, but it’s absolutely want and she wants far more than she’s supposed to have.

Right now, at least.

“Emma,” Killian exhales, without the regret it should hold, and honestly the goddamn symmetry is as good as it is awful. She smiles. Against his skin.

“You said, ‘until I met you.’ Did you mean it?”

Glancing up without moving is another hint of cowardice, but Emma’s neck isn’t all that interested in participating in the conversation anymore and it’s easier to notice the state of Killian’s jaw like this. “More than I realized, actually.” “Yeah, me too probably. If I had said—well, I’m the worst liar in the world, y’know?” “At least several different realms.”

Scoffing, Emma’s teeth graze the blunt edge of his wrist and that only gets her a noise she’s never heard before and it’s better than all the other noises, and she loses her shirt eventually. Nothing else happens.

Still can’t, still won’t. They’re both all too aware of the inability of this to linger, but want’s a funny sort of thing and contentment’s just as strange as ever. Falling asleep with her cheek pressed to his bare chest makes sense, though, the steady rock of the ship lulling Emma until her eyes close and her thoughts silence.

“So, you’re not even trying anymore, huh?” Emma sighs. “Here I thought we’d get through the afternoon without any pointed opinions.” “Well, that was just foolish of you,” Regina shrugs, sitting on the front steps of the farm with her legs stretched out in front of her and that’s almost strange. She’s wearing jeans. No one else is surprised by that. And Mary Margaret is leaning against the door frame behind her.

One arm wrapped around her middle, she doesn’t cross her feet at the ankles like Killian would, and that’s probably for the best. Emma’s brain can only cope with so much at one time, and she might not be trying anymore.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.

“You think the wisdom is our problem?” Mary Margaret asks, barely blinking at the sound that erupts from Regina. Snarl and sneer, and Emma rocks back on her heels. Like that will put some distance between her and the queen, who doesn’t appear all that evil anymore, but could be even more determined than ever and they’re still waiting for that goddamn bird to come back.

No one’s mentioned the knights in the forest, either.

Emma’s not sure they’re still there.

“Can’t steal intelligence from the dead,” Regina reasons, and Emma’s shiver doesn’t have anything to do with the cold. It smells like cookies, even outside. “Should that make sense to me?” she asks. Mary Margaret shakes her head.

“Not at all. Just—when Zelena did this...she had a bunch of ingredients.” “She has no idea who Zelena is,” Regina mutters, shrugging at Emma’s slack jawed expression. “Don’t bother telling me you’re standing right there, you’re very predictable and I am painfully aware of your continued presence.”

“Was anyone actually going to tell me who Zelena is?” Emma snaps, a better reaction than the magic she’d like to use. On Regina, and her judgmental face. Tinker Bell went to help in Wonderland. Where magic is failing, more than it was a week earlier.

“The Wicked Witch of the West," Mary Margaret replies. “Was bad, had strong magic, gave up her magic, got it—no, she never got it back, did she?” Regina makes a contrary noise.

“How can you possibly keep track of all of this?”

Mary Margaret’s smile isn’t entirely effective, but there’s still a bit of the friend Emma occasionally worries she’s lost and of all the things breaking the curse did, that’s probably one of her bigger issues. There just hasn’t been time to deal with it. “Living it helps,” she laughs, “but she was holding Rumplestilskin hostage when she built the spell, and that’s—” “—Wait, wait, Gold is dead?” “That’s a little harder to explain, actually.”

“Huh.”

She should be upset. She should mourn...maybe not the jackass who consistently ruined everything, but at least the idea of the person he could have been, or the help he occasionally offered, but Emma’s feeling a little vengeful, and is even more annoyed. By like—the entire state of the world, right now.

She’s definitely not trying. Magic is emotion, and all of hers are far too scrambled to be effective as part of a time travel spell a witch who—“Was she actually green?” Emma asks, before she can stop herself and Mary Margaret’s smile works better that time.

“Occasionally,” Regina drawls. “But as your mother pointed out, she’s also lacking any magic now, and with Robyn in the Wish Realm—” “—That can’t possibly be a real place. And who is Robyn, exactly?”

“You met her. She brought you to—” “—That was a witch’s daughter? You realize that none of the ages for any of these kids makes sense? She was an actual adult.” “Don’t think about it too hard,” Mary Margaret advises, “will only make your head hurt.” “That ship sailed, like, two weeks ago,” Emma admits, refusing to look at whatever face Regina is making while also growling softly. Fire dances between her fingers. “Keep interrupting like this,” she warns, “and I will put you under a sleeping curse.” Jaw dropping and air rushing out of her in a wholly undignified huff, Emma’s reactions are so loud that she hardly notices Mary Margaret’s quiet “that might not be all that bad.” But then it clicks and there’s another puzzle, and more words she should not be thinking about right now, and Regina’s eyes thin enough that it’s difficult to notice any color in them.

“Huh,” she says, echoing Emma and that’s not very comforting, actually. “Well, that’s fascinating isn’t it? Plus, we don’t have any innocence.” Mary Margaret’s shoulders drop. “Oh, yeah that might be right.” Emma’s mouth is already hanging open, and her jaw physically cannot separate, so she can’t quite react like she wants to. Magic rattles around her all the same, Regina’s eyebrows doing a fairly good job of masquerading as someone else’s because— “Back to the drawing board, it seems,” she says, all but jumping back to her feet and glancing at Mary Margaret on her way back into the house.

Moving is something of an impossibility for Emma, torn between embarrassment and objections and the second one isn’t entirely possible either, but her mother only looks passably amused and that’s not the right emotion for this situation at all.

“Sleeping curse could force us into all kinds of realizations,” she reasons.

“That’s fucked up, Mom.”

More titles. More feelings. Not enough time to deal with any of them.

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agrees, “it kind of is. How much batter do you think the rest of your family has stolen?” “At least an entire cookie sheet’s worth.” “Sounds about right, let’s see if we can cop any of our own.”

“Where is everyone going to sleep?” Emma asks, sitting at a dining room table that’s nearly buckling under the weight of food covering it. “And where did they even get all this stuff from?” Fingers drift over her bent knee under the table, Emma’s hands preoccupied with doling out food and Hope’s a very big fan of mashed potatoes. As she should be, really. Less so by the small feast of vegetables her mother has provided, but certainly not cooked because Emma’s spent most of the afternoon with her mother and Regina, trying to figure out if they could replicate Zelena’s time travel spell, and it didn’t work. Like, at all.

Lack of innocence likely isn’t their biggest problem. “Not everyone stays here,” Killian explains, “although I doubt your mother would mind all that much if they did.”

“Doesn’t explain where they’re going to sleep.” “Are you concerned about privacy, love?” “Pirate,” she accuses, but it lacks any actual vitriol and someone whistles when Killian’s lips brush hers. “I just don’t want to sleep in the hallway, if there’s no more room at the inn.” “Very confident in your own brand of religion-based humor aren’t you?” “Oh, color me impressed with your knowledge.” “Not many of your jokes evolve much over time, that’s why. And I think you’ve proven your ability to relocate us fairly well, don’t you?” Twisting her lips only gets her a flash of amusement and eyebrows that move so quick, there should also be smoke involved. “As far as I know, Her Royal Highness Snow White has concocted a rather extensive and possibly color-coordinated sleeping arrangement, that ensures no one will be forced to sleep in the hallway, while also allowing for maximum comfort and the ability to ransack parents as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

Something drops into the bottom of her stomach. It’s dread. And fear, and what Emma knows is that growing selfish streak and if her hand finds Hope’s back, then that’s neither here nor there.

Plus, Killian can totally tell.

The overall volume of her magic helps too.

“Mary Margaret’s pretty in her element, huh?” Nodding, he ignores the brussels sprouts in favor of the broccoli casserole, and she’s resolutely not attracted to that. No sane person could be attracted to side dish choices. On Christmas Eve.

It’s Christmas Eve.

“She is, indeed,” Killian agrees, “which is why outsourcing made quite a bit of sense.” Emma’s eyes dart towards Granny, and no one’s introduced her to Ruby’s girlfriend yet, but Ruby also hasn’t announced that she quite obviously knows something about this family gathering is off, and that’s nice enough that pushing the issue seems like another asshole move.

No one can be an asshole on Christmas Eve.

Emma assumes, at least. Hopes a bit too, just for good measure. “Granny made all of this?”

“Eh, certainly tried. Coerced Ruby and Dorothy—” “—No,” she hisses, drawing a few curious glances and half of Hope’s plate is covered in mashed potatoes. Killian’s fingers tighten.

“Someone told you about Zelena, didn’t they?” “I met her daughter without realizing, I guess.” Making a sound of understanding, Emma doesn’t miss the length of Killian’s drink. From the wine glass next to his own mostly-filled plate. “Is that another reason they went to that Wish Realm? So she didn’t have to talk to Dorothy Gale?” “I’m sure it was a consideration.” “Keeping track of all these things is a full-time job. Ok, so—Henry’s staying here though, isn’t he?” More noise, another sip of alcohol that Emma’s strangely jealous of. Nearly knocking her own glass over, her drink is closer to a gulp her dad absolutely notices, and whatever this is, it’s not any wine she’s familiar with.

“Camelot vineyards are enchanted,” David says, answering another question Emma hasn’t actually asked. Ruby’s eyes noticeably flicker towards Henry.

Who is not very subtle.

“Something about the soil, right?” Regina asks, although it certainly sounds like she’s perfectly aware of the reason, and Emma’s less sure as to why her mouth immediately dries. Possibly because Killian’s fingers have gone vice-like.

Glancing at him isn’t very subtle either, but she couldn’t care less and curiosity’s always been a bit of a thing for her. He probably knows that, anyway. “Camelot wasn’t my favorite place,” he explains, like that’s a reasonable string of words, but this isn’t the time for that and the knights are gone. Disappeared entirely, it seems.

“No Arthur, huh?” Silence descends on the table, silverware clanking on plates and chairs scuffing when they’re pushed away from the table. Emma widens her eyes.

Challenging that no asshole on Christmas Eve policy.

“He was kind of a shitty king,” Henry shrugs, Regina glaring in that same maternal sort of way that immediately makes him look far more like a teenager than a grown man with a kid. Emma can’t figure out the timeline of Lucy at all, either.

“Redeemed himself a bit in the end,” Killian adds. “Had no trouble from that particular area.” There should be more to that sentence. Emma knows, can hear it in the clipped way his voice cuts off and his tongue swipes the front of his teeth, and—“Whatever happened to that girl Henry knew in court?” Ruby asks, and they all lack subtlety it seems.

Emma tilts her head. “Henry knew a girl in the court of Camelot?” “Very complex story,” he mumbles, dots of pink on his cheek and Ella laughing at his side.

“Should I be upset I didn’t know about this?” “He used music to woo her,” Mary Margaret adds, some of the tension hovering over them evaporating. Killian’s fingers don’t move. “Although I never entirely understood how the iPod managed to stay charged.” “Magic,” Henry reasons. “And Violet went back to Connecticut, with her dad.”

Groaning, Emma’s reaction to this wine is even stronger than anything she drank in the diner or the buttered rum, and Henry’s face might stay red for the rest of the night. Festive, at least. “A guy from Connecticut?” she asks. “In Camelot?” “Didn’t click for me at first, if that makes you feel better.” “He was too busy flirting, that’s why,” Killian adds.

Henry scowls. “Reminiscing about any of this is not nearly as fun as you guys think it is. Plus,” he slings an arm around Ella’s shoulders, kissing her temple for good measure, “it all worked out in the end, so—” “—So,” Ruby echoes, “did we decide on snowmen rules, or…”

Voices all but explode around them — shouting over one another, in what is another questionably competitive Christmas tradition, and there are apparently judges involved and boxes of decorations that Mary Margaret keeps stored in the basement. Which Emma assumes is a much better use for the space than hoarding weapons, but any thought about her house quickly gets lost in how delicious this food is and how Henry’s arm rarely leaves Ella, and at some point Hope clamors onto Killian’s lap before Lucy starts demanding snowmen and they’ve all turn into giant pushovers, it seems.

“The theme,” Granny announces from her spot on the porch, because she’s head judge, and that holds more weight than anyone else, “is whimsy. Delight me, or you’ll lose points.” “What does that even mean?” Ruby challenges. She’s already rolling snow together, Dorothy’s head barely visible while she digs through one of Mary Margaret’s boxes and produces a pair of plastic fairy wings.

“Why do you own these?” she demands.

It’s difficult to tell if the color on Mary Margaret’s cheeks is a blush, or simply a product of how cold it already is, but none of that matters as much as the inches Henry has on her and how easy it is for his arm to find her shoulders as well. “Like to be prepared for any potential theme, isn’t that right, Gram?” “Not too old for any of the parental figures around here to ground you, you know,” Mary Margaret threatens. As much as she’s able.

David throws a snowball at both of them. “Build your snowman, kid. You’re going to lose, and it will be something else we can reminisce about for holidays to come.”

“C’mon, love,” Killian says, directing Emma to their own patch of snow and overflowing box and Hope’s already discovered the plastic tub of glitter that’s inexplicably in there. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Do we win this a lot?” “Don't insult me like that.”

He kisses her to ensure she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t argue that.

And as promised, Regina magics everyone’s snow creations to ensure they won’t melt for “at least a month, maybe longer” and the dread in Emma’s stomach threatens to rise up her throat. Until there’s a hand tugging at the side of her jacket, and—

“Can you get him to smile, Mama?” Hope asks, what looks like a slightly lopsided snowman’s bottom behind her and Emma might be the biggest pushover of them all.

Waving her hand is easy, though. And magic’s getting closer to second nature than she’d like to admit, positioning shiny rocks that Mary Margaret inexplicably had into what actually looks like a smile onto another freshly-made mound of snow.

Hope is overjoyed.

Emma tries very hard not to cry.

And fails spectacularly.

Monopoly is an adults-only game. This takes Emma at least forty-two seconds to come to terms with, but then there’s more wine and it’s a miracle they don’t wake up any of the kids, and Killian really does cheat.

She just can’t figure out how.

Bills appear in front of him like he’s the one with magic in this relationship, and Emma’s definitely drunk enough not to care about her word choice. She’s admittedly far more concerned with the houses that keep cropping up on Killian’s properties and how close some of those properties are to forming multiple Monopolys and he grins at her. From across the board.

David made it very clear that couples weren’t allowed to sit next to each other.

For fear of collusion, or something — although Emma can’t imagine there are actually many alliances formed in this game, particularly after the snowmen and the judging and it took Lucy nearly an hour to come down from the understandable high of her win. Hope was more interested in getting glitter everywhere than properly constructing a snowman.

“What was that about revenge?” Emma asks archly, more than a few other alcohol-saturated adults groaning at what is blatantly even more obvious flirting. And he hadn’t been lying about the state of her parent’s tree.

More candles line the branches, not a fire hazard when the flames have been enchanted and that’s for the best because there’s just—a copious amount of tinsel on those same branches, and a few ornaments that are obviously hand-made by kids and grandkids and it’s nice to know that even descendants of fairy tale characters use popsicle sticks in their arts and crafts.

Mary Margaret probably has a box of those too.

“This has nothing to do with the snowmen,” Killian promises, quirking his lips when Ruby lands on Marvin Gardens. He owns Marvin Gardens. “Look at that.” “Are you playing with weighted dice, pirate?” Ruby cries. “Because that is—” “—Cheating,” David finishes.

Killian shrugs. His eyes don’t leave Emma. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You owe me twenty-four dollars, Lady Lucas.”

She throws the bills at him.

“How would I even use the weighted dice I don’t own anymore—” “—Anymore,” Henry repeats, and he’s only got a few bills left in front of him. Killian ignores him. Emma is far too charmed by this.

She got a Monopoly on the green properties, though. And she didn’t cheat to get them, so she’s also in possession of the moral high ground. Gives her free room to be entirely charmed by her husband. Kind of. “To calculate what you’ll land on,” Killian finishes. “That doesn’t even make sense.

Shaking her head, Ruby’s hair nearly flies into her face, threatening the state of the board and several other player’s pieces. All of whom are very loudly offended by that. “I hate you,” she sneers, and she doesn’t get back to Go before she goes bankrupt.

In the end, the moral high ground doesn’t help Emma’s ability to turn profits when Killian gets the Monopoly on that yellow corner and immediately starts building hotels and she nearly snarls when she lands on Atlantic Avenue.

“I think I might have won, Swan.” “Shut up.” “You don’t have to actually give me all your money, I’m more than pleased to simply hear the words from you.” “Shut up,” Emma says, and her mom fell asleep at least an hour earlier. David rolls his eyes. When she leans across the board, knocking over pieces and hotels, and Killian built so many goddamn hotels. He’s smiling when she kisses him.

Nothing overly magical happens, but Emma swears one of the candles flickers in the corner of her eye.

They do get a room. Directly next to the one Hope and Lucy are sharing, but Emma’s finding it harder than she expected to walk away from the tree and she never had a Christmas tree when she was a kid. Lights start to blur the longer she stares at it, floorboards creaking in an unnecessary announcement of the hand that finds her and— “I put an ornament on, you know,” Killian says, staring ahead when Emma turns towards him. “Was worried you’d notice, but I’m actually rather good at—” “—Sneaking?” “Covert movements.”

Scoffing out a laugh, her head falls to his shoulder. With the magnets and the feelings, magic fighting against dread and a slew of other feelings that are now as twisted as any family tree they could create. “Is it wrong to ask you what you wished for? Or should we talk about why you hate Camelot?” “They go together, actually.” “Do they just?” He kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s grounding himself or reminding himself of something that may not happen if they don’t somehow fix all of this, and Emma’s tongue is doing that thing again. Taking up way too much space in her mouth.

She’s not sure what she’d say, anyway.

“Dying makes it rather easy to shuffle a man’s priorities, and—” “—You die?” Emma shouts, but Killian’s shoulder only bumps her cheek and half the candles flicker. “How is that—God, that’s…” More kisses. A few hand squeezes. Her knees shake all the same.

“Doesn’t stick any of the times.” “It happens more than once.”

His cheek shifts her hair when he nods, a picture of only passably believable calm, and that wasn’t a question. “Something of a stubborn lass, though. So you don’t accept it very often, and occasionally that doesn’t work very well, but—” Tears fall down Emma’s cheeks, hot in the way a brand is, or she figures it would be, and she swallows as his thumb brushes over her skin. “You save me. Several times over.”

“Does calling me lass ever end well for you?” “Not as such, no.” Sticking her lower lip out is definitely a misplaced attempt to regain control of the situation because Emma’s all too aware of just how quickly Killian’s gaze will drop, and she’s not disappointed. A little nervous, but she figures that’s to be expected and her voice only kind of shakes when she whispers, “That’s not just a you thing, you know that, right?” “A me thing, what?” “The saving. Being stubborn too, I guess, or holding onto this with both hands, and this is an us thing. I’m...well, maybe I’m not totally there yet, but—” Her lips are chapped. Cracking with more emotion than she’s entirely sure she’s capable of, and Emma swallows once. Her tongue doesn’t do anything else. “Is that what you wished for? The saving?” “Awfully selfish, I know, but I—I think I need that.” “No, it’s not,” she objects. “Might be sweepingly romantic, even.” Eyes trace over her face, like he’s memorizing all of it, all over again, and innocence was a long gone ideal when they made out in the jungle, but this feels entirely different and somehow more important and Emma has to push up on her toes. To press her lips to his, and make sure his arm pulls her flush against his chest, and there’s no music or rainbow, but that might have something to do with her greed and her want and neither one of them pull away.

While a clock chimes down the hall.

“Merry Christmas, love.” She closes her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Something taps at their window. Incessantly, until it’s obvious Emma’s not dreaming the sound, and it takes her a few blinks and one grumbling, half-asleep pirate to realize it’s a bird. Without a sense of direction, it seems.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, pulling the blankets over her shoulders like that will keep them here and the bird outside and that’s an exercise in futility that lasts less than a full minute. Once the bird realizes he’s at the wrong room.

She counts. Seconds and breaths, trying not to give into the whimper that’s pressed behind her lips, and Killian’s fingers find hers. The floor creaks. Doors swing open, and David’s voice calls for them and Regina, and there are more squeaking hinges and calls to action because—

Mary Margaret knocks before she comes inside, already dressed with a full quiver of arrows strapped to her back. “Camelot’s gone,” she says, which may actually be the last thing Emma expects to hear at whatever time it is. Late, if the lack of sun is any sign. “Disappeared in a wave of...nothing.” “How can a wave be nothing?” Emma asks. “That—” “—It’s the opposite of magic,” Regina finishes, curled around the door with her hair twisted and there’s no fire in her palm. It’s in her eyes, instead. The end of reality turns Emma into something of a poet, apparently. “Get ready, we’ve got to head this off before it gets to the town and,” her gaze drifts towards Killian and his hand and his hook his on the bedside table, “might want to get your sword out of storage, Captain.”

Nodding silently, Killian doesn’t show any other signs of acknowledging his marching orders, but then he’s looking at Emma, a mix of expectant disappointment and unhinged longing and she blinks. Twice. They’re dressed.

And his sword hangs from his hip.

“You alright?” he rasps, which seems like more cheating and entirely unfair and Emma nods too.

“Let’s fix this.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #things are happening!#they are decidedly emotional!

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shnuggletea · 4 years ago

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For Inuyasha Sin Week, here is the prologue of my fic! @lemonlushff @neutronstarchild, I offer this fic as tribute to this awesome event. Now if I could only get all the other chapters done!

Synopsis: Tired of heartbreak and disappointment, Sango, Kagome, and Kikyo decide to "create" their perfect mate. Clearly, no one told them to be careful about what you wish for. For Inuyasha Sins Week 2020!

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Prologue

“The beginning is the most important part of the work.” ― Plato, The Republic

It had been an hour and I still sat, drumming my nails on the table I reserved for us. I only paused in my drum solo to run my hand through my hair again, the curls I forced on my pin-straight and plain black strands falling flat long ago. Why was I still here? The guy clearly wasn’t coming. Or did took one look and left right out.

Fucking blind dates.

Having enough of the embarrassment, people watching and making bets on how much longer I would last as well as the waiter asking yet again if I wanted to go ahead and order, I made sure to strut as much as I could out of the place. It was all an act, the lovely feeling of my skirt on my thighs not the same post ‘date’.

I had been assured that this guy was ‘great!’ and ‘perfect for me!’. My perfect man didn’t stand me up. Especially in such a high-class restaurant.

The ache of exhaustion had little to do with the heels I flung off my feet to toss next to the door. I was tired of disappointment. I was tired of heartbreak. But most of all, I was tired of being lonely.

And I was far from alone, plopping to the occupied couch. She gave me a hard look with her bright blue eyes that I ignored as long as I could. “He didn’t show?!”

Damn. I hated how Kagome could do that, see through people so easily. “No, he didn’t show.”

“But Kikyo said…”

“I know! She was wrong about him.”

Kagome sighed gently, wrapping an arm around my shoulders to pull me close to her. “I’m sorry, Sango.”

The coffee table was filled with a strange array of books. Their bindings all odd titles, this time about witchcraft and alchemy. “Got a test soon?”

Sitting up, she fingered through the collection. “My dissertation. Just haven’t figured out my main topic yet. I think I wanna do magic and science? How the two intertwine making both real?”

Sounded like nonsense to me, but most of what Kagome studied did. A weird mix of medical science and folklore. Or something. I didn’t know what she was studying because it was all a wash of information it seemed.

“Anything in there about finding your soul mate? Because I think we could both use that magic or science.”

Kagome frowned, knowing I was right. It had been a long time since Kagome had felt the love bug. The dates she went on and the guys she became ‘serious’ with panned out as well as mine did. Woefully falling short in one way or another. And the last time she had a boyfriend… it didn’t end well.

My phone rang and for a heartbeat, I thought maybe it was the guy calling to apologize. But no, it was Kikyo so I hit speaker right away. “How did it go?”

“I’m answering your call at 8:45, what do you think?”

Kikyo hissed, “that bad?”

“Terrible. He didn’t show!”

She gasped, “what? That doesn’t make sense…”

“It doesn’t matter. No more blind dates. I’m just going to die alone.”

“Where’s Kagome?”

I glanced her way and Kagome had a book in her lap. A big one. “Right here on the couch, next to me.”

There was a giggle on the line from Kikyo but it wasn’t towards us. Then a ‘stop it’ and I was ready to hang up on her. “Sorry, hold on a second.” I rolled my eyes towards Kagome and she smirked and shrugged. Kikyo never seemed to mind rubbing her love life in our sad-sack faces. “Okay, I’m back.”

“So how’s Yougi?”

Kikyo scoffed, “Yougi? I dumped him last week! I’m with Jin. But he’s so clingy, I’m going to dump him soon.” Here I was, a starving woman talking to a woman who was drowning in men. It left me less than pleased. “I can’t believe Ken stood you up. I’m going to call him right now and…”

“Wait, his name is Ken?” Kagome had a sudden interest, looking at me and the phone. “Isn’t that the guy you dated last month? The one that asked you to marry him?!”

“.... yeah so?”

My skin pricked with irritation. “You set me off with one of your castoffs?!”

“He’s a great guy!”

“Great? Then why don’t you marry him?!”

Kikyo huffed like I was joking, “he’s a little too boring for me. No imagination in the sack.”

I was sure a blood vessel or two bursts in my brain. “Kikyo… as much as I… appreciate your efforts, no more blind dates. Especially ones that are your sloppy seconds!!”

“So you don’t want Jin when I’m done with him?”

“No!!”

Kagome leaned into the phone, “Kikyo, they’re people. Not items. You can’t just pass them to the next person interested. It doesn’t work like that. What did you tell Ken to get him to agree to a blind date?”

The line was silent and the heat under my skin slowly began to rise with each second waiting. “I told him I’d see him after to… talk.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!!” I screamed.

“I wasn’t going to do it! I figured he would go and have such a good time with you that he would forget about me!”

“Instead, he hoped to trick you into thinking he saw me first and chose you instead! Good night Kikyo!!!”

The beep the phone made as I ended the call wasn’t nearly satisfying. Grabbing a random book on witchcraft, I popped off the couch and made for my room, holding the book up like a hostage. “I’m borrowing this and looking for a hex or curse to put on Kikyo’s vagina!!”

Kagome’s mouth dropped for a second before twisting into a smile. “Pretty sure there’s already one on it, seeing as all those who enter get dumped soon after!”

The chuckle I released was a sad one, lacking any happiness even with Kagome trying to cheer me up. No, only magic could cheer me up now. I had been kidding about a spell but as I laid restless in bed, I found myself thumbing the pages all night long.

oOo

It was decadent. Even more so for breakfast. But after the night Sango had she would need comfort.

I carefully flipped the crepe I had in the pan over and took a sip of my tea. Strawberries chopped behind me and chocolate melted, all that was left was cooking the bread and wrapping them up.

The knock on the door had me quickly flinging the finished crepe to a plate and tiptoe run to answer it. I sighed and shook my head at her, but stepped back to let Kikyo in.

“How mad is she?”

“Pretty mad. What were you thinking?”

Kikyo flicked a short black lock around her ear, showing off her pretty diamond earrings. Probably a gift from a guy. “I was thinking that Ken was a really nice guy even if he wasn’t right for me.”

Sighing, I relented. Kikyo meant well but just didn’t get it. But she never struggled to find love just struggled to find love in her own heart.

She took a seat at our small dining room table, facing me as I danced in the kitchen with my work. Pouring more batter into my pan, I lifted the metal to swirl it around for my circle. I loved watching the liquid become solid before my eyes. An instance of science that looked like magic to me.

“Any coffee for me?”

I pointed to the pot I made for Sango when she got up. Kikyo had just placed her full mug to her lips for a sip when Sango’s bedroom door flung open. We both jumped, yet somehow, Kikyo’s coffee landed on me. I pulled away from her attempts to clean and apologize to flip my crepe instead.

“I found it. I found the answer!”

Sango looked wild. Her eyes were red from lack of sleep and her hair was in knots. She also didn’t care that Kikyo was there or that she was running around in a large t-shirt with no pants. I had seen her like that many times but Kikyo never had for a reason. Sango has a thing about her thighs and ass. I thought she looked great but she didn’t so Sango rarely let anyone see them in daylight like this.

Kikyo was still trying to dab coffee off my sleeve while I knew a change of shirt was inevitable. “What are you talking about?”

Kikyo’s tone didn’t deter Sango in the least, holding up the book she borrowed last night up in the air. “I found the answer to our boy problems!”

Glancing at the binding, I quickly read the title. It was an old text on witchcraft. More importantly, one that included spells and incantations instead of history and theories. I had searched for years for a text like it and Sango was brandishing it around like a sword.

“Be careful with that!!”

Now she clutched it to her chest, changing from a sword to a precious child. “It has what we all need. Kagome and I especially. Kikyo… you don’t need it like we do but you can make up for last night by helping.”

“What are you talking about?” Kikyo spun to me, “what is she talking about?!”

Like I had a clue? That book was full of silly and ridiculous rhymes and rituals. Most that involved sacrificing something like blood or an animal.

So I shrugged and we both turned back to a manic Sango. Who grinned wide before slapping the book open to a page. “To Summon a Perfect Mate.”

“Mate?” Kikyo questioned.

I glanced from Sango to Kikyo, catching her genuine confusion and rolling my eyes. “A lover.”

“Not just any lover! You can mix and match your perfect soul mate!!” Sango jittered, more excited than I had seen her in a long time. “Whatever you want, you can put into the man and make him perfect!”

Pulling the book from her grasp, I spun it around to look. Only to have my heart drop into my empty belly. “This isn’t summoning a man, it’s summoning a demon!”

Sango spun the book back to herself and continued to smile. “But we can choose what kind of vessel they’re in! We can but then in a human body!”

“They’d still be a demon, Sango!”

“I don’t know,” Kikyo purred, “a demon lover sounds hot.”

They were serious? Seriously considering it?! I knew Sango was struggling, so was I but this hardly seemed like the answer!

My crepe had burnt to a crisp, quickly flinging the black bread into the sink before it caught fire. When I turned back, Kikyo was studying the text closely alongside Sango. It made my heart jump from my stomach to my throat.

“Guys. Come on. It’s not like it’s going to work!”

Sango shrugged and grinned. “Then there’s no harm in trying then, is there?”

oOo

It had been a week since Sango showed us the spell. It took three days to convince Kagome to at least try and then we had to wait for the next full moon. Which was tonight.

I had my list in my purse of the things I wanted in my man; strong, confident, independent, smart. I also wanted him to have long, dark, wavy hair but I didn’t know if the spell worked like that. It didn’t mention physical attributes.

Kagome opened the door for me and I was taken aback, her blood-red dress was pretty and one of her nicer outfits she usually only wore when we went out. “What’s this?”

Looking shy, Kagome tucked her head into her chest and pulled away from me. “When this fails, you guys are gonna want to go out and drink.”

“If it fails!” Sango called out but she was dressed up too.

Moving to the living room turned mixing pot, I took a seat on one of the three pillows on the floor. Sango sat as well on her purple shift dress and crossed her legs. Kagome hovered over us.

“You guys have your list and your animal?”

It was weird, the most I got but the animal? Damn pagans making things weird. It was the only part that made me hesitate but after some research, I found the perfect animal. And then found my item for it.

Sango pulled out her list and a plastic bag so I pulled out my things as well. Kagome sat, holding a piece of paper and what looked like a dog collar. Then I looked at Sango who had octopus tentacles at the ready.

“Seriously?”

Sango gave me a slanted glance, “they’re clever. They can get out of any situation.”

“They’re also sticky and gross!”

“I love octopus! They’re cute!” Kagome cried, defending her friend.

I pointed to her collar, “and you’re using a…?”

“A dog.” She stated.

A laugh sputter from me and Sango but she recovered first. “A dog? Why a dog?!”

“Because they’re loyal!”

Both of us stopped at that, understanding instantly why Kagome made that choice. I had thought she had moved on from that but maybe it was something you never got over.

“And they’re sweet, dependable, and cute…”

“We get it.” A sighed and now it was my turn. “It’s a raven’s feather. Smart, independent, and strong. Just like my ideal man.”

“Your ideal man sounds like you with a dick.”

Sango smirked but I just grinned, “thanks.”

“Okay, let’s get this over with. I really need a drink already.”

Now all of us sat, placing our lists before us with our item on top. The candles in the middle were quickly lit, black, white, red, pink, green, and blue. It was a fucking rainbow. I didn’t question it since Kagome was the master of all this and had read the spell a hundred times before today. Majoring in weird-ass shit was finally paying off.

“Once I finish the chant, we all burn our lists in the flames and kiss the item while thinking about our… person.”

“You mean lover.”

I giggled at how Sango purred the word but Kagome was already in serious mode. So we cut it out quick and let her get to work.

“Domena irepi calidus. Domena irepi calidus. Domena irepi calidus. Domena irepi calidus….”

I lost count to how many times Kagome repeated the same line. But then she grew silent and we all shook as we held our list over the flames.

Dropping them before we burned our fingers, our items were in our hands and pressed to our lips. Kagome and Sango had their eyes closed so I did the same, imagining my perfect man. Tall, built, with dark eyes that pulled me deep.

And a large cock that made me scream.

I wished we were saying these out loud, I worried the others didn’t think about sex. Well, Sango probably did but Kagome wouldn’t, I was sure of that.

Now we waited. Time passed. Babies were born. The moon rose and was beginning to fall. But nothing inside the apartment happened other than breathing and waning excitement.

“I’m sorry guys…”

Sango looked truly disappointed and I felt for her. I would have been happy if it worked but Sango was dependent on it. Kagome looked guilty as if it was her fault. “It’s not your fault, Kagome. It was stupid in the first place.”

Sango wipes her face and got to her feet. “Let’s go get a drink.”

We were a little silly as we walked back to Kagome and Sango’s. I was feeling more honest than I should be. “This is why you guys are still single. Wasting time on things that don’t matter.”

“Like what?!” Sango cried.

“Well… take Kagome for example. She picked a dog. A dog! And you an octopus? The problem is, you guys don’t think of men like you should, expendable.”

“Yeah because they're not a purse you change when you please,” Kagome muttered loudly.

“Yes, they are! And if you treat them as such, then you’ll never get hurt when they leave you. Because you’ll be leaving them. There is no such thing as a soulmate anyway. No man is perfect enough to be your one and only.”

Sango wrapped an arm around my shoulders and grinned. “You know what? You’re right. Fuck men!”

“Fuck ‘em and leave them!” I shouted, not caring that we were now in Kagome and Sango’s hallway. No one came out to fuss so who cares?

Kagome did, getting her keys in the door and freezing. “Do you guys… hear that?”

We stopped too, Sango hiccuping once before straining to hear with me. I heard something but I was wholly confused. Because it sounded like scratching.

“What the hell is that?!”

I pulled back from Sango too late to keep her from screaming in my ear. Kagome hushed both of us, pressing her ear to the door. “It sounds like… a dog. Scratching at the door?!”

“Fuck!”

I was thoroughly creeped out. Sango stood right behind Kagome as she took a deep breath and pushed the door open wide. I hung out in the hallway like a chicken but I didn’t care, I was scared shitless.

“Oh… my god…”

Sango didn’t sound scared, just shocked. So I rounded into the apartment to nearly fall back on my ass.

Kagome was a few steps from the door and Sango stood closer to the living room. But there were three other people in the place with them. I could see long hair on all of them, two of them were dark while the one closest to Kagome nearly glowed with bright white hair. But that was all I caught, black eyes zeroing in on me and causing my breath to catch in my throat.

Tall, dark, and handsome he reeked of power. The confident air, he had drawn me to him like a moth, and as soon as I stepped up to him, he wrapped his arms around me. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

He didn’t have clothes and we didn’t have names but one thing was clear, we were meant for each other. I didn’t even glance back to the others, taking him out the door with me. I think I caught sight of the man near Kagome now licking her neck. Maybe she had considered sex when thinking about her man?

Either way, the spell had worked and I had my perfect man in my hold, heading straight for my bed.

More to come, god willing! Be sure to check out all the amazing fics coming out this week for this sinfully good event!!!

#inuyasha sins #inuyasha fanfiction #inukag #sango x miroku #kikyo x naraku #sinfully human

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monstaxdirtywonk · 5 years ago

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Love Syndrome

Member : Wonho X reader

Genre : Fuff, some angst, some smut

Synopsis : A girl obsessed with Neurology takes an experiment on dating Hoseok, who has no idea this is a joke to her. Her experiment will turn against her when she’ll actually start falling in love...

You weren't like the other girls. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those memes online but no, you truly meant it. As a kid, you despised dolls and castles, pink and unicorns. You showed a great interest in mechanics, cars (mostly destroying them and notice their parts), puzzles and balls. Truth be told, you were proud of yourself and how independent you grew to be. Your friends were crying every once in a while for that hottie blondie who broke up with them, while you did your best at comforting them. Relationships were an unnecessary drama, one you did not want to take part in. You’re fine the way you are! An academic career is in front of you, traveling the world and finally, being what you always wanted...a woman of logic, of sense, of credibility. No drama, no annoying clingy boyfriends, no crying sessions. No. No. No. You know what's best in life and that’s what’s your way.

Your friend Val was over for support. There’s been a month since she broke up with the ex and still can’t let go. After hours of fake sentimentalism, you’ve had enough.

“You know what...I’ve got the perfect solution for you.”

Val raised her teary eyes and looked curiously to your side.

“You can get a dog! Yes that’s perfect, I should’ve thought about it sooner,

“okay thank you for trying to make me laugh but it’s not helping.”

“This isn’t a joke. it’s a real solution and a much more practical one than me just telling you sweet nonsense of ‘comfort’. Dogs, when in contact with humans, release a chemical in our brain called oxytocin, just like when you are with your partner. Instead of having the side effects and ups and downs of a relationship, a dog is much more devoted and drama free. Boom, you’ve got double win.”

“I swear sometimes I feel like you’re Sheldon from Big Bang theory in a female form.”

“Thank you for that compliment but I am not as good as the flawless mastermind Sheldon himself is.”

“You know what, Ima leave before we fight, the least thing I’m looking for is this.”

“Okay fine but think about it.”

You said as you made your way to the door along her. Val grinned and left without a second word. I mean you were right, even you thought of adopting a cute poodle. It’s much better than ‘adopting’ a boyfriend. Plus dogs are always happy when they see you. Maybe a dog is a good idea.

You checked the watch and it hit you.

“Damn, I’m late!” you exclaimed and took your purse heading out of the door.

----

‘When in love, you experience a rush of hormones to the brain — including oxytocin, the “love hormone,” the “pleasure hormone” dopamine, and sex hormones like estrogen and testosterone. ‘

You aren’t the type to believe in coincidences but if they exist, this can’t be one. Out of all those subjects, did they have to talk about love’s effect on the brain today? Unbelievable. But interesting at the same time, no wonder everyone’s so invested in this called ‘dating culture’.

“Y/N, we’ll be in the cafeteria downstairs. Don’t be too late.”

“I won’t I promise.”

The proffessor looked at you intensely. You noticed and moved your head upwards.

“Actually I’ll close the class! Sorry about that but I have my lunch break.”

“Ah totally. I’m so sorry Mr.Jones for ‘eating your time away’” You laughed at your own pun and he did too.

You slow-run to the exit and the moment you reached the door, you collided with someone and your books fell to the floor.

“Oh I’m sorry I can’t believe I’m so careless at times.” his voice, a sweet sound contrary to his muscular physique.

“No, it’s my mistake actually. I wasn’t looking straight, per usual.” he laughed and colected your books.

“I mean, you didn’t have to.”

“It’s the least I can do for bumbing into you like that. My Hulk self should be a little more careful since I might knock out someone.”

You laughed genuinely after a long time. He noiticed and smiled in satisfaction.

“So, you’re studying Neurology?”

“Ugh? Ah yes I do! It’s very interesting. Some might find it boring but it’s so exciting to learn about the wonder our body, our mind is.”

He was staring at you in awe. Probably thinking of you as a terrible nerd. Judging by his looks, he seemed the gym guy, totally off your valley.

‘I’m sorry. It gets boring for some.”

“No. Not at all. I admire those that are so passionate with what they’re doing. I would just like to add something more to your sentence.”

“...and what’s that?”

“the wonder our body, mind and soul is.”

Normally you’d think of it as lame. Actually it was cheesy but he is a pleasant surprise. It was unfair to judge him based on his looks after all.

“I guess.” you answered semi-sure.

“Now you might excuse me but I gotta go. It was nice talking to you.”

“Bye” you waved cringing at the silly child-like act.

----

The library was surprisingly empty for a uni with so many students. You took advantage and went there to study further for your upcoming exams. Suddenly a voice interrupted your train of thought and you were this close to cursing.

“Hey!” someone shout out in excitment, earning himself agressive shhs from the few students sitting there. He murmured a sorry and came your way. It was the guy that bumbed into you a couple of days before.

“Hey” you answered as quietely as possible.

“So..” he said obviously nervous by his hand movements and red tint on his cheeks.

“I forgot to tell you my name and that was rude, wasn’t it?”

You didn’t answer because it wasn’t rude.

“I’m Hoseok.” he extended his arm for a hand shake.

You felt his pulse rising to dangerous vibrations. He was nervous for sure. Maybe you’re reading into it too much...

“Nice to meet you Hoseok, I’m Y/N.”

“You know I feel sorry to interrupt you but I’d like to offer you a drink, as a way to apologize.”

“You don’t have to! It wasn’t anything disastrous.”

“Is that a no?” he asked with puppy eyes, eager for an answer. You didn’t want to let him down, plus he seemed like a nice guy.

“You know what, let’s go but I’ll pay for my drink.”

“I insist.” you smiled at his stubborness.

----

“So..” Hoseok said while stirring his coffee.

“yees..” you answered looking back at him with curious eyes.

“I was thinking...if you’d like us to grab a snack/drink from time to time.”

You nodded hapily. You wanted a new friend especially when it’s someone as good and funny as Hoseok.

“Ah yes totally! I’d love to be your friend. You’re so funny and all!.” you replied and touch his arm playfully.

Hoseok sighed and his face seemed a bit dissapointed.

“Oh so you view me as a friend?”

“Yes...isn’t that what you wanted too?”

He moved closer and took your hand in his. It was a brave move and even tho his eyes were uncertain, his body language said otherwise.

“I mean, actually dating. You and me, more than friends.” he said and left your hand, letting you to decide on your own.

This came out of nowhere. You weren’t expecting this to be said so fast but here he is, right in front of you, asking. Hoseok had every charateristic a girl would want. Funny,smart and what seems like high levels of testosterone judging by his muscular body and prominant jawline. But, you didn’t know if this was enough. Relationships aren’t for you and you don’t want to take time off your studies. You don’t even have feelings for him in the first place. You don’t have feelings for anyone, they are pointless attempts of nature to make you birth offsprings and save the specie from dissapearing.

He studied your face for any expression that might suggest your answer but there was none. You were lost in those rapid thoughts and didn’t know what to do. When you finally came out of it and saw his pleading expression you shouted out

“YES” you bought your hand in front of your lips to shush yourself.

Hoseok smiled the brighest and most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. His eyes were sparkling in hapiness and felt relieved to hear you, his cheeks rosy again. His beauty made you forget, the horror you just said. Did you just said...yes? How can you do such a thing? You don’t even have feelings for him.

You sighed and he noticed.

“Don’t feel pressured. We will take things as slowly as you want them to be.”

Little did he know that wasn’t it.

“Ah thank you Hoseok for being so understanding. Now I gotta go because … I gotta go. See you later.”

“Talk to you later” he said

“Oh and I forgot, can I have your phone you know...”

Typical couple things

«Yes» you said and wrote your number down.

----

“What do I do when we walk side by side?”

You asked Val while holding a notebook in your lap, making small marks to study later.

“Just be natural! Don’t study for a date too”

“How can I be natural? I’ve got no idea what’s up with all this dating thing you guys do like it’s breathing or something. I will watch Netflix series once you’ll leave, those stupid crybaby ones, to find out more.”

“Ugh, okay you hold his hand too? maybe?”

“hold..his..hand..too..” you repeated while writing it down. It’s not that hard after all, unless he takes things further which he said won’t be happening.

“Now you can leave or you can leave because I’ve got very important things to do.”

“Very important aka watching Netflix.”

“Exactly” you nodded while laughing.

“okay I’m not gonna stay any longer either you know...i’m prone to crying.”

“Yes I know plus your PMS makes things even worse, I mean it’s normal you know with all those chemical and hormonal imbal...”

the sudden sound caught you off guard, Val really didn’t seem like the type that wanted to learn. You sighed loudly and moved to the couch. You truly made a mess. You didn’t want to hurt him with saying no, but if you say no now, it’ll hurt him even more. It’d be best if he didn’t have feelings but according to his body language and days he’s been exposed to your pherormones, he is in and deep. It might be beneficial tho, it’s not the most humanatarian idea but you can make the best out of a bad situation. Maybe, if you live through a relationship, you’ll be able to grasp why it means so much to others. An experiment.

It won’t hurt anyone, right?

#monsta x #monsta x imagine #wonho #hoseok #fluff #kpop fluff #kpop imagine

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lifeinahole27 · 5 years ago

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Fic Bits 2019

Well, this is a little later than I usually post these, but I’m sure we can all agree that it’s been a hell of a year already. All posted in one go because I had a lot of trouble writing during this last round and did the absolute best I could. I hope you all enjoy!!

Included in this pack:

“Scream and Shout” - Emma wants to find out if mindreading is real.

“A Regular Pair of Grinches” - They’re mostly impartial to each other, but their friends want them to be more than that.

Lethologica: Behind the Scenes - Conversations that happen when our lovers aren’t around.

My Eyes, They Speak for Me: The continuation I always wanted to write but never did.

On the Two: A Peek into the Future - So fluffy and sweet it’ll make your teeth rot.

“A Long Time Coming” - Every year, I write a Frozen Jewel bit for @xpumpkindumplingx because I love her and I know how much she loves them. This year was no different. Sprinkles of CS included so it can be enjoyed by all!

“Scream and Shout”

It’s not that she really believes in the supernatural powers that people claim to have. There’s no definitive proof. People go on talk shows and spout stories but the most they do is a “demonstration” that could easily be some rehearsed nonsense that she chooses to reject as reality.

But the strangest thing keeps happening at work. In the bullpen in her office, she keeps a running monologue of jokes or comments, things she thinks to herself but doesn’t say out loud to anyone because the last thing she wants or needs is HR on her ass. Twice now she’s noticed after particularly amusing comments to herself, she’s heard chuckling across the way. But it has to be a coincidence. She doesn’t believe in telepathy. Doesn’t believe in any of this stuff.

But just for fun, she starts to keep track of the timing. She keeps track of who’s in the room when it happens. And she decides to test some theories. She tries talking to whoever may be listening, but there’s no answer. She tries thinking numbers to see if anyone gets frustrated or loses their concentration.

Finally, she’s standing at the water cooler one day and she goes for the big one: in her mind, she screams as loud as she can –

And there it is. Killian flinches. Killian. The man she’s had an office crush on since he started working here three months ago.

But how can she get him to admit it?

It’s not like she can just walk up to him and ask if he’s a telepath – not without sounding rude, or admitting that she was the one that just screamed in his head. So she bides her time and tries to put it behind her.

It isn’t until one day when they’re getting ready to leave that she has a chance to prove it. They’re the last ones in the office, so Emma starts asking Killian to bring her something from his side of the office.

“Sure, Swan. Do you need the hole-punch as well?”

When he looks around, Emma is nowhere to be seen. His shoulders slump, and he sighs.

“Fine. I’m sorry. I swear I don’t do it all the time, but you come in loud and clear in my head for some reason.”

Emma steps out from around the wall she was hiding behind on the other side of the room. “Why’s that?”

“Probably because I’ve fancied you since the first time I saw you,” he says, pausing and rubbing a spot behind his ear. “Well, when you stopped yelling at me for queueing before you in the copy line.”

“Can you hear me all the time?”

“No. I actively try not to listen, but when I’m not listening to music while working, your comments and jokes come out loud and clear above the rest of our coworkers.”

She wanders a little closer, propping against the cubicle wall as he drops back into his chair. “That sounds awful, actually.”

“Not when it’s you,” he admits quietly, chancing a look up at her. “But only when you aren’t screaming.”

It’s Emma’s turn to look sheepish for once. “Sorry. I just… I needed to find the proof.”

“Please forget I ever asked if the answer is no, but would you like to grab coffee? You could pick my brain… so to speak.”

For once, Emma takes the chance and says yes.

After a year of dating, he still sometimes listens to her thoughts, but this time he has her permission. At least he gets it loud and clear when she starts hinting that he should propose.

The ring is just as she imagined and everything.

-x-

“A Regular Pair of Grinches”

They’re not really friends – not in a traditional way, anyway. They met through mutual friends and were always the solo ones, so they had to form a friendship so their friends would stop trying to shack them up with each other.

It’s only at mutual functions that they see each other, though, never going out of the way to see each other beyond what their friends put together and invite them to.

During the Christmas party, they get sick of everyone trying to line them up under the mistletoe. Emma is the one that suggests the heist, and Killian goes right along with the plan. When everyone else is occupied with a story that Emma is telling them, he reaches up and snags the little sprig and shoves it in his pocket.

Twelve minutes later (they timed it, after all) Snow realizes her precious little plan has come undone.

Of course, everyone immediately realizes it was Emma and Killian, and they’re soon banished to another room for being general Grinches during the season.

“Maybe if they hadn’t tried this like a million times,” Emma grouses as she flops onto the couch in their “prison.”

“For some reason, Swan, we’re the only ones that seem to realize we are adults with agency and we can choose to do whatever we’d like.”

“Hell yeah we are!” At this statement, Emma produces a bottle of rum from where she’d stashed it away earlier.

“Have I ever told you that I adore you?” Killian asks as he reaches for the bottle.

“Not everyone can be this pretty and a genius. You’re welcome.”

It’s somewhere after the fourth shot that they end up next to each other on the couch, with Emma’s legs thrown over Killian’s lap and his hand gently resting on one of her shins.

It’s after the sixth shot that they end up snuggled together spooning on the – admittedly, very comfortable – couch.

It’s when they wake up that Killian digs the mistletoe out of his pocket and stares at it in the dim light of morning.

And it’s when Emma wakes up and sees him holding it above their heads that she reacts, turning his face towards hers and kissing him with everything she’s got.

They’ve both got morning breath and she’s sure her makeup is fucked up beyond repair, but the way he’s holding her makes her feel… cherished. She’s not sure she’s ever felt that way before.

When they break apart, they’re both smiling. This is normally where Emma would run, but there’s something about it being Killian that stops her from doing that.

It’s only later that they realize that they were covered with a blanket, realizing Snow must’ve come in and tucked them in at some point.

Sure enough, she looks like a cat that got the cream when they finally make it in for breakfast.

The next time they share a bed, it’s actually a bed, and there are a lot less clothes involved.

They’re not really friends – they’re more like… lovers.

-x-

Lethologica: Behind the Scenes

Of course everyone knows long before the wedding where Emma and Killian blatantly make out in the middle of the reception hall. This stems from Mary Margaret and Ruby speculating over their girl-date coffees one day.

Ruby asks pretty early on: “Have you noticed anything weird about Emma and Killian?”

“Oh, thank god I’m not the only one,” Mary Margaret breathes out, making sure to lower her voice as she continues. “I think they’re sneaking around behind our backs.”

“How long?”

“So Killian came to the diner one day with this look and Emma was too smug about something.”

“They’ve been a lot more affectionate on nights out. They hide it really well but they’re almost always touching.”

“Didn’t they always touch before?”

“It has a different feel to it, Mary Margaret. Can’t you see it?”

“I can see it. But do you think they can see it?”

They stare at each other for a solid ten seconds before they both burst out laughing, thankful for the secluded corner of the little coffee house they go to when they don’t want to go to Granny’s.

“Nope,” Ruby says.

“Not a chance. How long do you think before they realize they’re in love?”

“No clue, but it’ll probably take something small to push them over the edge. They’re really just…” she trails off, seeing David approaching and knowing that he doesn’t need to know anything about this yet. “A couple of potatoes with the recipe.”

“What?”

“You making something new for dinner?” David asks as he leans down and places a kiss to the crown of Mary Margaret’s head.

“Oh! Uh, yeah. Ruby was telling me about this… potato recipe.”

“I love potatoes. Twice baked?”

“Probably by now,” Ruby mutters, causing Mary Margaret to choke on the sip of her coffee.

“Something like that. You’ll see tonight,” she says when she clears her airway. Since Ruby is already occupied on her phone, Mary Margaret can only assume that she’s trying to find interesting potato dishes to send along.

After witnessing the clear intimacy between Emma and Killian at the dining out, Ruby sends Mary Margaret a text message.

“THE POTATOES ARE MASHED! I REPEAT! THE POTATOES ARE MASHED!!”

“I JUST GOT ENGAGED!!” comes the reply right after, which causes an entirely different freak-out in Ruby.

The night ends, and as Ruby and Mulan head back to their room, Ruby holds on to Mulan’s hand tightly.

“David and Mary Margaret got engaged tonight,” Ruby says quietly in the stillness of the hallway. “And we now have proof that Emma and Killian are together.”

“Everyone is going to get hurt when the orders become official,” Mulan says, keying into their room and closing the door firmly behind Ruby.

Ruby turns and kicks off her shoes, but Mulan is right behind her, spinning her and resting her cheek against her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“You’ll help him get through the deployment, yeah?”

“You know I will,” Ruby responds, wrapping her arms around Mulan and already planning how to tackle this next hurdle in all their lives.

-x-

My Eyes, They Speak for Me: After

Returning to Storybrooke is not exactly the weirdest thing that’s happened in her life lately. She did defeat her ex-boyfriend after he turned into a flying monkey, after all.

No, the only thing that makes their return weird is the fact that she and Killian are dating.

That she has to explain to her parents that she and Captain Hook have formed a bond that she never even thought possible. Especially not after everything she’s been through in her life.

But here they are, entering the town, with Henry oblivious to the weight hovering over the adults in the front seat. Emma holds onto Killian’s prosthetic hand like it’ll make everything better. She doesn’t even know if her parents are going to remember her.

Thankfully, they do.

Everyone remembers everything that happened before Pan’s curse. But there’s a whole missing year. All they knew is for the last couple months they’ve been here, still trying to figure out what happened, unable to find out in any way if Emma was alive and okay, and just… stuck in limbo.

Also, her mother is very pregnant. Like, about to burst pregnant. And has a creepy midwife with fiery red hair and a weird personality. Like some kind of twisted Mary Poppins.

Emma’s the first one to figure out that she’s the Wicked Witch. She did not anticipate the whole angle where Zelena is Regina’s sister, but she can appreciate the fact that she never thought the family tree around here would get more fucked up.

She has a thought several times while they’re trying to track down this crazy witch that she should just take Henry and Killian and high-tail it back to NYC. And she and Killian actually argue about it at one point, because she is convinced that after this is all over she just wants a normal life with her son and her boyfriend.

That’s not so much to ask, is it?

But then she’d have to leave her parents behind, and when it becomes clear that Zelena is after the newborn that is expected soon, Emma decides she can’t leave.

And then the whole Neal incident happens and that is a lot to take in, and try to explain to Henry who still doesn’t have his memories back.

When Zelena is finally locked away in a cell in the psychiatric ward, and after they’ve taken the time to officially lay Neal to rest, Emma sits down with Henry. Thankfully, Regina finally came through with a memory potion, so it makes it all a little easier, but Emma still has to talk to him about what losing his father for real this time means, and how they’re going to move forward.

It turns out when there are flying monkeys and another story come to life, it’s easy to explain to your parents that you’re dating a pirate. And while eventually she’d like to get her own place (story of her life) she does give up the bigger room at Granny’s in favor of moving into a smaller one with Killian.

Just for now.

They do have all the time in the world to get to the next step.

Until a portal opens up where their final battle with Zelena took place and she and Killian are the ones to check it out…

-x-

On The Two: A Peek into the Future

Five years later, they��re married and move home to Storybrooke after they have a beautiful daughter that they name after the camp. Emma and Ruby have both moved on from dancing at the hotel to pursue other interests.

Emma has gone back to teaching. She gives lessons in Storybrooke to locals and tourists, and still teaches every summer at Camp Hope.

Killian is also teaching, on top of his general maintenance jobs with David. He went back for certifications to teach classes on managing addictions, specifically an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, and he also talks with amputees and their friends and loved ones about how to cope with the loss of a limb.

He and Emma do a schedule of week on/week off at camp so that Hope is with one of them as often as possible.

Sometimes, they both stay home for a week with David and Snow’s son, Leo, and they contemplate having another of their own as they watch Hope playing and exploring – they’d love to see what she would do with a sibling of her own. Mostly they haven’t yet because they know they’ll officially have to give up the loft in order to live comfortably.

Other weeks, David and Snow take both the kids and Emma and Killian stay at the campsite.

They use those weeks to pretend they aren’t actively trying for another baby but there’s still a trill to sneaking out on the back balcony of the Owners’ Lodge, making love with the sight of the horizon and the ocean as their passion ebbs and flows.

Emma sometimes still can’t believe how her life has come together.

She wakes early one morning to the soft strains of a song they’ve used for the Waltz before, and she eases out of the bed upstairs, careful not to make a single noise so she can see what her husband is up to.

He’s standing in the middle of the floor on the other side of the breakfast bar, Hope in his arms, gliding through the steps and dramatically dipping Hope to her obvious delight.

She’s so happy that she lets out a high-pitched giggle, pressing her little hands to Killian’s cheeks.

He laughs quietly, bracing her against his body with his other arm so he can hold his finger to his lips to remind her to stay quiet.

As quietly as she can, she slips back to the bed to get her phone off the charger, crawling back over to brace under the handrail to take video of the two of them.

When the song ends, she locks her phone and stands up to applaud, even giving a little whistle of appreciation.

“Your mum’s awake, little love.”

“And she’s pregnant,” Emma says, probably far too bluntly since she actually hears Killian’s neck crack with how swiftly he turns his head to look up at her.

“Aye?”

“Yep. Calling the doctor today to confirm it. But yeah.”

“Why don’t we go into the kitchen to make your mum a perfect breakfast, hmm?” He turns to look up at her again, making sure their eyes are locked. “I love you,” he tells her, heart in his expression.

“I love you, too,” she says back, quietly, and while Hope has no idea what’s even being said, she goes off on a string of “la la la” to tell them each she loves them.

-x-

“A Long Time Coming”

There’s a camaraderie that comes from having rich guardians that want nothing to do with you, and that’s what the Arendelle sisters and the Jones brothers find out after their first Christmas in the Alps.

Elsa is sixteen when she and Killian discover that with their combined efforts, they can raise havoc at the ski resort. From that point on they are BFFs.

Three years of their antics go by quickly, and the staff at the lodge becomes their family more than Brennan Jones or Ingrid ever could be.

Liam is a constant wise source of guidance. Anna is always the annoying little sister. Killian wears his heart on his sleeve at all times. Elsa… has a problem.

She has a ridiculous, unquenchable crush on Liam. When she was 17 it was just a silly little thing, but by the time she’s 20, it’s no longer “just” anything. But the seven year age gap makes her think that Liam probably thinks of her as more as a little sister than anything else.

The years pass and they grow, year by year, milestone by milestone. Killian is Kristof’s best man at his and Anna’s wedding. Elsa is the one that almost literally drops Emma in Killian’s lap when she sees the potential they could have together. Year after year, though, things are never in line for her own love life.

She dates, with mixed results, but there’s no spark that makes them last.

Over the course of ten years, they all bounce around each other. They handle love and disasters, heartbreak and celebrations. And still Elsa feels like she’s just a satellite around Liam at some of these events. She only really ever sees him during the holidays unless there’s a big event in their lives, so at least she has those times to look forward to. But mostly it’s to watch from afar as they each dwell in their own relationships.

She’s single when he’s not, he’s single when she’s not.

And then she turns twenty-eight. And she’s single. And he’s single. And they’re in the same place at the same time which is all feeling a lot like a miracle when she can’t remember the last time this even happened. And someone has posted mistletoe in the entrance of their cabin this year.

She’s pretty sure it was Killian, because he’s getting ready to propose to Emma and they’re adorably (if not sickeningly) in love.

On a return trip from the main lodge to grab dinner for everyone, she finds the cabin empty… or at least so it seems. Because Liam is waiting to help her bring in the food. He’s standing in the doorway.

Directly beneath the mistletoe.

She doesn’t know which one goes for it first, but the food gets left on the entryway table while they make out beneath a dumb piece of greenery.

It’s Emma that finds them snuggled on the couch about a half hour later, with Liam planting a small, gentle kiss on her lips. Her smile is self-satisfied, and knowing, and she subtly ushers everyone else out of the room to eat their dinners and leave Elsa and Liam in peace.

It’s Killian later on who tells her that Liam’s had eyes for her for years. But the timing was never right.

So the mistletoe was definitely planted by him, but intended for Liam and Elsa.

The next year they go, there’s a shiny ring on Emma’s finger, Anna announces she and Kristof are expecting, and Elsa and Liam celebrate their anniversary.

All in all, while they all have tragedy in their pasts, they turn out right where they need to be.

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan ff #sarah writes ff #fic bits 2019

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erintoknow · 5 years ago

Text

Something dumb

fallen hero: rebirth / retribution fanfiction. definitely spoilers here + putting my cards on the table with w i l d speculation about stuff we probably won’t get any solid information on until book 3 which... who knows how far away. But it’s more fun to do it like this then make a big nonsense theory post imo. i’ll be fucking shocked if i guessed anything right

uh... anyway! ~2.1k words [ao3]

–

This is novel; it’s almost eleven and you’re still not dressed. Just a bath towel. In someone else’s apartment. Julia Ortega is upending all the rules you’ve set to keep yourself safe. Can’t shake the feeling it’s going to be your downfall. Careless. Arrogant.

“So explain this to me, again.” Julia is eating breakfast at the kitchen table, sausage and eggs. You watch her from your position curled up on the couch, arms resting over the back. She watches you back.

“Which part?” Try to smile, try to make it look natural, normal. Are you succeeding? You can’t know.

You try not to look at your arms as you sip the cup of coffee. Julia had insisted, given how little sleep you had gotten. Nightmares, always. You can’t run from ghosts. Can’t run from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.

Julia stabs a tiny sausage with a fork before waving it in your direction. “Let’s start with the basics. What actually is a re-gene?”

You bite your lip. “What actually is a person, Julia?”

She flinches, “I’m sorry. I mean like.. I know how people are uh, made. But re-genes? It’s more complicated than the official story, I’m sure.”

Stare into the coffee cup, watch the little swirl of creamer. “I don’t know,” you finally admit.

“You don’t know?”

“Do you think they tell us anything they don’t have to? Do you tell your hammer how it was made?” You snap back at her, slump against the back of couch, hold the coffee cup stretched out before you with both hands. “I know they use the same kind of vats to grow the… the bodies like they use now in hospitals for transplants. Just… you know, they do the whole person.” You perk up, “Actually, did you know – they’re in clinical trails right now for this SRS option that combines lab grown with genetic engineering from the patient’s own genome to neutralize the risk of rejection, and it’s looking really promising and–”

“Ari.” Julia has a hand up. “Focus.”

“Right. Sorry.” You close your eyes, heat crawling up your face.

“I mean, it sounds great. Just… one thing at a time?”

“Yeah.” You blow air across the surface of your coffee mug, set the creamer spinning again.

“So you really don’t know anything?”

“Well…” You flinch, glance up at the ceiling, then back to her. “I mean, I would listen in. Whenever I had the chance. They were pretty good about keeping their guard up, but I mean… I’m just a thing so…”

“You are not a thing, Ariadne.” She looks at you, full force intensity. You have to look away. Can’t meet that. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“…thank you.” You blink your eyes, can’t rub without risking the coffee. “Okay. Well. You know how if you flash clone someone, beside committing a felony you’ve essentially just created like, an adult baby, right?”

“Yeah…?”

“The autonomic nervous system still works. Some basic behaviors, but like, babies still need to learn even the most basic elements of fine motor control. You can flash clone a hundred of your best solider, and they’ll all loll their heads back, sprawled on the ground drooling.”

“That’s what the whole chip thing is for right?”

“…right. We’re not ‘human.’ Just AI-piloted meat robots.”

Julia sits there for a moment, fork in her mouth. Her mouth tugs down in a frown. “Wait,” She puts the fork down. “That’s a lot of super basic behaviors for a program to handle.”

“Well. That’s the secret isn’t it.” Your smile turns dark. “We’ve made a lot of progress in mod interfaces and basic AI routines to run interface between the brain and servos. But Re-genes predate all of that. We still can’t get good enough AI to do proper image recognition.”

“So how…?”

“You cheat.”

“Cheat?”

Take a moment, close your eyes, will your heart to stop pounding against your chest. “What kind of program already knows everything about how the human body moves and operates? A program so complicated that writing it by scratch is basically impossible?”

Julia looks at you. Does she get it yet?

Dive on regardless. Don’t look back, jump the window. “Do you know what cognitive mapping is?”

She shakes her head. “No… I’m not going to like the answer, am I?”

You purse your lips, a thin line. “N-no, probably not.” You shift on the couch, take another sip of the coffee, will your arms to stop shaking. Some pilot you are, this body always acting on its own accord. “It’s been a theory for ages and ages. But, funny, no one can ever seem to get funding to seriously look into it. I think China maybe just started doing their own research on the question?” The taste on your tongue turns foul, bitter. “I’m sure that will end well.”

“What is it?” The tone of her voice, she knows. She’s got the idea. God you feel sick.

“Cheating.” Another sip of coffee. “Scan a human brain. Translate it into an electrical pattern you can store on a chip. You can even make copies. Quantum effects mean the copies won’t be– can’t be perfect. But you can do it. And you get something you can plug back into a body and it’ll know how to operate it.” You pause, tilt your head. “There’s an adjustment period. Every body is, uh… different you know. The adjustment is lot shorter than waiting fifteen years for a baby to grow up though.”

“Ariadne… are you telling me that–”

You push on, you’ve stewed on this for years. If you stop now, will you ever have the courage to speak about it again? “Obviously I can’t say any of this is for sure. Just… inferences I’ve made. Research I did after I… you know, after I left. But– The processing, the mapping. It’s destructive. The original brain doesn’t survive the process intact. It can’t. And– and–” You swallow, wincing from the tightness in your throat. “You can use a brain that just… just died. But, a living one is better. Clearer signal.”

The blood is draining from Julia’s face. It hurts to see. Somehow it’s worse, seeing her grapple with it than it ever was for you, hitting her with everything at once. It’s taken you years to get to this point, and you still feel sick. “Like Athena I sprang from my father’s head. But I killed him in the birthing. Well…” You blink your eyes, hard. “Some version of me did? Or proto-me?”

“Ariadne… I’m sorry, but that’s…”

“I wonder… D-do I get my own soul or did I just– just steal my donor’s?”

There’s a long silence to that. That’s fine. There’s no way to answer that question.

“Do you have any…?”

“Of Zeus’s memories?” You shake your head. “I–I don’t think so. There’s a lot of mystery to memory but it’s not hard to locate where the brain stores it. And then there are… logic gates? Firewalls? Mirrors. Mirrors that keep that kind of stuff locked out. If– if they even leave it in there at all. The goal isn’t to resurrect the dead after all.”

“That’s… I don’t know whether to call that a mercy or not, Ari.”

“They get other benefits for doing things that way too.”

“Other benefits? What other benefits?”

“They– the farm, the directive, whatever, they think the hero drug results are, are influenced by your mentality. They already… borrow DNA from boosts to uh, ‘boost’ the re-gene’s chances of surviving.”

“Fuck. Does that work?”

“I don’t know.” Chew on the inside of your cheek. “I feel like there are still a lot that got… recycled. For no powers, or… bad powers.” You stare down, voice bitter. “But we’re not real people, so… who cares, right?”

“So… wait.” Julia frowns at her scrambled eggs, then looks across the room to you. “Does that mean there’s like… other versions of you?”

“Uh–” You look away. “I don’t know? You mean, like, from the same uh, donor?” Julia winces at the word. “Or the same body?”

“Both? Either?”

“I don’t know. It’s a creepy question, though. Isn’t it? Am I even the original ‘me’ out there?” You shudder.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine,” you lie. “You know what I think?”

“…what?” Julia watches you, her expression unreadable. What is she thinking? What is she holding back for your sake? Does she hate you yet? Disgusted by you? Horrified?

“I don’t think it matters?” You bite at the inside of your cheek again, “I don’t know. It’s not like... It’s not like I don’t wonder. Maybe I’m trans because my donor was a woman? Or just my chip was in a female body previously and it picked up something there? Maybe they screwed up growing my body in the vat? Maybe it was on purpose and I’m just another sick experiment.”

“Ariadne...”

“A-anyway, the point is: Descartes is full of shit and mind-body dualism is bullshit too. Whatever the... parts of me where before, I’m just me now. This body... this mind, you can’t separate those. It’d be.. it’d be easier if you could maybe, but...”

Are you going too fast? Saying too much? You don’t want to lie anymore but– Julia is leaning over the table now, propping her head up with her arms. “And you sure about all of this?”

You put the coffee mug down on the end table, rub at your eyes. “I’m not sure of anything. I‘ve spent maybe half of my life on drugs by this point and–”

“Drugs?” Julia cuts in.

“That’s a whole other story.” You scrunch your face. Fuzzy, half-faded images floating to the top of your head. “And– and they can alter your memory, by the way. Erase things they don’t like. Another ‘perk’ to being a chip. Don’t ask me how I figured that one out.”

Julia is up from the table now, walking over to you, around the couch. “This is a lot to take in Ari. I think… I think I need you to slow down. Let me process. Before I do something dumb.”

You glance up at her, watch her sit down next to you. “Something dumb…?”

“Yeah, like burn down city hall.”

That gets a laugh. “Oh this is bigger than just Los Diablos.” You let her grab your shoulder, pull you in against her chest. You can’t relax. Not now. The tension burning in your shoulders. “But I… I understand. I’m– I’m really taking a risk here too you know.”

There’s just the beat of her heart against you, then– “Yeah. I know.”

“This apartment could be bugged, or the next one over.”

“It’s not, I promise you.”

“Hell, maybe they’re listening in via your mods, or–”

She waps you on the shoulder, laughing. “Get out of here!”

You huff, “I’m serious. Do you know what they’re doing in there when you’re getting an upgrade?”

“Well…” She shifts the hand on your shoulder, rubbing your arm. “No. I guess not. Thanks for giving me a whole new thing to be paranoid over.”

“Happy to help.” You lean into her.

There’s a pause then; “You know, if you’re right saying it out loud probably just screwed both of us.”

“Y-yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Stop. I asked you.”

“I’m sorry. For– for dumping all this on you. This isn’t even half of it.”

“I won’t lie Ari, it’s… hard to hear a lot of this.” Her voice is tense. Pained? Probably being truthful. You’re not sure how to feel about that.

“…I know. Thank you… for– for caring.”

“I’m just grateful you’re finally talking to me about it. Ari…” You can feel the words catch in her throat. You’ll have to prod them loose.

“What?”

“It’s just…”

“What?”

“I know I said I wasn’t going to make you stop but… maybe it would be better if you stayed low for a while? A long while?” She keeps rubbing your upper arm, fingers firm into your too-exposed skin.

“No.” Your voice is firm. You reach your hand up, pull at your hair. “I– I don’t want to hurt anyone Julia. Well,” You pause, wince. “Almost anyone, I guess. But–” You shudder, swallow down the nausea. “They have to pay.”

“Okay. I’m not going to argue against that, exactly. Just…”

“It can’t be enough to just… destroy the farm, either.” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at your legs, orange lines poking out from under the towel. “The–the very idea of the Directive needs to go down in flames. Every last cocksucking motherfucker involved needs their life ruined and their career on fire. They’ll wish they were dead.” You exhale, let the air out of your lungs in one long shaking breath. Realize your finger nails are digging into your palms. Let go. Try to let go. Swallow the pain.

There’s silence then; “It doesn’t have to be you, Ari.”

You bite back a laugh. it’s like you’ve come full circle in a year. From begging Julia to retire and let Adrestia go, and now, her she is, holding you up. Asking you. To let it go.

You can’t do that.

“Nobody else cares.” You push back against Julia, draw your legs to your chest, hug your knees. “And I’ll never be safe. They’ll never let me be. They’ll never stop haunting me.”

“I care. And so will others, if you just let them.”

A ghost of a smile on your face. “That’s a nice dream, Julia.”

“This isn’t going to make your nightmares go away.”

You swallow, press your eyes closed, turn your head in towards the crook of her arm. “I… I know.”

#fallen hero #fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fhr #mc #ortega #fhr/Ariadne #spoiliers #speculation #fanfiction #wlw fanfic #wild speculation

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bluesimba · 6 years ago

Text

Post Glory

Fandom: Persona 5

Pairing: Akira/Reader, Ryuji/Reader

Warnings: Heavy spoilers, explicit depictions of depression, intense grieving, and trauma.

Notes: Can we talk about how much trauma the Phantom Thieves have been through in canon

Dedicated to @ao3-actually-android <3

[I]

November 1st.

The receptionist at the front desk glances at you from under her bangs for the fourth time. She adjusts the collar of her shirt and types something with a flutter of her hands. From the corner of the waiting room, a member of your security team stares at her.

You pick up one of the magazines on the table in front of you. The glossy pages pass between your fingers, and several diagrams of the brain pop up with its functions outlined. Terms like depression and anxiety and trauma stand out on almost every page. They cycle through your head again, but this time it’s not three hours after you swallowed sleeping pills.

Breathing on beat with the ebbing and flowing of the waiting room’s music makes your head less congested.

A door locks the waiting room off from the offices, and a woman in a light pink dress steps through. Her voice carries your name. When you stand up and gesture for your security team to stay put, she smiles at you.

“Hi,” she says as she leads you to her office. “My name is Kaede. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tells you her qualifications.

“Pleasure to meet you, too! I’m sorry I had to reschedule at the last minute. It’s been pretty hectic.”

By hectic do you mean being fused with the fibers of your bed? Or avoiding the growing mountains of clutter that sprung up in your room? How about how it’s taxing to grab your phone charger from the floor? Or worst of all, not being able to articulate why you can’t do anything, instead masking it with “busy” or “hectic” or “sorry, I can’t do that today.”

“That’s no problem. Our specialized program is very flexible with our clients’ schedules.” She opens her office door for you. You take the seat next to her desk, and while you marvel at the cohesion of colors in her office, she sits behind her desk, clicks her mouse, and brings up a tab on the computer. “Before we begin, everything we talk about here is strictly between us. Nothing will be shared unless you become a threat to yourself or others.”

“Okay.”

“So, I read over your personal statement, and you mentioned you made an appointment for therapy because you feel untethered. Can you elaborate on what lead to that feeling?”

“Sure, so I’ll start with the Phantom Thieves.”

[II]

August.

Café Leblanc’s red closed sign protects you from the swarming streets. Hives of reporters frenzy outside, lanyards around their necks and cameras in hand. Your hand knocks against the salt and pepper shakers as the others crowd in the booth, with Makoto next to you. Across from you, Ryuji inhales an appetizer.

Futaba glares at Yusuke, who sips tea from a white cup. She pushes her glasses up and scrunches her nose.

“Inari, acknowledge that your left leg is shorter than your right,” she says.

“Nonsense, my legs are symmetrical, that I can assure you.”

She pulls out her phone and ignores her cup of coffee, which is four sizes too big for her. You and Makoto exchange glances.

You lean over the table to come out from the corner. “And what’s the point of arguing over Yusuke’s leg difference, Futaba? You’ve both been squabbling more ever since. . .”

Futaba halts trying to pull up Yusuke’s medical records. Sojiro stops waxing the bar just for a minute, his pink shirt now too vibrant for the solemnity washing over his face. The legs of the Phantom Thieves sit around the table, but Akira’s absence comes with its own ghost. Two years and his ghost still follows.

Makoto seems like she’s on the other side of the world, now, from you.

Akira who solves everything. Akira who acts as the unifying pillar. He makes you ache. He makes you lonely, untethered. The thrills, the disguises, the abilities, they all have his name on them. Everything about him scrambles you.

“Anyway.” You cough. “I’ve been thinking we should do something together since we’re all off right now. You know, like the good ol’ days.”

Silence resounds in Leblanc, but Ryuji grins and it warms your heart. “That’s awesome! Whaddya say, guys?” He looks around at everyone, and his enthusiasm brings everyone back together.

“That would be nice, especially since it’s been so long,” Makoto says. She shuts her eyes for a second. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

You hum. “How about the beach? I think the last time we all went together was when we went to Hawaii a few years ago. We could pick up a game of beach volleyball!”

“And it’d be a good chance to get some sun!” Ann says.

Everyone takes out their phone calendars, and Makoto, the master of organization herself, makes quick work of it. “How does the last Saturday this month sound for everyone?” she asks.”That way we can avoid Autumn from September to November.”

November.

It takes you away. It stuffs your heart in your throat. Everyone else continues planning, unfazed, but Ryuji notices. And his smile dims.

Makoto calls your name, but it doesn’t register. So does Ann.

“Wendy.” Futaba puts down her phone.

You blink. Wendy. Wendy. Your real name doesn’t bring you out of it. Wendy, your alias, with a fishing hook on it tugs you out of Neverland.

“Oh, sorry.” You blink again for good measure and to reassure everyone you aren’t a stone statue. “It’s just been a. . .” Hard? Debilitating? Exhaustive for reasons you can’t articulate? “Busy time. I guess it caught up with me all at once.” There it is. Busy.

“Happens to the best of us.” Makoto smiles. “Does that date work for you?”

“Absolutely,” you say without glancing at your calendar.

Over the next fifteen minutes the Phantom Thieves disperse—Ann with a modeling gig she’s got to make, Makoto for a lunch with Sae, Yusuke to read up on art theory, Haru for a meeting, and Futaba to make memes. Ryuji is the only one who stays.

Leblanc’s quietness disturbs Ryuji to his core. You see it by the way he fidgets and leans back to yawn. When he knows you’ve caught him, he looks away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. What’s up?”

Sticking his elbow on the bar, he puts his hand on the side of his neck. “You can talk to me if you need to.”

Right. November. Robin Hood. Goro.

“Thank you, Ryuji.” You avert your eyes downward. “But this is something personal.”

He leans back against the booth, putting more distance between you two, and he looks. . .he looks something you can’t decipher. Wounded? No, small. After a second he brings back his smile to mend the air. “No problem. Just gotta look out for one of my best buds.”

“Hey, do you know if Morgana is stil. . .”

“Upstairs? Yeah, I think he sleeps up there sometimes, since, you know.”

“Let’s invite him to the beach with the rest of us.”

“The cat? And sand ? Now that’s something I gotta see.”

“Don’t be mean, Ryuji!”

When he laughs you have to choke down your own. The light in Leblanc hits him just right, and he looks untouched by the corruption, by the palaces, by Yaldabaoth. Hope lives in his eyes and dreams light up his cheeks.

November’s weight sits on your shoulders. Akechi Goro’s death lingers. The Robin Hood to your Wendy is sleeping. And to think, he was eighteen.

Your brother would have been twenty this year.

[III]

The beach concaves away from the rest of society. Stray beach towels spot the sand and the waves edge up to reach for their ends. Cliff edges meet the ocean under the inky new moon sky.

Tiny lights hang up on a string and frame the entrance of the restaurant you eat at. Morgana peers at Ann from the stool next to her with hearts in his eyes. Sometimes he tries to steal a glance at Futaba’s phone, only for her to yank it close to her chest. If the beach behind you disappeared, no one would blink twice.

Morgana wanders over to you and Ryuji and hops on one of the two empty stools that separate you both from everyone else. His lip curls and a smile sneaks out. You shield your bowl of ramen in case he decides to pounce on the bar. There’s not a chance in hell you’re letting him knock over this art; a prepared egg sliced clean in half with its golden yolk on display, a spread of colors blended together, and flavors that glide over your tongue and keep you coming back for more.

“Looks like you got burned, Ryuji.” He licks his paw and glances at Ryuji from the corners of his eyes.

Ryuji’s lips screw, and he tries to cross his arms but winces because of the sunburn spread over his body. “It’s not like I knew the sun was gonna be raging today.” He looks at you. “And you knew and didn’t tell me!”

You laugh. “Sorry, but you should’ve brought the sunscreen anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. At least I wasn’t afraid to get in the water.”

A smirk cuts your lips, and you cover Morgana’s ears. “Don’t make fun of him! Of course he wouldn’t get in the water!” Turning to Morgana, you coo at him in a voice you know makes his skin crawl. “That punk didn’t mean it, Morgana. Don’t listen to him. I’ll protect you.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t get in, either! And who are you callin’ a punk?”

When you uncover Morgana’s ears, he takes the chance to slip away.

“Oh come on, Ryuji, you were being a little punk-y.”

“Was not!”

“Really? Then maybe we should get everyone else’s opinions.”

Before you can call out to everyone and make Ryuji’s skin even brighter, he hoists you up and throws you over his shoulder. He winces but starts walking to the shoreline.

“Did you forget you were sunburned?”

Two beats of silence echo between you two before he answers. “It’s no big deal. Besides, you’re getting wet at least once today.”

The fool. The absolute buffoon. The heat under your face erupts.

“You’re hopeless, Ryuji.”

He says something you don’t catch because blood detonates in your ears over and over again. Your heart chokes on an overload of sugar. It’s buried in a sugary grave. You protest by muttering into his shoulder.

Only a few inches of space are between you and the water by the time he stops walking. He’s a few inches shy of being chest-deep. If you flick your foot down, you’d skim the water for sure, but there’s no fun in tearing his dream of dunking you away.

“Hold on, gimme a sec.”

That doesn’t sound good.

It isn’t.

He shifts you around and you flail, then you wind up in his arms. Your heart, stuffed with sugar, is revived by the way he looks at you. Light rosy tinges whip over his cheeks, and he turns his head away from you for a second.

Once he collects himself, he counts off with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“One, two. . .”

“Just do it already!”

When he lets go, you see him mouth the number three. The water floods over your face and body, and you seal your eyes shut.

It’s quiet, here. You kick up some sand with your heel while trying to get your bearings straight, but the ocean swallows the noise. All you have is how the grainy the sand feels.

How did Goro feel on that sinking ship? Explosive? Confused? Destroyed?

Helpless?

Did you even know your brother well?

How can you even attempt to understand the pits of helplessness and wrath he drowned in when something like this—going for a swim—sets you off? How can you grieve for so long and know so little?

Someone’s calling your name, but the sounds are muffled by the water.

Ryuji plunges his hand in and brings you back. The ocean’s surface breaks with your head, and your resurfacing looks less “majestic mermaid with perfect hair” and more “air exists and it’s delicious.”

After a second he brings you close to him, wrapping you in a hug. You press against his collarbone.

“Ryuji, what’s wrong?”

“I just got worried, ‘s all.”

You pull back. “Well, I’m all right. You made sure of that when you pulled me out. See? Nothing bad would’ve happened.”

He avoids your gaze. “I tried calling your name.”

“I think I heard that. You might’ve had better luck if you called me Wendy. Seems like I can hear that from around the world.”

Wendy tells you what to say, how to smile, what to wear, what to think, and who to be. If you do everything she says, you can stand next to Robin Hood and Peter Pan and all the other fairytale characters who are bound to the pages of their own stories. Wendy makes you worthy.

She was always the press’ favorite.

“I ain’t gonna call you Wendy. ‘s not who you are.” He says your name under the moonless sky in such a way that it might break if the ocean got too close to it. “You ain’t Wendy.”

You aren’t Wendy.

“I—I appreciate that. A lot.”

He looks at the beach. “You don’t gotta thank me. Let’s get back before the others come lookin’ for us.”

Both of you tread in silence. After a minute the water slides off you, but the sand sticks to your wet feet as you climb out of the ocean. You both wander over to his beach towel; its colors were blasted dry by the sun earlier.

When you sit down, you sit close to him and your shoulders bump. Beads of water trail your neck, your arms, and your legs. You glimpse him staring out at the ocean.

“It’s nice being out here,” you say. You reel back the words “with you” when you think about Akira.

“Yeah? Can’t say I’ve ever had a sunburn this big before.”

You roll your eyes and bring your knees to your chest, but the smile sailing over your lips slips out. “Which is because you didn’t bring sunscreen.”

“Pffft, there’s no way a stupid sunburn’s gonna get a leg up on me.”

Along the beach there are sandcastles, some in perfect condition, some folded in on themselves, and some that exist only as lumps of sand. A tiny red and white store-bought flag pokes out of a collapsing one. The tide rolls in and out and chips away at the ones along the shoreline.

“It’s kind of nice to be away from the world for a bit,” you say. “You know? Sequestered away from the reporters and everything.”

He puts his arms behind and lies on his back. “You’re telling me. Been hounding us ever since our identities were released. I mean, who does that! We were seventeen!”

“We were seventeen and arguably the most powerful force in Japan.”

“C’mon, we were kids. You should know how all that affected us better than anyone. You’re majoring in psych and all that stuff.”

“By affected you mean the stress it’d have on a developing teenage brain?”

“That! Someone should tell all those reporters to read up on that shit.”

Streams of conversation come from the restaurant. The rest of the Phantom Thieves tell jokes and bicker and bask in the restaurant’s lighting. Judging from that spilling sound, Morgana jumped on the bar.

“They’ve been hanging around my favorite places. It got bad a few weeks ago,” you say.

“Whadda they want?”

You shift. “An interview with Wendy.”

He makes a sound of disgust. “Tell ‘em to screw off. You don’t know a Wendy.”

Leaning against him right now would be nice. You’d fit next to him well, and he’d sling his arm over your shoulders. Under the moonless sky, you’d both be two halves of a complete moon.

But you do know a Wendy. If you were stronger, you could evict her right now with his help. She reminds you of the abilities you had and the times where it was you and the Phantom Thieves versus the world. She reminds you of Goro.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Waves continue to crash. Tiny sounds from the ecosystem of the beach wade between you both. He chews the inside of his cheek. When he breathes, it smothers the tiny sounds and the conversations from the restaurant.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’,” he says.

“About?”

He sits up and rubs the back of his neck. “Everything we did, I guess. Changed a lot of stuff.”

You laugh. “It’d be kind of weird if nothing changed when we fought a god. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the spotlight.”

“You kiddin’? I can’t even run in peace without someone on my ass.”

“Well.” A quick brush of your hands takes some of the sand off, and you get up and hold out your hand. “You can always try now. I’ll race you to fire up that competitive spirit!”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

He clasps his hand in yours. “Yeah? Don’t cry when you lose.”

[IV]

Doctor Kaede slides a box of tissues to the corner of her desk and you pluck one to have something to hold onto. “What you’re feeling is valid. Have you discussed your grief with anyone else?”

“Only one person, Akira.”

“What about him made you open up?”

Kamoshida, Madarame, Kaneshiro, Futaba, Okumura, Sae, Shido. Hell, the collective social conscious of everyone wrapped up in the endless tracks of Mementos! How many times do you need to add Yaldabaoth to that list, too? Everyone talks about the humans the Phantom Thieves changed, but no one mentions the cosmic-defying entities you defied by daring to be your own people. Akira brought a rag-tag group of teenagers together to challenge the very fabric of the universe.

“I don’t know, really. I guess I thought if anyone could understand, it’d be him. He was the closest to Goro.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Were you close to your brother?”

You fidget and rub the side of your neck. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship in the traditional sense. He had a hard time opening up, refused to, most of the time. I didn’t know anything about him other than that Shido was somehow involved, but there was something different when Akira showed up.”

“And how did you cope with Goro’s. . .actions?”

She might as well stamp the word “murderer” on his forehead. Is she wrong?

Of course! He was tossed aside by Shido and manipulated as a kid!

No, she isn’t. Goro did that of his own free will.

Come on, you of all people know the toll abuse and manipulation takes on a child.

I know. I know he was in unimaginable pain.

Then why are you sitting here and betraying him?

I’m not betraying him. These are the facts of the situation. I wanted to help him!

You can’t even imagine what he went through. Stop trying. You even admitted some guy got closer to your brother in one year than you did in your whole life.

We’re still family .

“I probably could’ve coped better.”

[V]

October.

Leblanc’s lights give you a headache.

“You gonna be okay, kid?” Sojiro asks as he unfastens his apron.

Hunched over with your forehead against a table, you groan. The bags under your eyes drag your face down, but hey, who needs concealer when no one can see your face?

“Wake me up when people obsess over something else.”

He walks over and pats your shoulder. “You can stay if you lockup. Remember to turn off everything when you leave this time.”

The door opens before you answer. Light, airy, almost, the bell rings. You lift your head, blinking, and turn toward the door. Who comes into a café five minutes before closing? His slim silhouette stands in the doorway while rain splatters on the pavement. Great, you know he’s the type to order something extravagant, expect it in two minutes, and stall closing.

Sojiro whistles and puts one of his hands on his hips. He smiles. “Finally decided to show your face around here, huh, kid?”

In one second he goes from being a stranger to someone who causes the ache in your heart; a curly black head of hair and glasses. Now, though, he’s taller, and the blazer he wears looks like it was plucked from a high-end fashion designer’s wardrobe.

“Akira,” you say. The table wobbles under your hands when you jut up. His very presence reinforces the chronic loneliness, the hollowness everyone tried to patch up with promises to get together, and the messages you and Ryuji and Makoto and Futaba—and everyone sent that were left on read or met with a single word response.

Shock registers on Sojiro’s face when you storm up to Akira, and in some place deep, deep, deep down in your head, a twinge of, what is it—shame or fear?—rears its head. But fuck it. If you looked away, Akira could pull one of his disappearing stunts.

“You asshole!” You jab a finger at him, grind your teeth, seethe, and do all the things that say I hate you, I hate you, I hate you .

Wide-eyed, Sojiro steps in to break you apart. “Hey, hey, hey—”

Akira holds out his hand. “It’s fine.”

“Two years, Akira! You could have called or texted or something, but you didn’t.” You ball your fists. “You vanished.”

Him being here means you need to answer a question: how much can you matter to someone who up and leaves?

“Both of you sit down and cool off,” Sojiro says. “I’ll make you a drink.”

Being a foot and a half away from Akira who now sits across from you makes your jaw tight. The pot in the back brews coffee.

Akira looks you in the eyes. “You’re right to be angry.”

You cross your arms over your chest.

“I needed to make sure no one would cause you any issues,” he says.

“We’ve been followed for the last two years by reporters, Akira. Anyone we know has been hounded, too. Sae’s gotten so much more shit outside the courtroom. We scrubbed Mementos, but there will always be bad intentions.”

Sojiro walks over with your drinks in hand, sets them down in front of you both, and gives you each a glance.

“Thank you,” Akira says. He picks up the mug and brings it to his lips.

“I’ll be in the back. Don’t burn anything down, kid.”

When Sojiro disappears into the back, Akira sets the mug down.

“I wasn’t talking about the press,” he says.

Oh.

“You should’ve told us. We could’ve worked together so you didn’t have to do it on your own.” You look down. “We needed you, too. I needed you, Akira.”

He places his hand on yours. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

Tears line the bottom of your eyes and spill over. “It’s hard when everyone asks about him, you know? And it’s been two years so I feel like I’m supposed to be over it, but I’m not . I keep feeling it again and again and again.” You place your other hand over his. “You have to know how it feels, Akira. No one else gets it. You have to know.”

He says your name, and if your sniffles were any louder, you would have missed it. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Yeah, you need this.

“Where?”

“Trust me.”

He offers you his arm when he gets up, and you cling to him with the skin on your arm and hand touching his blazer.

“Always.”

Quiet streets listen to your footsteps as you take the back alleys. When you're here with him, will the portals come back while you round the corners? Your grip on him tightens. Rain pelts the umbrella.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“And whose fault is that?”

He smirks.

You pass the little red arcade nestled away from the world where you met Akira for the first time, the old bookstore with a joined café where you ran into him the second time, and a closed movie theater where he got your number the third time. Then, a park comes into view. The wet grass bends to your feet as you both walk to the bench with an overhang.

The wooden bench squeaks when you both sit down, and Akira folds up the umbrella, then leans it against the bench. Ducks waddle out from the pond hidden by bushes.

“I was starfished out on the grass here and screaming when you asked me to join the Phantom Thieves,” you say.

“Morgana thought you were in pain.”

“Oh, I was. I was cramming verb and adjective conjugations. That time feels close and far away at the same time, you know?”

Whenever he casts a glance at you, it’s distant. You could lean against his shoulder, intertwine your fingers, and have your skin on his, but the barrier between you holds. Your heart remains content in your chest instead of lurching in your throat.

He whispers your name. “You talked about Goro earlier.”

Wailed, more like it, but yeah.

“You’re grieving,” he says. “I think seeing a professional would help you.”

What? Your eyes open wide. Does he think you can’t handle it? Does he think you’re broken? Stop. You take a deep breath. You’re not broken. Seeking therapy doesn’t make you broken or fragile. It makes you strong.

“Why?”

“I’m concerned about you. I know an office. They helped me with my trauma.” He puts his hand on yours.

Trauma? Was it trauma? Okumura’s death. Goro’s insatiable craving for revenge. Your brother looking at you, red blood vessels popping in his eyes, like he’d kill you. He said he would. Sweeping away the terrifying sides of Goro let you file everything you don’t like away and lock them up.

When Akira touches you, why do you wish he was Ryuji?

Your nails leave imprints on your palms, little crescent moons. “Can you send me their phone number?”

“Sure.”

All of Akira’s attributes line up with what you want on paper: charismatic, intelligent, sociable. So, why, when he scoots closer to you, do you want him to be Ryuji? Why do you want Ryuji’s arm slung around you and for him to pull you close?

“Akira, what do I mean to you?”

You watch the ducks. He looks at you.

“Everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand. “I know.”

[VI]

You puncture holes in the tissue and avoid Doctor Kaede’s eyes.

“Before we end our first session, are you aware of the model the Five Stages of Grief?” She pulls out a piece of paper with the stages of them in one column—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

“Yes.”

“Are you practicing self-care strategies?” She runs her finger down the other column, and you hone in on one or two of the thirty or more strategies.

“Sometimes, but it’s hard to talk about when I don’t know how to put the words together.” You jam your hands together.

She nods. “Grief is especially difficult to navigate because we’re not taught how to cope and understand what we’re feeling. If you’re comfortable, talking about how you’re feeling with people you trust could also help. Sometimes we seek external understanding because we’re unsure of how we feel on the inside.”

Akira—you poured and projected on him. He became your only emotional outlet.

“Grief comes in stages and everyone processes it in different ways. No matter what, you’re not alone.”

“Thank you, Doctor Kaede.” You smile. “Can I make a follow-up appointment for next week?”

You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

[VII]

November 2nd.

You hole yourself up in your apartment, as per usual on the second of November. Glimmering stars peek through your closed curtains. All at once, numbness takes you and keeps you suspended from the rest of the world.

Rings from your phone don’t bring you down. Each minute passes on lethargic legs, and you don’t need anything or anyone to tell you it’s 12:34 a.m. As soon as it was 12:01, you knew. Packets of candy litter your nightstand. You sink into your bed.

Someone raps their knuckles against your door. You turn away from it.

Ryuji calls your name.

You slug one leg out from underneath the blankets, then the other leg. The cool doorknob sends a shiver up your spine.

“Hey,” Ryuji says. He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. I had to run.”

One blink, then two, then three. He’s here for you. He remembered, and your throat constricts.

“Hey. Thanks.”

“Wanna sit outside?”

“Yeah, I do.”

You step out, closing the door behind you. Autopilot takes over when you lead him to a sitting area with two foldable chairs next to each other. Instead of sitting, you wander over to the gray railing and peer down to the busy street. He stands next to you, and you let the silence talk between you two.

Akira is everything you want on paper, but Ryuji—Ryuji is real and here. You touch his hand and trace the veins.

“Thanks for remembering, Ryuji.”

He catches every flutter of your eyes, and when you lean into him, he laces your fingers together. His hands, steady and warm, ground you.

“‘course, I’d do anything for you.”

You ask him a medley of questions: Why are you putting so much effort in? Why do I feel this again and again and again? Why can’t I let go?

Please, will you stay?

But they all roll themselves together when you look into his eyes, hands still intertwined, and breathe his name: “Ryuji.”

His name is air for your lungs. His touch is the sun walking on your skin. His closeness is a catharsis you’d only ever caught in Neverland before.

He brushes the side of your face with his free hand and kisses your forehead under the half moon. “Anything for you.”

Together, in time, you both could make a full moon.

#akira kusuru #ryuji sakamoto #persona 5 #akira/reader #ryuji/reader #akira/reader/ryuji #akira x reader #ryuji x reader #makoto niijima #goro akechi #futaba #yusuke kitagawa #haru okumura #sojiro sakura #morgana persona 5 #love triangle #here's a wall of text for y'all

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amaikana · 5 years ago

Text

Smitten [a TPN fanfic]

-.-.- Rating: K+ Pair: NorEmma Wordcount: 2k+ Tag(s): Middle School AU, Romantic Comedy, Mistaken Identity, Pansexuality Summary:

“Ray! Ray! Raaaay! I’m having a crisis now, Wake uuuup!” “The heck you’re doing at 1 a.m?!” “The boy I thought I’m crushing at all this time is actually a girl and she’s actually so much cuter up close but I might just kind of accidentally sexually harassed her in a public library. What should I do nooow?!” “…come again?”

OR, Norman had just experienced his first silly eighth-grader crush on a cute orange haired boy in the library, But then suddenly things took a turn to a completely awkward path.

A/N: Cross-posted on AO3 -.-.-

“Some of us get dipped in flat, some in satin, some in gloss. But every once in a while, you find someone who's iridescent, and when you do, nothing will ever compare.”

—A quote from “Flipped” movie

|| Smitten ||

Norman first saw the boy in the school library. The boy had a bright orange hair and wearing an equally bright smile. He also still had some baby fat on his cheeks that’s making him so much cuter. Humming quietly an upbeat tune, the boy’s eyes moved back and forth, sorting out through the fantasy fictions shelf. His finger traced the rows of books there. His eyes sparkled with joy when he’d managed to find the book he wanted.

What an adorable boy.

It’s called having a crush, Ray said. Well, that’s maybe not exactly what he said, but still.

“It means that you’re finally getting that late, late puberty and—God bless—having a crush on someone. It also means that I can be glad now. Because I honestly thought something’s wrong with your head every time your smartass big brain went totally clueless to Barbara’s passive-aggressive attempt at flirting at you since the first year.”

To be fair, it wasn’t that he was totally clueless about Barbara. It’s just he chose not to pay attention to stupid things like Barbara’s every day sweet nonsenses.

“So, who is it?” Ray asked curiously, pausing the game that Norman was winning for the fifth time straight.

Ray must’ve been fishing for distraction because he’s secretly way more frustrated than he let on, Norman thought amusedly.

Ray frowns. “What’s with that face? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” He grins.

Ray lunged at him and started tickling him, trying to get him to say the truth by force. But five minutes into the tickle fight, everything was forgotten. They never talked about it again for the rest of the day.

“Come to think of it, you haven’t really told me that day,” Ray suddenly says in the middle of their P.E break.

A few good meters away from them, Ms. Krone was sitting on a bench, watching with apparent uninterest all the eighth-grader kids who were playing basket and volley ball in the court. Poor woman. She must’ve been one of those teachers who didn’t actually had any interest in teaching and only in for it for the good salary.

Norman steals a water bottle from Ray’s hand. Ray only rolled his eyes and sighed.

“About what?” he asked, after chugging a good amount of water from the said bottle. Ray knocked his head lightly with the bottle in annoyance when he returned it to him.

“About your crush, Norman!”

“Why are you so invested in it?”

“Why?” Ray frowned. “Don’t you think I have the right to know too? Being your best friend and all.”

“Oh, so you’re finally admitting that I’m your best friend, now? Didn’t you said yesterday that you hated me the most?”

Ray scowled. “That’s only because you kept beating me in Mario Kart and stole my dessert again!”

Norman laughed. “Sorry.”

“Ck, don’t even pretend. I know you’re not.” Ray rolled his eyes again.

“So?”

“Hm?”

“Who’s your crush?”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“I am.”

Norman paused, his mind recalling back to that certain afternoon in the library. The adorable boy with the cute humming voice and the brightest hair. He smiled dopily remembering it.

“It’s…a boy from a seventh grade, I think.”

Norman remembered that the boy was carrying a trigonometry book that day. They had trigonometry in seventh grade here.

Beside him, Ray chocked on his drink. “A…boy?!”

Norman turned at him. “Is that so surprising?”

“I mean, uh, I never know that you’re into boys? It’s just- I support you and all, really. Not that your sexuality would matter to me anyhow. Just… It’s kinda surprising, y’know? It never really crossed my mind that you’re gay.”

“But I am not.”

“Huh?”

He laughed at Ray’s dumbfounded face.

“There’s more spectrum of sexualities in this world beside being straight and gay, Ray.” Norman grins exasperatedly, shaking his head. “For me it’s like, their gender doesn’t really matter? If I find that someone’s cute then they’re cute. I’m sure there’s a name for it… I think they called it ‘pan’ or something?”

“‘Pan’? Like the pan for cooking? Why would you call yourself after a cooking utensil?”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s pansexuality to be precise. But beats me. It wasn’t me who came up with the name.”

“Okay. So. You have a crush on a boy. Do you know what his name is? Or at least his class?”

Norman stared blankly. He had only realized it now. “I don’t know. I was too smitten watching him and didn’t think about asking him for it.”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me you totally didn’t talk to him that day? Despite you both being in the library and it was just the two of you? You were just watching him from afar like some sort of creepy stalker?”

He kicked Ray’s leg. “He was just that cute. Almost pretty even, I think.” Norman paused and flushed, remembering that boy’s face again. “It should be pretty justified that I was loss at words! You’d understand yourself when you see him.”

“I mean, I can recognize a good-looking guy when I see one. But to the point of being dumbly smitten? I guess unlikely. You’re forgetting the fact that I’m not into guys.”

The school bell rang, signaling the change of period. And just like that, they dropped the conversation.

Norman didn’t get to see the cute boy again until a few days later, when he’s staying up in the library for a science competition paper research until late night. It might be unusual, but in their school curfew hours didn’t apply to the library. The library was always open 24/7, and all the students were permitted to go out of the dorm even very late at night if it were to the library.

That night, Norman was reading one of the books about electricity theories when he suddenly heard a voice of someone grumbling. The voice came from one of the aisles near his table. Norman decided to take a break for a bit and might as well help the person.

True to his guess, the person was just two bookshelves away from there. The person seemed to struggle reaching out for a book in the top shelf. And as he got closer, Norman could see that the said person was the same cute orange-haired boy he saw the other week.

His heart suddenly did a flip.

“Can I help you there?”

The person turned at him. His bright green eyes looked so mesmerizing. The boy blinked at him. And Norman bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying stupid things. Like ‘how can you be that cute’ or something—Ray would definitely laugh if he knew.

“Uhh, yeah… Can you help me getting that book with yellow cover there?” The boy pointed out at the book he meant.

Norman smiled. “Sure.”

This was honestly the first time he really appreciated the tall gene his parents passed on him.

“Here.” He passed the book to the boy.

But as the boy took a step closer to take it from his hand, he accidentally stepped on his own shoelace and stumbled over.

“Careful!”

Norman reached out to steady the boy. Luckily, he managed to catch the boy in time. But……

Wait.

Norman realized something. His face immediately flushes.

He…he…his chest isn’t flat!

“S-sorry!” Norman yelped. He stumbled back as if the boy—wait, girl—burned his hand.

The girl laughed awkwardly, and only now Norman realized that her voice was obviously high-pitched and clearly sounded feminine.

“Yeah. Um. Haha, accidents happen.”

Horror realization suddenly dawned into him. Not only he had mistakenly thought she was a boy, but he also had just kind of accidentally touched her……uh, personal part. And the worst thing was, this girl was his first crush!

“Ray! Ray! Raaaay! I’m having a crisis, Wake uuuup!”

One of the best things about rooming out with your best-friend is that you could dump all your crisis onto them practically whenever you want. As long as they’re awake, that is.

Ray opened his bleary eyes and yawned loudly.

“The heck you’re doing at 1 a.m?!”

“The boy I thought I’m crushing at all this time is actually a girl and she’s actually so much cuter up close but I might just kind of accidentally sexually harassed her in a public library. What should I do nooow?!”

Ray stared dumbfoundedly at him. Then blinked. Then blinked again.

“…come again?”

A can of vending machine coffee and Ray having the best laugh of his life later, Norman managed to get everything out of his chest. And they’re finally having some sane conversation again—because for Heaven’s sake, Ray just won’t stop laughing!

“Okay, okay.” Ray wiped out some of his tears and made an effort to really toning down his laughter. “So, based on your story, it seems that there’s only one solution to this problem.”

“And that is…?”

Ray made a serious face and intentionally dragged the tension out. Norman waited with dread.

“One word, my friend.”

“One word?”

“All you have to do is……Talk!”

“Oh my Gooood!” Norman groaned and buried his face in their cushion pillows. “That’s what I ask your advice for! I can’t possibly initiate another conversation after…after…that! I mean, what if she thinks that I’m a pervert? And what if—”

“You’re having too many ‘what if’s.” Ray rolled his eyes. “Look, based on your story, it sounds like the girl didn’t even really minding it. I mean, not as like, she’s liking it. But like, she doesn’t make it as a big matter. Y’got it?”

“But still! How can I talk to her again after that! I mean, just imagine it. If you’re a girl and a boy who yesterday touched your, uhm, not-so-flat chest, suddenly just randomly talk to you the next day, what would do you think? It’s…ugh. It’s not even just embarrassing. Isn’t that also, uh, kind of creepy? I mean– oh my God. I’m older than her too! That’s—”

“Whoa– Stop right there, buddy! For anything-up-there sake! She’s a seventh grade, not a third grade. You’re not being a creepy older man, what the heck. As I said, you’re having too many ‘what if’s. If you don’t wanna talk, at least just be your usual self and don’t avoid her you’re meeting her again. Now, that’d be pretty rude if you suddenly treating her like some kind of germ.”

Having a talk with Ray was absolutely not helping. Norman walked to school again the next time dreading meeting that seventh grade girl—who he still didn’t know the name yet, by the way.

Turned out fate had some kind of grudges towards him. Because when he walked into library again to borrow some books for his biology essay, the same feminine voice he dreaded to hear suddenly sounded just beside his ear.

“Umm, hello…”

Norman managed to bit his tongue to stifle the yelp just in time. He turned around and found that it was really the cute girl from before. She was wearing their uniform dress-code this time. A white buttoned shirt and rippled black skirt, instead of some jacket dan jeans he saw her wearing the two times he met her before.

“Uh, haha. Um. Yes. Hi.”

“Um, hi too. Uhh, you’re the boy from last night, righ—”

“L-last night. Yeah. I mean. I’M SORRY! I promise I didn’t really mean to be a pervert or something and I am not weird I promise even thought I totally mistook you as a boy for like a week anyway I mean that doesn’t count as weird right I mean, uh, sorry, um—”

The girl laughed. “Hahahah, oh my God. It’s okay, it’s okay. I know that was an accident.”

“Uhh, yeah. Accident. Totally.”

The girl stared exasperatedly at him. “You’re so funny.”

“Um. Thanks.” Then, because apparently smooth wasn’t in his genes, he tackled again, “You’re so cute.”

The girl blushed and giggled awkwardly, and it was the cutest thing Norman ever seen. Apart from catching Ray hugging a body pillow, that is.

They both stood awkwardly in front each other. And Norman found his supposedly gifted IQ was useless at making conversation when facing cute people.

“Do you like ice cream?” he finally blurted out.

“E-eh? Y-yeah. I mean. Yes! I really like it! I like strawberry cheesecake flavor. W-what about you?”

“Me? Um…I’m not really picky, but I think I like choco mint the most?”

The girl laughed again. “Cool! It was my favorite before. Hey, I know! You should try the strawberry cheesecake one. We might have the same taste in ice creams!”

He beamed. “That’s a good idea. Hey, let’s go out for ice cream this weekend. We can try many flavors we haven’t tried and finding out whether we really have the same taste!”

The girl stared at him dumbfoundedly, and Norman wondered if he had said the wrong thing.

“I-is it a date?” the girl blurted out.

“E-eh?!”

The girl immediately flushed bright and buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, sorry to jump to conclusions just like that. I just thought—”

“I-it could be a date!” he hurriedly cut her.

The girl slowly peeked through her fingers. “R-really?”

Norman smiled and nodded. “Yes.” Then he grabbed the girl’s wrists and peeled them off of her still-blushing cute face. “Of course. I’d like dating withyou too!”

“Heeeh?!”

It took Norman a moment to realize that date and dating are two similar words with different meanings.

“I-I MEAN—”

“Please tell me you were serious because I definitely have a crush on you since seventh grade!”

It was his turn to be dumbfounded.

The girl snapped her mouth shut with her palms again. “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to say that yet……wasn’t I?”

Norman laughed awkwardly. Because he wasn’t sure how to react with the sudden confession. “Um…I think I kind of have a crush on you too…since that time I first saw you in the library. L-last week, I mean. N-not last night.”

“Wow…” the girl whispered. Her bright green eyes widened and stared at him a mix of awe and embarrassment.

“Uh… I think we should probably slow down a bit, though.” He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Well, for starters how about some kind of introduction? I mean, I don’t even know your name yet, so…”

The girl smiled. She averted her eyes shyly to the side before meeting his again. “Y-yeah. Um, okay. I go first. Since I already know yours.” She let out an awkward chuckle. “I-I’m Emma. Eighth grade, as you might’ve guessed. I’m rooming with my seventh grade friend, Gilda. I…I kinda like you since I saw you in the quiz competition in our school festival fair last year. W-well, you might not remember me because my team got eliminated in the second round. Uhh, haha. B-but… Y-you were so cool back then.” The girl grinned shyly.

“Wow. Okay. Uh… My name’s Norman. Eighth grade too. And, uh… Okay. You probably already knew those things. So… uhm. Oh my God. This is a mess, I’m so sorry.”

The girl—who he knew now, named Emma—giggled again. “It’s okay. We’re both kinda a mess here.”

“Yeah… You’re right.” He laughed.

The atmosphere seemed a bit lighter now that they’ve already talked about the elephant in the room.

“Um, by the way… You said you’re eighth grade, right? But… I thought you were seventh. If I recall correctly, you were borrowing trigonometry book back then…”

“Ooh, you saw me on that day! I was borrowing some books for my roommate. She had some assignments for the next day, but she caught a terrible flu so I offered to borrow it for her.”

“You’re such a good roommate,” he commented.

“Well, roommates are usually our closest friends, right? I bet you’re a good roommate too!”

“My roommate is…kind of a handful. Also annoying. Well, yeah, he’s my best-friend though.”

“I know right! Sometimes roommates can be so annoying! Eh, wait…doesn’t that mean that they also find us annoying?”

He laughed. Emma was so refreshing.

“Hey, um, I think we still have about half an hour for the break. Want to go to the cafeteria and grab lunch together?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Emma agreed. “Now that you mentioned the cafeteria, I’m starting to get hungry again.”

Norman laughed. Meeting Emma was unexpected. Her straight-forward personality was even more unexpected. But it was so much fun, so he’s definitely not going to complaint much.

(BONUS SCENE)

“Do you think I should wear the light green stripped one or the plain blue one? Should I wear varsity jacket too? Or maybe some vest on it?”

Ray groaned for the umpteenth time just in that hour. “I swear, Norman! I bet she won’t even care even if you showed up with some washed up t-shirt and crocs!”

Norman stared at him as if he had just said something so scandalizing.

Suddenly, a door to their room was thrown open. A mop of orange hair burst in.

“Raaaay! I’m having a date with this cute boy in an hour and you should help me—”

Emma, his friend, paused at the door with a comical jaw drop. Ray glanced back to find his roommate mirroring her expression.

“You—”

Ray regretted that he didn’t have his camera with him. That one was definitely picture-worthy.

#noremma #tpn fic #the promised neverland #yakusoku no neverland

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fanders-fic-awards · 6 years ago

Text

Knowing What Happened (Summer Fic Comp 18)

Summary: Logan has spent his whole life on the sidelines, watching while others had their first kisses, their first relationships, all through highschool and his first year at college he had never met anyone who he was interested in romantically or who was romantically interested in him. Imagine his surprise (and frankly disdain) at being dragged to a house party by Roman only to fall head first into a ridiculous, over the top, dramatic crush on Roman’s childhood best friend Patton. Surely no good can come of this…

Trigger Warnings: alcohol, reference to past abusive relationship, slight angst, passionate making out, nose bleed, cursing

Word Count: 5026

Ballot

Logan was definitely a very smart person. Everyone said so and his grades throughout highschool and the first year of his college course definitely backed up this theory. Yes, he was smart. And cold, and stand-offish, and anti-social, and unapproachable, and uninterested in other people and all the other unkind things he had overheard people say in reference to him over the years. Not that it bothered him, or anything (anymore). He was quite used to living life on the side-lines, having watched all of his other classmates have their first kisses, their first boyfriends/girlfriends/datemates, and never finding anyone who sparked that interest in him. He was fine. He didn’t need any of that romantic nonsense in his life anyway. It was a distraction. A hindrance. And nobody had ever been interested in him anyway. He had made his peace with it. So why now was he unable to Stop. Staring. At. This. Gorgeous. Man?!

Logan had been dragged to this party by one of his good friends and roommate, Roman, who had insisted that he needed to “loosen up” and meet some new people. Begrudgingly, Logan had agreed to come as long as Roman promised not to abandon him half-way through the night, but here he was, stood with his back against the wall next to the drinks table, clutching a red solo cup gazing across the crowded living room staring at Roman talking to the most infuriatingly gorgeous person Logan had ever seen. He was a few inches shorter than Logan with a thin, delicate frame dressed in jeans and a pale blue t-shirt. His chocolate coloured curls framed his freckled face and fell into his eyes as he gestured and laughed, bright and expressive eyes peering through rounded glasses. He was endlessly lovely. So beautiful and small (and clumsy, Logan observed as the man gestured particularly enthusiastically and accidentally whacked Roman in the face). It was infuriating. Logan was pleased to note that Roman did not seem to be flirting with him, however. Their interactions seemed much more like those of old friends who had been very close once but had not seen one another in a while due to circumstance. Suddenly a memory popped into Logan’s head, Roman had told him an old friend would be at this party, hadn’t he? Someone from his home town starting at their college this year? Was that who this person was?

“’Sup, Logan?” a low, rumbling voice close to his ear made him jump, causing him to slosh punch over his shoes as his hand jerked violently.

“GEEZE! Virgil! I didn’t see you there!” Logan looked up at the tall man next to him, wide brown eyes blinked at him through purple bangs. As both of their heart rates returned to something more normal, a smirk spread across his new companion’s face.

“Sorry ‘bout that, man. Didn’t expect to see you here, don’t you hate these things?” Virgil spoke slowly, his eyes soft and his shoulders relaxed. Going by the faint smell of alcohol on his breath (which Logan could smell because for some reason Virgil was standing very close) it seemed that his friend may be somewhat intoxicated.

“Indeed, Virgil, a party is not usually ‘my scene’ but a friend of mine dragged me here and has since abandoned me. How are you?” Logan replied, leaning back slightly but smiling at Virgil none-the-less. He had met Virgil in his astronomy class the previous year and the two of them had bonded over their shared distaste for overly social situations and their shared love of space and the stars, among other things. They now often met up to study together and chat over coffee while complaining about their lives and geeking out over various books, tv shows and films. Logan had even gone as far as to call Virgil a friend when referring to him in conversation with Roman.

“’Am good, thanks. Hey do you want another drink? Sorry I made you spill most of that one…” Virgil glanced down at Logan’s shoes, then lent over to peak into his cup to confirm that not much liquid resided there any longer. Logan sighed and downed the remaining liquid, setting the now empty cup on the table beside him.

“I appreciate your offer, but no thank you. I would encourage you to abstain from further drinking too as you seem to be inebriated as is…” Logan glanced at his friend to see a lazy smile slide over his features

“You tryna’ tell me I’mm wasted? ‘Cause that’s news to no one but you, buddy!” Virgil replied, happily taking another swig from his own cup. Logan couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at his lips. He was just about to offer to walk Virgil home when they were abruptly (and loudly) interrupted.

“LOGAN!” Roman bellowed over the music, having just pushed his way through the crowd and stopped next to them, his hand clasped with the ridiculously gorgeous man Logan had been staring at earlier. The man beamed at them and Logan felt a blush creeping up his face. “THIS IS MY FRIEND, PATTON, WHO I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT? FROM HOME? REMEMBER?” Roman continued to yell, tugging the man – Patton – closer and then dropping his hand so that he could offer it to Logan to shake. Logan took it and smiled gingerly as that lovely, beaming smile was turned directly on him. He felt his throat go dry.

“Lovely to meet ya! Roman’s told me so much about you!” Patton said (at a normal, indoor human volume), still smiling so brightly

“Oh… that’s, eh, very nice to hear. It’s nice to make your acquaintance,” Logan replied, quickly withdrawing his hand and trying desperately not to fidget under this man’s intense gaze.

“I THINK YOU GUYS WILL REALLY HIT IT OFF, I’VE BEEN DYING TO INTRODUCE YOU FOR AGES!” Roman bellowed. Logan winced slightly and took a step back, bumping into Virgil as he did so and drawing Roman’s attention to him for the first time since he and Patton had approached them. Logan glanced at Virgil to see him looking at Roman suspiciously with narrowed eyes while Roman was staring back, frankly, as if he’d just seen an angel. Virgil quirked an eyebrow while tentatively extending his hand towards Roman.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, you must be the roommate?” he offered quietly. A dazzling smile immediately appeared on Roman’s face as he took his hand, shaking it and then bringing it to his mouth to press a kiss to the back. Virgil immediately snatched his hand back and levelled Roman with what could only be described as a deeply hostile glare.

“HAD WE EVER MET BEFORE, MY DEAR, I WOULD HAVE SURLY REMEMBERED EVERY MOMENT. YOU ARE TRULY ENCHANTING, WOULD YOU PERMIT ME TO TAKE YOU OUT ON A DATE SOME TIME?!” Roman shouted over the music, attracting the attention of some nearby party members, and making his enquiry seem somewhat threatening. Logan raised his eyebrows as he observed a deep flush spread across Virgil’s checks while his eyes flashed with something akin to rage.

“Fuck off!” he spat at Roman, and with that he turned on his heel and stormed away, with a short goodbye thrown over his shoulder to Logan, and then he was gone.

“I have a feeling you just insulted my friend, Roman. Truly I had hoped the two of you would get along. Also, please desist from shouting, we can hear you over the music even when you speak at a normal volume,” Logan looked at Roman as he delivered this speech, but Roman was still gazing at the spot where Virgil had disappeared.

“Who was that?” Roman almost whispered, his eyes bright and his voice awed. Logan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by the smaller man next to him.

“Uuuuh, that was actually my roommate… The guy I was telling you about before?” Patton said, shyly looking up at Roman through his curls.

“Oh…” Roman at least had the good grace to look somewhat sheepish now as he turned back to Logan and Patton, offering them both a hasty smile and reaching up with his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Ehhh, you don’t think I’ve already ruined my chances, do you?” Patton laughed at that, and Logan felt something in his chest warm at the sound.

“Almost definitely! Sorry, friendo, I could have warned you not to do that if I’d known that’s what you were gonna do!” he laughed again and smiled at a now horrified looking Roman and turned swiftly to face Logan “How do you know Virgil?” he asked brightly, and once again Logan was taken aback by his sheer overwhelming beauty.

“We shared a class last year, and now we meet on a semi-regular basis to study and or converse with one another,” Logan replied, focusing all of his energy on remaining still and not giving away his nerves by fidgeting. If it were possible, Patton’s smile seemed to grow even wider.

“Aww yeah, he’s definitely mentioned you before! It’s so great to finally meet you, I can’t believe you’re my childhood best friend’s roommate AND a good friend of my roommate! Small world, huh?” Patton flicked his head back, an unconscious movement of those whose hair often falls into their face, and the dim light in the room seemed to sparkle in his soft blue eyes and Logan felt his stomach swoop. Great, some small part of Logan’s brain thought to himself, you’re developing feelings for him. That’s perfect. Good job, Sanders, have fun dealing with that. He marvelled for a moment at how much his own inner voice was dripping with sarcasm before he noticed that Patton and Roman were both looking at him expectantly. Oh. Patton had been attempting to converse with him and he had LITERALLY GOTTEN LOST IN HIS EYES THIS WAS RIDICULOUS!

“Forgive me, Patton, I was lost in thought. I had no idea that the roommate Virgil often speaks of would be the same friend to whom Roman so often refers, it is indeed an impressive coincidence,” Logan cringed at his own formality and robotic communication. This was exactly why nobody was ever interested in him, he was no good at speaking to people. He glanced at Patton and noticed that he seemed to be about to speak again but Logan was already feeling far too flustered and embarrassed, all he wanted to do was go home and forget this entire evening. “I’m sure we will become more acquainted in time, however, I fear Roman and I must leave now as we both have an early class in the morning,” he lied quickly, using the first excuse that came to mind. Patton’s eyebrows drew together in confusion

“An early class tomorrow morning?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. It was frustratingly endearing.

“That’s right,” Logan confirmed, looking away to hide his blush.

“……. On a Sunday?” Patton asked, a small smile playing about his lips as he looked mischievously at Logan. And oh. Oh dear. It was indeed a Saturday night, and Logan had just lied to Patton’s face and he’d been caught and now Patton would hate him and –

“Haha, yeah he means a gym class! Specs and I hit the gym early every Sunday morning for a yoga class and then we work out,” Roman quickly jumped in, grinning widely at Patton and slipping his arm around Logan’s shoulders. Immense relief surged through Logan’s entire body as the intense mortification he had just been experiencing subsided a little. He felt unbelievably grateful to Roman in that moment, looking up at his friend with nothing short of platonic love in his eyes, he was sure.

“Oh right, that makes sense!” Patton laughed, leaning back a little and almost losing his footing. He leaned closer to Logan with a somewhat sly smile on his face “You look like you work out, and I guess you’re pretty flexible too,” he winked and then leaned back, throwing another dazzling smile at them both while Logan felt his entire face burning with heat. “So nice to see you both! I’ll see you guys around!” he added, and with a little wave he turned around and drifted off back into the party.

“Do I want to know what just happened?” Roman’s voice was laced with sarcasm as Logan had just abruptly and unceremoniously thrown himself down into the empty chair across from Roman in the college cafeteria. His face was almost definitely beet red and he was clutching his phone in one hand as he buried his face in his arms and groaned.

“What did I do to deserve this?” Logan miserably demanded of the table beneath his arms. He heard Roman chuckle.

“You see Patton again?” he asked, sounding smug. Logan let out a distressed whine and fought the urge to flip Roman off. “I’ll take that as a yes. Did you pluck up the courage to ask him out yet?” Logan did flip him off this time and Roman laughed loud and uninhibited. Logan lifted his head slightly in order to glare at his friend but offered no response. “Dude it’s been like two months since you met him and you’ve been pining the whole time just cut the crap and do it already!” Roman demanded. Logan huffed and sat up again, still glaring angrily at Roman. Roman raised his eyebrows at him and Logan sighed and held up his phone to show him the text message that was causing his distress.

Hey Lo!! Thanks so much for your help the other night, I couldn’t have done that essay on time without you. Me and Virge are having a little party at our flat tomorrow night, can I get you a couple of drinks as a thank you? You should bring Roman too if he’s free! Hope you can make it xx

Logan watched as Roman seemed to scan the text a couple of times, then a huge grin spread across his face.

“This is your chance, Lo! You should make a move on him tomorrow night, he’s obviously into you,” Logan whined and snatched his phone back from Roman.

“You do not have access to that information! History and logic dictate that he is almost certainly not interested in me and is simply making an effort to befriend me due to our mutual friends in you and Virgil,” he snapped at Roman, slipping his phone back into his bag and glaring angrily at the table. He did not want to admit to the tiny ball of hope that had taken up residence in his chest upon receiving Patton’s text. No one was ever interested in him, and Patton was certainly way too good for him. To begin hoping now would only serve to make it all the more painful when Patton would eventually make it clear that he was not interested in Logan in a romantic sense, and never would be. Not only that, but it would ruin the makings of their friendship. He had spent time with Patton on several occasions since they met and each time they had enjoyed one another’s company finding that they had much more in common than Logan had expected upon first meeting Patton, and that they were able to tease one another quite easily allowing Logan to relax around Patton slightly. Even if every meeting was a painful reminder of how devastatingly gorgeous he was in every way.

“Listen, Lo. I know you think that it’s impossible, but I actually think Patton really likes you! He lights up whenever he sees you, and when you guys are hanging out he really flirts with you a lot I’ve never really seen him act like that around anyone else,” Roman said softly. Logan looked up at this quiet admission and saw that any and all teasing was gone from his friend’s face. He meant what he was saying. Logan sighed deeply.

“…. Okay, I’ll try but you must come too. And please try to get through one evening without pissing Virgil off too much, okay?” he watched as Roman’s expression went quickly from happy to indignant.

“Pffft, he’s always delighted to see me, we get on like a house on fire, we’re - “

“Just don’t ask him out this time, okay?” Logan cut off Roman’s angry spluttering and smiled to himself as his friend sighed, suddenly looking wistful.

“I’ll try, calculator watch, I’ll try,”

Logan found himself the following night staring hard at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror in Patton and Virgil’s apartment. Apparently Patton’s idea of a “little party” was to invite literally everyone he knew into his flat and hope for the best. Logan had felt completely overwhelmed when he and Roman had arrived an hour earlier and so he had taken the (rather poor) decision to indulge in slightly more alcohol than he ordinarily would on such occasions. And he was definitely feeling it. He sighed and padded out of the cramped bathroom, hoping to rejoin Patton and Roman where the three of them had been conversing on the couch. He navigated his way through the small apartment, avoiding drunken guests and couples making out (heedless of the public setting, apparently), and spotted Roman still in the same spot on the couch only now he was conversing not with Patton but with… Virgil?

“Wait really? You like Disney movies?” he heard Roman ask, incredulously, as he moved nearer and sat down next to his two friends. Virgil sighed and rolled his eyes

“Oh come on, have you seen Black Cauldron? Honestly I don’t even know why you would think I don’t like Disney,” he took another swig from his beer and nodded in Logan’s direction to acknowledge his arrival.

“Well it’s just that, you know… You’re kind of an emo nightmare! That doesn’t really go with Disney,” Roman replied, smirking at the mock offended expression now crossing Virgil’s face.

“If you think there’s not a dark side to Disney, you’ve got it all wrong, pal. Every one of those movies has some darker undertones,” Roman and Virgil’s conversation continued in much the same vein, discussing the different meanings and subtexts of several different Disney films while Logan watched amicably in silence, pleased to see the pair not yelling at each other for once. He wasn’t really listening though and went to take another sip of his drink when he noticed it was now in fact empty. Hmm. Did that mean he’d now had seven? Or was it eight? He shook his head to clear it and glanced around the room, trying to remember which direction the drinks table was in, when he spotted them. Patton was currently on the other side of the room being roughly crowded against the wall by a much taller man who was looking down at him, his expression creepy and leering, while Patton babbled about something, a huge false smile spread across his face, his eyes wide with nervousness. Logan felt rage and jealousy rise up within him like bile. He was suddenly too hot, his insides were on fire, his teeth gritting together. He wanted to smash something, or to march over there and spin that guy around and demand to know why the hell he was intimidating Patton this way.

“- but that’s exactly where you’re wrong because Tangled is a true example of Stockholm Syndrome between Rapunzel and Mother Gothal, whereas Beauty and the Beast is –“

“Who the fuck is that talking to Patton?!” Logan spat, interrupting Roman’s passionate rant, still glaring as the man lifted his hand and brushed Patton’s hair from his face, causing Patton to shrink further into himself and the wall behind him. He glanced back to see Roman and Virgil staring at him with wide eyes. Roman looked over and shook his head, indicating he did not know but Virgil started to shift uncomfortably. Logan latched on immediately. “Virgil, who is he?” he demanded, his voice surprisingly calm for all the rage he felt within him. Virgil coughed and looked away, picking with a fraying strand of fabric on his black skinny jeans.

“Well, he’s, ehh…. He’s Patton’s ex,” Virgil sighed and then looked up at Logan again. Logan blinked but said nothing, forcing himself to keep his expression entirely neutral. “I told Pat not to invite him, he’s kind of an asshole, but you know what Patton’s like! Always trying to see the best in people and he said he wants to try and stay friends if they can…”

“Looks like that guy’s got a bit more than friendship on his mind,” Roman muttered, still looking over at the pair, a hint of irritation in his own voice now. Logan looked over again to see that the man was now pulling his fingers through Patton’s hair (none too lightly, it seemed) and leaning incredibly close to his face to speak to him. Patton was visibly very uncomfortable as he continued trying to lean away, only he had nowhere to go as he was already pushed up against the wall. Logan was unsure if it were possible for him to be more angry than he felt in this moment when he heard a low growl and was taken aback to find it had actually come from Virgil rather than himself.

“I’m not sitting here and watching this, Imma beat the shit outta him!” Virgil snapped, getting to his feet quickly. In a flash Roman and Logan were both standing too, Roman with his hands firmly on Virgil’s shoulders in an attempt to restrain him.

“Virge! You can’t just go and attack him in the middle of a party in your flat!” Roman’s voice was slightly too high pitched, his eyes wide with panic. Virgil’s expression grew slightly manic as he struggled against Roman’s hold, trying to push past him to go to Patton.

“Get the fuck off me, Princey, I’m not just going to stand here and let him make Pat feel uncomfortable!” Virgil snapped at Roman. It was at this precise moment that they heard a yell from the other side of the room. Silence fell over the entire flat. Virgil, Roman and Logan all turned to stare with wide eyes at the scene before them. Patton was smiling, a real, happy and bright smile this time, while his ex stood next to him clutching his nose which appeared to be bleeding. Patton turned to a tall girl standing next to him looking on in shock as beamed up at her. He looked terrifying.

“Lucie, I could really do with another drink! Could you please show Michael out? He was just leaving,” Patton’s voice was pure sugar, his smile charming as he patted the girl’s shoulder and then walked through the still silent crowd and into the adjoining kitchen without so much as a glance back at his ex, who was now being bustled towards the door. The room exploded into noise again as suddenly everyone resumed talking at once, slightly too loudly and reeling from what had just transpired. Without so much as glancing at one another, Virgil, Roman and Logan quickly made their way to the kitchen where Patton was standing next to the counter apparently downing an entire can of beer in one go. They approached him slowly, each staring with wide eyes as he finished his drink and threw the empty can into the trash.

“Patton?” Logan started softly, “Do I…… Do I want to know what just happened?” he asked tentatively. Patton smiled and took Logan’s hand in his own, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Oh it’s nothing, really! Michael was just getting a bit pushy and he didn’t seem to be taking the hint,” Patton smiled again.

“What hint?” Logan asked, acutely aware that his hand was still in Patton’s.

“Well to be honest he was being rather flirtatious and then he tried to kiss me. So I punched him in the face,” Patton replied matter-of-factly, shrugging one shoulder as he used his free hand to grab another can of beer. Logan felt his jaw fall open

“Wait! You punched him in the face?!” Virgil demanded, eyes a little wild

“Yes,”

“And now he has a nose bleed?”

“Yes,”

“Because he tried to kiss you?”

“Yes! He clearly wasn’t listening to me or reading my body language so that was my only option!” Patton sighed, clearly exasperated. Virgil grinned wide and suddenly pulled Patton into a tight hug, causing him to drop Logan’s hand (he pretended not to feel disappointed)

“I am so fucking proud of you, Pat!” Virgil mumbled, rubbing his friend’s back as he spoke.

“Language! But thanks, kiddo,” Patton smiled as Virgil released him, and then he grinned up at Roman who was grinning back delightedly.

The rest of the party passed by without incident and Logan found himself laughing and smiling more than he had in years. It was nearing 3am by the time everyone left, leaving Roman and Logan as the only guests in Patton and Virgil’s apartment. Roman and Virgil were talking quietly in the kitchen when Patton came to find Logan leaning against a wall in the living room, observing the aftermath of the party and lost in thought. He stood before him and smiled happily up at Logan. He found himself returning the smile fondly.

“Thank you so much for coming, Lo,” Patton said softly, his cheeks pleasantly flushed from the alcohol he had consumed, making his smattering of freckles all the more noticeable. Logan blinked a couple of times, gazing into blue eyes, only now that he was really looking he realised they weren’t just blue. They were sapphire with flecks of golden yellow, and a hint of green and lines so pale they were almost white. And they were shining with joy.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Logan murmured, offering a small smile. He was vaguely aware of Patton taking a step closer as he continued to stare into his eyes.

“Virgil told me you had wanted to help when you saw what was happening earlier. That really means a lot to me, thank you so much Logan,” Patton was speaking so softly, and standing so close, Logan could practically feel the warmth radiating from his body. He was looking up at Logan shyly, smiling tentatively as he edged closer.

“You’re welcome, Patton,” Logan heard himself speak but he wasn’t paying attention. Patton was so close now he could count each individual freckle under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. He could see individual eyelashes and count the yellow flecks in his beautiful eyes.

“I don’t know if you realise this, Lo, but I really, really like you. I’m so glad we met,” Patton was speaking so quietly now, almost a whisper but Logan could hear every word so clearly. His eyes widened at this admission.

“I really like you too, Patton. I am most grateful for our friendship,” Patton smiled so brightly at that, and Logan couldn’t help the fond smile that pulled at his own lips being so close to that open and happy expression. Logan saw Patton’s eyes flick down to his lips, then back up to his eyes as he reached out and placed his hands ever so gently on Logan’s waist. “Patton,” he breathed out, barely audible “May I kiss you?” the question was so soft, so tentative that Logan wasn’t entirely sure he had even asked it, but then Patton was leaning impossibly closer, smiling impossibly brighter and he knew the answer before it came.

“I thought you’d never ask,” and with that he was leaning down, tilting his head slightly to connect their lips for the first time. He felt Patton’s breath hitch as he captured his lower lip between his own in a smooth glide. Patton’s hands tightened on his hips as he found his own hands moving to cradle Patton’s face, one hand brushing through soft, sweet smelling hair, the other gently brushing his cheek and settling on the back of his neck to pull him even closer, pressing their chests together. He felt more than heard the tiny gasp that escaped Patton as he cautiously, teasingly swiped his tongue across the seam of Patton’s lips, silently asking for access, and suddenly their kiss went from sweet to searing hot in an instant. Suddenly it was Patton’s tongue in his mouth, gliding and tasting and teasing, it was Patton’s hands sliding around his back to pull him closer, it was their quickening breaths shared between their kisses, it was Logan’s fingers tightening in Patton’s hair, it was hearts pounding with exhilaration and the whole world zeroing down to nothing but the sensation of one another. Without meaning to, Logan released a small moan as Patton gently nipped his lower lip and then slowly pulled back to beam up at him, his breathing slightly laboured. Logan let out the tiniest laugh as he pressed their foreheads together unable to keep himself from smiling. This definitely requires further experimentation he thought to himself as he leaned down to connect their lips once more.

As the two stood lost to the world in their first kiss they were completely unaware of Virgil leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, watching the display with a small smile on his face. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Roman grinning at him.

“Do I want to know what just happened?” he asked wryly. Virgil smirked and shrugged his shoulder.

“I think their whole mutual pining thing just ended. Come on, sir sing a lot, let’s give them some privacy,” as Roman and Virgil retreated back into the kitchen, Patton pulled back once more and began giggling uncontrollably as Logan pressed kiss after kiss to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Logan couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content and he had a feeling this next year was going to be an extremely good one.

@iampureprincxietytrash

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resonanteye · 4 years ago

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via http://resonanteye.net/the-new-american-death-cult-part-3-my-sister-didnt-even-like-trump/

The New American Death Cult, part 3: my sister didn't even LIKE trump

We all know someone who’s seemed normal but who’s somehow gotten involved in reposted propaganda and nonsense about this stuff.

I am talking about someone who isn’t a Limbaugh listener. A yoga teacher, a coffee roaster, an office worker. Someone who isn’t even all that political really, but who is nevertheless posting heavily photoshopped images about “saving children” with random celebrities hovering like demons in the background. How did these people get sucked into a strange cult? How did regular people end up believing an antisemitic trope about “baby brains”? Why is Nevaeh even aware this shit exists?

IF ONE, THEN ALL

It starts with that tag. “save * children”.

Most people are really glad to feel like they’re doing something useful to battle against child abuse. We all hate seeing people get away with abuse, assault, or molestation just because they’re rich. Even people who understand that trump fits this category, agree that anyone who hurts a child should be stopped. It’s universal. It’s a common point of agreement.

Yes, they have written entire guides about how to involve people in the Death Cult. This one is relatively easy to find, but there are entire discord and app chats full of ideas on this. They’re constantly discussing how best to brainwash and argue people into the cult.

So this common, universal point of agreement is the entry into it all. It’s a small step to next start picking out random celebrities who actually HAVE hurt someone- Polanski, Woody Allen, Weinstein, and then extend it to another celebrity. There’s an inexorable drag towards the wilder side of things, but they’ll go slowly, pulling people in bit by bit. I hate to use the “frog in boiling water” analogy but it’s what they are doing.

ALWAYS BE CLOSING

They’re pretty much following core cult recruiting tactics.

Another route of entry is anti-vaccine beliefs. Admittedly, people who are fully against any vaccines are usually always convinced of further weirdness that slots nicely into the Death Cult:

they think modern medicine is a lie

they think “big pharma” wants to kill kids

they are terrified of their own kids being hurt or defective

they don’t care about 3rd world children who still die from polio

often they already believe conspiracy theories about Bill Gates, random politicians and celebrities

Once they’ve gotten on board with the idea that the elite are hurting kids, their fears are pretty easy to redirect.

Now, the red flags here aren’t that they think powerful or rich people hurt kids or assault women. They do. We can look directly at the cases that have come to light and see that there is a grain of truth. Epstein did in fact traffick and rape kids. He did have friends in high places, and they were involved- trump, prince Andrew, Acosta, Dershowitz.

Thinking there’s conspiracy to hide this is also true. ICE has “lost” thousands of children from their facilities. Many were trafficked and yes, have been found. ICE officials have been arrested, and convicted of both trafficking and covering it up. Acosta brokered a deal to keep Epstein’s clients from being charged with sex crimes against children, in 2007 when Epstein was first charged. This could be called a cover-up. Hell, Weinstein had an army of lawyers to help him get away with it. Trump has hundreds of settlements he’s paid. Sure, this is a thing that happens.

These things do happen. And so, you’ve taken that first small step. Each step along this path gets harder to believe, but is only a small step from the last.

Let’s follow the logic.

1. children are being trafficked (ok, true)

2. by powerful people who are protected (sometimes, sure)

3. they’re celebrities and democrats (at this point, people will start to argue about if trump is included. they’ll admit to Roy Moore, or a random Congressional staffer- but not to trump. they will not want to hear about ICE or cartels or anything but white, American kids)

4. Depending on how gullible they think their target is, they’ll either go step by step through a list of people they think are involved, or they’ll jump right to Hillary Clinton. (pizzagate). they’ll spend as much time as necessary inventing “proof” of pizzagate.

5. this is where the baby brains will get mentioned.

6. sometimes, they’ll go a step further into “lizard people”, aliens, The Cabal, etc.

By the time people have been to, and accepted, step 4, it’s too late to get them out of it. They’re indoctrinated. They’re cult members. They may be only tenuously involved but cults are incredibly hard to leave once inside.

You can use any common agreement to get from the start to step one. “Bill Gates is hurting kids with vaccines” works just as well. step 2 becomes “vaccines are made out of aborted fetuses” (not true, but some believe it). etc

The anti-Semitism of all this doesn’t seem obvious unless you’ve read about the history of medicine, and specifically about previous plagues. Since the plague of Justinian, “blood libel” has been a way of accusing Jewish people of causing plagues.

It was this accusation that fueled the flagellants in 1349, too- another cult that was massive, and that took hold during a plague. I feel that the modern Death Cult is related to the flagellants in a lot of ways. These are very old, very common thoughts for a lot of right wing or christian people. Anti-semitism is still very active, a very real force in the world, just like racism or sexism.

It is not about Israel. It’s about Jewish people themselves, and is a threat to them. Usually this kind of talk is coded.

“Lizard people”, “Soros”, “Rothschild”, and the claims of blood libel all are examples.

This is where your regular, everyday receptionist ends up. After simply wanting to do something to “help kids”, they follow the train of crazy deep into the cult, and end up thinking lizard people are eating baby brains. By the time they’re this deep, they also tend to believe trump is some kind of undercover hero, not a serial abuser at all. They will lie or avoid proof from outside the cult- anything not sanctioned by the cult is “fake” or “part of it”.

They’ll be using thought-stopping phrases, whenever they feel doubt about what they’re doing they will repeat these. They seem like they’re directed at you, but they’re not. These phrases are self directed and are repeated almost a mantra, to quash any feelings of doubt or discomfort with cognitive dissonance they’re having. “Wake up”, “Do your research”, “You’ll see”, “Watch and wait”, “Trust the plan”.

These are said in order to stop themselves from thinking about the cult AS a cult. They’re not directed at you.

This is why your somewhat normal friend is now a rabid trump supporter involved in antimask parades. Sorry. …

#death cult #deep dive #new death cult #q #trump #911 #deep thoughts #politics #wtc 9/11 einstruzende neubauten artistic poetic terrori

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thewarlocksbitch · 7 years ago

Text

I will be your: hands, eyes, heart

prev - chapter 2 - next

word count - 4.8k

thank you to chloe for beta editing

read it on ao3

a/n: to those who will attempt to translate the latin: i spent a few hours reading up on latin phrases and trying to figure out how to correctly use them, but translating them back makes everything nonsense. i included my original intent at the end of the chapter if you want to read it :)

Ronan woke with a start, his blood pounding a sick beat in his ears. Something hot squeezed itself around him, cutting off his breath. He was used to this, more than used to this, but still the panic came, a wild and senseless thing. Ronan ignored it and willed himself to stay calm, unable to move in the minutes immediately upon waking.

His body came back to him in slow fits of movement: his fingers, his toes, his tongue. Finally he threw the covers off of himself and sat up in bed, his hands instinctively going to his throat only to find nothing there. He choked into the quiet of his room as his brain tried still to wake up, tried to process the shift from dream to reality.

His dream. What had it been about? He couldn't remember ever having a dream that hadn't been as clear as life upon waking, but from this last one he didn't remember much. A woman had been there, maybe. She’d had a sick, unpleasant sort of presence. Ronan remembered asking her to leave.

Chainsaw flapped in her cage. Ronan dropped his hands to his chest, where a vine weakly wrapped itself around him, harmless in the space outside of his head. Ronan drew in a breath and let it out. He untangled the vine from his chest and legs and dropped it on the floor. He watched it with some remorse as it slithered over to the window, squinting his eyes against the bright morning light.

If Gansey was lucky, Ronan’s dreaming had woken him up in time for his Friday morning classes.

Ronan let Chainsaw out of her cage and set her on the floor. He followed her to the kitchen, staying close behind as she hopped from floorboard to floorboard and giving her small nudges when she got too distracted by the books and pizza receipts that littered the apartment.

Slumped at the kitchen counter was Gansey, his wireframes hidden deep in his tousled hair and his face obscure behind a mug of coffee. Ronan picked Chainsaw up and deposited her on Gansey’s shoulder on his way by. Gansey let out a glorious sigh and said something into his arms.

“Sorry champ, what was that?” Ronan asked, yanking the fridge open. He didn't remember the last time he or Gansey had bought groceries; his only options were leftover pizza or beer. Ronan grabbed a slice of pizza for Chainsaw and slammed the fridge shut.

Gansey raised his head to watch as Ronan tossed the cold pizza slice onto the counter. Chainsaw hopped from Gansey’s shoulder to perch on the crust, her feathers ruffled. Gansey raised his eyebrows at her, then slid his gaze to Ronan. “I said, ‘Declan called’.”

Ronan turned away. “Man,” he said, “I just woke up.”

“So did I,” Gansey said, unperturbed. “You're going to class today.”

The last will and testament of Niall T. Lynch left very simple instructions. One: Ronan N. Lynch was to receive the sum of three million dollars once he reached the age of eighteen. Two: Ronan N. Lynch was to receive Niall T. Lynch’s entire interest in the real property “the Barns” at the time of the original owner’s death. And three: Ronan N. Lynch was not to trespass the physical boundaries of “the Barns”, disturb any of the contents there, living or nonliving, or take up residence there until he graduated from the University of Virginia.

Ronan was barely into the first semester of freshman year and already he wanted to quit. Four years at Aglionby had been painful enough; being at university hours away from home was almost unbearable. Ronan might have given up before even enrolling if it weren't for Gansey.

Skipping classes more often than attending them meant Ronan’s grades were suffering. He knew he needed to go to class, but doing what you needed to was a very different thing from doing what you wanted.

“I just killed a fuck-ton of demon bastards inside my head, and now I have to deal with this in reality?”

“It's Declan, not the end of the world,” Gansey said. He leveled a heavy look on Ronan. “This shouldn't be my problem, Ronan.”

Ronan leaned against the counter across from where Gansey sat. He stole Gansey’s coffee; probably Gansey had made it simply for the act of doing so and not the result anyways. Ronan took a sip, then immediately poured the coffee into the sink.

“The fuck, man?” Ronan said, “What is that?”

Gansey didn't seem particularly disturbed by Ronan’s discontent or by his coffee being poured down the drain. “It’s coffee,” he said plainly.

“Where's the sugar? The fucking cream?”

“You ate it all,” Gansey said. “Ronan.” The latter was said sternly, with purpose. Ronan.

“I know,” Ronan said. “Declan, classes, whatever. I’ll fix it.”

Gansey nodded and slid his wireframes back onto his nose. He gave Chainsaw an affectionate tap before getting up and turning for his bedroom. Eyeing Ronan warily, Chainsaw dragged her slice of pizza further down the counter.

“I don't have class today so I’m going back to sleep,” Gansey said. “But I have a faerie path I want to drag you to later.”

“I thought you're supposed to avoid faerie paths,” Ronan said.

“That's for people who want to avoid faeries,” Gansey said. His bedroom door closed behind him with a soft click.

Ronan watched Chainsaw attack her pizza slice for a few minutes before going back to his room in search of his class schedule. He knew he had two classes this morning, but he wasn't positive what classes they were or which one was first. He eventually found it crumpled up in the pocket of a pair of jeans on the floor. Ronan slipped them on and checked his teeth in the mirror before telling Chainsaw to behave in his absence and stepping out the door.

The BMW looked confused where Ronan left it parked in front of lecture hall. Ronan followed a helpful map Gansey had drawn for him to his nine a.m. class. He sat up straight and took notes like he hadn't done since crunch week senior year, and it left him feeling much too productive and drained by the time his next class rolled around.

Ronan’s Latin teacher was significantly older than his previous and she favored him a heavy look as he took his seat in the middle row. Ronan ignored her and went over Latin phrases in his head, ready to spit out something clever if she brought up his many absences. Without Gansey here to rein him in, there wasn't much to keep Ronan in line.

Class started with a lecture and the slapping of books on desks, and almost immediately the student in front of Ronan raised his hand.

The professor called on him, and he offered a clean Latin phrase in answer. Again and again he offered answers and input, making the professor smile brighter every time.

Ronan let his attention drift from his notes to the guy in front of him. He sat up very straight, revealing a tan, freckled neck and an uneven hairline. With every answer he gave his voice became more clipped, erasing any trace of the accent Ronan thought he recognized so that he sounded more like a computer than a human. He tapped the toes of his shitty looking sneakers in time with his pen against his notebook.

The professor paced the room, picking students at random to test their Latin. She stopped in front of Ronan. She prompted, “Have you come to class today out of divine intervention?”

“Ex nihilo nihil fité,” Ronan said easily. “Ego sapere aude.”

“Caesar non supra grammaticos," the boy in front of Ronan said, earning another smile from the professor. Ronan sneered at the back of his neck.

“Are you a wolf among men?” she asked him.

“Well, corvus oculum corvi non eruit,” he said, a smile in his voice now. “I only intend to help.” Some of the surrounding students laughed. Ronan’s lip curled.

The professor went on to another eager face. Ronan tuned her out, his attention a hot thing on the back of the dirt-colored kid’s neck until the bell rang.

“I drove by yesterday and the levels spiked like crazy, even from the road,” Gansey said, politely holding a large branch aside for Ronan. “I think the ley line running through here is more powerful than in Henrietta, though I'm not sure why.”

Ronan accepted that without comment and they walked on in silence, changing direction every few minutes when the electromagnetic frequency reader blared.

Gansey had snatched him up immediately after class and manhandled him into the Pig. He’d talked non-stop throughout the entire ride, spewing facts and theories about Glendower and ley lines so excitedly that they came out mostly incoherent. Ronan had indulged him, though; besides some boulders at the base of a mountain nearby he’d been watching obsessively, Gansey hadn't had anything to be so happy about since they'd left Henrietta.

They walked along a rockbed, water squelching underneath their shoes, pebbles skittering ahead of them. The trees rustled above them, voiceless but for the wind, so unlike the ones in Cabeswater.

Gansey followed the readings with his head down, the sunlight filtering through the trees turning his hair to glorious flames’ gold. “I read up on the area. Before the town was developed - some two hundred years or so ago - hikers and villagers avoided this entire forest because of ‘strange natural and unnatural phenomena’. Tree roots interwoven like paths, children mysteriously disappearing, voices heard in nonexistent languages at night, things like that. Even now people never come here.”

“Except us,” Ronan said.

Gansey smiled. “Except us,” he agreed.

The ground became increasingly slanted as they walked until they had to pick their way over wobbling rocks and small cliffs. The stream trickled faster now, and Ronan couldn’t feel or see much of the sun. He squinted through the increasing darkness, following the spikes on the EMF reader and the thrilled cadence of Gansey’s voice as he went on about the legends of this forest.

The ground evened out as they reached the bottom of the hill. Ronan’s eyes found the only place around them where the sun reached the ground. A thin chill crept up his spine. “You forgot about the faerie rings, Gansey,” he said.

Gansey looked up from the EMF reader and followed Ronan’s finger to a well-lit clearing across from the stream. There, bathed in sunlight and set equidistant from each other in a perfect circle, were foot-tall fungi bursting from dead grass and smooth, unnaturally rounded stones.

Gansey didn't move. He pulled the GPS from the pocket of his chinos and furrowed his brow at Ronan. “How do you know about faerie rings?”

Ronan dropped his hand and walked to the edge of the ring, his boots getting soaked in the process. Gansey more strategically stepped across large stones that emerged from the shallow creek in order to preserve his Top Sliders. “They're mentioned a lot in the Irish jigs I used to perform,” Ronan said. “Whatever. They can be thousands of years old and can stretch for miles, but they're really just a way for mushrooms to eat. Sometimes they grow around a body.”

Gansey looked delighted by this. He looked so happy that Ronan went on without prompting, “It’s said the fae dance inside the rings and that you can hear their voices in the center of it. They're supposed to tell you your future and creepy shit like that. But it's also said you can get cursed or lose an eye or some shit.”

“What else do you know about them?” Gansey asked, cautiously stepping up to the ring. He took out his journal and flipped to an ancient page already crammed with his handwriting. Ronan watched him write the GPS coordinates down. “Humor me.”

Ronan let out a heavy exhale through his nose and studied the underside of his nails. He didn't make Gansey ask again, though. “They're believed to exist in a world parallel to ours. The Irish call them ‘the good people’ or ‘the people of the hills’ because it's unlucky to call them by name. They don't like it.”

Gansey walked around the circle, his thumb pressed to his lower lip. It took Ronan a minute of watching him to realize the EMF reader had gone dead. Very slowly, Gansey held it out in one hand past the line of fungi and stones.

Every reading blared red. Every hair on Ronan’s body stood on end.

Gansey snatched his arm back. “They're…” he said, and made another circle around the ring. “They're immortal, right? The... good people?”

“Why?” Ronan sneered, but the look on Gansey’s face made his chest go cold. “Did they talk to you?”

“No,” said Gansey, a little breathily. “But I did hear something.”

He stepped back from the circle and went to Ronan’s side. Ronan took the EMF reader from Gansey so he wouldn't be tempted to test it in the ring again. Gansey thumbed to another page in his journal and and began writing in it, jotting down notes and self-directed questions between sketches of trees and ravens and fast cars.

“Don't go near that again,” Ronan warned. He looked around them. The forest stretched ahead of them, up and up into the mountains into unexplored wilderness. Ronan suddenly remembered Irish folklore that told of people disappearing into the hills with the faeries and coming back insane days and months and years later, or not at all. He remembered the stories of wonder-turned-fear. All of this information he'd loved as a child, rising up. Every impossible, dangerous thing.

“Hey, I’ve got to get to work,” Ronan said.

“What?” Gansey looked up from his journal, pen pressed to the page on an aborted letter. “Right now?”

Someone else might have hesitated in turning back to the mundane in the face of magic like this, but to Ronan the magic here was almost the same as what was in his head, except that it didn't react to his thoughts, and it didn't feel as close. In this alien forest, he couldn't create something to keep Gansey safe if things went wrong.

“Right now,” Ronan said. He slapped a bug off his neck and turned away from the mountains. “Daily grind and all that.”

“Alright,” Gansey said, a little regretfully, snapping his journal shut.

“We’ll come back,” Ronan said, stepping across the stream and heading back the way they had come. “The ring will still be here. Go home, research it, make it your bitch. We’ll bring a picnic and everything next time. Faeries can't fuck with us.”

“Ronan,” Gansey said. His tone was the same as when he said please or come on.

Ronan began trudging up the hill. He heard Gansey sigh behind him.

“Excelsior,” Gansey said.

The parlor closed in a very different manner to how it opened. During his day shifts, Adam cleaned the counter and went over appointments and generally lazed around when he ran out of things to do. Any clients that showed up for their scheduled sessions were never there for him.

Timeframes were checked off in successful order, needles buzzed productively, and nothing that hadn't been painstakingly planned occurred.

At night, the parlor ran on impulse energy. Groups of friends pushed through the door as one writhing mass and laughed their desires Adam’s way. Stumbling couples just toeing the allowed line of sobriety held out their limbs for tattooed declarations of love. Clients that enjoyed the late lull sat for hours at a time to get colored on.

It was the most tiring part of Adam’s job, but it paid the best. Because his apprenticeship let him do simple, last-minute jobs, and because people often preferred to pay for their pleasures under the cover of night.

Adam checked his watch. He didn't have any regular clients coming tonight, but he'd still hoped someone might show up and give him enough money to keep things comfortable for the week. Surprisingly and much to his disappointment, not one person had stumbled in yet. The minutes ticked by in near silence only broken by the clicking of Adam’s pen and the whir of needles in the next room. He'd have to leave in the next half hour if he wanted to make it to the flower shop on time.

Adam let himself zone out, mindlessly clicking his pen and running over his calculus homework in his head. He was decent enough in the subject, but it took him hours of studying to get the grades he needed. Latin was easier, coming almost second nature to Adam after the year he spent learning it at Aglionby and the rest of high school he'd spent learning it by himself. Physics was manageable.

He’d need to finish all of his homework tonight if he wanted to spend the weekend working and catching up on sleep.

Adam startled to as a stranger appeared from nowhere and leaned against the counter.

“What can I do for you?” Adam asked, straightening in his chair.

The man leaned farther over the counter. The too-strong smell of his cologne poured over with him. “You're Adam, right?”

Oh, Adam thought. Wake up. He let his spine go liquid again and he leaned over the counter, too. He forced his lips into a hazy, loose smile. “That's me.”

“My buddy was tellin’ me you're real good at your job,” he looked Adam up and down. “I wanted to come see for myself.”

Adam looked to the lobby to make sure it was empty before sliding off his chair. He beconecked the man after him with a curled finger. “Come to the back with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Adam ran a hand through his hair as he dropped to his knees. When he was at home, his mother always cut it, though she either didn't care to try or was never able to make it look good. Now Adam cut it himself. It was fine with him - it was a waste to spend money on a haircut and he'd never cared much what his hair looked like anyways. Most of the students and staff at his low grade public schools didn't have the social height to judge him for it.

Adam didn't mind it, and his peers now couldn't seem to care less. “Boho shabby chic,” Noah had commented with admiration more than once. The man Adam was blowing now didn't seem to care either as long as he had something to hold on to.

Adam closed his eyes to think and swirled his tongue, adding up the expenses due this week and finding his pocket change lacking. He was a little disappointed that this guy had only asked for a blowjob; the twenty-five dollars Adam charged for one wouldn't be enough.

He’d turned down a man that had come in the other week, a new client that thought offering up enough money would make Adam forget his rules. Instead of complying Adam had added a few hours to his work schedule to make ends meet. Even though the concept of virginity and the sentiment of a perfect first time was lost on Adam, he wasn't going to let someone pay him for sex when he'd never had it before.

Adam was being smart about this. He evaluated himself every night, needing to make sure he never strayed from his plan or forgot his pride. He would not get in over his head. There were lines he would not cross.

Adam did other, more expensive jobs for the clients he knew to be trustworthy. It was incredibly easy to do almost anything when you pretended to be a professional. Once he'd been paid four hundred dollars to go to a fancy party with an older woman and do nothing but hang off her arm and smile the whole time. It had been one of the more unsettling jobs he’s done, but afterwards he’d dropped his extra shifts for a full week and gotten some much-needed rest.

The man hissed something and pulled on Adam’s hair. Adam opened his eyes to look up at him.

“Watch your teeth,” he said.

Adam let out a fake moan in answer and the man pulled him closer, almost choking him. Along with the money Adam needed for the textbook he needed to be able to pay his monthly tuition. He reached up with some annoyance and began to jerk the guy off in time with his mouth. This was taking way too long. The cafeteria would be closed by the time he got home and he wanted to be able to make a sandwich without having to worry about waking Noah.

The man thrust into Adam’s mouth and came without warning. Adam pulled off and got to his feet, catching his breath and letting the man get rid of the condom himself.

He waited, leaning against the wall for a minute. Sometimes they wanted to talk afterwards. Sometimes they just left. Finally Adam turned to go and the man grabbed him by the wrist.

“Hey,” Adam started. He hated the flare of panic that shivered up his spine. He tried to steady his voice, to make it something that forced yielding and submission. He couldn't remember if he'd ever succeeded in doing so. “Don't-”

“I wanna give you this,” the man said, leaning forward to press against Adam as he slid something into his pocket. “So you remember me.”

Adam backed out of his space. “Thank you,” didn't seem like the appropriate response, but he tried it anyway.

The guy nodded and turned for the street. Adam waited until he was out of sight to dig out the contents of his pocket: a crumpled up twenty.

A pang of annoyance tugged at Adam’s pride, but he shoved it down in his pocket with the bill for later retrieval. He went back to the counter and gathered his things. He wanted to get to the flower shop before dark.

The flower shop was a tiny glass-faced store nestled in the heart of town just outside campus. Adam had googled it the other week at the library, partly because he needed a meaningless search to distract him from his calculus but mostly because he needed the professor to like him. His mother had taught him from a young age how far a small gesture could go.

Adam needed all the help he could get.

A brass bell over the door announced his entering and Adam gave an automatic smile to the elderly customers that paused in their purchases and conversations to look at him. He looked past them to where a surly looking teenager manned the counter. He noticed Adam and favored him a mean look.

Adam ignored him and drifted along the line of display cases. Flower arrangements of all different sizes and colors were hard-packed into rickety looking wooden crates. Adam stared the price tags down until he found the cheapest crate and he picked the friendliest looking arrangement in it.

He weaved through the elderly to the counter, the bouquet dripping in his hand. The counter boy watched him approach, newspaper already spread out in front of him and hand poised over the cash register.

“Hi,” Adam said, setting the flowers down between them.

The clerk didn't say anything as he took the flowers and began wrapping them in the newspaper, his hands moving with the mindless ease of long practice. He arched a brow and glanced up at Adam, his eyes heavy-lidded. “These for your girlfriend?" he asked, not looking at all interested in Adam's answer. Something about his voice sounded familiar.

"Yes," Adam said, because he wasn't about to tell this punk in an embroidered pink apron that he was trying to get on his professor’s good side. He took the sum of the flowers in his head from the money he could afford to spend this week, checking and checking again from habit rather than intention.

The guy accepted that without comment and typed something one-handed. Adam watched him turn to grab the stores’ signature card and glimpsed the black hooks of a tattoo sneaking out from under the neck and arms of his tank. Adam eyed it; a tattoo like that wasn't cheap, and this kid couldn't be making much more than minimum wage at a flower shop.

Adam looked back to the flowers, feeling less sure that this was the best way to get on his professor’s good side. He hadn't done anything like this since elementary school, and even then it had been wildflowers he'd picked at recess, still full of roots and dirt. Adam’s teacher had accepted the gift either out of kindness or only because Adam was so little, but now Adam was a somewhat grown man and the professor was at least fifteen years his senior.

She'd mentioned liking flowers, but the more he thought about what he was doing the more he doubted it. The last thing he wanted was to be unintentionally patronizing or sexist. Desperately, he thought back to a male professor of his that kept a plant on his desk.

Finished wrapping the flowers, the guy slid them towards Adam over the counter, newspaper crinkling. He tilted his shaved head towards Adam in customary politeness. "Total’s seventeen-fifty.”

It wasn't cheap, but Adam hadn't come here expecting cheap. He could almost afford to spend all he'd earned today. Thinking back to the potted plant on his male professor's desk, he said, "Sorry, but could I add one more bouquet?" The guy raised an eyebrow but didn't seem to even consider replying.

Adam looked behind himself. A line was starting to form. "Do you have any recommendations?" He shouldn't have said that. The guy was looking at him like he'd asked him to eat the cash register; one eyebrow quirked, mouth pulled back unevenly. “Those are the most popular,” he said eventually, pointing at a display case standing against the far wall. A ridiculously expensive looking watch dangled on his wrist.

Adam bristled at his tone as he walked to the display case. Maybe, Adam thought, he sounded familiar because all rich assholes sounded the same. The cheapest arrangement was five dollars more than the other bouquet, but Adam could kick himself about it later.

He handed the flowers to the clerk and dug out his cash while he wrapped it in newspaper. The guy took Adam's money and gave him his change a few seconds later: two dollars and a couple of pennies.

Adam shoved the change deep in his pocket and grabbed the bouquets. Already the bottoms of the newspapers were damp. “Thanks,” he said.

“Ne loqui de re operis pretium est!” The clerk replied with a sneer. The Latin made Adam pause, but already an old man was shoving past him to the counter. Adam dropped it and let himself be shuffled to the door. He could swear he felt the clerks gaze burning into his back.

Adam's dorm was empty when he finally got home. He’d biked slower than usual, taking care not to drop the flowers.

He put the flowers in the fridge he and Noah shared, grabbed a sandwich he didn't remember making, and dropped his bag onto their desk. He studied for a few hours before glancing at the clock and becoming worried.

It wasn't unusual for Noah to disappear - he was always going to Frisbee games and peaceful protests and fraternity prank fests and all kinds of other things that elicited concern. He was the kind of person to be nowhere and everywhere at once.

But it was unusual for him to not leave a note.

Adam finished his homework and checked the clock again. It read 3:17am. He didn't have classes on weekends, but getting up for work tomorrow would be hell. He left the desk lamp on for Noah and climbed into his small, twin-sized bed.

When Adam closed his eyes, sleep was there waiting for him with open arms.

end notes:

ex nihilo nihil fit means "nothing comes from nothing," and is used as a reminder that hard work is always required in order to achieve something. and then Ego sapere aude means "I dare to be wise." but Ronan says it incorrectly, so Adam says, Caesar non supra grammaticos, which means "the Emperor is not above the grammarians." corvus oculum corvi non eruit means "a crow will not pull out the eye of another crow." It’s essentially the same as "honor amongst thieves," and refers to complete solidarity amongst a group of likeminded people regardless of the consequences or condemnation.

ronan's latin to adam in the shop means basically “you're welcome” or “it was no trouble” but with some heavy sarcasm and contempt laid over it

#pynch fanfiction #pynch au #trc fanfiction #the raven cycle #trc #vv #pynch college au

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the-glow-of-the-cities · 5 years ago

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A Five Letter Problem- Chapter One: White Teeth Teens

Summary: Two years have passed since you left Boston. Now you’ve established a new life, a new family, and new friends. What could possibly go wrong?

A/N: Ok, chapter one, real-time now. Enjoy!

Warnings: Bad friends?

Words: 2.7k

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“Oh my God!” you yell as the dinner table explodes with laughter, “You’re not serious!”

“Dead serious,” Natasha smirks back, her usual stoic demeanor letting a chuckle slip out.

“DAD! That’s horrible!” you jokingly shout at him.

“Ok, so maybe it wasn’t the best choice I ever made, but hey, I can’t change it now,” Tony replies, slightly defensive, but laughing with everyone else.

“You- you sent-” Sam doubles over in another fit of laughter, before trying to compose himself enough to make a comprehensible sentence, “You sent Nat, to spy on your daughter before you even met her or even knew if she was actually your daughter.”

Your father stares at the table, mildly ashamed.

“Christ, Tony,” Pepper chimes in, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And where were you two during this?” Sam nudges Steve who was sitting next to him and nods at Banner across the table.

“I tried to talk him out of it!” Banner replies, shaking his head.

“Oh boy, you are never going to hear the last of this, dad,” you grin mischievously, “I think this gives me at least six months of leverage, if not a whole year.”

He groans.

As the conversation moves away from your father’s screw up you look around at where you are now compared to two years ago when that incident had happened. It had only taken a few months for you to settle in at the tower and fall in love with the city, as well as your new family. Your father had started you at Midtown High as soon as possible, and while it wasn’t what you were used to, you made some friends (none as good as your old ones, but you would take what you could get), and were honestly doing well.

Of course, the big question when you first arrived was ‘what the hell are we supposed to tell the public.’ In the end, the general consensus was that you didn’t need all of the attention from the world you would get as a Stark, so they kept you secret. The school administration obviously knew, but since your last name was Y/L/N and not Stark your classmates finding out wasn’t an issue.

There had been no word directly from your mother, but your friends would always tell you when they bumped into her in the supermarket and stuff like that. Based on your limited information, she hadn’t improved.

So you lived in the tower, you went to school, you lived a normal life, and everything was good. You were the secret daughter of Tony Stark.

“So Tony,” Clint says, and your attention snaps back to the conversation at hand, “What about that Spiderman you’ve been working with?”

“What about him?” your father responds, looking curious.

“When are we going to meet the guy, I know he comes and works in the labs a ton, but you’ve never actually introduced us.”

“Eh, I don’t know if he’s ready to meet everyone after all you guys are pretty mean.”

A chorus of offended sounds escapes the table, as all of your inner drama queens showed through.

“I mean if you guys promise to be nice maybe I’ll bring the kid by tomorrow…”

“The kid?” you pipe up, eyebrows raised.

“Uhhhh,” your father races to come up with an explanation, but, unable to find one, simply replies, “I’ve said too much.”

“Congrats, Stark. The kid hasn’t even met us yet and you’ve given away part of his identity,” Nat quips.

And with that, you’re lost in thought again. Of course, you knew of Spiderman, you knew that he stopped by to work on stuff in the labs pretty often, but you had never actually met him and you had to admit you were curious.

Your friends at school giggled behind their hands when watching videos of him doing his hero thing, obviously crushing on him. You rolled your eyes, but in your head, you wanted to get to know him too, just not for the same reasons.

For two years now you had lived with superheroes, and in doing so discovered that they were some of the most fascinating people. You wanted to know the hero’s story, you wanted to get all of the details and write them down. You wanted to hear all of the stories, you wanted to get to know who was behind the mask, just as you had with all of the Avengers.

Pretty soon everyone began pushing in chairs and putting plates by the sink. It was your turn to do the dishes, so once everyone had left the room you slipped on your headphones, pressed play, and “Breaking Down” by Florence + The Machine echoes through the speakers and fills your brain. You roll up your sleeves, pull back your hair, which was still a shining shade of Y/F/C, and begin to clean.

------

The next morning.

Your POV:

You open your eyes to a ringing alarm.

Stretching and yawning you slowly sit up, staring towards the wall of windows across from your bed. A beautiful pink, purple, orange, and blue splatters the sky visible beyond buildings, a sight that never fails to leave you awestruck.

The colors swirl together and stain the clouds, reflecting off the sheer, glass sides of Manhattan buildings. Beige offices and grey cubicles all illuminated in shining color for a few moments each day. Immense beauty that, like all good things, many would never know.

You wanted to freeze the spinning of the Earth.

Just for a few minutes.

Just so the tired, unenthused workers would be able to see just how incredible their work could be.

But you couldn’t.

You calmly slid out of your bed and walked over to the outfit you had set out the night before. School would begin in a little over an hour, and you needed to get ready. The sun would be there the next morning.

You slipped on your favorite jeans and threw on the soft sweatshirt that would keep you warm in the late winter/early spring chill, before padding to the kitchen.

At the door, you were met with the smell of coffee.

Wanda slips a plate with a bagel and lox on it towards you, your favorite.

“Thank you,” you smile at her.

She winks back at you.

Although she was one of the most recent additions to the tower, you had grown close with the woman. After all, she was much easier to gossip with and get advice from than anyone else around.

You dig into the bagel, a real New York one, as Wanda sits down across from you.

“So,” she says.

“So,” you say, in between bites.

“How are you?”

“I’m good, why?” you furrow your eyebrows at her, wondering where the almost intervention-like tone was coming from.

“Oh, no reason in particular. I just worry about you sometimes,” she tilts her head at you.

“I’m good, Wanda, really.”

“How about your friends?”

“They’re good.”

“Why don’t you invite them over some time, I’d love to meet everyone!”

“You know why I can’t do that…”

“Right, you’re ‘not the Starkling.’ You should go over to one of their houses, then.”

“I would, but I’m always busy.”

That was a lie.

“I’m sure you could find the time. Tasha would gladly give you a day off training to meet up with some friends. Or if you wanted to go for dinner we could survive without you for one night.”

“Good point. Maybe sometime soon.”

That was also a lie.

“Good,” she caringly smiled at you, making you feel guilty, “Now off with you, finish getting ready and then get going before you’re late.”

You eat the last bite of your bagel and take a swig of water before running back to your room.

Studying your reflection in the mirror, you grab your hairbrush and start on your usual hairstyle. When fully satisfied with your reflection, you head to the back elevator, which took you down to the back door out of the tower, from where you would head to the subway and then from there to your high school.

-----

You walk through the doors to your school and find your friends in their normal spot.

Alice, Caitlin, Meg, Ari, and Taylor-

Wait.

No.

Where did that come from?

Molly, Alicia, Leslie, and Will.

Those are your new friends.

Molly, Alicia, Leslie, and Will.

That's right.

“Hey, guys,” you say as you join their cluster.

They all greet you before turning back to their conversation.

“I’m telling you, that’s what she said!”

“No way. There is no way they’re dating.”

The utterly uninteresting conversation fades into even more pointless background noise. Constant, monotonous, unchanging, the perfect backdrop for your wandering thoughts.

You thought back to the conversation you had had with Wanda that morning, how you had lied. Yes, you were busy, but that wasn’t the reason you never saw your friends outside of school.

You would jump at the chance to grab coffee after school, have a movie night, or even to just sit around in a circle and zone out together; if they ever asked you.

Every Monday you’d hear about all the fun they had over the weekend, but they never asked ‘Hey, Y/N, how’d you like to have all this fun with us over the weekend? It’ll be great!”

Not once.

“Y/N? Hey! Earth to Y/N.”

You jump, noticing for the first time Alicia’s hand swinging back and forth in front of your face.

“Sorry, what’s up?”

“I asked what you thought about that post I sent you about Spiderman’s secret identity,” she pointedly says.

“Oh, I didn’t see that. What did it say?” you indulge your friend, she was always sending you nonsense theories about Spiderman over Tumblr. Alicia was, at heart, a true fangirl.

“Apparently, he’s a ‘kid.’ They guessed he was like 16 based on his appearance!.”

“Oh, cool,” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but my father’s voice echoed in the back of my mind. I remembered him calling the hero a kid the night before, “What was their source?”

“They said it was super reputable, but they couldn’t reveal it yet.”

“Huh, I wonder who it could be,” you brushed it off, all of the theories Alicia sent you were pretty much nonsense, so you figured this was more of the same.

You glanced around the hall you were in, your friends back to gossiping, and caught a glimpse of someone nearby staring at your group. Peter Parker, you thought the kid’s name was. Seeing you looking, he quickly glanced away and fumbled with his locker. He seemed like a nice kid, definitely a smart one, he was in a few of your classes and you whenever you ended up working together he was good company, although shy. You had to admit, you wanted to be friends with him. Him and his friends seemed way cooler than yours.

Then first bell dragged you, kicking and screaming, back to reality.

“Alright, I’ll see all of you at lunch,” Molly promised.

“Good luck on your history test,” Leslie addressed Will.

“Thanks,” Will addressed Leslie.

“Look for that post I sent you,” Alicia told you sternly.

“I will.”

You wouldn’t.

And you all turned in different directions, moving through the crowd, into different classrooms, hallways, and stairwells.

-----

‘We ended up going off campus for lunch, sorry dude’

‘It’s ok, maybe just let me know next time so I can come…’

You sighed as you pressed send on the text.

Great.

You looked around the cafeteria, searching for someone you could sit with.

Your eyes fell on tables that had open seats with people you didn’t know and full tables with people you knew.

Just when you believed your search would be fruitless, you spotted a table in the back corner which was pretty much empty, it’s only occupants were a girl you had a few classes with, named Michelle, her friend Ned, and a third person with a head of curls, whose back was to you.

Cautiously approaching, you make eye contact with Michelle and smile awkwardly.

She tilts her head, giving you a look that said ‘what’s up?’ and you opened your mouth to respond.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” you ask. As you spoke, the figure that you previously couldn’t identify faced you, revealing a curious face that belonged to Peter. “My friends ditched me to go eat off-campus, and I don’t have many other options,” you explain with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, moving her books off the table across from her, opening up the seat next to Peter.

“Thank you,” the gratitude runs deep in your tone as you slip into the seat and set your bag down next to you.

“Your friends ditched you?” Ned inquires. You look up from your food just in time to see the accompanying look he sent to Peter. It was an expression you couldn’t quite read, but you shrugged it off.

“Yeah… At least they gave me a heads up this time, though.”

“This time?” Peter furrows his brow incredulously.

“This time,” you nod at him with a laugh.

“Dude, that sucks,” Michelle states bluntly.

“Thanks, Michelle.”

“No problem, man,” the girl smirks.

Everyone focuses on their food for a minute, before Ned addresses Peter, saying something about a LEGO Death Star.

All throughout lunch you find yourself laughing and smiling with the other three, you couldn’t remember last time you had enjoyed a lunch that much. You bonded over your nerdy interests and senses of humor. Gossiped about things that actually interested you. Hell, even poked fun at some of the popular kids. You were actually sad when the bell rang, cutting you off in the middle of an anecdote about a clumsy accident you had had the week before.

The last two periods of the day dragged by, and you were utterly exhausted by the time the final bell rang through your ears.

You walk down the halls and turn the familiar corner that you would normally take to meet up with your friends.

They’re right there.

You can see them.

You freeze.

They’re laughing.

They’re smiling.

They’re having a good time.

Once again, without you.

No.

They weren’t friends.

You turn around.

You walk away.

Out the doors.

Down the street.

Into the subway.

Home.

-----

The familiar voices create a sense of peace around the table.

Natasha tells about all the mistakes in training that day. While Clint, the subject of her ridicule, laughs next to her.

Sam laughs along.

Wanda smiles at the pair.

Steve shakes his head.

Vision looks mildly confused.

Bruce takes a bite of his food.

“Alright, alright! Everyone!” Tony calls. You look over at him, seeing he’s leaning half in, half out of the door, as if hiding something behind it.

“The king needs silence!” Sam quips, making fun of your father’s attempt to shut up the group.

“Thank you, Sam, I do,” Tony goes along with the other man’s joke.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replies loudly, cutting off Tony as he opened his mouth to say something.

“Ok, really everyone. Quiet please.”

“At your request-”

“Get on with it!” Clint shouts. The group cheers in agreement.

“For god’s sake, Clint, I’m trying.”

“At your request…” he continues at an infuriatingly slow pace, “I have invited a guest to dinner tonight.”

Remarks ranging from “oooh!” to “who” to “can I get back to my burger already” issue from those gathered.

“May I present,” a drumroll breaks out amongst the team “Spiderman!”

He throws the door open behind him to reveal boy with unruly brown hair and a nervous smile, that slides into confusion when his brown eyes meet your Y/E/C ones.

“Y/N?”

“Peter?”

#writing #writers on tumblr #My writing #marvel #fanfic #marvel fanfic #fic #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #imagine #imagines #Self Insert #stark!reader #stark!daughter #A Five Letter Problem #AFLP

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ohmikon · 8 years ago

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r e a d y

words - 1787 pairing - june + “she” music - cinnamon genre - slice of life

e l e n a - I’ve been hit by some June’s vibes today and since I finally managed to have a break from uni, here it is! Also sorry for being MIA, I’ll have my exams super soon and it’s still priority number one.

If you want to request anything, just ask. xx

_____________

Hands in the pockets of his ripped, washed out jeans, June found himself walking all alone in the cold streets of the city. His thoughts kept wandering in the dull grey sky as if the answer to his heartfelt dilemma would suddenly appear, rays of an hopeful sun gracing his gloomy mood.

“we need to talk” He sent to her in a hurry, restraining himself from overthinking like he usually would, before he could regret his decision. One second he was convinced that it was the smartest choice he ever made, the other doubts invaded his mind, troubling his judgement.

“we need to talk” He imagined her reaction as her eyes layed upon the text message during the supposedly relaxing break she got from her work at the tiny coffee shop. What if she frowned in confusion the more the letters printed themselves in her brain, slowly figuring out the things at stakes at that precise moment ? What if he had waited way too long to speak out his true opinion, wrongly sheltering both of them under a roof made of hypocrisy and void argument ?

As he was ultimately parting ways with the suffocating crowd mindlessly running around, he sat down on what used to be their favourite bench with a clear goal in mind, eventually grasping the harsh truth : he was about to put a final end to a book they started together, and there were no turning back now.

His back resting on the uneven hood of the bench and a jaded stare locked on the agitation of the city, June questionned why in this sea of joy he was feeling so empty.

Emotions felt like a distant memory, hitting him so rarely these days as if the shift button remained blocked on off, abandoning him in a frightening and immense room - the exact same in which he used to store every bit of memory.

The beaming grin plastered on his chubby face the first time he got to ride a bicycle. The abrupt craving that invaded his every thought the first time he stumbled upon his friend’s old blues’ cds, the music calming his insecurities and igniting a devouring passion. The destructive sorrow that followed him everywhere he went after his grandfather’s death, as if his ghost was haunting him to punish him for staying at home all alone, breaking down in tears instead of bulding up the courage needed to go to the funerals.

Every single one of his firsts added a new brick to the never-ending wall, a magnificent but old wall covered of pretty drawings, heartfelt lyrics, unforgettable faces and blurry places. He loved to gaze at it, back in the day when his life seemed to have a meaning. For hours he used to reminisce about the most trivial things - the most breathtakingly beautiful details of the piece of art his past was, spread all over the wall of his memory.

He felt hollow and the rare times sadness suddenly decided to kick in, he gladly welcomed it because if he could still feel, it meant that he was still alive - although he would have claimed that all he ever did was wasting time.

Wasting time contemplating his insignificant life, selfishly considering his childish issues as high priority problems. He had friends, a family, health, money and even a roof on rainy days and cold nights to warm his heart. So why did he have the impression of dying, when everything around him was desperate to revive him ?

In the middle of a deserted land on which only survived a frozen flowerbed, she came in just like a spring breeze. Unexpectedly sneaking her way to his figure, playfully tickling the side of his cheek before she mercilessly sent shivers down his back.

Alike to an antique divinity she was a blessing in disguise, fire burning bright in her intimidating eyes, carrying daggers around her belt, never once letting you know that they were actually wrapped around healing herbs. She was your 21st century’s warrior as well as savior, daggers nowadays replaced by cutting words, bittersweet at first but eventually illuminating the end of the tunnel.

He couldn’t remember the exact date, his recollection quick to turn into hazy, colourful fragments anytime he would travel back in time, seeking the agreeable and comforting scene. “I like you” Rolled out of her tongue while fixing her determined and sincere stare upon his confused dark eyes. She was the first girl who ever confessed to him, gaining control over him like no other could.

June was an explosion, the scene of a volcano in eruption stucked on replay mode until the end of times. His confidence burst out of nowhere and forced itself into your sight, his spite fully on display anytime nonsensical theories made their path to his ears, his shocking beauty leaving you no time to adapt or fake calm.

June always had the upper hand over everyone, not that he was one of those spoiled kids who randomly decided to place a fourteen karat crown over their tiny heads, he was just the alpha male of the pack - behind everyone, guiding them from afar.

She ruined every single one of his certainties, showing his reluctant self an entire new world of its own, wild and free from any boundaries. “The great escape will wait for us. When you’re ready, we’ll discover it together.” She kept on promising for the past year, reassuring him in making sure he knew that she would stay by his side even though he still wasn’t ready to embrace the unknown, throwing his settled routine away for the thrill of foreign languages and unreal landscapes.

She was the first to break through the tough facade, to distinguish the slight crack every now and then, catching the sparkle to the side of his eyes signalling that he was troubling to hold back the tears - his pride swallowing them whole in the end.

She was the first to hold his hand in public when rumours started to spread and negativity infected their previously safe and private bubble. They threw cruel words at them just like rocks flying in the air, aiming at their principles.

“You’re a diamond in the rough, you’re unbreakable.” She murmured so low that only June could hear, it was meant to him and nobody else - meant to melt the barriers still preventing his heart to accept that it was real.

That the dark and twisted and pitiful world inside of which he, more times than once, viewed himself as worthless was solely existing in his head. In her reality he was the most fascinating creature put on Earth, feding her never-ending curiosity, solving the puzzle of her soul with the last missing piece : his.

Every single one of his firsts added a new brick to the never-ending wall, a magnificent but old wall covered of pretty drawings, heartfelt lyrics, unforgettable faces and blurry places. Until the only things remaining and entirely taking over the surface were the letters of her name, forever carved in his memory. Only them could light up the minuscule spark of hope inside of the empty room he trapped himself in.

Only her presence could be strong enough to eat his demons alive, her honesty loud enough to erase the brutal silence of his solitude.

“we need to talk” What if he was ready to wave goodbye to his dull past, the same that couldn’t awaken the slightest flame of joy dancing in his eyes anymore, embracing brighter tomorrows and burrying bitter yesterdays ?

She came in just like the slow rise of the dawn, the sun barely gracing his dry skin, marking the end of the night. Just like an awaited revival gradually spreading through every cell of his body, putting to rest the illness poisoning his heart.

The more the sun rose - the closer her hasty silhouette got to his tired entity - the brighter the view became - the wider his smile stretched.

No word, no hesitation, no idea what he was doing until his arms ended up resting over her shoulders, tenderly brushing her neck, his head awkwardly turned to the side - red cheeks from the burning love her sight awaken.

He already knew what was coming. He was standing in the eye of the hurricane, protected from the agitation of the city, helpless in front of the seductive yet dangerous mocking grin slowly forming to the sides of her lips - the one he fell for in the first place, an endless fall through pinky skies and floaty clouds.

“I can’t breathe.” She faked an irritated tone, not even once trying to get out from his tighten grip. From the touch he couldn’t manage to offer her all these monhs ago, coyness stopping him from taking the blissful jump, the one that releases you from the errors you’ve made and the suffering others put you through.

She knew exactly what was coming. Her entity was worn out from the constant stress and negativity spread by internet strangers, faking indifference every time her name was stained by hatred. She was out of breath from running endlessly, trying to escape from the misery they showered her with. So he took it upon himself to share the burden their relationship sometimes became, gently pressing his lips against hers - slowly cupping her heart in his hands, providing her a healing touch.

They were floating on cloud nine. Each other's breath became a new source of oxygen : every time their lips parted, it was like holding your breath in hopes to get saved again. They were the King and Queen of their own little world, suspended from the infinite skies, mimicking their eternal love.

“I’m ready.” He breathed out with ease and just like that, the excruciating weight crashing upon his heart got lifted six billions of kilometres from his reach.

Ready for countless hours spent under a starry sky. Ready for the moving kindness of people living in poverty but still accepting you in their home, teaching you that happiness always came from the little things. Ready for the strangest food’s experiments, disgust written all over his face and her laughter resonating in a little too chic restaurant. Ready to get lost on so-called road trips, ending up in the middle of a desert or a forest, stubbornly pushing the broke down car in vain.

Ready to love unconditionally, burning the doubts and what ifs, walking upon the ashes of a half lived past to say “hello” to an exciting beginning - her turning into an artist that paint their new path to a wild serenity.

_____________

thank you so much for reading, love you!

ps ; I may or may not do a part 2 or a drabble about their little adventures. ♡

#ikon scenarios #ikon scenario #junhoe scenarios #junhoe scenario #june scenarios #june scenario #ikon #june #goo junhoe #koo junhoe #koo junhwe #goo junhwe

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