#the writing in that notebook is outrageously small because it's not lined

[suchabadtush]

OH ALSO THE CAT FIC

Oh my gosh, and the cat fic, I wrote because a friend requested both shapeshifting and kidnapping (although probably NOT meant to be in the same fic), and I thought I was being funny making a fic where Kyo got kidnapped when he was a CAT, by CHILDREN. But I definitely had the scene where Kyo eavesdrops on the rest of the band in mind from the beginning, where Die thinks that Kyo hates him. So that, and the literal children-taking-him-home-in-a-box.

Thinking about this stuff makes me realize just how much these stories develop organically though. I almost always start at the beginning and let the story unfold naturally, even if I have scenes planned in little bullet points before I have a title. I had no idea though that it was gonna end up getting so long and so angsty, that just happened.

[k8fics]

Please please please write more Nathan Fielder fluff bro im dying out here

Assist

summary: headcanon — assistant! reader x nathan fielder (nathan for you era)

rating: PG — nothing bad

- let’s be honest, he probably does not need an assistant.

- but he begged his producers until they finally allowed him to interview a few people for the job.

- sure, he could’ve used an unpaid intern but where’s the fun in that?

- the interviews would be… unusual.

When you walked in, you were greeted by a scrawny guy in a standard office space. You guys shook hands and exchanged names before the actual interview.

“So.. Um, here we help small businesses in unique ways,” He started. His hands waving around manically.

Nathan later explains it’s basically just a mock reality show where he tries unique (outrageous) ways to help businesses and people.

“Do you actually help the companies or…” You trailed off.

“Sometimes.” He stated. “Anyways, you’ll be doing tasks I don’t want to do.”

Then came the boring questions; you’re experience, what you’re like in the work place, if you’re single.

- obviously you got the job, he didn’t have a lot of choices anyway (in his own words).

- you do easy tasks: take notes, post craigslist ads, look for the businesses/people, sometimes you do nathan’s laundry.

- he reads all of your notes or makes you read them out to him.

“Write that down.” He would say.

“Y/N, why did you write that he has a small penis?”

“I think it’s relevant.”

- he likes to lean over you while you’re doing something.

- like you’ll be on your laptop, busy, and he’ll come over and just hover over you for five minutes minimum.

- has you write down all his ideas, even if you told him there’s no way he can legally do that.

- asks you on opinions on things irrelevant to your line of work.

“Be honest, does my shirt match my pants?”

“I really don’t think it matters since it’s a suit ten times too big for you, Nathan.”

- makes you hangout with him; an early breakfast before walking to work together, forces you to come over for “important business” when he just wants someone to talk to, etc.

- brings coffee some days, has you bring coffee the next day.

- drives around with you because he says it’s “more efficient.”

- when he asked you out, he did it in his office. he was leaned over slightly, obviously flustered.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out for dinner for awhile but I thought there might be a conflict of interests here.” He rambled on until you finally cut him off the answer.

“Sure! Sounds fun.” Things began from there.

- he’ll have you walk with him, his hand resting on your lower back.

- he doesn’t make you do his laundry (alone) anymore.- of course you still do your usual work, but he’s nicer when he orders you around at least.

“Hey, I’m going to need to you pick all of this up for me.” He’d say passing a list of items to you.

You read over the list and paused, “Okay.. I understand the cat food and milk but how am I going to find a five yard tube?”

“I don’t know, they don’t have it at Home Depot or something?”

- he doesn’t really like pda, especially on set.

- he’s okay with it in the office though; he’ll come up behind you while you’re getting something from the break room, makes you take a nap with him on his couch, whatever.

- i just feel like he’s not the type to put his relationship out there in front of everyone.

- writes flirty notes in your notebook when he’s reading your notes over;

“Have a good day :)”

“You looked beautiful today!”

“I wanted to fuck you the entire time” 😵‍💫

—

i want him…. wrote this in my usual style hope it’s okay!

[unohanadaydreams]

Don’t ask me why I made this, just know that I’m right and this is not just a Headcanon post but real. It’s not me having brain worms haha that would be insane. Honestly I just started thinking about how the hell arc introducing Seireitei approved social media would be such a mistake but god would it be fun to watch.

The Current Captains On Social Media

Shunsui Kyoraku - Failed erotic novel author turned romance/erotic novel reviewer. The fan base for his work is very small compared to his actual following. There is some divide in his followers—those who follow for his life updates and those who want to hear him talk at length about his latest read. Funnily enough, his quick, messy posts usually paired with scenery or a selfie are his most popular writing, often hailed as snippets of his poetic soul. Lots of people want to give him a hug.

Soi Fon - Adamant privacy and safety poster. Took to code and anti-virus technology well, much to Mayuri’s annoyance. Posts tips and tricks that read more like demands. Is known for her bitchy responses when followers @ her with their progress that are eaten up gratefully. Her advice is punctuated by posts admiring athletic women and these women make up the bulk of who she follows. She seems to admire runners and lifters the most. Her threatening posts when people hit on her too hard/with too many notes to back them up are turned into copypastas.

Rose Otoribashi - Has one of the larger followings thanks to his nostalgic visuals as well as his dedication to frequently posting new music. He has a personality that’s easily digestible when viewed through snippets. The fact that his passion is music and his job is news/editing also do him a lot of favors. He loves doing live streams and encourages his followers to perform for & with him.

Isane Kotetsu - Her growth being captured on social media not just as a captain but as a person has given her a fan base that feels extremely protective of her. She’s less known for what content she brings and more for her personality. Any creative content she posts is likely to start trending. Especially her ‘peaceful morning’ videos and reflective writing. She’s one of the more interactive posters, beloved for her encouraging responses.

Shinji Hirako - As a more private person, he doesn’t have much of a following and his most popular posts are candid moments posted by others. Lisa is a large reason people consider him endearing in anyway. Definitely the kind of person who is either considered cringe or cool with little in between. The kind of guy who asks what he should do with his hair and then goes with an option that wasn’t listed.

Byakuya Kuchiki - Has an extremely scheduled and curated presence on any site he’s on, but is nonetheless adored. He used to ask Renji and Akon for advice on how to handle some of the more online behavior (like being @ed by women who photoshop them as their date to events or being asked how many notes a date would cost) but stopped quickly. Turns out saying something is flattering leads to more of that behavior. Any selfie he posts is edited and reposted into oblivion until it’s thousands of people’s pfp.

Tetsuzaemon Iba - Despite him being one of the most well rounded captains personality wise, he gets put onto block lists the most for his dedication to concepts of manliness, which are easy concepts to feed to the social media outrage machine. Women’s Association vs Men’s Association is a popular meme where the former is something sensible and the latter is something ineffective/archaic. That being said, he’s also known as a ‘problematic fav’ and people will often post memes about abandoning their feminism for a few minutes to like his selfies and training videos.

Lisa Yadomaru - Another captain with a large love and hate following. Often picked apart for interacting with porn/hentai accounts, thirsting after women openly, and posting pictures alluding to her sexual escapades. Despite her account being regular food for the outrage machine, she doesn’t seem to care or pay attention to it and is forever horny on Main. She posts a lot of candid photos/videos of her friends. Recommends the best fucked up fiction.

Kensei Muguruma - Of course he does cooking videos, but what really does well are his cooking challenges. He forces his lieutenant, friends, and colleagues to compete with him on making a better dish on a time limit and often with other handicaps. Usually wins. His bloopers get a ton of mileage when he posts them. His merch is constantly sold out. People often dress up as him for Halloween/conventions, usually with foam or blow up arms/abs.

Toshiro Hitsugaya - Another captain with a huge following due to him approaching social media with his tireless work ethic. His ice sculptures are very popular and his pop-up galleries sell out in hours. Is actually a huge fan of ‘cozy’ games and is known for having beautiful towns/farms/ect that showcase his attention to detail. He does events in Minecraft sometimes, where he guides people through building large scale projects (and also feels like he’s making friends but that’s left entirely unsaid). A bit harsh, but beloved.

Kenpachi Zaraki - People question if it’s really his account because it’s so random at times, but he posts videos of him mowing down his subordinates during training so it has to be. The odd content includes engaging with easy recipes & activities for toddlers and increasingly complicated punk hairstyles that he really does try out. He also posts weekly, asking for people to volunteer and fight him. The human world especially loves this and he gets a lot of responses. He tries to set up times to fight them but Nanao threatens to delete his accounts and put him on suspension if he attempts to follow through. He posts a lot of post-battle pictures and humans gobble it up. “Just fought *insert ridiculous thing here*” is a huge meme.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi - He is constantly making new accounts and circumventing bans for posting links to his old lab work, that often involves heinous amounts of gore. Actually does have a following, often from those within his own division, those hoping to be in his division, or humans who see him as edgy and a little bit off his rocker, which they think is cool. He posts pictures of himself whenever he switches up his look. And posts Nemuri a lot with unhinged captains about how she’s going to outpace even the head captain and no one could make someone as special & smart as her. Just comes off as a really passionate dad. Plenty of people are convinced he’s a creepy pasta project ran by a dude with a daughter.

Rukia Kuchiki - Like Isane, she’s really loved for who she is rather than creative content. Even her attempts at being stern and ‘captain-like’ are fawned over. She has a line of children’s books, stickers, and notebooks with her cute drawings. Her most popular set was when her daughter contributed. The human world is convinced Renji is her house husband and her life is generally seen as all around ‘goals’. Her posts are riddled with mistakes and very sporadic; she’s posted accidental live streams while she did paperwork and they went viral. She posts tons of candids of her subordinates and family but they are usually blurry or actually videos.

[writtenonreceipts]

I loved loved loved “just a thought,” it was so sweet and I loved the idea of Rhys as an ex-marine/cop. I feel like it fits him so well.

“Hell, given how they’d met, she knew he would always find his way to danger.” This line intrigued me, how did you imagine they met? This doesn’t have to be a prompt unless you’re inspired, maybe just a few notes on your thoughts?? Much love ❤️❤️

Thank you so, so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it.  It had fun with it and I’m glad i’m not the only one who likes the idea of Rhys in that line of work.  Thanks for sending this ask in!!! ❤️❤️ I do have some ideas for this, and I would like to write it at some point, but as of right now I just have a vague idea...

So honestly, I'd thought of giving my other fic-- "the things we cannot say" more angst and gangster vibes along these lines lol, though there may be opportunity to include that 😅

That's beside the point sorry. Tangents are my specialty. But some of that desire of gang relations did bleed into “Just a thought”...

Which is how we start off:

Feyre is working for the Hale family at their small business in downtown Velaris.  It’s not what she wants to be doing, but hey, she gets to work with her somewhat-but-not-really-boyfriend Isaac, too so that’s a plus.

She’s trying to save up for college, which is harder than she thought it would be thanks to her father’s gambling debts--they are BROKE.  But she does what she can.

Until she starts noticing things are off in the book keeping.  Now, admittedly, Feyre’s never been the best scholastically.  At least, that’s what everyone (especially Isaac) have told her.  But she does have a thing for numbers.  So she decides to take the notebooks and accounts home with her.

She spends the weekend pouring over them.  And slowly, she notices discrepancies.  And she realizes what is happening.

Now she has no idea what to do.  This is way, way out of her league.  But she goes to the local PD station and meets with the stupidly handsome police captain Helion who tells her to sit tight.

That Monday who walks in but two of the most beautiful men she’s ever seen.  Rhysand Nox and Azriel Torres.  They start chatting up Isaac and his dad and soon Feyre hears about a deal going down for laundered money and she is freaking out.  What the actual hell is going on.

And then the one names Rhys turns to her and winks, flirts outrageously and then is gone.

Isaac isn’t please, but Feyre’s a little mad at him so she tells him to take her out on a real date and then he can talk.

Flash forward a few days (though, maybe more to give some forbidden romance/tension vibes between feysand here?? hmmm)

 and Feyre is forced to meet Isaac in some disgusting alley with a suit case, because oops, she didn’t hide her tracks very well and the Hales know that she knows they’re laundering money and working with some pretty nasty people.  

Seriously, is it too much to ask for a nice, simple job so that she can go to college?

While she and Isaac are arguing and she’s trying to dial the cops from her pocket, Rhysand and Azriel make an appearance.  They strike a deal with Isaac and pull a briefcase of fresh money into their custody.  When they ask about Feyre, Isaac says “accidents happen.”

In a matter of seconds they go from sleek and dangerous gangster footmen to pulling out guns and badges.  Lights blare and Feyre is shoved to the ground when Isaac tries to make a run for it.

Later that night, after Feyre gives her statement, she’s sitting in the precinct waiting for her sisters to come and pick her up.

Rhys gives her a cup of tea that is disgusting, but the warms bleeding through the cup is nice so she holds it in her hands.  They talk for a bit about what had happened and why Feyre came forward.

She almost tells him about her dad and how she wishes someone had intervened with him sooner and she thought that stopping the Hales might do Isaac some good, fat chance.  But she keeps that tid bit to herself for a while longer.

In the end, she and Rhys strike up something sort of special between them and it blossoms from there--between coffee at 2 am, strange meetings by street vendors, and then a date to the local art museum.

Their entire first meeting and getting to the actual dating could basically be a full fic if i’m not careful, lol.  But yeah, that’s the general idea I was thinking of while writing.  And now that I have this headcanon list, I may be able to turn it into something a little longer....

again thanks for asking! this was a lot of fun to think about.  love you nonny!

[starshine583]

New Girl on the Block (3)

(Hey guys! finally got around to posting chapter three of this! There’s a second, mini series connected to this that’s called Journal Entries. You don’t have to read it to understand the plot, but I felt like it would be fun to write so enjoy it if you like!)

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 4

Chapter 3: There’s a First Time for Everything

Adrien tapped his pencil against his notebook paper and nestled his cheek into his open palm with a sigh. It’s been a little over a week since Marinette exchanged schools, and he’s yet to talk with her about it. He tried visiting her the day Ms. Bustier informed them of the transfer, but Marinette wasn’t home. Naturally, he tried again the next day and actually managed to catch her, but then she ran off. Ran off! Adrien still couldn’t believe it. Why would she run from him? 

“Dude, you okay?” Nino asked, giving him a light nudge.

Adrien straightened slightly. “Ah, yeah, just.. Just thinking.”

Alya scoffed behind him. “Don’t tell me you’re still moping about Marinette.” 

Needless to say, the class didn’t exactly share Adrien’s sentiment about Marinette’s leaving. With all of Lila’s stories circling around, they were overjoyed that the “bully” was gone. Alya was low-key furious, ranting about “injustices” and “letting Marinette run from the consequences of her actions”, but other than that, everyone was pleased with the outcome.

Everyone except Adrien.

Adrien knew better. The class may think that they’re better off without the bluenette, but he knew for certain that they were all going to drown without her. Marinette organized the budgets, supplied the goods for bake sales, signed off all of the paperwork for their trips- she even made dresses for the girls on special occasions. They needed her. That’s why he had to get her back. If only he could find time out of his packed schedule to visit her again..

“Alright, everyone, settle down.” Ms. Bustier spoke up. “The results for the new class president are in.”

Adrien sunk further into his seat. Ah, yes. The new class president, another reason Marinette should have stayed. With her gone, they had to make an impromptu election. Chloe, of course, ran again, but Lila decided to run as well. With the class’ obvious loyalty towards Lila, it’s a wonder Ms. Bustier didn’t announce the brunette as the president right there and save everyone the trouble.

Ms. Bustier pulled out a small card with the results and cleared her throat. “With a near-unanimous vote, the new class president will be Lila Rossi.”

The class cheered, and Lila gasped as if she hadn’t expected this to happen.

“Thank you all so much!” She beamed.

Alya slung her arm around Lila’s shoulders. “You deserve it, girl.”

Chloe scoffed from her seat and crossed her arms, but no one acknowledged the show of disdain. They were too busy congratulating their beloved Lila.

“Congratulations Lila. You can visit Marinette after school to get the paperwork from her.” Ms. Bustier said, setting her cards aside.

Adrien straightened. Someone had to go visit Marinette? “I’ll do it!”

The classroom paused at the outburst.

“Oh, Adrien you don’t have to do that for me.” Lila remarked with a grateful tone.

“Oh, no, it’s my pleasure.” Adrien was quick to reply.

A hint of annoyance flicked across Lila’s features, but it quickly vanished when Alya said, “Yeah, Lila, you shouldn’t have to suffer through that.”

A smile forced its way onto the Italian girl’s lips. “Thanks, but I think it’s only right that I meet with her in person. Class president to Class president and all.”

Alya frowned. “Well, at least let me go with you. I don’t want her trying to pull anything.”

“Oh, Alya,” Lila sighed, patting the red-head’s hand, “It’s just a small visit. I’m sure Marinette and I can be civil about this.”

Alya reluctantly agreed, but if anyone had actually been paying attention, they might have seen Lila’s smirk.

~~~~~~

The soft rhythm of Felix and Allegra’s instruments floated around the music room as they played. Marinette never imagined the violin and the flute sounding well together, but the way Felix and Allegra harmonized had her swaying back and forth with the melody. It was a lovely song, and she couldn’t help closing her eyes to fully relish the masterpiece. 

Her eyes snapped open a second later, though, as her entire body jolted from the large calamity of piano keys that was suddenly pounded on by Claude. Felix startled as well, his violin flying off key, and Allegra nearly dropped her flute. 

“Again, Claude?” Allegra sighed, placing her hands on her hips.

Claude leaned back on the piano stool with his palms and flashed them an innocent smile. “What? I was only helping.”

Marinette held back a smile, but Felix wasn’t amused.

“I told you to stop doing that.” He scolded with a scowl. “You’re going to get our music room privileges revoked!”

“Good. You guys practice too much, anyway.” 

Allegra gave Claude a flat look. “We need to practice if we’re going to get better.”

“But you already sound great.” 

“Because we practice.” Felix replied pointedly.

Marinette subtly nodded in agreement. She didn’t want to get directly involved in their arguments, as that never seemed to go well.

Claude huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Waste your time on endless practice. I’m gonna do something more productive with my time.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

Claude turned to lay across the piano bench while throwing Marinette a smile. “Like making croissants! We’re still coming to your house, right?”

Marinette returned his smile, secretly relieved that he didn’t ask her to do something outrageous like going to chase pigeons around the park while on roller blades. (Yes, that’s happened several times in the past week, and yes, each time she’s said no.) 

“Yeah, but you guys are coming over tomorrow.” She told him. 

He pumped a fist into the air. “Yes! I can’t wait!!”

“Neither can I.” Allegra admitted. “Your parents sound splendid.”

Marinette’s smile widened. “I’m sure you’ll all get along great.”

“Yes, I’m sure.. If we can practice enough to go straight to your house after classes tomorrow.” Felix remarked, shooting Claude another look.

Claude tisked, waving a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah. Get back to your music already.”

Allegra gave a short laugh, sarcastically stating, “Oh, thank you so much. I was wondering when you would give us permission to play.”

“I know, I’m such a generous person.” Claude joked back.

Allegra playfully rolled her eyes and held up her flute to resume playing. Felix followed along, and Marinette went back to swaying as their song continued. 

-

The familiar ring of the customer bell brought a smile to Marinette’s lips as she opened the bakery door. 

Her mother, Sabine, looked up from the cashier desk with a warm smile. “Marinette! How was music practice?”

“It was wonderful, Maman. Felix and Allegra play beautifully.” Marinette answered as she walked inside. She set her bag next to the counter and gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “Is everything ready for them to come over tomorrow?”

Sabine nodded. “Tom’s got the ingredients and tables ready for when they get here. He’s so excited to meet them, and so am I.”

Marinette chuckled. “They’re excited to meet you guys too.”

Sabine’s smile widened at the comment, but then her expression darkened as she said, “Hopefully they’re not two-faced and backstabbing like your previous classmates.”

Marinette gasped. “Mom!” 

“Well, it’s true!” Sabine replied defensively.

It was true, but that didn’t mean Marinette was any less surprised to hear her maman talk that way. Of course, Sabine did tend to speak her mind when Marinette’s feelings were involved. 

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang again, signaling a new customer’s arrival. Marinette turned with her mother to offer them a greeting, but stopped short when she saw exactly who the new customer was.

Lila Rossi stood in the doorway, a smug smirk on her lips as she eyed Marinette up and down. “I see you’re doing well.”

Sabine was in front of Marinette in the blink of an eye. “You are not welcome in this bakery. Leave immediately before I call the cops.”

A look of feigned hurt crossed the Italian girl’s expression. “How rude! I only came here per Mme Bustier’s request. I have to get the formal papers from our previous class president.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes, stepping around Sabine with crossed arms. “I suppose you’re the new class president then?”

Lila’s smile returned, sharp and triumphant. “By a near-unanimous vote. Alya is still the deputy though, since she practically begged me to let her help.”

Marinette’s lips tightened into a thin line. That sounded about right. “How nice for you. You two really do deserve each other.”

When Lila first came around, Marinette had been torn and heartbroken about her friends abandoning her for a stranger. It didn’t help that Adrien kept assuring her that everything would be fine, that they didn’t mean what they said. He gave her false hope, and it made it all the harder to find the courage to leave. 

Now, she’s realized how toxic her old environment had become, and though it still hurt her to think about it, Marinette knew she couldn’t let them affect her anymore.

Lila faltered at Marinette’s uncaring tone. “Uh.. right. Where are those papers again?”

“Up in my room.” Marinette moved towards the stairs, bringing Sabine back behind the counter as she did. “I’ll go get them now.”

“Good.” Lila said, sounding satisfied. “I’ll be waiting outside, but don’t take your time. I’m supposed to go meet Alya and the girls for a girl’s night out.” 

Marinette rolled her eyes at the obvious jab, but continued up the stairs anyway. The sooner she got the papers, the sooner that lying leech could leave.

She swiftly ran up to her room and gathered the papers to stuff them into the large, blue binder she’d been given only two semesters ago. It sunk into her arms as she picked it up, and the sheer weight of the packed binder made her smile as she brought it back outside, especially when she saw Lila’s panicked expression.

“Um.. What is that?” The brunette asked, pointed at the binder.

“Oh, this?” Marinette replied innocently. “This is just the binder that holds all the formal papers you need. Being class president takes a lot of work you know.”

Lila nearly toppled over when Marinette dropped the binder into her arms. 

“That’s allergies, budgets, complaints, schedules, and trips!” Marinette told her with a grin. “But don’t forget to give Mme Bustier and Principle Damocles the proper reports each semester.”

Lila shot her a scowl, but quickly recovered, slipping on a smile of her own. “No need to be petty, Marinette. It’s fine to admit you’re breaking inside. Losing all your friends can be a hard thing to go through.”

Marinette’s grin faded slightly, knowing that Lila was right. She’d lost everything. All of her childhood friends, her crush, her fun teachers, anything she used to hold dear.

But maybe that was a good thing.

“Have fun sorting through the binder.” She said, spinning on her heel and walking inside. She had better things to do than listen to someone who had to lie just to get people to like them. 

The bakery door closed behind her, and Marinette saw Lila leave out of the corner of her eye, taking the painful memories with her.

~~~~~~

Friday afternoon. 4:45pm.

Felix stared at the bakery door, unsure how to proceed. The group had originally agreed to walk straight to Marinette’s house after school, but they changed the plan last minute to come back at five, an hour after school ended. It gave Marinette’s parents time to finish up the preparations, and the rest of the group time to drop off their school bags at their homes. 

Felix, as usual, arrived at the Dupain-Cheng’s early, but now he was doubting his actions. On one hand, he would get to meet the Dupain-Cheng’s without the chaos that the trio tended to bring. It would be a nice way for him to get a quick impression of the family over-all. 

On the other hand, he’s at Marinette’s house before the time she specifically told them to come, which could be considered rude in some cases. Should he go inside or wait in a nearby cafe?

After a few more minutes of debating, Felix stepped forward and knocked on the door. If they really needed him to wait until five, he would apologize and come back in ten minutes. The opportunity to meet the Dupain-Cheng’s on a one-on-one basis was too good to pass up.

It only took a moment for the door to open, and a short, asain woman greeted him with a sweet smile. “Hello! I’m assuming you’re one of Marinette’s friends from school?” 

Felix nodded, noting her raven hair that matched Marinette’s perfectly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Felix.”

He stiffened slightly when she reached forward to take his hand in both of hers. “It’s great to finally meet you! Marinette has told us so much about you all.” 

A small smile passed his lips. For some reason, that knowledge gave him a satisfied feeling. Assuming that the talk was good, that is. “She’s talked a lot about you as well. I’m assuming you’re Mme Dupain-Cheng?”

The woman waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please, call me Sabine.”

‘Sabine’ showed him inside, where baked goods lined the walls in glass cases. Claude was going to lose his mind when he got here. The overwhelming scent of vanilla and cinnamon alone was going to be enough to make the brunette’s mouth water.

“This is my husband, Tom.” Sabine introduced, gesturing to a tall, burly man at the cashier desk. “Tom, this is one of Marinette’s friends, Felix.”

Felix would be lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated by the man. His head almost grazed the ceiling as he approached them, making Sabine look like a dwarf in comparison. Felix felt like a dwarf in comparison.

Tom offered a wide, hearty grin, though that didn’t help Felix’s unease. “Ah, Felix! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!”

The man scooped Felix up into a bear hug, squeezing him tightly to his chest. Felix would have replied to his greeting had he been able to breathe. 

“Oh, Papa!”

Felix glanced over Tom’s shoulder- he’d been raised that high -and saw Marinette standing in another doorway behind the cashier counter, a slight cringe in her expression.

“Papa, put poor Felix down before he passes out from lack of oxygen!” She insisted, walking forward to tug on her father’s arm.

“Oh that’s.. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Felix wheezed as Tom set him down. 

Marinette’s hands hovered around him for a moment, then she nervously clasped them together. “I-I’m so sorry, I should have warned you. I thought I was going to be down here when you guys arrived.”

Felix shook his head and bent over slightly to catch his breath. “No, no, you’re fine. They actually remind me of my own mother. She’s a rather adamant hugger herself.”

A relieved smile came to Marinette’s lips. “Really? I didn’t think anyone could be as ‘homely’ as my parents.”

Felix chuckled, but the customer bell jingled again before he could reply. Claude sauntered inside a second later, his arms spread as wide as his grin. 

“We’re here~!” The brunette sang, looking around the shop. His gaze found Felix’s flat one almost immediately.

“Hey!” Claude gasped, pointing accusingly at Felix. “He beat us here!”

Allegra stepped out from behind Claude, wearing a curious expression. That quickly changed to knowing smirk, though, as she shot him a playfully scolding look. “Why, Felix! I’m surprised at you! You should know more than anyone how rude it is to arrive at someone’s house early.”

Felix grimaced at the reminder of his bad manners and quickly turned to apologize.

“Oh don’t be silly!” Sabine said before he could get a word out. “Any friends of Marinette are friends of ours. You guys are welcome here anytime.”

Claude lit up at the sentiment. “I’m gonna be here a lot then.”

Allan popped out from behind Claude and Allegra. “Thank you for hosting us, M. and Mme Dupain-Cheng.”

Felix held back a smirk. He’d wondered when Allan would show himself.

“Please, call us Tom and Sabine.” Tom replied in a casual, yet booming voice. It highly contradicted his wife and daughter, who tended to speak in soft tones. “Follow me. I’ll show you where the kitchen is.”

The group was led into a room in the back where three islands stood in the center, each equally parted from each other. A large counter lined the wall to the left as well, and two, large ovens sat on each end of said counter.

“Do you guys want to start from scratch or start with pre-made dough?” Tom asked.

“Oh! Scratch! I want to be able to make these at home!” Claude answered eagerly. 

Tom smiled. “Alright! Scratch it is. Everyone take the needed ingredients on the counter.”

The group took a moment to pass around the items, then they separated to find a counter. Allan took the first counter with Tom, and Allegra and Claude stole the last counter, leaving the middle counter for Marinette and Felix. 

“I’m glad you guys got to come.” Marinette commented as they aligned their ingredients on the shared countertop.

Felix nodded. “I think Claude’s going to get a sugar-crash before we leave.”

Marinette snorted. “With all of those baked goods in the other room? I’d be surprised if he makes it to supper.”

Felix spared her a glance. “Are we staying for supper?”

Marinette paused, having to think out her answer. She must not have noticed the implication when she said it. “Uh.. I mean.. I wouldn’t mind. Do you guys want to stay for supper?”

Felix shrugged, though the idea sounded perfect. It would give him more time to understand the Dupain-Cheng’s lifestyle. “I’m sure Allegra and Claude will be ecstatic over the news. I’d have to contact my mother about the change in schedule, though.”

“Oh, were you planning something with her tonight?” Marinette asked, worry lacing her tone. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” Felix hastily amended. “I simply need to tell my mother that I won’t be home for supper tonight. We always have a family dinner when everyone is available.”

“And you won’t miss it?”

“Well, it sounds like it’s a special occasion, but everyone’s available more often than you’d expect.” 

Marinette tilted her head up and mouthed an ‘oh’. “I’ll tell Maman that you’re staying, then. She was sort of planning supper for all of you anyway.”

Felix smiled. Given the daily croissants that the group’s received since their first lunch with Marinette, that didn’t surprise him. Mme Sabine had proven to be an extremely kind and charitable person, much like her daughter.

Tom, once his own ingredients were in order, regained the room’s attention and began showing them how to make the croissants. Because he was in the front, it was easy to see how the ingredients were supposed to be thrown in and follow along. That said, Felix found himself extremely grateful to have Marinette as a partner. Her little tips on how to mix the dough helped him immensely, especially since she told him when his mixing was sufficient.

“Alright,” Tom sighed as he set his bowl to the side, “Now that the dough is done, we’re going to start the hard part. Everyone needs to get some flour so we can start rolling the dough and folding it. Marinette, if you would.”

Marinette sprang from her place next to Felix and crossed the room to a cabinet. She pulled it open and grabbed a large bag of flour that appeared to be at least a fourth full, then carried it to the long counter against the wall and set it down with a huff. 

“Here’s the flour that you all are going to be using.” Tom explained. “That should be plenty, but if you need more-”

A light knock on the doorframe ahead of them caused Tom to trail off. Felix glanced at the door to see Mme Sabine standing there, holding a sheepish smile.

“Tom, dear. I know you’re busy, but could you help me with this customer real quick?” She asked politely. “They’re being.. difficult.”

Felix noted the sharpness of her smile, along with the iron grip she had on the doorframe. It appeared that the sweet, loving mother also had a temperance, though he didn’t blame her. Customers had a tendency to be massive pains for retail workers. (That included himself on a few shameful occasions.)

M. Tom’s nervous smile said it all as he joined his wife at the door. “Oh, of course. Uh.. children, just- just keep doing what you’re doing. Marinette will show you how to roll the dough if necessary.”

The parents left the room, causing the rest of the group to turn to Marinette for instruction.

Marinette, who had returned to Felix’s side by that point, shrank slightly at the sudden attention. “Oh, uhm.. Do any of you know how to fold dough?”

A short laugh came from Allegra in the back. “Mari, I’m quite certain that none of us have even touched uncooked food before.”

“That’s the price you pay for being rich.” Allan agreed, putting a hand to his chest and shaking his head with feigned grief. 

Felix opted not to comment. His mother rather enjoyed cooking, much to their butler’s dismay. She often cooked their family meals, and every now and then, Felix found himself helping. “It’s a necessary skill.” she would tell him. “Your future wife will thank me and so will you.”

Why his mother assumed he would be able to tolerate anyone long enough to marry them was beyond him.

“Oh, how horrible for you.” Marinette retorted with a playful eye roll. “I guess I’ll show you how to fold dough then. For your sakes.”

“We are forever grateful.” Claude joked.

Marinette laughed and scooped up her bowl, bringing it to the front with Allan for all of them to see. 

“Now, everyone needs to get some flour. We’ll start with Claude and Allegra getting some. That way, the flour will work its way to the front by the time we’re done.” She instructed.

Felix nodded. That sounded like a reasonable plan.

Claude walked over to grab the bag as told and hauled it back to his and Allegra’s table. “How much are we going to need?”

“Oh, not much.” Marinette answered. “You only need some on the table and some on the dou- Claude, wait!”

Claude tipped the bag of flour upwards, expecting it to slide smoothly onto the table. Instead, the flimsy ingredient smacked into the table in a large clump, causing white dust to explode into the air. Felix scrunched up his nose in annoyance. How were they supposed to mix that? How easily did it spread? He knew he should have worn something less formal. (Oh, who was he kidding? Felix didn’t have anything less formal.)

An apologetic whimper came from Marinette, as if any of this was her fault. Claude and Allegra quickly fell into a coughing fit as Claude dropped the flour bag onto the ground. Of course, dropping the bag only threw more dust into the air. 

The two attempted to wave the dust away, but it only partly worked. When the dust did finally clear, though, Claude and Allegra were left with a small pile of flour on their table. The rest of the flour was either in the air or draped across their clothes and hair.

“Wow.” Felix stated dryly. “I’m impressed. You actually managed to wait until M. Tom left before making a complete mess of yourselves and the room.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it u-” Claude’s retort was cut off by another coughing fit, but Allegra continued it for him.

“I don’t see you rolling out your dough in a perfectly clean and pristine manner.”

“That’s because you used up the rest of the flour.” Felix shot back.

Marinette gasped. “Is it really all gone?”

Claude and Allegra, suddenly dawning a sheepish expression, looked down at the bag that was still on the floor. Claude reached down to pick it up, but, as if the situation weren’t bad enough already, he grabbed the wrong end and pulled it up upside down. 

The last bits of flour trickled to the floor, spreading across the brunette’s legs.

“...Yeah. It’s all-” He let out another cough “-gone.”

Allan’s eyes widened, a mixture of admiration and mortification swirling onto his features. “How did you waste an entire bag of flour on one spill?”

“You’d be surprised.” Marinette muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“We can reimburse you.” Allegra was quick to offer. “How much did the flour cost? Do you take checks?”

A light chuckle fell from Marinette’s lips. “No, no, that’s not necessary. I’ve.. actually done worse.”

Claude’s eyes bulged out of his head. “You’ve done worse?”

Felix thought over the many falls that Marinette had had over the past week. Her clumsiness certainly made it possible to have more extreme accidents. 

“What do we do now that the flour is gone?” He asked, trying to get the group back on track. The sooner they finished baking the croissants, the sooner he could examine the rest of Marinette’s house instead of sitting in the kitchen. The Dupain-Chengs appeared to be a lively, fun-loving family, but he’d only gotten a small taste of their life, only seen the tip of the iceberg. Felix wanted to absorb as many details as possible before leaving. 

Marinette straightened. “Oh! There’s actually more flour in the back! I’ll go get it.”

Before Felix could offer any assistance- his curiosity piqued about where they might store more food -the ravenette had already left the room, disappearing through another doorway in the back. 

A moment later, she returned, another large bag of flour in her hands. This time, however, the bag was full. Felix vaguely wondered how heavy the bags must weigh for her to be wobbling over with one so easily. Wasn’t flour supposed to be heavy?

“Here’s a fresh bag of flo-ou-ah!” Marinette’s words jumbled into jargon when her foot caught on her ankle. Her body lunged forward from the momentum, and Felix stepped up to catch her on reflex.

Bad idea. 

Due to the weight of the flour bag yanking her downwards, Marinette crashed into Felix’s and dragged him to the floor with her. His back hit the floor with a painful *thud*, immediately sucking all of the air from his lungs. 

Of course, the flour bag popped open upon impact, sending more white dust directly into his face. Between the weight of Marinette and the flour, along with his aching lungs and the suffocating dust, Felix was convinced that he was about to die right then and there on the bakery floor. 

Felix Culpa: tragically taken from this world by a bag of flour and a clumsy classmate. What a way to go.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, Felix. Are you okay??” Marinette asked frantically, pushing herself off of him. 

Felix coughed out a weak response with what little oxygen he had. Even without Marinette, the flour bag pressed into his chest like a block of concrete. How had she been carrying this without breaking a sweat earlier?

Marinette hauled the bag off of him, and Felix sucked in a deep breath despite the flour still cluttering the atmosphere. All he needed right now was some sweet, blessed air. Infected or no.

It wasn’t until he regained enough of his senses to push himself up into a sitting position that he heard Claude’s howling laughter.

“Oh, man!” The brunette cackled. “And you thought we were bad! Look at you, Fe! You’re a ghost!”

Felix glanced down at his clothes, which were indeed covered in white. He could even feel the weight of the flour in his hair. How long was this going to take to wash out? Was he going to have to buy new clothes before going home?

A snort brought his gaze upwards, where Marinette stood with the bag of flour. She had a hand on her mouth- holding the bag of flour with one hand -and a barely contained smile on her lips that she was obviously trying to hide. 

That’s when Felix knew that he must be looking ridiculous. 

“At least I wasn’t the one to cause the mess.” Felix grumbled in response to Claude. He reached up to start brushing some of the flour out of his hair, finding a bit of comfort in the fact that Marinette was white with flour as well. It might have been irksome if she had escaped her fall unscathed while he appeared to be a freshly made snowman.

“I am. So sorry.” Marinette apologized again, this time offering him her hand to help him up.

Felix took it, his bafflement towards her uncanny amount of strength only growing as she managed to pull him up with one arm and keep the bag of flour steady in her other arm.

“It’s..” not your fault. Was what he was about to say, except that would be a lie. It was entirely her fault.

“It’s fine.” He said instead. “It’s just clothes.”

“Wow~” Allegra sang, immediately latching onto Felix’s nerves. “‘It’s just clothes’? That’s a first.”

“Remember that time Felix threatened to sue us for enough money to buy a new wardrobe if we ‘got so much as one drop of food on his vest’?” Allan chimed in.

Embarrassment coiled around Felix’s stomach, though he wasn’t sure why. That designer outfit was expensive! And the trio was acting especially chaotic that day. Who knows what might have happened had he not put his foot down when they started joking about a food fight.

Felix whipped around to Allan to explain that exact reasoning, but something caught his attention, causing him to pause. Allan was still at the front of the room, the farthest position from the chaos that had just ensued. Aside from the stray dust still fluttering around the room, the man was completely untouched as far as flour was concerned. 

“Marinette,” He said, catching the girl’s eye, “I do believe that Allan hasn’t gotten his flour yet.”

Marinette’s gaze flicked to Allan, then to the bag, and Felix prayed that he assessed her correctly. Because if Allan didn’t get flour on him this instant, Felix might be tempted to do something foolish. Like attempting to throw a bag of flour that was, without a doubt, too heavy for him to even lift on his own.

The barest hints of amusement lit up Marinette’s features. “You know what? I think you’re right.”

Felix smiled, feeling a devilish satisfaction. Yes!

Allan took a step back, suddenly looking very concerned. 

“Woah, w-wait a second, guys.” He squeaked, holding up his hands as Marinette inched forward. “L-Let’s talk about this!”

“One of us. One of us.” Claude began chanting behind them. “One of us! One of us!”

Allegra joined in, and, in the spirit of things, Felix joined in as well, if only to push Marinette further towards his goal.

Allan bumped into his assigned counter while trying to put useless distance between himself and Marinette. “Please, no! It’s rare that I come out of these things unscathed!”

Marinette’s grin was downright predatory as she held up the bag of flour. “I can’t imagine why.”

Allan’s scream was the last thing Felix heard before Marinette swung the flour bag forward. 

The entire room erupted into uncontrollable laughter as Allan coughed out at least half the bag. He was now stark white from head to toe, and Felix couldn’t be prouder. It served him right for poking the bear.

Allan hung his head in defeat, a bit of flour falling off of his head from the action. This only made the group laugh harder. Claude started to say something about the “set being complete”, but before he could finish-

“What is going on?!” 

M. Tom reappeared in the doorway, his eyes wide and puzzled as he stared at the flour-covered room. 

Felix froze. Right. They were supposed to be baking with Marinette’s parents. 

Marinette set the flour bag down immediately. “I’m sorry, Papa, this is all my fault.”

“No, that’s not fair!” Claude protested. “Allegra and I spilled the flour bag first!”

“So she had to go get more!” Allegra continued the explanation.

“I’m the one who told her to throw the fresh flour at Allan.” Felix added. If anyone was to get in trouble, it should certainly be him. He was the only one who actually spilled the flour on purpose. Marinette didn’t deserve to take the blame for his petty actions.

M. Tom furrowed at the near-simultaneous remarks, but then let out a hearty laugh.

“I see you’ve all gotten into the baking spirit!” He declared. “Now who wants to learn how to actually fold dough?”

Felix blinked. He’d expected the man to be at least a little upset. Did this sort of thing happen often? Or was Marinette’s father simply that forgiving? M. Tom did refer to the mess as ‘the baking spirit’.. Whatever that means.

“Yeah we do!” Claude shouted enthusiastically, taking Felix from his thoughts.

“Great! Let’s start with putting the flour on the table.” Tom smiled, going back to his original spot next to Allan.

Felix followed the notion, going back to his original spot as well. He tried brushing more of the flour off of his vest, but, as expected, it didn’t help much. He was probably going to get more flour on him during the folding process anyway.

“Don’t worry.” Marinette whispered as she reclaimed her spot next to him. “I’ll let you guys wash up in the bathroom after this. If you want to, that is.”

Felix nodded. “I would be eternally grateful.” 

Marinette giggled. “..So did you really threaten to sue them over your clothes?”

Felix paused his kneading long enough to sigh. Freaking Allan. That idiot deserved every speck of flour dust that he had on him.

Tag List:  @artbyknigit @athena452 @nickristus-dreamer @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @arsaem @abrx2002 @neakco @pawsitivelymiraculous @too0bsessedformyowngood @nathleigh @lusicing @officiallydarkgeek @all-mights-asscheeks @tbehartoo @woe-is-me0 @raeuberprinzessin @lazuli-11 @miss-chaos27 @trippingovermyfeet @sadpotatoondrugs @ladybug-182

[ldouble]

Helluva Party | Steve Rogers x Reader

summary: As a former employee of S.H.I.E.L.D (on the very front lines), you're somehow pulled into attending a notorious Tony Stark party. That’s where you meet Steve Rogers, officially, and the two of you weirdly click. Two people - trying to make a new life, who keep getting sucked into their old ways.

characters: steve rogers x reader

The elevator effortlessly glides up, but your stomach feels like you’re on the twistiest and turniest roller coaster. You have to put a hand to your torso, repeat the words you tell patients when they feel sick for no reason, remind yourself it’s nothing.

Therapy is one thing to talk someone down from. When you’re calming someone down, its because they’re about to do some major self discovery, scientifically aided, and healed if not completely cured.

They have no reason to worry.

And neither do you.

But Stark Tower is intimidating. Especially when it hosts everything you’ve been trying to forget.

You got a fresh start last year. S.H.I.E.L.D fell. Your work dried up. There was no where else you were needed. Enough had been accidentally cut on your watch with your knife throwing skills. So you did what you always wanted, before your deathly hobby turned into a career. You were now working as a psychiatrist. You got out of your own head to get into others.

Now, you were suddenly crawling back into the brains that you had almost become.

The stop of the elevator had you poised to hit the close door button, ready to make your way back down to the lobby to grab a cab home to your apartment. But your psychologist mind took over, the practice what you preach mentality overtaking, and your finger fell.

By the time the doors opened with a ding, your chin was up and head held somewhat high. It was the quickest reset you had ever performed. If only you had your notorious notebook to jot down how it had worked so well.

You had just remembered the old receipt in your clutch (dated with the last time you dressed up which was ages ago) that you could write on when someone yelled your name. At the sight of Natasha Romanoff, the idea of writing down your findings flew out the window.

“Nat!” You smile, accepting the Russian’s hug.

She reciprocates the action, asking more questions than you usually got out in an hour session with a routine client.

By the time you had make it to the bar you are filled in on all she had been up to, the details of the latest mission in retrieving of Loki’s scepter and all things Bruce.

Natasha gulps at you look once she finished retelling the doctor’s recent findings with the tesseract. She was already shaking her head at your silent implications when you placed a gentle hand over hers.

“As a doctor myself,” Natasha rolls her eyes at the mention of your new job. “No one talks that much about me unless they like me way more than a doctor.”

Natasha bites her lip, mumbling something about how you outfit was too nice to kick me. You laughed, a hearty laugh you hadn’t felt in ages. Upon seeing her recognize the newfound happiness you shooed her behind the bar in ask for a drink. 

She waltzes away giving you just enough time to collect yourself once again. You hate to admit it (acceptance was always the hardest step of grief) but you missed her. You missed the days of fighting, working, living and saving.

It was harder to see the goals you met in your new line of work. It took years to build a client base, see your patients make progress, feel like you’re helping people when all you can do is listen.

It never felt good to kill someone. The sound of a blade whipping through the air was satisfying but nothing felt better than knowing there was less person doing the opposite of helping. Hurting. Hunting. Killing.

So why did you feel like you were doing something similar not being in the field?

You blink the thoughts away, turning to wave Nat down for something a little stronger than a beer when you saw her chatting it up with none other than Dr. Banner. You shake your head, your eyes moving back down the bar.

Your focus is caught by a brooding blonde. A literal God, named Thor. But its his neighbor that makes you freeze. Tony Stark never really had that effect on women (it was his money that enticed them not his looks) but the mere sight of him makes you gasp.

Your last conversation hadn’t been the most pleasant. You had refused a job at Stark Industries, believing you needed a clean break. He had pressed you to the point of pure anguish. The last thing you remember saying to him was something along the lines of, “You can’t ask me to stay to help you sort out whatever that is.” With a point at his head.

You quickly turn around, not wanting a repeat when he already had a glass of champagne in his hand. Sober Tony was obnoxious. Intoxicated Tony was a whole other level of big headedness.

You make your way through the party, ignoring the likes of anyone who looks remotely familiar. The few who had stayed loyal to the real S.H.I.E.L.D rather than turn in favor for HYDRA had come over, just like Tony asked you to. It was unclear who was worse to be trapped into a conversation with - someone who knew why you were no longer involved or those who didn’t.

You find your way up to a second floor hallway, one side looking out onto the party while the other faced the skyline. Uninterested in people watching (a reason that sounded much more mature than not wanting to be recognized) you face the large windows out onto the city.

You spin on your heel, your eyes traveling from the lights outside to inside when your eyes glaze over the very face of the Avengers.

But it isn’t Captain America’s face that caught your attention, rather the conversation his friend was spitting.

“Avenging is your world.” Sam Wilson, The Falcon, shakes his head into space, before turning to face the party just across the aisle. “Your world is crazy.”

It was your turn to shake your head, biting your lip in a weird resonation of his words. His next words, be it ever so humble, about the entire situation.

He was right. You know it, too. This world of fighting was hectic. Chaos. It really shouldn’t exist. But then you’d look out over some fancy party and it’s be easy to grasp. It wasn’t the alcohol or glamour, it was the aura that it had.

“You find a place in Brooklyn yet?”

The Super Soldier held back his own chuckle. “I don’t think I can afford a place in Brooklyn.”

It was hard to believe but easy to understand. It was an expensive burrow. Still, you found yourself laughing under your breathe.

Sam said something about home being home, which you also understood, but only between a laugh. Your breathy sound ends just as Tony’s favorite team member looked back at you.

The next thing out of your mouth was a gasp for air, followed quickly by a cough you tried to cover up. You face the window, trying your best to play it off. The sudden eye contact scares you. First it was the fear of being recognized. That outrageous thought was quickly thrown out.

The thing is, you hadn’t exactly...met him. It felt wrong to even think of him as Steve Rogers when you’d never been introduced. Anytime Nat mentioned him you couldn’t believe the first name basis they had. You weren’t starstruck - not by a lot. You’d spent time in labs with Iron Man and the Hulk. You grabbed coffee with Black Widow. Thor had given you a freaking birthday gift.

No super soldier named Captain America scared you.

Except the one sidling up next to you now.

“Hi, there.” He says, bending down to grab your attention.

And right then, after feeling immense anxiety and worry of coming face to face with anyone who worked for the thing you had left behind, you felt perfectly comfortable in front of their very leader.

You’d been listening to Tony too much, through Nat. Captain America was the elected leader. Tony just made everybody look good.

“Hi.” You say, bringing yourself out of your head.

His blue sparkled, a lopsided smile reaching his lips as his hand reaches out to you. “Have we met?”

“Almost.” You say automatically, the word being more of a thought you wanted to keep than share. You shake your head, correcting yourself. “No.”

“Steve.” He says after learning your name. You can tell the way he locks it away, his eyes slightly closed as if grabbing the word from your mouth and putting it in storage. “I’m sorry, were you almost put in ice too or did you see me through a subway door closing?”

You can’t help the smile on your face, his humor and charm exactly what you expected. “No.” A hand find your hair and you watches the way his eye tracked the small scar on your finger. It was from when you were five. You cut yourself with a knife, a knife you weren’t supposed to be holding. From that point on your swore you’d never hold a knife again if you didn’t know how to use it. You thought that meant culinary school. Not becoming a dagger throwing agent.

Your other hand traces the mark, that runs from the tip of your left pointer finger to the center of your knuckles.

“I used to be in a similar business.”

You watch Steve accept the answer, silently deciphering your words. To relieve him you continued, now having a better thought to go off of. “I save people. From themselves.”

“I’m a psychiatrist.” You conclude, wanting to put him out of his misery. You crack a smile, earning one from him. He bobs his head, looking out into the city, thinking. You could tell, again, facial cues. You did a lot of listening and watching now. A few years ago you would’ve thrown a blade to trap his shirt against a wall while another went to his throat to demand a response.

You sort of like watching him form his words.

A question, expertly designed, was on the tip of his tongue when a booming voice yells his name. Thor waved from below enthusiastically. You quickly turn, not wanting to start a conversation with the God of Thunder. He always seemed to get you into existential conversation. In the old English, and it being so late, you couldn’t handle it.

“Don’t leave him waiting or else he’ll send Mjollnir up here.” You say, already backing away.

Steve looks up at you, a playful smile hinted at his lips. But it didn’t reach the surface, curiosity and confusion at your sudden departure the priority.

You want to stay. But the thought of explaining...of answering...even the oh so amazing Captain America, has you wanting to run back to the elevator.

The only reason you exit the conversation rather than the entire building...is the slight beat of your heart and reddening of your cheeks at the idea of talking with him again. Unlike Thor, you could even get into all the existential stuff with him.

Exactly what the super soldier would deem too out of the box is on your mind when you run into the one person you don’t want to see. The host himself.

Tony takes you under his wing, literally, walking you around the party. Surprisingly enough, not once does he convince you to come back to work. He asks questions and wants to know all about you.

You oblige, enlightening him with tiny details. Your lack of confidence in the authenticity isn’t from lack of trust, but because you spend more time inquiring about him. Wordlessly, that is your psych perception takes over as you study him. You conclusion: he’s only asking about lowly you because he’s sitting high and dry. Which isn’t a new thing for Tony Stark, tech mogul and THE Iron Man. But something tells you his latest win isn’t one just shared with the public yet. Too good to be true, even to the optimist that is Tony.

He leaves you, letting you walk around for the rest of the party. Hours pass, partygoers dwindling both from the penthouse and your data set to people watch. Numbers low on who to analyze, you turn around in a circle, sure you couldn’t have taken in every person in attendance. A full 180 and you come face to face with the man with a target on your back.

He makes sure of your hunch, that he’s had it out for you, with the sly comment, “You ditch a Brooklyn boy for some Staten Islander?”

You look over your shoulder, playing along. “I was actually waiting for this guy from Manhattan to fetch me a drink.” You look back at him, his head titled in focus. You stumble for a moment, not used to the attention being on you. To the floor you say, “I don’t think city guys are good at service.”

“it’s a damn good thing you’re with a soldier.” He smiles, offering his arm as he steps beside you.

You hesitate, your knowledge on attraction and how one simple touch can lead to a million mistakes and miscommunications. You let your head take over your heart this time, walking ahead of him. “Last I checked, Captains don’t fetch anything for someone else.”

Accepting the (slight) rejection, Steve joins into step with you, his hands stuffing into his pockets. “You make me sound like Stark.”

“We all sound a little like him after too much time together.” You shrug. Catching Steve’s curious eye, clearly wondering how and when you worked with Tony, you saddle up behind the bar to distract yourself. “It’s called mirroring behavior. Say, I grab a beer you have a higher chance of doing the same just because of me.”

Steve smiles at you over the counter, watching as you open the bottle and take a swig. “But what if I just like beer?”

You roll your eyes, bringing the cider to your lips. “Or so you say.”

“You’re good at your job. Tony help you with that?”

You nearly choke on your drink. Why? It’s a toss up for the unexpected question or the tone of jealousy you think you detect in his voice. Upon looking at him you can’t see if your suspicion is correct. He’s casual, leaning an elbow on the table and gazing around the room without a care.

When his eyes find yours again you can’t help but trust him. You deem it the authority he has within his role, rather than something like the way he looks at you or how cute he is, before answering. “He wishes my career took me here. But after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D,” It’s Steve’s turn to look at you to ensure trust, your words an unspoken truth among so many secret keepers. “I found my way into a new line of work.”

You turn to your left, finding a spec on the marble to transfix on. When he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even chastise you for so openly talking about the failure of his former employer, you look up at him. Only for your eyes to track his, to none other than your hand.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding the can opener. it was a wine/bottle mix and you had the corkscrew raised and the entire contraption being spun in your hand like....like a knife.

Mirroring. In a room of superheroes and fighters, you resort back to your own ways. You remind yourself this is exactly why you weren’t supposed to come when Steve speaks.

“Reading people?” He asks, genuine interest in his voice. You see his eyes barely flit back to your hand, forcing you to set the church key down, but ignore it, just like he is choosing to do. You nod. “Can you read them?”

You follow his finger, stifling a laugh when it lands on Nat and Bruce, clearly flirting just down the bar.

“Reading, not pointing.” You reprimand with sarcasm, quickly covering his hand. Heat travels up your elbow, your hand flying back to the cold corkscrew for comfort as you clear your throat. Steve’s eyes wanders away and for a second you think he felt it too when you shake your head. There are patients. No time to dilly dally.

After a moment you say,“From a psychiatric point of view, I’d say the male is exerting immense amount of dopamine, just getting by the stressors and paraysmpathic nervous system. Whereas the female’s self esteem is battling her body’s immediate release of cortisol.”

Steve looks up at you, his mouth hung open. As dryly as you can, you say, “He likes her and she likes him.”

It sparks a laugh from both of you, a long one that doesn’t end till he puts his hand over yours in an effort to stop. You let it rest, liking the feeling of the cold marble and his warm hand more than any old corkscrew.

“So how you going to diagnose them?” He asks, clearing his throat and suddenly removing his hand.

You tilt your head toward the pair - an assassin and a man who can’t control his killing - and take a second to think. That second is when Nat decides to leave, gliding past you effortlessly. As she walks by you say to Steve, more so to yourself, “It’s hard for people to hear the truth.”

Steve is looking over to Bruce when you tip your head back to him. You can see the question on the tip of his tongue and you want to stop him but he’s too quick.

Don’t play cupid, is the second most common thing you say to clients. Right after the ‘truth is hard to hear’ piece.

You can’t help but put your head in your hands when he outrightly says Bruce and Romanoff “is nice”. It’s a psychologists worst nightmare. Not the one you thought you’d see play out but it’s happening, so you can’t help but listen.

It’s the way Bruce stumbles in reply that sends you walking down the bar. You throw Steve nothing but a “watch yourself’ look before listening from your new spot.

You clink your nearly empty beer bottle on the counter when Bruce comes up with an excuse. It does more than you plan it too, as it grabs Steve’s attention and has him going for another one and making his way over to you. You can’t help but notice the way he smiles sincerely at his friend when announcing himself a leading authority in waiting too long. The statement makes you pause, but not long enough to miss Bruce asking about exactly how close Steve was to Nat’s flirting..

“Pointing works.” He says when he arrives in front of you, the unopened bottle extended (if not pointed) directly at you.

You accept, clinking off the cap with the opener still in your hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

He watches you take a sip, his eyes once again telling more than he thinks they do.

Your hand, once again holding the opener in the knife-life way is his next question. For once, you want to keep the conversation about work.

“My job is to listen. What you just did was talk.”

Steve mulls it over, taking the beer form your hand and tipping it back. He holds it out you, in offering. “OK. You talk. I’ll listen.”

You bite your lip. Knowing this could be bad. There’s a reason you listen. Talking...it’s like any pointy object for you. Someone always ends up stabbed.

Then again, how seriously injured could Captain America get? You already have one scar. A “Star Spangled Man with a Plan” shaped wound could be your next story.

A new blemish never arises. You don’t even feel so much as a pinch of pain. Talking to Steve, for hours, makes you feel about as painless as you been ever since you left the line of work.

Then again, your old career never makes an appearance in conversation. He did ask about your current career so that’s what you talk about. Psychology. Which leads to music. TV. His favorite food and how its Apple Pie. He doesn’t listen when you insist Pumpkin is better.

Your love of Chinese food is perfectly timed to the late night order, scoring you a seat and a plate at the after-party, so to speak.

That’s where you find yourself, on the couch with a small cluster of people. Most of which are the ones you had planned to ignore. Rhodey, Tony, Clint, Maria Hill, and Nat don’t as much as eye you suspiciously, thankfully. Besides, you mostly people watch, only talking when Steve wants some insight on whether or not Thor is really spiking his drink or giving him something watered down.

You share a look with Thor, encouraging the addition of it into Steve’s next beer, when Clint questions the God’s almighty hammer. You laugh when Clint looks at the thing bewildered at his inability in to lift it.

Steve joins you in softened laughter at Stark’s attempts. His head finds your shoulder when Rhodey and him quarrel about representing in their effort to pull the hammer off the table. But he refuses to make so much as a peep when Banner tries to “Hulk” it up, saying he doesn’t want to hurt the guy’s chances with Nat.

Before you can tell him Bruce could do no wrong in the red head’s eyes, it’s Steve’s turn. The way he rolls up his sleeves, making it clear he’s taking it seriously, has you silent. You can tell a lot by a person in the way they go about a challenge. it doesn’t surprise you at all, despite the short time you two have talked, that Steve goes for it.

It’s no shock at all that your attention switches to Thor. The look of panic, which you’re sure only you are watching, astounds you. Never once had the God been this nervous. But here he was, holding his tongue as Steve nudged the alien club up.

Steve comes back to you in defeat. You offer him a supportive pat on the back, having his eyes for all but a moment until everyone’s eyes land on you. Recognizing Nat just turned down the offer you shake your head. “Lift with your brain, not your weak bones.”

Steve gives you an impressed look, opening his mouth to call you out when Hill remarks the use of bad language.

“I had a feeling you’d be a stickler for that.” You theorize aloud.

Steve looks at you over his shoulder, raising a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” You reiterate.

Thor proves you all wrong, effortlessly lifting his weapon of choice, declaring no one worthy.

The group laughter is cheerful and it warms your heart. Something about comfort between all of these people who live so dangerously, intrigues you. Your mouth opens to ask Steve how he’s come to trust them when a high pitched noise floods the space and has you covering your ears.

Your breath catches at the sight of a botched bot, standing in the shadows. Its robotic voice, oddly human, has you biting on your lip. It’s been a while since you’ve been faced with anything worse than a crying client.

Something tells you this won’t end in tissues and a hug.

Steve, who stood upon the unaccounted for noise, says Tony’s name with more frustration that you could ever imagine coming out of the man. You look up to him in surprise, only to look back at the way his hand is flexed in front of you. It’s a poor job at guarding you but something tells you that if he had his shield within reach he’d have grabbed it already.

The bot piques yours interest, his mumbled statements about his own sleep like unscnoius state making you nervous. The way he’s so...real...takes forefront over Tony’s own whispering. But even without your focus directly on him, something tells you he’s unsure. It’s never a good sign when the host is surpised.

You slowly stand as the intruder fumbles with himself. You’re studying him so discreetly you actually wave away Steve’s warning hand.

“You killed someone?”

“No he didn’t.” You murmur, only loud enough for Steve to hear. He gazes back at you for a moment and you shake your head, confirming your suspicion. The...thing in front of you is no real killer. Not yet.

When Tony’s voice rings out from the bot the tension rises in the room. You couldn’t cut it with a knife it’s so thick...which takes a lot for someone with the throwing capabilities of yourself.

You don’t mind it, knowing the pressing threat stands in front of you rather than beside. The wise words erupting from the in flesh Ultron has you racking your brain...about nothing less than the brain in front of you. Computers have never outsmarted you. Then again, it’s been a while since you’ve been around Tony.

His building - in tone and message- signals something much more violent is about to begin. No sane person builds a mountain of words not to stand on it later. Maria Hill cocks her gun as you take in your surroundings. You believe a chopstick to be your best option for a weapon, at least one you can throw, when the crash of walls begins the battle you were really hoping not to get into tonight.

It’s like Steve senses your lack of protection, taking it upon himself to upchuck the table for cover. Instinctively, you crowd down in front of the couch, just missing the hit that Steve takes with the attempted cover.

A big part of you wants to make sure he’s OK, scream his name and chase after him, but it’s not the time. People come to you to recover with your help. Steve isn’t one of those people.

So, you go into survival mode.

You army crawl across the room, watching every disappear from the main level. They’re smart enough to find cover and/or a weapon. You, out of practice and way out shape, head across the room...you know, to the empty space ensuring no safety.

Catching sight of Nat, now armed, you duck down knowing there has to be a gun stashed somewhere. It’s not your first weapon of choice, having never trusted a bullet as much as a blade but something is better than nothing.

And nothing is what you find.

You graze every table you can, certain it hasn’t been long enough for you to forget what a gun feels like, when spot Nat and Bruce flying up the stairs.

Sure Nat has already pleaded with the doctor not to turn green you avert your eyes to Stark, flailing on the back of a bot with what appears to be a fondue fork. You’d kill for a fondue fork right now.

What catches your eye instead is something much less picking. It’s perfect timing too as you spot Dr. Cho crowding behind the piano, face to face with a waist up robot, hand glimmering and all.

In a split second your hand grasps around the candlestick and you toss it through the air. Despite the noise you hear its whistle and while it’s really not the time, you relish the sound that you missed so much.

It hits the neck, chopping off its head just as Steve clambers on top of it, chucking git to Thor to smash, to ensure it’s no chicken working with its head cut off.

A shield wizzes past your head, slicing another member of Ultron’s army seconds later.

Its lonely leader speaks next, chilling the charged air.

Before you know it you’re flinging the other candlestick (it is a set) at Ultron, stabbing his arm. It earns the tines looks of him before a dry chuckle. You don’t take your eyes off of him despite the stare you know you’re getting.

His next words are directed at you. “You just didn’t think it through.” His knowledge of what feels like the entire world makes you believe that while his idenity is still a mystery, yours is not to him.

Your presumption is all but proved when his crumbled form sings the infamous Pinocchio song. Not once was it sung at the party. Everything his at his finger tips. Yourself included.

The blue of his eyes fade but he surely doesn’t leave the room. Tony sighs, clutching himself on the stairs. Thor breathes heavily hwile Nat looks worridely at Bruce, who appears on the edge of vomitting up all the food he didn’t eat a the party. Cho looks terrfiied. Hill and Rhodey on the lower level.

That leaves Steve. Watching you.

In four steps he’s at your side, his hands on your arms as he checks you out. Not like that. You remind, tell, yourself its not like that as you meet his eyes.

“Im’ fine.”

"That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Guess you’re better at reading people then.” Humor has always been your go-to. There’s not anything much heavier than blood and blades. The least you could do is quip something light.

Steve steps forward, his voice dropping just for you to hear. “I was going to say you’re a damn good throw.”

The End

[drarryruinedme7]

Two Thousand

I promised I’d write something for you all… and here it is! I love you, I’m so happy to share this fandom life with you, so I really hope you’ll like this!

Drarry | Word Count: 3,5k | Rating: Teens (mention of wanking) | Tags: Draco-centric, paper cranes, Pansy and Draco friendship, 8th year (with a great deal of years from 1 to 5 too), and they were roommates (in the end, like, really end, like the last 400 words), coming out, Lucius is a Fun Dad | Beta: the magical @fictional, tagging @shealwaysreads and @keyflight790 too :3

Two Thousand

It took Draco two thousand times.

He still remembered the first one. Eleven years old, Slytherin common room. It was the second day, but the hierarchy was already established. Draco was sitting on the big leather black armchair in front of the hearth, Goyle and Crabbe at his sides. Pansy sitting on the green velvety carpet, painting her nails.

Looking back at it, Draco laughed. They looked so presumptuous, so entitled. He really believed he was superior. What a big bag of bullshit.

So, that’s how they were positioned the first time. Draco huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest, eyebrows drawn close. Pansy looked up at him, cocking her head. “What?”

Draco’s posture only stiffened more. He was so pissed. “It’s about…!” He uncrossed his arms, gesturing widely in the air as he spoke. “It’s about Potter! Stupid, famous, scarhead Potter! Did you see the way he turned me down? The impudence!”

Goyle and Crabbe nodded next to him, fueling Draco’s anger. He went on. “He doesn’t know who he got as an enemy! I’ll make him regret this!”

Pansy snorted, and Draco stopped to glare at her. She shook her head, amused. “Wow. Potter, again. It’s our second day of school and you’re still talking about that. You took it well, huh?”

“It’s just so unfair! That’s not how it was supposed to go!” Draco slumped against the back of the armchair, feeling a lump forming in his throat. He had thought of that moment for the entire summer, he always got what he wanted, that simply wasn’t how—

Pansy shook him out of his thoughts. “Aw, poor Draco. Look I’m sorry you’re grieving because the boy of your dreams didn’t shake your hand—”

“He’s not the boy of my dreams, Pansy!”

“— but there’s little you can do now. Now you’re enemies, right? So, stop talking about him. It’s getting boring,” Pansy concluded, taking up the nail polish and starting to put it on again.

Draco’s eyes widened. He gasped, outraged. “It’s not like he’s everything I talk about, you’re my friend and I need to talk about it, so—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. She got up from the carpet, gesturing with her hands as to say she’d be back in a moment and disappearing into the girls’ dorms. She reemerged shortly after, a shit-eating smile on her face and a jar in her hands.

“I present to you, the Potter jar. Every time you talk about him, you’re gonna make a paper crane and put it in here.” She smiled satisfied. Draco looked at her as she’d just suggested going skiing on the frozen Black Lake.

“Are you mental? Why a paper crane? I’m not gonna do it!”

“Because you’re crap at origami and maybe after two times obliged to do it you will stop talking about Potter altogether, knackered from paper cuts.”

Someone, a stringy boy with brown hair and almost as pale skin as Draco’s, snickered next to them. Draco turned, scowling at him. “Got any problems?”

The boy shrugged. “Ah, I would never. I just find it funny. You do talk a lot about Harry Potter.”

“What’s your name?” Pansy asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Theodore Nott.”

Draco’s mouth formed a little ‘o’. He knew the boy’s father — Father used to mention him from time to time when talking about the War. From what he remembered, Nott’s family was pureblood from tradition. And surely he would have known everything about Draco too.

“Well, Nott, no one asked for your opinion,” Draco said. “And it’s not true I’m bad at origami! I’ll show you.” He grabbed his bag, fished out his notebook, tore a page apart and started folding it carefully, cursing under his breath at every wobbly line. Pansy laughed and snapped her fingers at Crabbe to make him move and sit next to Draco.

Ten or eleven paper cuts later, Draco clapped his hands, showing proudly his creation, and discovering annoyed that Pansy had started chatting with the Nott guy, Crabbe and Goyle had fallen asleep on the couch and another guy with thick curly hair and dark brown skin had joined them.

“Oh look, he’s done it,” the boy said. “Blaise Zabini, nice to meet you.” He stretched his hand towards Draco and Draco raised an eyebrow at it, his mind quickly scanning information. Zabini. Wasn’t he the kid with the Veela mother? That looked cool. Draco shook his hand and nodded to him.

Pansy took the paper crane and put it in the jar. “Good, Draco, it only took you four tentatives and several cuts.” They all laughed, waking up Crabbe and Goyle. Draco scowled at them, faking offence.

How dare they make fun of him when they had just met him? Besides, it didn’t mean anything. Of course he would have stopped talking about Potter — he wasn’t that important.

———

At the end of the year, Draco was packing his trunk, only distantly hearing Nott and Zabini’s voices in the background. He was still thinking about the rumors that spread like marmalade in the last few days.

“Do you believe it?” Draco asked as he locked the trunk. Crabbe and Goyle immediately turned to him, perplexed expressions on their faces.

Blaise and Theo’s were no exception. “Um, what are you talking about?”

“What the entire school is talking about! Potter and his duel with Quirrell, apparently—”

Blaise’s snort startled him, closely followed by Theo’s. He pointed to the Potter Jar and choked out between waves of laughter, “Paper crane, now!”

Draco stomped his foot, gasping. “Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered about it either!”

“I did,” Crabbe said. Goyle nodded next to him. “Y-yeah, we did. We think it’s true. I mean, you’ve seen him in classes, he’s powerf—”

“Shut up!” Draco cried, already Accioing a piece of paper. “Okay, okay! I don’t— let’s not talk about it! I’ll make the damn crane.”

Theo and Blaise nodded to him, returning to whatever they were talking about. Draco finished his paper crane in mere seconds and put it in the jar, chewing on his bottom lip. Of course he became so good at origami: the jar was already filled with what Draco suspected were more than a hundred paper cranes.

———

“Did you hear him? That was Parseltongue!”

“Potter jar!” Pansy snickered. “Immediately.”

“Oh, c’mon! Parseltongue, Pans! How do you expect me not to talk about this?!”

“You always have an excuse, Draco. Jar. Now.” Blaise grabbed it and shoved it into Draco’s chest, rolling his eyes.

“There’s no space anymore.” Draco tried, as he was already folding the page into the familiar structure.

“Shrink them,” Theo replied, not bothering to look up from the book he was reading. “There’s no escaping it. Either you stop talking about him, or you make the crane. For as much as I care, you’ll end up filling the entire common room with origami, but you will make them. It’s principle.”

Draco huffed and put the crane in the jar, shrinking the ones already in it. They didn’t understand! Everyone was so fixated with Potter and his heroics, but Draco knew he was only a spoiled brat like anybody else, who bragged about his fame and acted as if the school was his. Draco knew it was just a matter of time before anyone realised it.

———

“Oh Merlin, did you hear it? It looks like Potter fainted on the train, can you belie—”

“Jar.” Pansy conjured it, shooing him away with the other hand. “I’m eating.”

“But! He fainted, Pansy!” Draco scrunched up his nose as he quickly folded a piece of paper into a small crane and pushed it into the jar.

“And you cried, jumping on my lap, hugging me. You’re even, happy?” Blaise smirked, finishing to butter up his bread and elbowing Theo who blinked at Draco.

Draco felt his face heating up. He muttered, “You’re supposed to be my friends…”

“That’s why we won’t tell him,” Blaise chimed in.

“Well, I bloody well hope not, you bastards!” Draco gritted out, pushing his plate away. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Ah, Blaise wasn’t talking about that. Everyone knows you cried anyway, you were so loud,” Theo added, lowering his voice.

Pansy choked on her piece of bread, eyes quickly filling up with tears while laughing. Draco pulled his tongue at her, narrowing his eyes at Theo. “And what, then?”

Theo, Blaise and Pansy exchanged a look, their lips quirking up in devilish smiles. “That you’re in love with him!” Blaise exclaimed as Theo tightened his lips probably trying to hold back his laughter.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Draco spluttered, heart hammering in his chest. Why, why the fuck was his heart racing like that at a stupid joke?

“Oh, c’mon Dray, we’re just kidding.” Pansy pushed the plate towards Draco again, her eyes softening. “Eat something.”

Draco stood up, so suddenly that all the Slytherins’ eyes turned to him at once. “Fuck you,” he managed to spit before speeding to the doors of the Great Hall, eyes stinging.

That was the start of everything. If he had only reached the sum of three hundreds of paper cranes until then, the number increased spirally from that moment on.

His friends were wrong. First of all, he wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be gay. He was a Malfoy, the only male heir, no way. And second, he hated Potter. And he intended to demonstrate it to his friends as much as he could.

“I’ll scare the shit out of him during Quidditch!”

“Jar!”

“I made these pins, do you like them? Ha, love him. As if!”

“Draco, you’re completely insane. We were kidding! And these are worth at least fifty paper cranes. Jar. Start working now!”

“Walk faster, I wanna see Potter drowning in the Black Lake.”

“Jar.”

“So, they say Potter successfully resisted the Imperius Curse, huh.”

“I’m not even saying it anymore.” Blaise Accioed the jar and gave it to Draco without saying a word. Draco took it and smiled. His plan was proceeding in the best way.

“I bet Potter will get lost in the labyrinth after barely ten minutes in.”

“Jar, jar, jaaaar! Now!”

Draco took the jar and spelled it to reveal the number of objects it contained. One thousand. He wiggled his eyebrows and cleared his throat. “See, Pansy, I told you. Not in love. Every single one of this is impregnated with hatred.”

Pansy cocked her head, exchanging a quick look with Blaise. “Sure, Draco.”

———

“Do you think it’s true? What Potter says… You-Know-Who’s come back?” Draco asked his father during dinner. The next day he’d be back at Hogwarts, and while he managed to not talk about it the entire summer, he couldn’t go back to school with the doubt in his mind.

Lucius slowly raised his head, fixing his arctic eyes on him. Draco gulped audibly, looking for his mother’s eyes. But Narcissa’s gaze was still trained on her dish.

“Draco, you disappoint me, as always. Who do you believe, Potter or the Ministry? You-Know-Who’s dead.”

Draco nodded, feeling his teeth hurt for how much he was clenching his jaws. He took a deep breath when Lucius spoke again. “And also. Jar.”

Draco’s eyes almost fell out of his head as he saw out of the corner of them Narcissa smiling at the plate. He abruptly turned his neck to his father, cracking, “W-what? I— what?”

Lucius conjured the Potter jar and pushed it to Draco. “Pansy gave it to me at the beginning of summer, telling me to check on you. I find it rather disgusting that you need a jar to restrain from talking about Potter, Draco. I should hope you have more self-control than this.”

Draco stared at him in disbelief, trying to decide if he was dreaming or if it was happening for real. Surely his father wouldn’t? But then he saw Lucius raising his eyebrows and stretching his lips in the closest depiction of a smile he’d ever seen him doing and Draco let himself breathe evenly.

“I can’t believe this,” he murmured, folding the napkin into a paper crane. “I’ll kill Pansy.”

———

“I love you, Pans,” Blaise snorted as he listened to Draco telling them about what had happened the previous day at dinner.

“Shut it! You’re an idiot. What were you thinking?!”

Pansy smiled, patting the seat free next to her for Draco. “Come here, git. Narcissa found it amusing. She actually told me you never stop babbling about Potter at home too. You’re so cute with your crush.”

“Again with this story! I don’t have a crush!” Draco cried, standing up. The Hogwarts Express came to a stop and Draco stormed out of their compartment, the others following him, still snickering or sending him fake kisses.

On the platform, they ran into Potter and his gang. He looked gloomy, Ron and Hermione a step behind him, bickering. Draco walked past him, bumping shoulders with him, spitting something mean. Potter shoved him back, and when their eyes met Draco saw almost tears in Potter’s, something dark veiling them. He shut up, speeding to surpass them.

“What was that?” Pansy asked once they were in the common room again.

“Potter looked sad,” Draco said, thinking. He didn’t even wait for them to remind him — he took a piece of paper and started folding his crane. He didn’t even care. He wanted to talk about it.

“Like, really sad.”

“So what?” Blaise intervened from his position on the carpet.

“So…” Draco started, short for words. So what, indeed. He shouldn’t care. Instead, he couldn’t forget Potter’s eyes, how it looked like he could explode any moment, like he could lose control of his life in a blink. Draco knew how that felt. He felt like that every time the thought of other blokes crossed his mind, and he couldn’t help but wank furiously, sighing all the wrong names.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried,” Theo piped in.

“Of course, I’m not.”

———

Draco wrenched his head away from the memories unfurling one after the other in front of his eyes. He knew what would come next. He couldn’t bear to look at his Sixth or Seventh Year memories.

Massaging his temples, Draco sat on the sofa again, the paper crane all crumpled in his hand. After his father ended up in Azkaban in Fifth Year the number of cranes in the jar increased a bit to rapidly decrease until it reached zero during Sixth and Seventh Year.

He was around one thousand and fifty when it happened. The truth was that those couple of years were the loneliest of Draco’s life. He isolated himself from his friends, from everyone, stopped talking about anything. But if he’d had to fold a crane for every time he thought about Potter during those two years — well, then Draco knew he would have reached an embarrassing amount of them.

Instead, when they started the Eighth Year, the jar was still stationary at one thousand and sixty-two. When McGonagall said they’d be all together in the same tower and when she then proceeded to list who they were roomed up with, Pansy agreed to stop with the Potter jar.

“Okay, I can see this would be pushing it too far. You’re roomed with him now, end of games. Enjoy your crush!”

Draco didn’t bother replying anymore. His feelings towards Potter were a complete mess by then.

He had spent a couple of years convinced he really despised him, to arrive in Sixth Year at craving him like he didn’t think it was ever possible. He dreamt of showing up to Potter, confessing to him he had taken the Dark Mark and begging him to take Draco with him, to protect him. He would have done anything. He would have even spied for him.

He dreamt of letting it go with him, finally. To cry and hug him, and ask for forgiveness and to receive it.

All his dreams broke when Potter cast the Sectumsempra. Draco stepped too far and he got to pay the consequences of it. But then during the War, Potter saved his life in the Room of Requirement and when asked to identify him, Draco refused. He couldn’t. He would never. Potter didn’t deserve to die, even Draco knew it.

Now his feelings were shifting from gratitude to something scary and too deep for Draco to grasp. Something that made him whimper during nights and shy away from every attempt Potter made to talk with him at days. He just couldn’t.

Couldn’t let himself believe he could be friends with him. Couldn’t let his feelings grow any more than this.

“I need to talk with you,” Draco said, torturing the paper crane in his hand, tears in his eyes.

Pansy took his face in her hands, placed a kiss on his cheek. “Sure, darling. Come in.”

Draco stepped into her room which she shared with Granger and Bulstrode and sat on Pansy’s bed.

“What is it? Do you want some water?”

Draco shook his head. “I think—” He started, then choked on his own saliva. He sniffed, cleared his throat. “I think I’m gay.”

Pansy’s lips trembled before she composed herself and sighed. She took his hands in hers. “Draco, darling. Why do you say so?”

“I just. No. I don’t think I’m gay. I know I am.” Saying it out loud for the first time felt like taking off tight shoes. It was freeing, it was amazing and terrifying at the same time.

Pansy smiled. It was warm, loving. “Oh, Draco.” She hugged him, clutching him tight against her chest, covering his head with kisses. “It’s okay,” she breathed into his hair. “It’s okay. You can do this. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Draco didn’t know he needed to hear those words until they rang with Pansy’s voice and he started sobbing on her neck. “This is a fucking disaster, Pansy. My father is already looking for a wife for me, and I’m, I’m—”

“Sssh. Stop it. We’ll make him understand. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” She lulled him back and forth, whispering encouragements into his ear.

“I watched some memories,” Draco said after a while, voice grasping with cries. “I’m confused. I, Potter, he… shit, I like him.”

Pansy went still, her arms tightening around Draco. In a second he felt her shaking against him and he pulled out of her hug, looking at her indignantly. “You’re laughing! You’re laughing, you horrible human being!”

“I can’t believe you, Draco. I just—” A grunt escaped her while she tried to talk and laugh at the same time. “I knew it, oh Salazar. I fucking knew it.”

———

“I have something for you.”

Potter blinked at Draco, his face flushing prettily. “Err, excuse me?”

“I know,” Draco said, feeling his hands tremble and shoving them in his pockets to hide them. “I know I’ve been shitty to you.”

Potter raised a hand and Draco cut him off. “No, let me speak. You saved my life in the Room of Requirement. You spoke on my behalf at my mother and mine’s trials. You returned my wand. And I haven’t even said thanks. Or I’m sorry, for that matter. Well, I am. Sorry, I mean. And thank you. For everything.”

Potter looked at him with his head tilted, a smile trying to pull at his lips. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. As in, I don’t need your apologies or your gratitude. I did what I felt was right. And, for my part, I don’t hold anything against you. I actually tried to talk to you these past months.”

Draco felt himself blush and damned his pale skin. “I know and I’m sorry. That’s why—”

“We could talk over a pint of butterbeer, then, maybe?” Potter’s voice was steady, his smile now open and confident. Draco found himself agreeing without even realising it, almost forgetting about what he wanted to give Potter in the first place.

Until later that night, when Potter’s breath ghosted over Draco’s cheek as he tipsily leaned over him at the pub, to whisper something to him. Draco felt his cock harden in his pants, the proximity almost unbearable. He needed a distraction, anything.

“Ah!” He exclaimed, making Potter jump in his seat. “I w-wanted to give you something, so, right, erm.” He fished out the crumpled crane and gave it to him.

Potter regarded it for a second, then shifted his gaze to Draco’s face. “Um, thank you?”

“Yeah, well. Right. That’s the two-thousandth crane I’ve made.”

“Congratulations, Malfoy, I didn’t know you had a passion for origami,” Potter said, looking suddenly sober and serious again.

“I don’t. I just… well, that’s for you.”

Potter smiled at him and placed a wet kiss on Draco’s face, murmuring against his cheek, “Your skin’s so soft.”

Draco smiled, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.

He’d tell it one day. He’d tell the story of the jar and how Draco discovered he was in love with Harry Potter.

Of how it took him two thousand paper cranes before he realised and never looked back again.

[thadelightfulone]

Better When You Are Quiet

Summary: Keyara and her group are studying for their Chemistry final.

Finals Week at CSUF is both a blessing and a curse. The Student Union opens for 24 hours the week before and during finals week. All-night study rooms are wonderful, but Keyara wishes she was at home asleep instead of here. She finds herself with her Basic Chemistry study group sweating it out in a small room in the back of the Student Union. They just moved from chemical compounds to molar mass of those compounds. She enjoys the science, but mixing math and some of these long ass equations is some of that bullshit, getting on her nerves. Nevertheless, she needs this course for her Chemistry minor.  

They have been at it for 2 hours already. Everyone’s schedule only allowed the group to get together after 10 pm three days before their Chem final. You know, because they do not have other finals to finish studying for or papers to complete before the week is out. Keyara drops her pencil since she has finished the final two problems for their current section. She waits for their self-appointed group leader to move on.  

Erik is standing at the whiteboard, ready to solve the next problem so everyone can see it. “Did everyone finish number 15 yet?” He looks around, “I’ll give you a couple more minutes to find the number of Potassium ions.”  

Keyara sat back and waited while the rest of the group finished up. She was happy with the progress she had been making in the class ever since her friends started this study group. She was on the verge of failing after the first two exams and labs, and now she brought her grade up enough to keep up her GPA. The only drawback was the guy standing at the front of the room: Erik Stevens, certified jackass, number one in the class, and fione as all the fucks.  

Tapping her pencil on her notebook, she looks away from the 6 ft chocolate Adonis leaning against the board with a smug smirk on his face. Dimples deep enough to hide the eraser from her pencil, short dreads falling messily around his head. Tonight he happens to be wearing a black hoodie, a long white tee, and grey sweats. She looks back up as he turns back to the board to start working out the problem.  

Keyara slightly jumps when her neighbor and bestie, Stephanie, pokes her in the arm. Steph starts giggling at her and slides a sheet of paper to her. You two need to fuck already. Keyara rolls her eyes before snatching the paper and writing her response. Never gonna happen, so let it go. Stephanie shrugs her shoulders and turns her attention back to the whiteboard.  

Erik finishes writing and turns back around. “Is everyone within five-hundredths of 1.863 ions of Potassium?” Several heads look up at the board and then down at their answers. Those same people look around the group of seven, but no one says anything. “Come on, people. Now is not the time to be quiet. Let me know how I can help.” A hand goes up, “Yeah, Steph.”

“Ummm, Erik. That’s not what I got.” Stephanie puts her head down. She had been having just as much trouble as Keyara when they started meeting up. Keyara snatches her paper to have a look.  

“Girl stop.” Nodding her head, “Steph, I got the same thing as you.” She hits her with her elbow facing her with a smile.  

“So, you’re both wrong?” Erik laughs and shakes his head since he is not surprised. Stephanie and Keyara needed the most help out of the people in their small study group. “Where did I lose you?”

Keyara looks at her work and then back up at the board. She starts laughing, “It ain’t us, but since you asked.” She points at the board, “At the beginning. Your numbers are wrong, Erik.”

He looks down at the sheet in his hand and then turns to what he wrote on the board. “Nah, this looks good to me.” Looking at Keyara, who is rolling her eyes at him and tapping her pencil on the table, Erik grabs the practice exam that they had been using for questions. He rolls the exam up, slamming it down on the table. “Damn!”

“You see it now?” Keyara stands from her seat, walking to the front and takes the marker out of his hand. “You started with 98.3 grams of Potassium Carbonate instead of the 89.3 listed on question 15.” Smiling at him, she pats him on the back before pointing him to the nearest seat. “We are all off by less than two tenths from YOUR answer, but at least your work is correct.”  

Erik scoffs at her and takes the seat. “Man, whatever.”

“Don’t be mad. I said your problem-solving work was correct.” Keyara shrugs and turns to write the next problem on the board. “Maybe Dr. Filowitz will give you partial credit.” Some snorts and soft laughter reverberate throughout the small room. Erik stands up and rushes Keyara. She turns and stands tall right in front of him, waiting for him to say something.

Devin, another quiet but smart classmate on the other side of Stephanie, jumps up and speaks. “Hey! You know what it’s after midnight, and they gotta clean the room anyway. Why don’t we all take a break and come back in an hour?” He steps forward between Erik and Keyara, scooting her along and out of the way. Keyara moves towards Stephanie.

Steph throws her stuff in her bag, “Sounds like a plan. I could use a neck massage right about now.” She grabs Keyara’s stuff as she makes her way to the door, and they walk out of the room. “OH SNAP! They got protein bars and energy drinks. Thank god!” Stephanie’s loud voice booming down the hallway as everyone packs up, making way for the cleaning crew to come.  

Keyara and Stephanie walk into the basement pub lined with tables full of different grab & go snacks, juices, water, energy drinks, and school supplies. They pulled a few items and then took the elevator upstairs to the first floor near the Alumni fireplace where the volunteer masseuses set up the massage chairs. They wrote their names down and waited nearby against the opposite wall until their turn.  

“So, when are you gonna stop playing?” Keyara, who just bit into her apple eyes Steph over her glasses as she casually stirs the straw in her energy drink. Shaking her head, Keyara looks to the left, avoiding Stephanie’s stare. “Oh, come on. It is so obvious, it’s disgusting.”  

Finishing her bite, “Steph, I am not doing this with you. It is too late, and I am trying to relax.” She leans her head back against the wall. “Leave it alone, please.”  

“Key, if not him, then please from somewhere because I am sick of you.” Keyara can hear Steph’s nails tapping on her can.  

“We all can’t have D lined up waiting for us to call for delivery like some folks.” She pushes up her glasses as Stephanie gasps in faux outrage. “Nah, bitch. Don’t even. I just want to pass this class, and then I don’t have to deal with him anymore.”  

“Right, because the engineering major will not have any more science and math classes before he completes his degree.” Steph bumps her shoulder. “Until you finish your minor, you are stuck with him,” she snorts at Keyara’s pouting face.

“Don’t put that on me.” Just then, Keyara hears her name called from the far end of the chairs. “Gotta go. Bye.” Stephanie watches her go, smiling and slurping on her drink.  

---  

“Why do you let that girl get to you?” Erik and Devin are the last to leave the study room as the cleaning crew enters with their supplies.  

“Let who? Do what? Nah.” Shaking his head, “Do you know who I am?” Erik throws his backpack over his shoulder, holding onto his jacket. “I am not worried about lil Miss Keyara.”

“Right, ok. That’s why you almost did what to her a few minutes ago?” Devin grabs his messenger bag and walks out.

“Yo, that girl makes a nigga wanna throttle her. All that mouth. Why can’t she be like her homegirl?” Erik catches up to him in the hallway.

Devin stops and looks at Erik, “You want Keyara to act like Stephanie? Oh, now I know you buggin’.”

“Not all the way like her, because you know how Steph gets down, and Miss Thang is too uptight for all of that. But like Steph knows what to say and when to say it.”

“Steph caters to the male ego. Key is not about to do all that, and you know it.”  

“Yeah, well, a nigga can dream.” Devin laughs and nods as they make their way to the Midnight Snack area in the basement. “Man, I wish it was PB & J night. I hate energy drinks.”  

Devin stops as they approach the table, “Damn, there she go.” Erik runs into his outstretched arm and follows his line of sight. “Brittany looking right.” Watching the girl in question, bend over in her baby blue sweatsuit, “Juicy, oh yes. Yes, she is.” Erik laughs and grabs some fruit and juice from the table.

“Let’s go out to the patio. I’m not tryna stay in here.”

They find an empty table outside and sit down. Erik leans back in his chair, briefly closing his eyes as he hears the music pumping through the outdoor speakers. He cracks open his apple juice when Devin waves over some of their people. They all start chatting about how their finals are going, how many they have left, and their Winter Break plans.  

He looks up to the Alumni lounge, where he can see the massage chairs and decides to get one. He daps up the guys and runs up the stairs outside the building to get to the first floor. Erik makes it upstairs to see Steph standing by herself against a wall. “Where do you sign in?” She points to a table, and he runs over to add his name to the list before heading over to Stephanie. “So, where’s your girl?” She looks behind him, and he looks up to see Keyara sitting down for her massage. He smiles, throws up a peace sign, and walks over.  

Erik makes his way to Keyara’s chair, and sees Brisa, a Kinesiology major, and friend, moving behind her to adjust the settings on the chair to make her more comfortable. Keyara has leaned forward with her head in the chinrest, ready for her massage to begin. He taps Brisa, whispering, “Aye, let me handle this massage for you. Go take a break.”  

“Erik, you know I can’t do that. She already knows I am doing her massage.” He smiles at her, pleading with his eyes. She huffs at him, “Fine. Are you getting a massage?” He looks at Keyara, who sits up and is getting ready to turn around. He holds her shoulder in place to keep her from moving. Erik nods in the affirmative to Brisa, “Then I got you, and only me.”  

“Done.” He moves up behind Keyara as Brisa walks behind him.  

“15 minutes, E. Not a minute longer.” She taps him and leaves. 

Erik moves his hands up to the sides of Keyara’s neck, rubbing slow circles from under her ears to the top of her shoulders. She leans forward and relaxes all her weight into the chair.  

Keyara closes her eyes and allows her body to relax as the hands squeeze and roll the tense muscles in her neck, shoulders, and upper back. She softly moans but doesn’t say anything at all. She starts drifting off when the hands move lower down her back.  

“So, is this what a nigga gotta do to keep you quiet?” Erik whispers in her ear. Keyara tries to turn around, but Erik runs his hands along her spine, rolling from the inside out towards her waist. It felt wonderful, but she still stiffens under his touch pulling her arms up. “Relax. I’m just trying to release the tension. You are carrying a lot of shit in your shoulders and back, you know.” He presses harder, and Keyara moans again.

Keyara mumbles, “Just shut up, Erik,” she drops her arms back to the sides of the massage chair, “Enjoy it while you can, it’ll be the only time you touch me.” Erik chuckles and finishes her massage.  

---

Thirty minutes later, everyone in the group has made it back to the now freshly cleaned study room. Devin looks around, and even though everyone seems much more relaxed than before, they took the break; he can already tell going on will be a waste of time for them.  

“Yo, it’s almost 2 am. Let’s call it a night for Chem. I know a few of us have a final or two in the morning and want to get some more study time or sleep before it.” Everyone agrees, and some even yawn, “Yep, see ya Thursday.”

They all clear out of the room, going their separate ways. Erik and Devin catch up with the guys they were talking to earlier. He can study for his next final with a few of them. Steph and Keyara part ways since Stephanie’s last final exam is the Chem one. She has papers for the rest, so she’s headed home. Keyara walks towards the front of the Student Union. She has an 8 am final and decides to stay on campus instead of fighting traffic, trying to return to campus in about 3 hours.  

Keyara heads upstairs to the Quiet Study Lounge and finds a couch in the corner. She curls up on one side and opens her book to study. About an hour later, her book has fallen off her lap, and she is sleeping curled into the back of the couch.  

Erik finished studying with his homies and decides to find a quiet space to chill until his 9 am final. He walks into the Quiet Study Lounge and finds Keyara asleep in the back on the two-seater. He takes the seat next to her, picks up her book, and sets it on the table. Watching her quietly for a few minutes, he notices her slightly shivering. He grabs his jacket and lays it over her, making sure she is covered then straightens her legs out pulling them over his own. He puts in his earbuds, leans back and closes his eyes.  

---

Keyara’s alarm goes off at 7, and she sits up suddenly, sensing a heavy weight on her chest and legs. She feels the jacket fall to her lap, and as she picks it up to look it over, placing her phone on the table, she notices arms draped across her legs, which are laying on the owner’s lap. Keyara softly inhales when she looks at the culprit, Erik freaking Stevens. She takes in his relaxed sleeping posture - head back, arms across her legs and his own stretched out, crossed at the ankle under the table in front of the couch.  

The alarm on her phone goes off again, vibrating against the table, causing Erik to stir. He looks up at her as she turns it off. “Good morning Sunshine.” He smiles at her, deep dimples showing and golds gleaming.  

Keyara sighs, “Moment ruined.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not the only one who is better when quiet.” She stands up, gathering her backpack, throwing Erik’s jacket at him. Keyara looks at him as he stares back in shock. “Shut up and come on.”

“Come where? I don’t even get a thank you for giving you my jacket while I was shivering in my sleep?”

“My thank you was gonna be a breakfast burrito before my final, but if you don’t want it. I’ll just head to class now.” Keyara walks to the door, Erik hot on her trail. 

He catches up to her, throwing his arm over her shoulder. “That’s all you had to say, babygirl.”

“Nah uh,” she pushes his arm off her, “you have done enough touching on me for the day.”  

Drawing Keyara back into him and wrapping his arms around her waist, Erik erupts into a full-body laugh that sends chills through her.

“I’m tryna have my hands all over you again.” He nuzzles her neck as she leans back into him.  

She groans and smacks at his hands trying to get out of his grasp. “My final is over at 10.”  

“I’ll be at your place by 12,” he nips her ear and lets her go. “Now, for this burrito, you promised a nigga.”  

She pops in the arm, pouting, “I swear I hate you.”  

He walks backward in front of her, “You hate to want me; there is a huge difference.” His sly smile matches her bashful one as they head to the Carl’s Jr. across campus.

[survivingthejungle]

soft; jerome x reader

ive never written anything this fluffy in my god damn life... hopefully its not a complete flop? idk

You hadn’t committed a crime.

Regardless of whatever conclusion the jury had come to, you would always maintain that you hadn’t committed a crime. Because, what crime is there in justice?

One of the men who had tried to assault you had just been a little too lazy with his knife, and in a moment of instinctual self-defence, you had pushed it back in on himself.

Unfortunately for you, the other man—the one who hadn’t been stabbed—had managed to pay off the jury to convict you of first degree murder, and the only way you would avoid going to straight-up prison would be taking the insanity plea.

You fought it—oh, how you fought it, tooth-and-nail— but in the end, you and your family didn’t have the resources, and the corrupt rich of Gotham once again won the day. The playout of your hearing had caused outrage throughout the city, and no one believed that you deserved to go to an asylum, but the public backlash surrounding your conviction still was not enough to get the decision overturned.

Some of the staff at Arkham were sympathetic to your case and did all they could to treat you like the normal girl you were, not like one of the truly mentally-ill patients who were there for good reason. Of course, not every staff member was this accommodating— Dr. Strange had been wanting to use you as an guinea pig for a while now. The only thing keeping him from doing so was your family’s constant visits and the fact that he couldn’t be sure that the nurses and guards who knew you and your story wouldn’t rebel against him.

About a month into your incarceration— one down, two to go— there was a change in atmosphere. An unusual burst of activity came about one morning; while you were in your cell, brushing your teeth and washing your face, a handful of guards all stormed past, seemingly guiding someone along with them. You peeked out of the small window on your door, but couldn’t see much aside from the guards and a quick flash of a tuft of bright red hair.

-

To ensure that your safety was never compromised and that all of the staff knew you were no real threat, it had been decided within the Asylum that you were not to wear the same black-and-white striped garments as all of the other inmates. Instead, you had been given a handful of simple, white cotton slips, and you had been allowed to bring some of your own sweaters, shoes, and socks from home. You had been allowed your own pajamas from home, so you decided to bring two pairs of basketball shots, two t-shirts, and a big sweatshirt to sleep in. In addition, yo also brought a handful of your favorite scrunchies and hair clips, and a notebook and pen to keep track of your thoughts and write letters while you were away. To say you stood out like a sore thumb would be an understatement; you didn’t look exactly like an inmate, you certainly didn’t look like staff, and you didn’t look like a normal teenage girl either. You just looked different, and you were okay with that. You were content just keeping to yourself, minding your own business, writing and reading when you had the opportunity, and getting the hell out of this asylum.

Until recently. A new inmate had recently been admitted; around your age, tall, vivid red hair, an unnerving laugh, and arrested on a count of matricide. When they brought him in, he was strapped up in a straight jacket and being wheeled around. He caught sight of you in the rec room and winked, and you, being caught in a trance-like daze, had simply lifted your hand and waved with a straight face. It didn’t help that he was an objectively attractive guy; if you had seen him anywhere outside of an asylum, you probably would’ve heart-eyed him with your friends. But you were in an asylum, the both of you, so you decided to maintain your earlier resolve of keeping to yourself and not interacting with anyone else.

-

The next day, you saw him come into the rec room. You were sitting in an old, worn-out bean bag reading one of the old hand-me-down books from a shelf in the corner. It was Madame Bovary, a title you’d heard repeated many times but never really looked into until now. You were halfway through and so engrossed with the tragic story that you didn’t notice a presence seat itself beside you until you heard a voice speaking.

“Hi gorgeous, I’m Jerome.” It was the redhead from yesterday, grinning at you.

“Hi. That’s not my name,” you responded, pulling your eyes away from him and back to your book.

“Well then, by all means, spill! What can I call you?” His voice was deep but had a childlike lilt, like everything he said was purposefully over-theatrical. He placed his chin on his fist, staring intently at you.

“My name is (Y/N). I don’t really wanna talk to anyone right now, so can you just leave me alone?”

“Jeez, just trying to be polite… Y’know, a girl could really use some friends in a place like this.”

“No, not really. I’m fine how I am. Thanks, though.”

He paused and looked at you quizzically as though he had just noticed something that he hadn’t before. “Hey, how come you don’t wear stripes like the rest of us, huh?”

“Because I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not supposed to be in here.”

“Ugh, believe me, babe, I tried that line too. Didn’t work. C’mon, what’d you do to get in here? Now I’m curious,” he prodded.

You were silent for a moment. Some people had no problem admitting that they had done something like that; in fact, some reveled in it. But you were not the kind of girl who could just openly declare that I killed a man. “...It was self defense.”

“Oh yeah,” he lightly scoffed, “Then how’d you end up here, and not scot-free out there?”

“This is Gotham,” you shot back, “There’s no justice in this city. If a rich man wants a girl locked up, she gets locked up. End of story.”

“Ain’t that the truth, sister.” He let out a sigh and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Tell me something, though,” he started, staring at you. “Are you being serious?”

“You tell me… I’m already in an asylum. If I was really guilty, I would’ve admitted it by now, right?”

“Huh.” He shook his head, looking away from you. “Huh. You got me there. Well… that sucks for you, doesn’t it?”

“You’re telling me; I’m the one wrongly incarcerated.”

“Hey! That’s perfect! So you really do need a friend in this place, otherwise all the rest of these crazies are gonna eat you up…” he got closer to you before continuing. “Y’know, it’s really not safe for you here if you’re the only sane person. I think we should be friends.”

“If it gets you off my case, then sure, I guess.” A grin lit up his face and he leaned back out of your personal space; he did not, however, show any signs of leaving you alone anytime soon. “Will you leave me alone now, please?” you asked.

“What kind of a friend would I be, leaving you alone out here to fend for yourself? Nah, see, these other guys in here, they’ll do bad things to a pretty girl if she’s all alone. I’m just looking out for you.”

You considered his words for a moment. Although no one had truly tried to harm you yet, you hadn’t been here long. And some of the creepier inmates had been staring you down recently, now that you thought about it… “I’m not gonna, like… talk to you, a lot. I just read a lot. And write. And draw, sometimes. But I’m not a big conversationalist. So if that’s what you wanted from me, you got the wrong girl.”

“Hey, that’s fine by me,” he responded. “You just sit there and look pretty till you get to go home. I’ll be your silent protector.”

Not very silent, you thought. “Why… why do you even wanna be my friend, then? If you’re not looking for someone to talk to… You just wanna ‘help me out’? You’re a wannabe serial killer, you don’t really seem like the kind of guy who tries to help a girl out of the goodness of his heart.”

“What can I say?” he asked you. “I can be unpredictable. And you seemed kinda… Sad. Lonely. I dunno. But a pretty, innocent girl locked up in here shouldn’t have to fend for herself. I may be bad, alright, but I’m not completely souless!” He snickered to himself. “Heh, get it? ‘Cause I’m a ginger.” You let out a soft, breathy laugh at that; one you couldn’t contain. “Hey,” he reached out and nudged your cheek, “There’s that smile. Go on, I’m sorry, read your book. I’ll just chill here… Hangin’ out.”

-

The asylum was particularly chilly today, so you slipped an oversized, washed-out pastel sweater over your dress, as well as a pair of mismatched thick socks. You slid into a pair of plain brown ankle boots with loose laces and clipped two red barrettes into your hair, a yellow scrunchie on your wrist. According to the little red antique clock in your cell, it was nearly eight A.M.— breakfast, which Jerome would always walk down to with you. He always delayed the guards as much as possible before passing your cell, so that you could be escorted down with him.

It had been about two weeks since your first encounter, and while you were initially wary of the prospect of being chummy with a convicted murderer, there was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was how charming he could be, or how protective he acted of you or how he definitely wasn’t the most unattractive person you’d ever seen, but you weren’t as opposed as you used to be towards being his friend. You heard the sound of struggling increase as it got closer and closer to your door, and you knew it was Jerome come to “pick you up” for the day. You waited at your door, looking out the barred slot as the guards got closer and closer.

“Excuse me? Could I be taken down to breakfast as well?” you asked them, and one with a key ring unlocked your door and let you step outside into the hall.

“Mornin’, (Y/N).” It was Anthony, a guard that you felt you had a good standing with. He was always respectful to you because he had been keeping up with your trial while it was in the news, and he firmly believed that you had done nothing to end up in this place.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m just well, thanks! Did you sleep alright?”

“Yeah, I did! Do you know what variation of gruel they’re feeding us today?” Jerome snorted at this. “Hey, Jerome. What’s up?”

“Oh, y’know, not much.”

“Sounds fun.”

-

Breakfast was, in fact, another variation of gruel. You had been given a choice between cinnamon and apple oatmeal, lazily slopped onto a tray before being shoved into your arms with a spoon.

You took a seat at an unoccupied table and began to eat and read— you were rereading Gatsby, now—until Jerome joined you.

“Hey, J,” you greeted him, not looking up from your book.

“Hey there, girlie,” he greets, nudging you when he sits down beside you.  “What’s the plan today?”

“They have me in group today. Something about having to ‘act like we’re making progress’,” you slightly mocked.

Jerome gasped. “Well, hey! Whadaya know? I’m in group today, too!” The possibility that you were not in the same group was slim to none; your proximity in age and the fact that both of your cells were on the same floor meant that in any group setting, you were bound to end up together.

“Have they put you in it before?” you wondered.

“Oh, yeah, once or twice,” he told you, taking another spoonful of oatmeal before continuing. “Don’t be nervous about it. All they do is sit you in a circle and give you pens and paper and have you talk about your feelings and why you killed people.” That was still a touchy subject. You’d never verbally say that you ‘killed’ a person; there was a difference between murder and self-defense, and there was absolutely no way in hell you’d ever be convinced they were the same. Jerome noticed a shift in your attitude. “Well, I mean, you never killed anyone. So I guess you won’t have to participate too much.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you agreed. A burly looking man the approached Jerome, eyeing you all the while.

“Jerome.” He looked up and rolled his eyes at the man.

“Can I help you with something, Greenwood?”

“Yeah. Just wondering when you’re gonna share your little lady friend with the rest of us.” He sat down opposite both of you. “She looks tasty.”

In shock, you couldn’t properly formulate a response to the man’s lewd comments, so while you sat there, eyes fixated on your oatmeal, Jerome took the liberty of speaking up on your behalf. “She’s off limits, pal. Don’t touch her,” he told him, grinning all the while. “Or I’ll flay you and feed you to the rats.”

“Oh, little J’s got himself a girlfriend now, huh? What, you gonna chop her up just like you chopped up your mommy?” Greenwood inched closer and closer to Jerome while taunting him, and your friend was getting visibly aggravated.

His fist clenched and he slammed it on the table. You put your hand over his forearm to draw his attention over to you instead. “Jerome. Stop,” you requested.

“What?” he asked you. “Why me? What about him?”

“Because I know you can be rational,” you told him, maintaining eye contact. “It’s not worth it. Don’t give him the reaction he wants.”

He let out a short breath and turned his attention back to Greenwood. “You know what? She’s right. You’re not worth my foot. Go back to playing with your little dolls, Greenwood,” he taunted, gesturing with his free hand. Greenwood snarled, but got up and walked away anyways. Jerome looked back to you. “Y’know, you’re starting to rub off on me. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be a goody two-shoes just like you!” he joked, snickering. You just rolled your eyes, the ghost of a soft smile on your face.

“Hey,” you warned, “Don’t start getting soft. That’s my thing,” you shot back.

“Yeah, I know,” he smirked at you, catching your hand—the one that was on his forearm—in his. “Jeez, (Y/N), why are you so cold?” he asked you. His hands were exponentially warmer than yours, and you appreciated the heat warming up your own.

“It’s the middle of January and I have terrible circulation. Plus, no one in this place cares enough to turn the heat up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he laughed. Then he was putting his head on top of yours, so you leaned your head onto his shoulder.

“What time is it?” You yawned. He told you that it was roughly eight-thirty. “Gross.” Jerome chuckled and gave a murmur of assent. He took his hand out of yours and put his arm around your shoulders instead.

“I’ll wake you up when they make us leave,” he assured you as you closed your eyes, thanking him. Then you were off to sleep again, catching up on all of the hours you had missed since you had been incarcerated. He grabbed your book off of the table and began reading it for himself. He kept one hand lightly trailing through your hand while the other was used to flip the pages until, at 9:20, the nurses came to inform the both of you that it was time for therapy.

-

If someone would’ve asked you what had been discussed in that session, you wouldn’t’ve had a clue. You sat next to your only friend in the place, of course, latching onto the only person you’d truly felt comfortable with since you’d been brought in. The two of you had passed notes back and forth the whole time, decorated with goofy little doodles and cartoons to entertain one another. When Jerome had cracked a joke to you following one of the other inmates’ comments, you could barely suppress your giggle, and you both had ended up making a bit of a scene.

“Jerome. (Y/N). Cut it out,” the therapist had reprimanded you. Jerome just gave her a nod, but you had verbally apologized and promised that it wouldn’t happen again.

A few seconds later, another note was passed onto your lap. SORRY FOR BEING A BAD INFLUENCE, it had read. You flipped it over to respond on the other side.

we balance each other out

like a negative and a positive

-

Two months later, and you were finally free to return to the rest of the world. You were overjoyed; you couldn’t wait to get back to your friends and family. You couldn’t wait to get back to school, something you never thought you’d say to yourself. You were also surprised at how well Jerome had responded when you’d told him that you were finally going home.

“You’ll write to me, right?” he asked you.

“Of course,” you verified.

“And visit?”

“I’ll try my damndest,” you promised.

He had seemed like he was making so much progress when you were around. At least, that’s what the nurses and therapists had all noted. For his own sake, they all secretly wished that you would keep coming back to help him out.

-

After another month, the whole city was erupted into chaos.

There had been some sort of gas leak at Arkham, followed by a breakout; your friend among the escapees. The next time you saw him had been on the T.V. in the midst of attempting to blow up a school bus full of cheerleaders from Gotham High.

You felt your heart break in your chest as you sat on your bed that morning watching the news. You’d really, truly let yourself believe that he wasn’t as bad of a person as the media had portrayed him, especially during his trial. You knew him firsthand! He was such a good friend to you, and was always watching your back. It was hard for you to believe that the boy who passed you notes in therapy and made you laugh all day was the same boy who had just kidnapped and murdered seven dock workers and attempted to blow up a bus full of cheerleaders the same age as him.

But, sadly, this was the reality that you lived in. I guess he really fooled me, huh, you thought to yourself.

Around noon that same day, while watching some documentary on Netflix and sending texts back and forth with one of your best friends, you heard a loud knocking outside of your window. “Holy shit!” you exclaimed, heart nearly leaping out of your chest. When your adrenaline rush finally slowed, you looked to see what had caused the noise, and—

“Holy shit!” Lo and behold; it was none other than Jerome Valeska. He grinned at you, waving emphatically.

“Open up, wouldya?” He spoke through the window. “Let’s catch up!”

You walked over to your windowsill but didn’t open the window, instead choosing to lock it. “Why should I let you into my house, Jerome? I’d be harboring a fugitive. That’s a crime. Just like kidnapping, murder, and arson,” you glared at him. “Why would you do that, J?” you asked, hurt evident in your eyes, even through the glass separating you.

“Let me in, (Y/N), I really wanna talk. You know I’d never hurt you.” You immediately believed him, having to consciously remind yourself that you might’ve been being led into a trap. That was, until he held up a fist and extended his pinky. “I pinky swear.” Damn, the boy knows I love me a good pinky swear. You gave up your resolve and cracked the window just enough to reach your own hand through, locking your fingers together before opening it the rest of the way.

“Okay. Talk,” you told him as he climbed through and stepped into your room. You took a seat on the edge of your bed, and he followed suit.

“This guy, Theo… he’s the one who broke us all out,” Jerome began to explain. “Kinda boring dude. But also kinda cool. He’s like the weird, rich uncle I never had,” he joked, making you crack a small smile. He smiled himself at that, nudging you playfully. “Anyways, he gives this whole speech about how we all have ‘vision’ and ‘talent’ and yada yada yada… So I know he gets me.

“Says he wants us to just go crazy, right? ‘Paint the town red’, other junk like that,” he continued. “The last guy who tried to leave, Sionis… He had him stabbed to death. Right in front of us all.” Your eyes shot up to his, shocked. “I can’t very well follow in his footsteps,” he told you.

“Oh, Jerome… That’s awful. I’m sorry.” You wrapped an arm around his side, implying that you’d mostly forgiven him for what he’d been doing recently. It’s not his fault, you reasoned, he’s scared for his life. “What if I call the cops so they can keep you safe from him? You don’t have to keep hurting people,” you offered.

“No, (Y/N), please don’t,” he begged. “They’ll just send me straight back to Arkham, I don’t wanna go back there, I hate that place—”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I understand. I won’t call anyone. Be safe, though? I mean… try as much as you can to not hurt anyone if you can help it.”

“I will. You were right, y’know. About balancing each other out. I think we make a good pair,” he told you, a smile that looked genuine on his face.

“Best friends,” you offered back. Then you gave him a solid hug, burying your face in his chest.

And you’d never have seen it, but that genuine smile suddenly became cunning and devious once more.  Gotcha...

[juliussneezerfics]

Aph Handwriting Headcannons

#Feliciano: His handwriting is a weird combination of cursive and print, with loops in the ‘y’s. He dots his ‘I’s with little empty circles. His letters are very large, with only a little space between them. His notes are often unorganized and done in many different colors of pen. There’s lots of doodles in the margins. He usually just flips to a random page and starts writing, leading to him losing many of his notes after the meeting. It usually goes like this until there are only a few random blank pages left and he loses the first five minutes of the meeting just searching for a blank page.

Kiku: Whenever he writes in English, his letters slant slightly to the left. It’s very neat and easy to read from a distance. It’s the textbook perfect writing, being a medium size. He writes with very little pressure. So if he happens to write with a pencil, the first couple words are illegible until he realizes that he needs to press the graphite harder to the paper. He keeps his notes on a white legal pad. The only problem is that his writing takes time, so if you happened to glance down the table, you’ll see him slightly panicked as he tried to write in time with whoever is speaking.

Ludwig: Ludwig handwriting is perfect. Straight and neat, it basically looks like Calibri font. He usually prefers to type out his notes, but he doesn’t want the keyboard to distract other people, so he writes his notes down. His notes have to be in fountain pen, every single time. There’s no particular reason except for the reason that he likes writing with it more. He prefers to write on plain white paper without lines. He can already write in a perfect line anyway, and it makes his notes appear neater. He can somehow maintain his handwriting perfectly well while writing quickly, so he has the unique ability to take perfect notes at perfect speed with the speaker. He usually ends up sharing his notes with Japan and Italy.

Gilbert: It’s all fast scrawls. Gilbert’s handwriting looks like chicken scratches. The thing is, Gilbert is determined to get every. Single. Word. So, as time passes, his writing devolves even further as he attempts to keep up with whatever the speaker is saying. He, like Ludwig, prefers to write on plain, white paper. Gilbert, however, cannot keep his handwriting in a straight line. He’ll notice his handwriting floating up and, mid-sentence, go back down to the height he started at and continue the sentence as normal. This creates quite a few strange breaks between his words, so he usually just borrows his brother’s notes.

Spain: This man writes in perfect comic sans, and you cannot convince me otherwise.

Romano: His handwriting is pressed firm into the paper. So firm, that you can feel on the other side of the paper and feel the outline of his writing. He writes in pencil, because he finds that he pokes through the paper and rips it up with pen. If you miss a meeting, you cannot rely on Romano for notes because he doesn’t take many of them. He lets his thoughts roam instead of writing much except for how bored he is.

Alfred: This man… no-one can read his handwriting except him, and occasionally even he must squint to figure out what he was trying to write. He is the king of shorthand, often leaving out words like ‘and’ and ‘the’. Reading Alfred’s handwriting is the literary equivalent to hearing a cave man speak. He takes his notes on plain white, un-lined paper. Whenever he does this, his handwriting slights slightly downward as he continues writing, but he doesn’t allow this to get in the way of his harried, gross note-taking.

England: Garbage handwriting. He has Doctors’ handwriting. Only him, America, Canada, and France can discern what he’s trying to write, so England prefers to type his notes out on a word document after a meeting so he can read them easier and send them to his boss. He writes on loose-leaf lined paper clipped together in a binder, so he can easily tear out old papers to save time. Occasionally in the margins, you’ll see a couple of strange symbols and sentences in old, unknown languages. England claims these are spells. When he’s not taking notes, he just writes on whatever pieces of paper happen to be lying around. Napkins, receipts, pages of old, unread books, and even paper plates. The only drawback from this is that he constantly loses these little notes. If you happened to drop by England’s place, before you left from your visit you would probably see him roam around his house, attempting to find his loose notes.

Ivan: His handwriting is miniscule. It’s small, but neat. It slants slightly to the right, and is pressed into the paper a little too hard. He prefers to write in pen. He takes his notes on a little pocket notebook. Occasionally in the upper corners you’ll find a doodle, but he mostly prefers to keep his notes short, sweet, and to the point.

Yao: He takes is notes in Chinese every. Freaking. Time. He, like Germany, prefers to write with a fountain pen. It brings back fond memories of the good old days, and he enjoys the familiar feeling of it between his fingers. He uses medium pressure as he writes. He likes to use a standard notebook to take his notes, set aside just for meeting notes. The other nations believe it to be a slight shame that he takes his notes in Chinese, as his handwriting is quite neat and would save the other nations quite a bit of time for them to borrow them.

Francis: This. Man. His handwriting is so flamboyant, so loopy, so large, that he can hardly keep up with whoever is talking. But, he shouldn’t sacrifice beauty for extra words. So he tries to just get the main points from the meeting, his handwriting still in its loopy, outrageous glory. Calligraphy is actually a hobby of his, so if you peered over the table you would occasionally see him pull out a different fountain pen to scrawl his notes in different fonts. Because his notes leave a little bit to be desired, he usually asks England if he can borrow his… whenever England can find them.

Matthew: 

[marginalgloss]

the name of the door

‘Every move I send out begins with the same word: You. When I first wrote most of them, so long ago now that it’s incredible to think of it, I had in my mind only a single player, and of course he looked almost exactly like me: not me as I am now, but as I was before the accident. Young and fresh and frightened, and in need of refuge from the world. I was building myself a home on an imaginary planet. I hadn’t considered, then, how big the world was; how many people lived there, how different their lives were from mine. The infinite number of planets spinning in space. I have since traveled great distances, and my sense of the vast oceans of people down here on the Earth, how they drift, is keener. But you, back then, was a singular noun for me, or, at best, a theoretical plural awaiting proof.’

Wolf in White Van is a difficult novel to summarise. I knew next to nothing about its author, John Darnielle, before I began reading. I was aware that he’s a fairly popular musician, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard one of his songs. Being a famous songwriter can cover all kinds of sins in novelistic terms. But by the time I finished the book I felt as though I had been through one of the most solipsistic and forbidding novels I’d read in some time. I don’t mean ‘forbidding’ in the sense of difficulty: the language is mostly quite plain, and the plot is not complicated. I mean that there is something about this novel which looms large over the imagination. It is haunting in its implications.

The book is written from the perspective of Sean, a middle-aged man who suffers from a severe facial deformity that has him living a reclusive life. It will be some time before we learn the cause of his injury. Sean makes his living by running a play-by-mail game of his own invention called Trace Italian. (The name comes from ‘trace italienne’, a certain kind of renaissance fort intended to resist cannon fire. There is much else that seems fortress-like about Sean.) This game takes place in a post-apocalyptic version of America; players write to Sean describing their moves, much like in any other role-playing game, and he writes back with the results. Somehow the player subscriptions pay well enough to keep him going. 

Trace Italian isn’t improvised: every ‘move’ in the game has been charted in advance, meticulously documented in a series of filing cabinets. It is effectively a labyrinthine concept novel, through which players move over the course of days, months, years. Nobody can ever see it all except Sean, and in this respect it is unlike any other book, any other game. For as long as he lives it is inviolable; a perfect private universe where every threat can be contained, every secret can be secured. There are places in it only Sean knows about:

‘…Charts and notebooks lie open around the corpse in a constellation; if you marked its points and drew a line connecting them, you’d have a shape that would later help open a door deep within the Trace, but nobody will ever notice this, or learn the name of the door, which you have to say when you open it or you end up in a blind corridor that traps you for at least four turns, which would probably outrage any players who made it that far. But who knows. What it would be like to make it that far is sheer conjecture…’

The most appealing part of the novel is its detailed portrait of fandom in the pre-internet era. We see how the young Sean was captivated by the genre science fiction and fantasy of the times. Mainstream references like Star Trek and Star Wars take a back seat here — it is all about Friz Leiber, the Gor novels, and weird VHS-era movies like Krull. It’s about finding inspiration in the album art for obscure prog-metal bands, and writing to adverts in magazines to order a cassette tape of music inspired by the Conan books by Robert E. Howard. 

Some of this is the same tone that Stranger Things leant on — kids playing Dungeons and Dragons in the era of the Satanic Panic — but there is something altogether more obscure and threatening going on here. Stranger Things is exciting because of the sense of togetherness engendered by D&D, whereas Sean’s hobbies only serve to lead him further into himself. He never falls in with a gang of like-minded kids, so he becomes a Dungeon Master unto himself. Eventually, under his influence, a young couple go on an adventure through the Trace Italian. They think they are on the trail of something important, much like those kids in the Netflix series. But it doesn’t end well for them. 

There aren’t many characters in this novel outside of Sean. The inside of his head is a bleak, violent place, surreal and unpredictable and paranoid compared to the controlled world of the Trace:

‘There was a small, strange moment during which I had this feeling that someone was filming me, which was ridiculous, but it was that specific—“there’s a camera on me”—and then some hard ancient pushed-down thing, a thing I’d felt or thought or feared a long time ago, something I’d since managed to sheathe in an imaginary scabbard inside myself, erupted through its casing like a bursting cyst. I had to really struggle to recover. Something was dislodging itself, as from a cavern inside my body or brain, and this situation seemed so divorced from waking reality that my own dimensions lost their power to persuade. I craned my great head and saw all that yellow-brown plastic catch the light, little pills glinting like ammunition, and then my brain went to work, juggling and generating several internal voices at once: someone’s filming this; this isn’t real; whoever Sean is, it’s not who I think he is; all the details I think I know about things are lies; somebody is trying to see what I’ll do when I run across these bottles; this is a test but there won’t be any grade later; the tape is rolling but I’m never going to see the tape. It is a terrible thing to feel trapped within a movie whose plot twists are senseless.’ 

Like the players of his game, the reader only exists in the world Sean has created for us. The effect is compelling, and claustrophobic. Sean’s narrative is intense and evocative. He is specific and articulate in his writing, but almost silent in his social life. His thoughts are frantic, anxious, self-perpetuating machinations; we are given very little idea of how he is perceived by society at large. There are moments of contempt and of friendship, but they’re only brief islands of contact in a sea of loneliness.   

It is some time before it becomes evident what Wolf in White Van is really about. The story pivots around two big questions: what happened to Sean’s face? And what happened to that couple on their adventure? But even when the reader is told the facts of those matters, they may not understand the implications. Certainly Sean has no answers for us. There is something forlorn about his world. He writes beautifully, and the reader will likely think him a good person because they can see into his heart and his mind; but there’s a sense that he is somehow beyond help — not because of his disfigurement, but because of his isolation. He is a prisoner inside a game of his own making. And as the pages go on it seems increasingly clear that he will never get out. 

We are accustomed, in novels and films like this, to another party breaking through to the narrator. Something will happen to shake them through their desperation so that their evident state of insecurity doesn’t become all-consuming. They might fall in love. Perhaps there will be a reconciliation, or an epiphany. But that never happens here. The only connections made in Sean’s world are brief and incidental, but the pain from discord resonates below all that. By the end it feels as though the world around the narrator has grown smaller and smaller, draped in a perpetual shroud, while his inner life has expanded out of all knowable proportions; the effect is mesmeric, and terrifying.  

‘…I remember my anger at hearing my real dreams spoken out loud by someone else’s uncomprehending voice. “Number five, sonic hearing,” she said. “Number four, marauder. Number three, power of flight. Number two, money lender. Number one, true vision.” Some of the other kids shot laughing looks at one another. It was horrible. People talk sometimes about standing up for what they believe in, but when I hear people talk like that, it seems like they might as well be talking about time travel, or shape-changing at will. I felt righteousness clotting in my throat, hot acid: the other kids were suppressing laughter and exchanging glances; the whole thing was so funny to them they had to punch their thighs to keep from cackling out loud. None of them had actually made a true list like mine, I thought, though this was conjecture…I remember this scene because it was embarrassing to live through it, and because remembering it is a way of knowing that I am half-true to my beliefs when the time comes. I sit silently defending them and I don’t sell them out, but I put on a face that lets people think I’m on the winning team, that I’m laughing along with them instead of just standing among them. I save the best parts for myself and savor them in silence. Number three, power of flight. Number four, marauder. Enough vision to really see something. A stack of gold coins and a ledger. People want all kinds of things out of life, I knew early on. People with certain sorts of ambitions are safe in the Trace.’

[ineffably-good]

Have a Little Faith In Me (3/3)

Summary: In which Crowley finally puts a ring on it and is rewarded with... a magic trick?

Chapter 2 is here

For all his teasing about competing, Aziraphale knew that Crowley wanted to be the one to make the declaration and proposal, and that was fine with him. Crowley had waited for him all these years, he thought; the least he could do was wait back while Crowley figured out what to do and how to do it, to usher them into the next stage in their relationship.

That didn’t stop him, however, from making life as pleasant as possible for the demon. Over the next few weeks, he took care to spoil Crowley a little. Some actions were tiny, such as using a small miracle to leave his pajamas warmed up for him next to the bed in the mornings, or having his coffee perfectly prepared and steaming hot the moment he came down the stairs. Some were larger, like treating him to a variety of surprise trips out into the countryside and getting him fitted for a new suit to wear to Anathema and Newt’s wedding, which was coming up in a few weeks. All in all, he did his best to make the demon feel loved and appreciated as much as he was able – and when one was an angel, turning one’s full angelic power to such a mission carried quite a wallop.

Crowley, for his part, showed no outward signs of his plans, but inside his thoughts were racing. He ran through and eliminated a variety of ways of proposing as too predictable, too boring, too ordinary. He briefly considered the Ritz and popping the ring into a dessert – but honestly, it had been done a hundred thousand times, and with his luck Aziraphale would just swallow it, and the Heimlich would certainly cut into the romance. He considered a hot air balloon, writing it in the sky from an airplane, and shouting it from the top of a mountain. None of these felt quite correct. He needed something that was completely unique to his angel, the one being in all the universe that he could ever have fallen for, and who had somehow miraculously fallen for him too.

It wasn’t until one day when he was restlessly looking through some of his old boxes he’d never fully unpacked, that he remembered something he’d forgotten for several centuries.

And with that, a plan appeared. Now he just needed the right moment.

Read the rest on Ao3 or click below to keep reading!

++

It was on the drive back, late at night, from Anathema and Newt’s small, lovely, handfasting ceremony that the moment began to feel right. Crowley, resplendent in his new, slim cut, charcoal gray suit took a peek over at the angel beside him, who was looking ridiculously happy and content and just the slightest bit tipsy on leftover champagne, and began to think seriously about just asking him now.

Aziraphale, sensing his regard, smiled at him and reached over to lay a hand on his thigh.

“My dear, you looked absolutely gorgeous tonight,” the angel said. “You should wear that suit more often.”

Crowley smiled. “I could do that,” he said, “for you.”

No, Crowley thought, abandoning the plan to just pull over and spill the words out – please marry me -- and, with them, his heart, all over the front seat of the car. Back home first. Keep to the plan. He suddenly felt intensely nervous in a way he hadn’t expected, and he sucked in a breath more harshly and audibly than he’d intended.

Aziraphale glanced over at him in concern. “Are you feeling well? You look a little drawn around the edges.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “M’fine!” he mumbled. “Just concentrating. Dark out here.”

“It’s always dark at night,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “Your eyes are made for darkness.”

Crowley shrugged and leaned forward to stab on the radio, hoping for something to cover the sudden awkwardness. Luckily, they landed on some rather good music, and Aziraphale rolled down his window to enjoy the night air, and he never once mentioned the truly record-breaking level of speed they achieved on the way back to London.

 ++

“You sober?” Crowley asked as they made their way into the bookstore.

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I think so,” he said, doubtful. “Or nearly so. Should we fix that with more alcohol?”

Crowley grinned. “We will,” he said. “In the meantime, just sit down on the couch and relax. I’m going to grab a bottle I’ve been saving.”

He heard the angel puttering around at the desk for a minute, and then he settled on the couch in happy anticipation. Crowley went to the kitchen and made just enough fumbling-around-in-cupboards noises to buy a few minutes of time to compose himself. Were his hands shaking? Demon hands weren’t supposed to shake.

Pull it together, he told himself. This is important. Do not fuck this up.

He took several deep breaths, despite having no true need for them, and set about gathering the things he required.

“Ah there you are!” Aziraphale said when he finally emerged, bearing a bottle and two of their nicer glasses. “I thought perhaps you’d gotten lost somewhere!”

Crowley set the bottle down on the table, the crystal goblets beside it, and gave Aziraphale a quelling look. “Sit tight. Need a couple more things.”

Aziraphale looked mystified, but he complied.

Crowley went into the back room and came back with a large paper envelope, which he put on the floor as he sat down close to the angel. Then, he looked around frowning, to see if the ambiance was right.

The ambiance, he thought, was not at all special enough. He snapped his fingers, putting soft music on the gramophone. He took one last look around and thought something was still missing. It came to him in a flash.

“This,” he said to the angel in a no-nonsense-will-be-brooked tone, “is absolutely a one-time-only event; don’t get any ideas.”

And with that he snapped and willed a handful of candles into existence around the shop, all lit. The shop lights dimmed a bit to allow the candlelight to be better appreciated.

Aziraphale gasped. “Candles? Oh, how lovely!” He peered more closely at Crowley. “Are you sure you’re all right? You made it quite clear I was never to light a candle in this shop again.”

Crowley ignored him and poured them each a nice glass of wine. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, “and they’re just for tonight.”

“Are we celebrating something?” the angel asked, rather shyly. He took a sip and murmured appreciatively at the fantastic Bordeaux the demon had produced.  

“Perhaps,” Crowley said, leaving his own wine untouched. He could barely remember how to breathe at the moment, not to mention drink something. “Have a present for you, anyway.”

He opened the envelope at his feet and passed a battered-looking leather folio across the couch to Aziraphale.

Crowley had made a habit, over the centuries, of presenting Aziraphale on occasion with the crème de la crème of the rare book world – obscure scrolls, editions of old plays, original manuscripts, author’s  notebooks. He had used them to wile his angel, delight him when he’s been sad, and, on at least one occasion, to offer an intense and heart-felt apology for a wrong he’d committed.

It had been, by his count, something like eighty years since the last time he did so. Long enough that it took Aziraphale a moment to process what he was seeing, before a look of delight broke out across his face. The angel knew from centuries of experience that whatever was in there would be thoughtful and intriguing. He ran a finger over the front edge of the cover.

“For me?” he asked, lashes fluttering. “Oh, you darling boy, what have you found for me this time?”

Crowley motioned that he should go ahead, and then lounged back on his end of the couch and waited with his hands in his suit pockets.

Aziraphale opened it carefully and found a single sheet of parchment inside, inscribed with looping handwriting in faded iron gall ink. He fidgeted around to hold it a little closer to the light, read the first line or two, and then looked up in utter shock.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly. “What is this? I know this handwriting. This is – why, it can’t possibly be – is it – “

Crowley smiled at him like the cat who ate the canary. “Yes, it is.”

“This is Will’s handwriting!” Aziraphale breathed. “William Shakespeare! What on earth! Where did you get this?”

“Well, I got it from the man himself,” Crowley said, grinning. “Commissioned it, even. Long time ago. 1605, to be exact.”

Aziraphale stopped reading and pushed his glasses up to his forehead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if his brain might explode. He honestly didn’t know whether to be amazed or affronted on behalf of the literary community as a whole. “You – you’ve – you have had an unpublished, and if I’m not mistaken, completely unknown Shakespearean sonnet in your possession for four centuries? No one in the whole world knows of its existence?”

“Just you and me,” Crowley said happily, enjoying the sight of the angel’s complicated reaction: shock, happiness, outrage, joy, befuddlement, and intense, intense possessiveness of that little piece of paper. The angel was cradling it like a newborn babe, like it was the most precious piece of paper in the whole world.

At the moment, it just might be.

“But why?” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “Why would you keep something like this from the world? It’s a priceless literary treasure!”

“Because,” the demon said simply, “it was for you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, struggling to understand. Then he blinked some more. His hand, holding the parchment, was shaking slightly.

“And you’ve had it all this time? Just, what, sitting in a drawer?”

“I didn’t need it until now,” Crowley said, gently. “Please, just stop with the interrogation and read it.”

Aziraphale took a deep and shaky breath and shifted his focus to the parchment in front of him. It took him a few tries to still his hands enough to be able to make out the words. When he finally succeeded, he read the first few lines aloud in a tremulous voice.

Since looking upon thee in the garden day Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight For life no longer than thy love will stay To steal sweet hours from thy love’s delight…

Aziraphale looked up, eyes full of tears, and his voice was hushed. “You commissioned a love sonnet for me, four hundred and fifteen years ago?”

Crowley tried to swallow the suddenly huge lump in his throat. “I did.”

Aziraphale, voice simply not working anymore, stared at him for a long moment, and then leaned down to read the rest quietly. He sat in stunned silence after, lost to everything around him, and then he read it again. And again a final time.

“It’s – it’s –” he faltered, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and drowning out all sound around him. For once, the angel was unable to find a single word.

When he looked up, dazed, Crowley had moved from his spot beside him, and was now kneeling on the floor in front of him, his golden eyes impossibly warm.  

“Angel,” Crowley said, “I knew four hundred and fifteen years ago that I loved you. I knew six thousand years ago, to be honest. It’s the one thing I’ve known from the start. Took me a while to accept it, took you a while too, but here we are, together finally, on no one’s side but our own.”

Aziraphale watched, spellbound, as the demon reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny and small.

“Would you please do me the immense honor,” Crowley said, looking suddenly very pale, “of marrying me and making me the happiest demon alive? Or possibly the only happy demon?”

In his hand was a small gold ring, with a smoky, ancient diamond in the center, cut in ways they didn’t cut them anymore, and with the faintest etching of a snake chased around the edges of the stone. It was old and simple and perfectly, utterly the best thing the angel had ever seen.

Aziraphale, unable to even speak, nodded helplessly, and Crowley slipped the ring onto his finger, where it fit perfectly because it knew better than to not do so. Aziraphale admired it for a moment, then leaned in to run a hand down Crowley’s face.

“I love you,” he whispered, and then pressed a kiss to his forehead, his temple, and finally his mouth.

Several minutes later, when they broke for a breath they didn’t need, Aziraphale took a moment to examine the ring more closely.

“Like it?” Crowley asked.

“I adore it,” Aziraphale said, still a little stunned. “It’s just… I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, please just tell me it doesn’t actually light up, does it?”

Crowley laughed. “No, angel,” he said. “It doesn’t. You’ll just have to wave it around obnoxiously whenever you have an admirer.”

“I can do that,” Aziraphale said. He rather relished the idea, actually.

Crowley got up from his perch on the floor and sat next to him on the couch, as close as it was possible to be to his angel. Aziraphale sighed happily and leaned into his side.

“My dear,” he said, “that was lovely and perfect! But one thing is missing, I think.”

Crowley frowned. What had he missed? He had the music, the candles, the big and utterly unique romantic gesture, the candles, the ring, the bloody candles…

Aziraphale tutted a little at the demon’s obvious discomfort and turned  to face Crowley a little more fully, tucking one knee under himself. He placed a hand on either side of Crowley’s face and pulled him in for a gentle kiss between the brows, then leaned back and snapped his fingers beside one of Crowley’s temples.

“What’s this?” he said theatrically, a soft but still mischievous smile on his lips. “Why, what do we have here?” He made a little flourish with his hands and pulled them back from Crowley’s head bearing something the demon couldn’t make out. “I do believe I found something in your ear, my dear.”

Crowley groaned. “I can’t believe you’re doing magic tricks during my proposal. If that’s a coin, I’m taking the ring back.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Our proposal,” he said, smiling his most radiant smile. “And anyways, you’re missing the point.”

The angel picked up one of Crowley’s hands and opened it carefully, laying something inside it and wrapping the demon’s fingers carefully around it.

“I picked this up for you,” the angel said, “because I want the world to know that you’re engaged to me, too. Would you please wear this for me, my love? I mean, if you like it…”

Crowley opened his hand carefully and looked down. It was a ring, cool and platinum, wider than Aziraphale’s, with black diamonds spaced around it at even intervals and light brushstrokes that looked a little like feathers between them. It was simple and modern and utterly the demon’s style.

“Ngk—” the demon said, then closed his mouth and tried again. “You… you got me a ring, too?”

“Yes of course I did,” Aziraphale said fondly. “Been carrying it with me for months, just in case. Didn’t want to not have it on hand when you finally asked me.”

The angel plucked it out of Crowley’s hand and slipped it on his ring finger. Crowley tried to admire it but he suddenly found he couldn’t see at all because of the immense amount of wetness in his eyes.

Abandoning all pretense of cool, he leaned into Aziraphale and wrapped his arms around his neck.

“There, there,” the angel said, petting his hair and shoulders. “I’ve got you, Crowley. I love you. I have you.” He hugged the demon tightly and thought about all of the straightforward routes and winding paths and wrong turns and backpedals and absolute roadblocks and immense leaps forward that had brought them here over six millennia’s time, about the love and the friendship and the shared experience and the slow march of time that had brought them closer and closer.

“I’ve always got you,” he repeated softly to the demon who even now could hardly accept being loved so deeply. “Always.” . . THE END

Read the whole story on Ao3

[themurphyzone]

Absolutely Disastrous Ch 11

Ch 11: Milo’s First Gym Battle! The Unpredictable Substitute Gym Leader!

Classes ground to a halt whenever a gym battle took place. Every student and teacher in the school gathered in the bleachers surrounding the battlefield. Even a class of six-year-olds from a nearby primary school had come over to watch. Their teacher wasn’t too pleased with the disruption though. She was busy giving Mrs. Murawski, a teacher at the Rustboro School and referee for the gym battle, an earful about the proper times to allow a gym battle so her students could focus on their lessons. 

“-YOU TRAINERS, AWFUL AT REMEMBERING THAT MATH AND READING ARE JUST AS VITAL!” 

Mrs. Murawski sighed dreamily at the desk she’d carried down herself, ignoring the other teacher completely. 

“-STOP FONDLING THAT DESK LEG AND PAY ATTENTION! MY STUDENTS CAN’T EVEN GET THROUGH A SIMPLE BERENSTAIN BEARTIC BOOK CAUSE OF YOU!” 

Since the gym battle would be delayed until those two sorted out their drama, Melissa and Lydia took the opportunity to review strategies with Milo, while Zack and Amanda distracted Scott from potentially overhearing them and coming up with a counter. 

Supersonic had finally worn off on Zack, but he seemed just as confused as to why Scott was throwing empty candy wrappers into the air like they were flower petals. 

“Don’t let him tire your Pokémon out,” Lydia suggested. “Principal Milder used the same tactic earlier on a boy’s Shroomish. He lucked out, you know. Effect Spore decided to activate when she tried finishing the battle with Tackle. Nosepass went right to sleep and couldn’t block Bullet Seed. If you ask me, he didn’t deserve that badge.” 

“Black hair, glasses, sarcastic, and rude?” Melissa asked. 

“Plaid gray shirt too,” Lydia shuddered. “No fashion sense at all.” 

“I can hear you!” a voice protested from the stands. 

Milo waved at Bradley, who scowled back fiercely. His Shroomish and Minun were playing an odd game of rock-paper-scissors together, ignoring their trainer’s grudge against Milo. 

Well, it looked like rock-paper-scissors, but Milo wasn’t sure how Shroomish managed the appropriate shapes without hands. 

“Hey, you came!” Milo exclaimed. “I bet you’re just as excited as me!” 

“I’m excited to watch you lose,” Bradley said, adding an eye roll for good measure. He turned his attention to Lydia. “And this shirt is part of the Gothitelle Boutique winter line. It’s fashionable.” 

“Sure, if your definition of fashionable includes rainclouds hanging above your head and spreading a mission of doom and gloom,” Lydia retorted.

Bradley flicked his hand dismissively and sat down, still glaring at Milo while he scratched Minun’s ear.

Milo wasn’t sure if Bradley was trying to emulate one of those jerk rival archetypes from Sara’s favorite anime, because he seemed to run more along the lines of grumpy guys with soft spots for non-humans. 

“You’ll do great,” Melissa said. “Just remember, Zack and I are right behind you...and the protective shield.” 

The shield was mostly there to protect spectators from barrages of dirt, water, and other attacks, but it would be good protection against Murphy’s Law as well. 

“You can do it, Milo!” Amanda cheered. Minccino squealed in encouragement, perching on Amanda’s head for a better view. 

Milo took his position on the battlefield. Diogee stood next to him, his front legs trembling with excitement. Milo grinned. 

“You’ll get your chance, but I’d like to lead with Mudkip,” Milo told him. 

Diogee fixed Milo with a red-eyed stare, his chest heaving in a deep sigh.

“Save the best for last, remember?” Milo asked. 

Diogee’s chest puffed out with pride. 

The irate primary school teacher finally gave up berating Murawski and stalked off the field, muttering some very unkind things about Milder’s hiring choices. 

Murawski draped herself across her desk, holding a megaphone in one hand while supporting herself with the other. Milo took the opportunity to set her up with a protective shield of her own as she announced the rules of the gym battle.

“This is a match between Scott, designated gym leader, and Milo, our challenger!” Murawski shouted into the megaphone. “This will be a two-on-two battle and no-SCREEE!” 

Her last word turned into a high-pitch wail that made everyone cover their ears. 

“Sorry! Technical malfunction! Happens all the time!” Murawski giggled nervously, a strange snort coming out of her nose. 

Once he was finished with the shield, Milo set two extra megaphones on the ground next to her desk. “You’ll want those,” he said. 

Murawski took it in stride and shooed him back into position. 

“-no substitutions are allowed. Scott has been given authority to issue the Stone Badge if the challenger wins.” 

“Pumice or feldspar?” Scott asked, digging around in his hard hat, which appeared to be full of small rocks. 

“Do you even have the Stone Badge on your person?” Murawski asked, aiming the megaphone in his direction. 

“My person is Mildred!” Scott exclaimed. 

Murawski stared at him for a few moments, and when he offered no further explanation, she turned her attention to a group of students in the stands. “Allison, grab a Stone Badge from Milder’s office. It’s in the desk, first drawer on your left.” 

Allison ran off and came back with the Stone Badge in record time, evidently not wanting to delay the match any further. 

Murawski stored the badge in her desk for safekeeping. “Commence the battle, and I swear if any of you hurts my little desky-poo...” 

She let the threat hang in the air, then raised a green flag to signal the beginning of the match. 

“Mudkip, let’s do our best!” Milo shouted, sending the Poké Ball flying. Mudkip used Water Gun on his Poké Ball in a display of power and sent it hurtling straight for the megaphone in Murawski’s hand. 

“Save me, desk!” Murawski shrieked, ducking underneath for cover as the Poké Ball shattered the megaphone upon impact. The megaphone released a final screech as its final cry before falling silent. 

“The blue-finned one’s your new friend, Cynthia!” Scott exclaimed, gently setting an orange juice carton down several feet in front of him. 

Milo glanced at the audience, but most of them didn’t look too surprised at Scott’s choice. Zack, Lydia, and Amanda all had to strain Melissa from marching down to Scott and decking him for breaking the sacred rules of battle. 

“Scott, the rulebook clearly states that orange juice cartons are not Pokémon,” Murawski sighed. “Neither are motorbikes, cupholders, or Pikipek.” 

“You mean the native bird of Alola?” Melissa asked, looking up from the notebook she was writing in. 

“Pikipek are evil. They will devour your desks in seconds and have your backup desk as dessert. They are not of this world,” Murawski’s voice dropped to a low hiss, stunning everyone into silence. 

Except for Scott, who just threw his arms up in the air. “It’s the inside that counts!” he exclaimed. 

A green pile of goo oozed out of the carton, reshaping itself into a blobby Pokémon. It smiled at Mudkip, revealing two peg-shaped teeth. 

Milo was no stranger to Grimer, since they lived inside the caves surrounding Mt. Chimney. But he’d never seen a green one before. 

“Milo!” Melissa shouted from the stands. “Alolan Grimer are Poison and Dark type! It’s even more weak to Ground than the ones at Mt. Chimney!” 

“Don’t give him info!” Bradley scoffed. “I’m trying to watch him lose!” 

He was immediately met by four outraged protests. “Quiet, Bradley!” 

Bradley sank further into his seat, grumbling about unlawful interference. 

“Use Mud Slap!” Milo shouted, deciding to open with a super effective move to see how Mudkip fared. 

Mudkip slammed his paws into the rocky ground and released twin jets of mud, which arched towards Cynthia. 

“Make yourself pretty and share your makeup with the blue-finned one!” Scott yelled. 

Cynthia’s body glowed blue and vanished in the blink of an eye. The mud streams hit the ground, leaving a rather ugly splotch of greenish-brown gunk. Before Milo could blink, Cynthia materialized behind Mudkip and spat a glob of acid at him. Mudkip yelped as the sludge hit his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” Milo asked as Mudkip staggered. 

Mudkip nodded. He wasn’t poisoned for now, but that could change at any moment. 

“Make yourself even prettier!” Scott exclaimed. 

“Try another Mud Slap!” Milo yelled. 

Mud Slap clipped Cynthia’s arm, but didn’t cause enough damage to surprise her. 

Unfortunately, the protective shields did nothing to protect spectators from attacks above their heads. Screams erupted from the stands as people used backpacks, jackets, and each other to block the sludge Cynthia haphazardly lobbed as she zoomed all over the gym. It splattered all over the protective shields, making Murawski shriek and cover her desk protectively. 

Cynthia bounced off the walls at high speeds, leaving small piles of goop behind wherever she landed. Diogee ducked into a small area under the bleachers, dutifully avoiding the sludge piles as he curled up. 

“I’ll call you when it’s your turn!” Milo shouted to Diogee, quickly putting on safety goggles to protect his eyes. 

Scott chuckled at the chaotic scene. “We’re making art! Don’t forget your subject, Cynthia!” 

Cynthia lobbed several globs of sludge at Mudkip, but Mudkip blocked them all with well-aimed Water Gun attacks. However, this didn’t deter Cynthia in the slightest. 

Milo knew he had to do something before Mudkip got too tired to track her. He flicked a stray candy wrapper that had blown onto his shoe. 

There were a lot of candy wrappers on the ground. 

Vaguely, Milo recalled his dad’s wise sayings about Grimer. 

“Grimer love trash of any kind. So if the Bouffalant painting behind us mysteriously disappears one day, I deny any involvement in allowing a Grimer to eat it.”

Granted, the Bouffalant painting hadn’t disappeared under mysterious circumstances yet, but the point still stood.

While Cynthia and Scott were fixated on creating an acidic portrait of a Dustox on the shields, Milo called Mudkip over. Mudkip bounded him up to him, shaking the sludge off his tail. 

“Mudkip, I want you to gather every candy wrapper you can find and put it into a pile. And don’t call Scott’s attention to you,” Milo said. “We have to get Cynthia in one place to hit her. She’s too fast with that double Rock Polish.”

Once Mudkip collected a sizable amount and piled it all into the middle of the field, Milo ordered a Water Gun to get Cynthia and Scott into battle mode. Mudkip stayed near the pile of wrappers, dodging Sludge attacks until Scott finally called for Bite. 

Now that Rock Polish had mostly worn off, Cynthia wasn’t as swift in her movements and Mudkip easily sidestepped her gaping maw. Cynthia crashed into the wrappers, though she wasn’t hurt by the impact and immediately started munching on the wrappers. 

“You’ll ruin your dinner!” Scott shouted. “Don’t you want roast leftover meatloaf on a stick?” 

Cynthia paid him no mind. 

Milo grinned. “She’s in position! Fire at will!” 

Just as Cynthia dropped the last candy wrapper into her mouth, twin jets of mud smacked into her mucky green body. 

Mudkip cheered at the direct hit, but his elation didn’t last long when an enraged Cynthia tried to drop a giant rock on his head. 

“Target practice! Head worth fifty points, fin worth forty, body worth twenty, and limbs are five!” Scott exclaimed. “Bet you can’t beat my record!” 

As a matter of fact, Cynthia really wanted to beat his record. Mudkip panted, crouching low in front of a rocky pillar. Cynthia stretched her slime so that she rose above Mudkip, holding a giant rock above her head with amazing strength. 

“Mudkip, get out of there!” Milo warned. 

Cynthia brought the rock down, and Mudkip’s body suddenly became enveloped in a blinding white glow. His front legs stretched, growing longer until the rock was firmly in his grasp. The form grew larger, then the light died away, revealing a light blue Pokémon with a bipedal stance.

“Let’s finish this off, Marshtomp!” Milo shouted. “Mud Bomb!” 

Marshtomp wrenched the rock out of Cynthia’s grasp, applied a much stronger Water Gun to the rock to break it into dust, and flung the muddy projectile into Cynthia’s torso. 

Acid and mud splatted everywhere, and Cynthia laid unconscious, her peg-like teeth exposed.

Murawski blocked her desk from further attack with one arm while she used the megaphone to announce the results. 

“Grimer is unable to battle!” she proclaimed. 

A resounding cheer came from Milo’s friends. 

“Into the orange juice carton, Cynthia. We’ll dumpster dive for your reward later,” Scott said, coaxing her into the container he’d first thrown onto the field. Once Cynthia was out of sight, Scott grinned widely at Milo. “Have I ever introduced you to Mildred?” 

Milo shook his head. 

“Oh, I haven’t?” Scott looked sheepish. “Whoops, guess I’ll have to fix that! Methuselah, meet Mildred!” 

He placed a milk carton on a flat piece of rock at his waist level. 

Milo waved awkwardly. “It’s Milo.” 

“Sassa-oh no, it’s sorry! Sorry, Mikey!” Scott said. 

Close enough. 

Murawski lifted her megaphone again. “Scott, milk cartons are prohibited from participating in an official gym battle.” 

Scott blinked at her. “Wow. You guys are like, really discriminatory to cartons.” 

The carton glowed red and released a Miltank, who stomped the ground with such force that Milo could feel the tremor. While Milo was curious as to how Scott managed to get a discarded carton to work as a Poké Ball, he didn’t get a chance to ask since Miltank body slammed Marshtomp into the ground without a prompt from her trainer. 

Marshtomp was knocked out instantly. 

“Marshtomp is unable to battle!” Murawski declared. “Both trainers are down to their last Pokémon!” 

“C’MON, MILO! YOU CAN BEAT HIM!” Amanda screeched. She leaned dangerously over the railing. Zack and Lydia hauled her back to her seat, but she barely noticed. 

Bradley muttered something Milo couldn’t make out, but Melissa didn’t look too happy and she ‘accidentally’ jabbed him with her elbow while standing up to cheer for Milo. 

“Looks like you’re up, Diogee!” Milo called as he returned Marshtomp to his  Poké Ball. 

Diogee crawled out from his spot underneath the bleachers and took up a position on the battlefield. 

“No roughhousing!” Scott yelled. “Play nice, Mildred!” 

Mildred took her trainer’s order as an excuse to body slam Diogee, who barely dodged in time. Milo sidestepped to avoid being steamrolled by a charging Miltank, and she crashed into the wall that separated the field and bleachers. 

The spectators behind him screamed as the bleachers shook and collapsed. 

“We’re okay!” Melissa yelled. 

“I can’t feel my appendix!” Zack complained. 

“All of us except Zack’s appendix are okay!” Melissa amended. 

Mildred grinned dizzily, charging back onto the field. Diogee aimed a Cut attack in her direction, but it barely slowed her down. 

“Right hoof, let’s stomp!” Scott yelled as he did some weird jig that involved a lot of leg-shaking. Mildred stomped on Diogee’s hind legs, making him stumble and lose his balance. 

“Are you okay?” Milo asked. Diogee staggered away from Mildred, sending an affirming nod to Milo. “Good! Let’s try Bite!” 

Diogee darted forward, avoiding another Stomp and landing Bite on Mildred’s shoulder. Mildred cried out and tried to shake him off, but Diogee held on tightly. 

“Scratch while you’re in close quarters!” Milo shouted. 

The tips of Diogee’s claws elongated into long, thin strips of light and scratched Mildred in the face and stomach. 

“Good job, Diogee!” Milo praised. 

Diogee broke his Bite attack to give a pleased look at Milo, allowing Mildred to fling him off. 

“Snack break!” Scott exclaimed, wolfing down a can of beans at a speed so fast that Milo was sure he’d choke. He tossed a milk bottle to Mildred, who happily gulped it down. In a few moments, it appeared as though Diogee hadn’t gotten those close quarter hits on Mildred at all. 

“Is that legal?” Milo called to Murawski, who was too busy carrying her desk out of the room to pay attention. 

“You saw the destructive power of that Body Slam!” Murawski shouted. “There is no way I’m risking my desk’s life!” 

“Keep rolling, Mildred!” Scott called as he wiped bean residue from his face. 

Mildred curled into a pink ball and spun in place, building up enough energy to propel her to Diogee. Diogee unleashed several Cuts, two hitting their mark and three that crashed into the ceiling, sending several chunks raining down. 

Milo opened an umbrella to protect himself from the dust. 

Mildred slammed into Diogee, sending him sprawling. Then she continued to roll past him at high speed, ricocheting off a wall as she rolled into him a second time. Diogee retaliated with another Cut, which prevented a third Rollout from connecting and sent Mildred spinning toward Scott’s side of the field. 

Mildred crashed into another wall, and Milo decided that he’d better end this match before the building collapsed. 

“Diogee, cleave a furrow into the ground with Cut!” Milo shouted. 

“Pass the roll and butter, Mildred!” Scott called. 

A well-executed Cut cleared enough rock to form a shallow groove in the ground. 

“Dodge and ready your Razor Wind!” Milo called as Mildred barrelled straight at Diogee. Jumping to the other side to avoid Mildred, Diogee’s horn began to glow white as the winds whipped through his fur. 

Mildred crashed straight into the furrow, her body still a pink and black ball, as if she hadn’t realized she was trapped. 

Once the wind was sufficiently built up, Diogee released it, and the air blades crashed straight into Mildred. She uncurled, panting heavily and making no effort to climb out. 

“Finish with Bite!” Milo yelled. 

The resulting Bite drained the little energy Mildred had left, and she collapsed as soon as Diogee carried her out of the furrow.

Melissa hopped over the railing and grabbed a megaphone that had somehow avoided the line of fire. “Miltank is unable to battle! The winner is Diogee! The challenger wins the match!” 

With the exception of Bradley, the spectators cheered. His friends ran onto the battlefield, loudly cheering for Milo’s victory. Bradley sullenly followed behind them. 

Bradley scowled. “You’re not an official referee!” 

“There’s a rule stating that the family of a gym leader could act as referee if an official ref is unavailable,” Melissa replied with a smirk. “It’s obscure now because the League wants to avoid nepotism, but never officially repealed.”

“Your friend is kinda scary,” Lydia remarked. 

Milo couldn’t reply because Amanda and Minccino were nearly choking him in their enthusiasm. 

Once they allowed him some breathing room, Milo released Marshtomp from his Poké Ball. While Marshtomp would need more rest before battling again, he was well enough to celebrate their victory. 

“You two were awesome today!” Milo exclaimed. 

Diogee and Marshtomp puffed their chests out in pride. 

“It shouldn’t count,” Bradley muttered. “He wasn’t even battling the official leader.”

Lydia left briefly to retrieve the badge from Murawski, who still refused to enter the arena while Scott and Mildred were around. They still had the capacity to destroy her beloved desk. 

Because Scott was the designated gym leader, Lydia had to hand off the badge to him so he could officially present it to Milo. 

“This stone makes you our leader!” Scott declared, dropping the Stone Badge onto Milo’s head. “Cynthia, Mildred, and I are at your command! Who would you like us to trap underground?” 

“Well, there’s someone who owes me money...” Melissa began, but Zack put his hand over her mouth to indicate that they weren’t trapping anyone underground. Scott and Mildred seemed rather disappointed. 

Milo plucked the Stone Badge off his head, passing it around to his friends so they could see it too. Minccino wouldn’t let Amanda give the badge back to Milo until it received a proper cleaning. 

“I just got...A STONE BADGE!” Milo exclaimed once Minccino was satisfied, holding his badge triumphantly in the air. Marshtomp and Diogee struck victory poses. 

“Really?” Melissa asked as Milo stored it in his badge case. 

Milo shrugged. “It looks fun when they do it on TV.” 

“Well, Mildred and I must be off!” Scott saluted as he and Mildred squeezed into a large pipe that had been exposed during the battle. “Those dumpsters ain’t diving themselves!” 

“The next gym leader better not smell like sewer...” Bradley muttered. 

“And then I said ‘girl, that’s not a Trubbish! That Pokémon is way cuter than your hairstyle!’“ Lydia finished, bowing low to a round of applause as they exited the Rustboro School. 

“Trubbish are pretty popular with Dr. Magnezone fans,” Milo said. “Problem is there’s so many nicknamed Trubbishdroid that they can never tell them apart!” 

Zack and Lydia broke into hysterical laughter, and Milo laughed too until he felt someone crash into him. Milo fell back, rubbing his head where it had collided with the other person’s. 

The pain quickly subsided and Milo offered his hand to the other person, who was whimpering fearfully at the empty briefcase he dropped. The green suit looked vaguely familiar. 

“Hey, aren’t you that businessman we helped in Petalburg Woods?” Melissa asked. 

“You have to help me!” the businessman cried out, looking ready to faint at any moment. 

“Yup, it’s him. Before you faint from sheer terror, mind filling us in?” Milo asked. 

“Red mustache! Gray clothes! Stole...weird hat doesn’t match! No, wait!” the businessman screeched, pointing in the direction of the mountains. Melissa and Bradley shot him exasperated looks. “Other way around! Gray mustache and red clothes! Funny hat! Took my goods! The super important goods! Running into Rusnel Tunturf...Neltun Turfrus...I regret skipping lunch...” 

He fainted. 

“I think he meant Rusturf Tunnel,” Amanda said while everyone stared in disbelief. “It’s east of here.” 

“I’m leaving,” Bradley scoffed. “I have my own things to do.”

Melissa latched onto his arm and dragged him to the east exit, ignoring Bradley’s protests. “You’re coming. Milo’s Pokémon are still tired and we could use the extra help.”

Alolan Grimer can learn Rock Polish via TM. Both types of Grimer can learn Rock Tomb.

The bit with Martin saying he wanted to feed the Bouffalant painting to Grimer came from Disco-Do Over, in which one of Martin’s listed dreams is replacing the buffalo painting in the living room.

Whitney’s strategy in the anime was to just have Miltank steamroll her opponent with Rollout until they fainted. Similar concept here really.

First gym battle is done and Milo has the Stone Badge! Next it’s to Rusturf Tunnel they go!

[thesassycloset-blog]

Hallelujah

Pairing: BFF JongKey, JongTae, side MinKey, OT5-ish Genre: humor, fluff Rating: PG Word count: 1,544

“Aha, sure.” Kibum nods, then shifts his attention back to his book as he continues “And you hiding from the world that you’re bi but coming out to us 5 years ago—”

“I get it.” Jonghyun grumbles, slumps down on his seat as a victorious smile spreads over Kibum’s face.

“Is that a new song?”

Jonghyun looks sideways.

Kibum has this knowing tint on his eyes and an amused smirk pulling at his lips as he leans over their shared armrest that just makes Jonghyun frown, self-consciously closing the notebook and lowering it to his lap.

“What if it is?” he snaps, chin high in defiance.

Kibum rolls his eyes, laughter gone “Chill, hyung, I’m not judging.”

Jonghyun squints at him.

He would argue. The have known each other for so long — lived together, ate together, had daily sleep overs even when not demanded by their job. They knew each other better than the others did and will ever do, to the point where he just sees there’s something dangling off Kibum’s tongue— how dare he lie straight to his face.

Jonghyun would argue, but that means drawing it out and he’s pretty sure he probably doesn’t want to know.

So, he just ignores the comment and goes back to writing the lyrics — cover pulled just enough to shield it from prying cat-eyes.

“Is it a love song again?” Kibum gets a hum in reply. A short pause “Taeminnie again?”

There it is.

Of course, Kibum can’t keep his comments to himself.

Jonghyun heaves an irked sigh, closes the thing for good and when he turns to his friend to give him a piece of his mind, wide eyes and lips sucked in a tight line, Kibum’s already hiding his laughter within the pages of his own book.

“Yah.” Jonghyun calls out, tone firm but hushed. The rapper pokes out his head, mouth pursed tightly with the effort to hold back a smirk — albeit unsuccessfully “You say it as if Taemin is the only thing I think about.”

“It is.”

He scowls “It is not.”

“Hyung, every song you ever write showcases how gay you’re for him.” Kibum rolls his eyes again, fondly “Your crush is too obvious. I’m amazed it’s been this long and he hasn’t picked it up.”

“I’m not crushing on him. And I don’t only write about him. Couldn’t I be writing about a woman I’m in love with right now? My girlfriend, for example?”

“Do you have a girlfriend that we’re not aware of?”

“...I could have a secret girlfriend.”

“Yeah, right.” Kibum snorts  “A secret girlfriend. From us.”

“What does that mean?”

Kibum looks at him with a mixture of contempt and pity “Hyung, you refuse to sit by the windows. Do you think we don’t notice your fear of heights?”

Jonghyun falters, but the scowl only deepens “Maybe that’s a secret I’m not uncomfortable with you knowing.”

“Aha, sure.” Kibum nods, then shifts his attention back to his book as he continues “And you hiding from the world that you’re bi but coming out to us 5 years ago—”

“I get it.” Jonghyun grumbles, slumps down on his seat as a victorious smile spreads over Kibum’s face “That still doesn’t prove I have a crush on Taemin.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

Just then, Jinki shuffles down the aisle on the singer’s side and Jonghyun watches in apprehension as Kibum shoots out his hand to draw his attention.

“Hyung.”

“Yes?”

“Is Jonghyun crushing on Taemin?”

Said man jerks his head at him, flabbergasted—

Jinki merely glances behind him at the dancer marvelling over the view outside the plane, music blasting through his earphones, and returns impassive to Kibum “Oh, definitely.”

—then jerks back at the oldest man.

“What the fuck?” Jonghyun hisses out, scandalized at their obvious disregard for personal affairs.  

“What’s going on?”

Kibum jumps when Minho bends over his seat to get in on their hushed conversation.

“Kibum just asked me if Jonghyun is crushing on Taemin.” Jinki deadpans.

Jonghyun gives up, lets his face fall on his hands.

“Oh, I thought it was something new—”

“Okay.” the man of the hour claps once to cut them short “Thank you all for your opinions, however, you’re all gravely mistaken. I do not have a crush on—”

“What happened?”

Four sets of eyes fall on the head poking from Jinki’s side.

A second goes by. No response.

Kibum notices how Jonghyun kinda shuts down and takes mercy on the poor soul.

“Jonghyun-hyung is writing a new song and we were asking about it.” he shrugs “But it seems like he doesn’t want any input.”

A small pout makes way on Taemin’s face, making him look visibly distraught when he mumbles “Not even from me?” with a voice so pained and so tiny and eyes so big and hurt that, despite all of them knowing how fake everything is, they are sure it’ll still have the intended effect.

Kibum’s point is proven right a moment later, when Jonghyun suddenly deflates, shoulders sagged.

“You know it’s not like that, Tae.” his tone is so sickeningly soft and sweet that Minho and Kibum have to hold back their sniggers.

“Then, can I see?” immediately chirper, Taemin waits for a moment before changing seats and patting the one beside him, beckoning Jonghyun over.

It’s much more hilarious because Jonghyun doesn’t even wait another breath.

Just grabs his things, tucks his head with slight shame at his weak willpower, and flops down on the empty spot.

He’s so obvious. 

God.

A wide smile spreads on his face.

He might just be fucking Cupid. Kudos to him.

It’s after everyone has gone their separate ways — Jonghyun safely settled with Taemin and diving right into their own little world; Minho pulling the comforter over his shoulders and going back to his PSP; Jinki continuing on his journey to the bathroom with a shake of his head — that Kibum leans back, makes himself comfortable and closes his eyes for the rest of the flight.

He loves being right.

When Kibum wakes up, the first thing he notices is a familiar duvet covering him from shoulders to toes.

The second thing: incessant chatter on his right side.

And maybe that’s what woke him up, way before his alarm went off, because all the pep grates on his nerves and he turns on his seat, about to tell them off, when he notices the kids have switched places.

Jonghyun is now trapped whether to look out the window and down to the ocean or continue to look straight at Taemin, who’s excitedly going on about something and often pointing things outside that Jonghyun would only peek at. Everytime it happens, the dancer chuckles at his uneasiness and places a comforting hand on his forearm until a stupid half-smile creeps on Jonghyun’s face — then, he jumps back on the topic as if they have never strayed. And everytime that happens, Jonghyun finds himself just a little bit dazed in the energy, the passion, the way Taemin’s eyes crinkle and sparkle or the way his expressions change with the emotions in his stories; he finds himself just a little bit breathless at how Taemin covers his smile when he laughs wide or how he tilts his head when he’s coming down from his high or how he licks his lips when he’s about to go off again on another one of his unusual long rants.

He’s so utterly lost, so far fucking gone in the moment, that he completely misses his surroundings until Taemin stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom.

Jonghyun’s eyes only follow him for three seconds, stares longingly for another five, before he feels a hard gaze boring holes on the side of his face and peeps straight ahead.

He meets an arched brow and mocking look.

His smile falls.

“Okay, so I may have a tiny crush on him.” Jonghyun whispers with a snarl as he lunges for his original seat, the last half of the sentence exaggerated in a higher register that’s meant to mimic the fashionista.

“You have made it this far, yet you keep lying.” Kibum sighs wistfully.

“Okay, a huge crush.” Jonghyun bites back, face burning “And if you tell him, I’ll tell Minho you have a crush on him.”

Kibum sputters.

His eyes go wide, an airy and indignant scoff spills from his open mouth.

“I am not crushing on Minho!” he squeals, completely outraged at the accusation, but Jonghyun shushes him midway and panic helps him end it with a hushed mutter, throwing a few looks around to make sure no one heard.

“How dare you lie to me for the second time today, Kim Kibum.” the singer narrows his eyes  menacingly “I know it must be embarrassing with how you hated each other but—”

“I do not like Minho! How can you even—!”

“Jinki-hyung!” Jonghyun taps the shoulder of the man sitting in the row behind them, pulling him out from his music “Is Kibum crushing on Minho?”

“Hyung—!”

Jinki squints at the tall man a few seats away, attention fixed on the penalty shot he’s about to shoot, and returns nonchalant to the pair “Oh, yes. Definitely.”

Kibum gapes at them in horror, back and forth, unbelieving and defeated “I do not—!”

“Oh, good!” Taemin closes the bathroom door and skips down the aisle, wiping his hands dry on his pants. He crouches down beside Jonghyun and looks expectantly at the trio “I’m not the last one this time. What’s up?”

“Well, Jonghyun just asked me if—”

Kibum groans.

[welcometophu]

Not Your Love Song: Chapter 14

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 14

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I look at these kids sometimes and I realize that I’ve forgotten everything about being in high school.

Rory stares down at the message from Darrik on his phone, gaze flicking back to the professor at the front of the lecture hall after a moment has passed. He cares about music theory—it’s one of the foundation courses for his major—but he’s not sure he really needs it. He’s been writing and selling songs since he was in middle school. There’s probably something he’s going to learn here which’ll help him get to that next level, but he can also probably ignore it for a little while.

Besides. There’s always the recording available online after, if he needs to review.

You do realize I was in high school just last year, he types back. On the other hand, I’m happy to forget everything about it.

He hopes it makes Darrik laugh, rather than making him feel weird about their age difference. He locks the phone, sets it on top of his notebook and picks up his pen.

There’s no time to write before it buzzes again. Alaric this time, the message popping up and fading too quickly for Rory to read it.

If Rory wants to be a good student, he should shove his phone deep in his bag and ignore it.

Or he could just ignore this discussion of four part harmony as something he’ll never try to pull off with Phoenix Rising—Andy doesn’t sing, and while Stormy’s enthusiastic, she’s only passable, not great.

Rory unlocks his phone, and Alaric’s message pops up.

Why is Dayton offering now to carry children when I want them? I know it might be important someday, but I’m nineteen. I don’t want to think about being a father. I’m still trying to figure out how to be a leader. And how to play football instead of going to war.

Rory bites the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing out loud.

Because Clan is weird, he replies. And your Clan is a very particular brand of old-fashioned weird. There are Clan out there that like Mages and don’t feel the need to set up secret societies with lines of succession. Like Darrik’s family. Rory’s never asked about the humans that are born into Alaric’s family, but he can’t think it goes well.

A fresh message in yet another conversation thread pops up.

Pawel said I should use the cards because they’re traditional. I could try something else. Like bowls of water. Or crystals.

Yeah. Rory isn’t getting anything done, not if Kit’s free now, too. He resigns himself to having three conversations at once, although for the moment, he resolutely ignores the sudden stream of incoming texts from Alaric and Darrik while he responds to his group chat with Kit and Shane.

Well, you need to use your cards with Thorne, because that’s your assignment. Working with me isn’t for a grade, remember? We just need to do what you’re most comfortable with. What’s safest for Lorraine.

The professor’s voice goes silent, and Rory quickly scribbles down the notes that he’s paused for them to take. As long as he looks busy, his cell phone use should fly under the radar. He hopes. The girl in the seat two to his left glances over when his phone buzzes again. Rory scoops it up to hold in his free hand so the buzz won’t vibrate noisily against his desk.

Did you talk to Darrik? Shane asks.

There was an article about her in the paper this morning. About the benefit concert and the fund for the family, Kit sends. They mentioned her moving to Sunnyview this weekend, so that sounds like a real thing.

So if we want the hospital, you need to talk to Darrik, Shane adds.

Rory chews on the inside of his lip. Yeah, I know. I’ll try to do that today and get back to you. Okay? I haven’t asked him about Saturday yet, either.

He closes that conversation and switches to the thread which has a picture from Darrik. It’s an overview of Darrik’s classroom, taken at an awkward angle which manages to maintain privacy of all the students by not showing a single face. There are more than a dozen kids in the room, and three have their heads on the desk, while one is leaned back in the chair, mouth open, looking like he’s snoring. Three girls have made a small circle in one corner, and are painting each others’ nails. Two students look like they’re working on a project together. Most are just playing with their phones.

Study hall, Darrik says. Which is as boring for me as it is for them. It’s a struggle not to sleep through 6th period every day.

Which is obviously why you’re texting me.

You’re the most entertaining person I know.

It’s a lie. It’s flirtatious, and outrageous, and so obviously untrue, but it still makes Rory smile and flush at the compliment.

If I’m interrupting, you can tell me to stop, Darrik adds. I used to text Noah in the middle of his classes because I’d forget when they were. He once had his phone confiscated and after that he sat down at my computer and put all his classes in my calendar.

Noah is still such a huge part of Darrik’s life. Rory can’t think of a conversation they’ve had yet where Darrik hasn’t invoked Noah’s name within a few sentences.

It’s okay. The professor has a no phones rule but he’s not going to call me out in the middle of a lecture. At least, Rory’s pretty sure he won’t. His phone’s quieter than a few others that he’s heard go off repeatedly during this class on other days. Besides, you’re not the only one texting me today.

Oh? Who else is bored out of their minds? I mean, I did just have to break up a squabble about whether Joshua scored a goal or not while playing paper football. He didn’t, in case you’re curious. It was obviously outside the goal posts.

I have no idea why you went back to high school voluntarily. I couldn’t wait to get away from people like that. Maybe it’s too blunt, but Rory presses send before he can reconsider it. And I have a group chat with Kit & Shane. Plus Alaric and I are always talking about something or other.

There’s no immediate response, so Rory switches back to his conversation with Alaric while waiting. There’s a picture attached, of Chris, eyes scrunched close, one hand on his chest, mouth open as he laughs, followed by a series of texts.

Chris sent me this when I told him.

Why is Chris laughing at me?

Dayton just asked me this again. She says we should make it part of our formal alliance. I’m not marrying her. I am definitely not having sex with her. Although it’d be a good alliance, I know, and if I was straight I’d do it. Theobald would probably approve except I don’t think he likes Dayton.

Rory would be laughing if he weren’t in the middle of class. He puts a hand over his face, smothers the sound that almost escapes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He breathes deeply, gets himself under control.

I don’t think she expects you to have sex with her. Use artificial insemination. When you’re thirty. And did she ask you to marry her? She’s probably just asking you to join your lines, which isn’t a bad idea. Make sure there’s some kind of out in the contract, in case you change your minds. I mean, maybe in ten or twenty years you’ll be ready for kids. You might think having a surrogate ready to go is helpful then.

Rory hesitates, then adds, We’re still just kids ourselves. Whole lives ahead and all that. Don’t sign anything you’re not ready to make good on in a decade.

He touches the notification that pops up from Darrik. I remember you talking about Alaric. He’s your roommate. Who are Kit and Shane?

It’s the perfect opening. Rory’s fingers stutter and stall on the keyboard.

This should be easy. He doesn’t need to go into detail. And he can’t see Darrik’s expression—if he’s angry, or offended, or hurt somehow. They’ve both got time to think through their words and tailor their responses. It’s perfect.

Rory inhales, exhales slowly, then types.

We’re all in Coven together—that’s the magical club on campus. Kit’s from a predictive line, and he’s learning traditional magic. Shane’s just a totally typical Mage. They both might be interested in helping reach out to Lora. If you think that might still be an option.

Class ends, and Rory shrugs into his jacket then packs up. He doesn’t have a class now, so he texts Kit and Shane, I’m heading to get food if you want to sit down and talk about options. I’m going to the Townhouse Dining Hall. As soon as it sends, he shoves the phone deep in his pocket and shoulders his bag.

He feels the first buzz when he’s halfway to his dorm, and ignores it. But it keeps buzzing, so either he’s getting a string of texts or—he pulls it out, sees Darrik’s name on the screen and answers the call. “Aren’t you in study hall?”

“I have five minutes while one class heads out and the next one comes in, yes, Rachel, please put your report right in that bin there. Can you tell the rest of class as they come in? Excuse me.” Shuffling movement, then Darrik’s voice is muffled. “They like to listen to everything.”

“Can you blame them? High school life is boring.” Rory remembers writing a song about one of his teachers, making up an entire second life for him outside of school. It’s never been a popular song, and Rory resolved when he recorded it never to tell the truth behind the lyrics.

“The class coming in now—these are smart kids. They’ll go somewhere eventually.” Another shuffling sound, and Darrik’s voice comes clearer. “I was wondering what you’re up to tomorrow night. I could pick you up and we could go out somewhere around PHU, if you want to talk about these plans you’re making.” He hesitates, adds more quietly, “For Lora. Which yes, that option is still on the table. But I need information before I can talk to her family, because we can’t do anything without their permission.”

“She’s being transferred soon,” Rory says quietly. “Do you think it’d be better for us to do this in the hospital? Just in case she wakes up or something and needs medical care.”

Silence aside from the sound of Darrik’s breath.

“Darrik?”

“Do you think she’ll wake up?” Darrik says slowly. “Do you think you can make a ritual that will help wake her up?”

“It’s not what we’re trying to do, but it’s a possible side effect.” Rory’s not sure exactly what they’re doing, other than trying reach out to someone who is currently beyond any normal kind of reach. “If she did, that’d be good, right?”

“It’d be great.” No hesitation, only the sound of relief in Darrik’s voice. “I don’t know why I was fine, why I’m the only one who came out of that mess alive and awake and intact. And I just want her to be okay.”

“We’ll do our best.” There’s nothing more that Rory can promise. “And dinner tomorrow sounds good. I’m meeting up with Shane and Kit tonight, and I’ll make sure I have good information for you.” A bell rings in the background, and Darrik curses under his breath.

“I’ve got to go. They might be smart kids, but this class doesn’t follow the five minute rule. If I’m thirty seconds late, they decide class is canceled and disappear.” The click of a door, sudden noise in the background, blurring Darrik’s voice. “I’ll pick you up at six. Make a reservation somewhere you like, okay?”

“Okay,” Rory agrees, and the line clicks silent.

He never managed to ask about Saturday, either. He’ll just have to do that tomorrow night.

His phone buzzes, and he glances down, half expecting it to to be Darrik, but no, it’s Alaric’s message popping up. Dayton wants to arrange another alliance.

Rory snorts at that, types as he walks. How many alliances can you have with one person? Or is this another thing being written into your alliance contract thing, like babies?

She started by saying we didn’t have to have a formal alliance and now she’s the one mentioning babies. I don’t know why. A pause before another text appears. But not babies this time. I told you about Devon and Aly, right? The Clan from New Hampshire?

He probably did, but Rory can’t remember the details. My head is full of weird ritual things with Kit and Shane so remind me again?

They’re the ones who brought two Clans together along with a Mage community, and they’re still bringing in other Talented folk as they find them. Because Talented people are dying in New Hampshire.

Oh, right. Okay, yes, I remember them. Aly’s pregnant, right?

The dots appear and disappear several times before Alaric’s texts come through in a quick stream. Yes, she’s due in a couple months, and everything looks good so far. She wants to find a magical midwife to be with her in the hospital. She’s afraid the plague could impact the baby.

And they also want to talk to your family. Because they’ve got such a good community, and they’re open-minded, and they’re very self-sufficient. Which my Clan is, too—the self-sufficient part. I could help them with that.

But your family could help them with mixing Magic and normal and maybe some ideas for helping other Talented people too and building a community.

Rory wonders why he hasn’t heard about the plague aside from Aly and Devon. Why no one seems worried about it spreading, if it’s had that much of an impact on their Clan communities. What about the plague?

They think it’s gone. No one’s fallen sick in ages, and now there’s a second pregnancy—one of the Mages—that’s passed three months. But they’re still nervous about the babies.

It’s understandable. Rory’s caught in the conflict between knowing that Gram would want to know about this—she and Nana and David would want to go in and help these young people—but at the same time, he doesn’t want to put her in the path of danger.

He can’t make that decision for her. Give them my email address, he decides, slowing down his walk so he can finish typing before he goes inside. Once I hear from them, I’ll start up a group thing to get them in touch with my grandparents and with my folks. Mom will want to help, and Dad’s all about rights for Talented people and he’ll help them with setting up a community, all the legal things.

He gets back a small series of smiling faces. Thanks. I’ll tell them to email you.

Okay, Rory sends. He stands just outside the door that leads into the public entrance to the basement under the Townhouse, and he stays to one side while typing. I’m meeting up with Kit and Shane to do Mage stuff. We’ll try to keep it to the dining hall so we don’t stink up our room.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket; he doesn’t need to see Alaric’s response to that one. And if anyone else needs to find him right now, they can wait until after Rory’s seen Kit and Shane. He wants to make sure he has something to share with Darrik when they go out tomorrow.

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[rileywrites-parker]

Have I Told You?

So I finally cracked and did some writing for Spider-man. Namely a Peter Parker and reader imagine. I didn’t like the idea of plugging in a bunch of [Y/N] everywhere, so I kept it very open.

Be aware that this a bit on the mature side. It’s also very angsty, with some good fluff intermixed throughout. It jumps back and forth in time to tell a story. Peter is in his early twenties here.

Based off of Tom Holland’s Spider-man, because obviously he’s the best.

Triggers to be aware of: Mentions of possible rape and death. Angst. Very brief mentions of nudity.

Summary: You’d silently crushed on Peter all throughout your childhood, and even into adulthood, paying attention to him from afar but never having the courage to do anything about it. Until your job allows the avenue to connect with Peter, which turns into a full blown friendship. One evening something happens, you are attacked by a group of thugs, Spider-man comes to the rescue in the nick of time. You come to Spider-man’s rescue in the nick of time.

This beast is 4,493 words.

The rain was coming down in torrents. The stench of garbage, sweat and blood hit your nostrils as everything dampened. Saltiness met your lips as you tasted the tears and blood from the gash above your brow they had left you with. Your breath was coming too fast; ragged, stuttering, and wheezy; the burning smell of gunpowder finally matching your inhale. Your chest ached. Your head was pounding in time with your racing heart.

You were cold.

Surely he was dead.

The sound of the gun should’ve been loud enough to wake anyone. In fact, you could hear people calling out from their windows; a shadow looked down from the fire escape above; sound making its way to your ears, but your brain wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to process it with the sight of the bodies in front of you. The broken figure in blue and red, his brown locks peeking out from the places his mask had split open. His skin was alarmingly pale, shocking against the colors of the suit. You had never seen him this still.

You couldn’t remember when you had fallen to your knees only that they were screaming at you; aching. Everything ached.

“Peter?” That couldn’t be your voice; it was too soft, too weak. Red rivulets ran towards you, streaming from him, dancing and swirling, following the path of the water pooling around your limbs.

“Peter, please.” You had never begged. Not even when they had you shoved against the wall. Not when they held you down, held a knife to your throat, a gun to your skull; the gravel and broken glass burrowing into your back and shoulders as your shirt was torn from you.

“I need you to get up now, Peter.” The shrill sound of police sirens echoed through the alley. It was enough to make you move, to go to him. Carefully, the mask slid over his features, allowing you to take him in fully. His lip had been split and both eyes were blackened. He had blood in his hair.

There was more blood on your hands and under your fingernails; his face, a shock of white, you were afraid to touch him, to mar anymore of his flesh with red. Gently, cautiously, your fingertips found his cheek, “Peter.”

His dark eyelashes fluttered and then opened. You couldn’t stop the ugly sob that came from your throat as he came to, or the tears that poured from you as he lifted himself from the ground to pull your body to his; his entire form shaking with the effort. His fingers found your cheeks, your nose, lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, and back up, making a circuitous route, cataloging, assessing the damage; what he could see.

Then he saw.

“Oh,” his eyes were on your torso, taking in the state of your body, “oh.” He retracted his fingers from you at lightning speed, his features changing to one of outrage just as swiftly. He stood on shaky legs, grabbing what was left of his mask and slipping it on. The sound of sirens echoed loudly in the narrow space, over powering the sound of your pounding heart.

He held out a hand, “Come on then,” that couldn’t have been his voice, it was far too soft, too full of doubt, “before they get here.” His eyes avoiding yours, avoiding the bodies on the ground around you. A few were starting to move again. All but one, the one that had held the knife to his chest.

Your fingertips met, and tentatively, he pulled you close, tucking the front of you into his chest before lifting you up into the air and into the direction of his apartment.

Working at a café definitely had its perks. For one, it smelt wonderful. The deep, warm, nutty aroma of a good cup of coffee was enough to keep anyone coming back for more. The atmosphere in the particular café you had been employed in for months was fun. It was hip, artsy, and always full of interesting characters. Working behind the counter, mindlessly mixing beverages gave you plenty of opportunity to observe all of New York’s strange inhabitants.

It also allowed you to exchange words with a certain dork you hadn’t had the courage to speak to while you had been in high school. Or middle school. Or anywhere else, really.

“Good morning, Peter,” you didn’t need coffee to perk you up in the mornings. He was a regular. You could always count on your 8 o’clock pick me up. He had his blue sweater on today, “Have I told you that I like that color on you?”

“Thanks,” his answering grin crinkling his eyes, “and yes, only every time I wear it.” As he bellied up to the counter you started working on his drink.

“How are your classes going?” His eyes followed your hands as they poured milk into the cup and then set to work frothing.

“Really well, Peter, thanks for asking.” He raised his brow at that, as if he didn’t quite believe you. One eyebrow of his sat a little differently than the other, like he had been cut there once and the hairs had never grown back the same way after. You wanted to be allowed close enough to his face to check for a scar yourself.

“I remember last time you mentioned you were having some trouble in chemistry.” The wallet he pulled from his messenger bag was well worn, well loved. Had it belonged to someone else before? He had lost an Uncle a while back when you were younger. You remembered it being featured on some of the news outlets. You remember how quiet he had become for a long time after it happened, before he had met his friend Ned. “Did you find some help?”

You handed the warm drink over to him, your fingertips brushing in the exchange. You grinned sheepishly at him, “Ok, so I’m not doing really well in everything.” He passed the money over the counter.

He seemed to hesitate for a second, pinching his funny brows together, before lifting the corner of his mouth in a half grin and saying, “Well, I could help you out,” back pedaling a little before speaking again, “you know, if you’d want me to.”

Your beaming smile must have been answer enough, as he chuckled and dug in his bag again for a notebook and a pen. He scribbled out his phone number on a blank sheet, tearing it out of the book before giving it to you.

He stepped from the counter as you looked down at the number, his neat, even hand writing running parallel to the even lines of the paper. You had forgotten to say anything in the seconds that had passed as he stood there watching you with an amused look on his face, a red tinge taking over the tips of his ears and cheeks at your obvious excitement at having made it to this step with him, and the prospect of seeing him outside of this café.

“Ok, well I have to get to class myself. I’ll – I’ll, um, talk to you later?” He drew his last words out into a question as if he still wasn’t convinced that you were currently on cloud nine.

You came back to life in time to quickly blurt out a “Yes! Thank you, Peter!” as his hand reached the door. You watched him walk away with a grin on his face; your stomach full of giddy warmth.

An elderly woman at the counter cleared her throat, smiling at you with a knowing twinkle in her eye. “He’s cute. Having a good morning so far, sweetie?” You laughed as a blush took over your features.

“He’s good.”  You set to work on the next set of orders.

Your feet touched down on the metal grating of the fire escape outside his bedroom window. He lived on his own now, but with the state of your appearances it was better to practice old habits. He went through the window first, turning around to offer his hands to help you in.

He still refused to meet you in the eye, gluing his gaze to the carpet of the room.

He had to have seen the body, the gun. He knew what you had done. You could still smell the gunpowder; could hear the shot, the scream, could see the mist of blood that had shot from his body as the bullet tore through him.

Now he couldn’t face you.

You both stood in silence, not moving, just breathing. You closed the window.

His breathing picked up, turning into desperate panting, his fists clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wetness spilling from the edges of his eyes where they normally crinkled in happiness. He fell to his knees, his fists digging into his eyes, and then clenching around his hair.

“Peter…” your fingertips brushed against his shoulder. One shaky, gloved hand splayed out in your direction as he worked to control his breathing. That hand caught yours as you tried to take a step back from him, his fingers carefully embracing yours. A moment passed where all there was were your fingers in his; a small bit of warmth combating the cold that your body was wrought with.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He released you, remaining on the ground for a minute more before standing to walk to the opposite side of the room, pulling a blanket from the end of his bed, and then holding it out to you with an extended arm, fingers reaching. You took it. He left the room; his cheeks wet with tears.

You stood there with brows furrowed, breathing shallow, and a heavy heart. You were cold. He was angry at you. You hadn’t thought about it; you’d just closed your eyes and pulled the trigger. He would’ve been killed. The knife had been in line with his heart.

You turned to look out the window, out at the city. It was still raining. The lights of the buildings still burning bright, unchanged, their color untarnished. Watching as the droplets ran down the pane of glass, each racing the one next to it; you caught sight of your reflection. You understood his distance now; what he was thinking. Why he wouldn’t look at you.

There was nothing to your shirt, it had been torn to shreds, the scraps of it wrapped around what was left of the bra that hung loosely from either shoulder. A thin scratch ran between your chest where they had cut your bra in two. Your naked breasts were covered in blood and grime. A dirty hand print covered one of your nipples, another wrapped around your neck. The black tights you wore were missing, and instead you stood in your underwear. More hand prints marked your hips, wrists, and ankles. Blood dripped down your legs, pouring from the scratches that littered your back and shoulders.

They hadn’t managed anything. It had been close; you had managed to fight them for long enough. He had shown up in time. He didn’t know.

“Merry Christmas!” You handed a wrapped box over to both boys. How you had managed to find wrapping paper with Bunsen burners and beakers on them would remain a secret. Ned ripped into his without hesitation, his eyes lighting up with excitement and his hand pushing at Peter’s shoulder several times as the torn paper revealed a Lego set that you knew he had been hard pressed to find.

“Thank you so much!” He enveloped you in his warmth, rocking you back and forth, giving you a squeeze before returning to his gift.

“Of course, Ned,” he reached out to give you a high five, “I’m really glad you like it.”

“Peter, this is so bad ass.” He pushed the box at Peter again causing Peter to laugh at his friend’s happiness.

“Yeah man, we’ll have to get to work on that right away.” Peter’s fingertips fumbled with the corners of his gift as he looked over the details on the packaging, smirking a bit when he saw how many pieces were inside.

“Hell yeah we will.”

Peter sat fiddling with the bow on his gift, looking up at you sheepishly. “I didn’t get you anything.” He had been struggling with balancing school and work. All of his extra money was going towards helping his Aunt pay bills she had fallen behind on.

“Peter,” you smiled at him, gesturing towards the gift in his lap, “come on, open it, please.” Ned sat quietly watching the exchange, patting his friend on the shoulder, encouraging him through the boy’s guilt complex.

Peter carefully undid the wrapping, opening the box beneath it and pulling out the knit sweater you had picked out for him. It was blue, not unlike the one he already had. He laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Have I told you that I like you in that color?”

Ned looked down at his lap and smiled as Peter met your eyes.

You walked into the dark of the living room to find him sitting on the edge of the coffee table. His head resting in his hands, looking more defeated than you had seen him in a long while. You adjusted the blanket so that it properly covered your chest, before walking into the room, stopping only inches in front of his form.

He kept his eyes closed as you reached for his chin, bringing him up from the shield of his hands, your fingers cradling his jaw. “Peter…”

“I can’t look at you.” The shakiness in his voice startled you.

“Peter.” He furrowed his brows, shaking his head, grabbing your wrists and trying, with minimal effort, to pull your hands away from him. You held firm.

“They didn’t take anything,” you whispered. He stiffened.

“What?”

“Peter,” you tugged a little more on his chin, trying to make him open his eyes to look you in your own. You desperately needed him to see, “Peter, please.”

You would only ever beg for him.

His dark eyelashes fluttered open, his glassy, brown orbs meeting yours. You gave him a small smile.

“They didn’t take anything from me.” His brows lifted and then pinched together again, a frown setting on his face, a look of anguish taking over his features. No, not anguish: relief.

His arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you to him, burrowing his face into your abdomen.

“It looked like…” his voice muffled against your skin; his breath tickling the little hairs causing them to rise at the sensation.

“I know, but they didn’t”

“I was so angry.”

“You aren’t still?

“Of course I am, aren’t you?”

“Peter, I shot one of them,” he looked up at you through watery lashes, “I killed him.”

He stood waiting for you where he always did; leaning against the corner of the café, dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of old sneakers, his hair perfectly mused. You had to laugh when you caught sight of what this particular t-shirt read: ‘-Ology.’

You gestured to his shirt, “Nice,” letting out another bark of a laugh, “Pete-ology: the study of dork.”

He let out a laugh of his own, holding a hand to his heart, “Oh, ouch,” then dropped it to offer you his arm as you started walking towards the subway, “I was going for study of awesome, but if you insist.”

Cramming in next to each other, you took in his scent, liking that his arm had gone from woven around your arm to around your shoulders, pulling you in closer; your side molding into his in the cramped, over packed space.

“What’s the plan for tonight? Ned still game for movie night?” You looked up at him, watching his expressions shift, “Or are you really going to make me study on a Friday night?” He grinned in that way that made his nose pinch up a bit.

He took a moment to answer before looking down at you with a pleased expression, “Actually, Ned has a date.”

You pulled away from him for a moment to get a proper look at his face, before deciding that he wasn’t pulling your leg, “That’s fantastic! Is it with that girl he works with that he’s always going on about?”

Peter nods his head, “Yeah,” his eyes alight with as much excitement as was reflected in your own, “the one with the- ”

“-the one with the purple hair that reminds him of the flowers that bloom in Central Park in spring?” He threw his head back and laughed at that. Ned had gone on and on about this girl in all sorts of ways for months.

“Yes, that one,” his arm tightened around your shoulders, and he drew you in even closer, his fingers rubbing your arm gently. You swore his nose had found its way into your hair.

“So are we still doing movie night, then?” As the question left your mouth, you felt his grip on you tighten, his entire body tightened, and his eyes immediately began scanning the length of the train. Seeming to remember that you were in his grip, he let you go and stepped away.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he continued to back away, “why don’t you just go ahead and wait in my apartment, and I’ll- uh- I’ll see you there in a few,” again he paused, averting his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had done this. You had decided a long time ago that this was just one of Peter’s quirks. Like his brain stuttered and panicked when he suddenly remembered something or felt uncomfortable and he just had to ditch.

You suddenly remembered that you were expected to say something, too caught up in observing Peter and his unusual behavior. Admiring how quickly he could maneuver through a train full of people, almost having fully disappeared before you let out an, “Um, O-Okay, text me when you’ve taken care of- whatever this is!”

A hand shot out from the crowd twenty or so feet down the train, “Thanks! Be safe!”

Peter was strange, undoubtedly so, but he was good.

There was no way to contain the tears that started falling from you as your admission hit the air, “I killed him, Peter.” You started to shake, and his embrace tightened, pulling you down to level with him, his hand cradling the back of your head and bringing your face to rest in the crook of his neck.

“He was going to kill you,” you choked on your words as your throat tightened, “I couldn’t…”

He shushed you, his fingers running through your hair as you cried, as your guilt strangled you.

“The knife was there, he had it here,” your fingers clenched at his chest, the fabric of his suit bunching above his heart. He pulled you as tightly to him as he could.

“I’m so sorry. This is on me. You didn’t kill anyone, I did.”

“Peter, that doesn’t make sense.”

“If I’d been faster, stronger, you wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“No, you don’t get to blame yourself. You don’t get to take that from me.” A sound of frustration left his lips. You could feel the watery trail of his tears reaching your face to mix with your own as they rolled down his chin and neck.

“I’m so sorry.” His words tangling with your hair, lips disturbing the tresses as he spoke.

“I thought you were dead, even after. I thought for a moment that I had pulled the trigger too late.”

“I’m alive.” You leaned back to take in the sight of him. His face was a bit of a mess; the split in his lip having grown, his eyes had darkened further, and the blood in his hair was a result of a gash that ran across the top of his forehead. It was black and blue; no doubt the reason he had gone unconscious. You reached out to push the emblem on his chest, the suit decompressing and falling loosely to his sides. His skin was mottled with bruises; his ribs appeared to be the hardest hit.

You remembered the three men who had kept kicking him. There had been six men in total. He had taken down two almost immediately. Flying into the alley, dropping onto them as he let go of his web, the rage you had heard in his voice still playing in your mind. The other four hadn’t been as easy.

The last one had been the hardest. He had nearly won.

There was a deep cut above his heart. Your fingertips smoothed over the ugly mark. Your lips found the wound next.

You lay sprawled out on his floor in the living room, behind the couch and underneath the window, your sketchbook open and your pencil scrawling away, trying your best to capture the photo of your friends you had taken a couple of days previous.

It had been about an hour since Peter had left you on the train. You had carried on to his apartment, settling yourself in, picking out a movie from his stash and rummaging through the fridge for anything edible; in which you had found nothing, so planned to order take out when Peter texted to let you know he was on his way back.

You focused in on your drawing as you worked to capture the lines of Peter’s jaw, scratching out an overly harsh line when the sound of the door opening hit your ears. You dropped your pencil, made to get up and then froze as you saw Peter quickly removing his shirt on his way to his bedroom, revealing a familiar, form fitting, red and blue uniform underneath. Your breath caught in your throat. There was no way.

But wasn’t there? Didn’t it make sense? Of course it did, Peter is good.

His shirt dropped to the ground, his pants coming off next, showing off the rest of the suit, before he rounded the corner.

He had kept this a secret. You’d been good friends for two years now. He wanted this to be kept a secret. You weren’t going to take that from him. As quickly as you could, you started gathering your things from the floor and made your way towards the front door, closing it quietly behind you, you made a mad dash for the elevator. You needed to go somewhere for a little while to gather your thoughts and ease the panic before meeting with him again for movies.

He called out your name as the door to the elevator closed.  

You had left the movie sitting out on the kitchen counter.

When you hit the ground floor you didn’t even bother trying to make it to the street. You had been caught. You waited for him to come flying out of the door to the stairs.

He stood in front of you, nervously fidgeting his hands. His gaze bouncing between the tile and meeting your eyes. He was waiting for you to say something.

You shifted your stance. “I was going to pretend I didn’t see anything.”

“Could you though?” his hand found the back of his neck, “Pretend you hadn’t seen that?”

You laughed nervously at that, at his expression, at his nervousness. “No, but I could try if you want me to.”

His posture relaxed then, and he gave you a soft smile, holding out a hand and gesturing for you to come to him. Your fingers met and he pulled you in for a full-bodied hug; you buried your nose in his neck and he his in your hair. “Let’s go back upstairs. I have some explaining to do, and then we have a movie to watch.”

He led you then to the bathroom. Stepping out of his suit, he stood in his boxers, pushing the shower curtain aside, he turned on the water. You watched as he stuck his fingers into the water, testing the temperature, as the steam billowed around his form, turning his hair into an even curlier mess. He turned to you then, looking you in the eye as he pushed the blanket from your shoulders.

It piled in a heap above his suit.

His fingers worked to free you of your tattered clothing, kneeling in front of you as he removed your underwear. His eyes never left yours.

He turned to test the water again, before pulling the curtain open and removing his boxers.

You hadn’t been nude in front of each other until this point.

It was anything but uncomfortable. It was what it needed to be.

In the warmth of the water; the water that so juxtaposed the cold chill of the rain that still trickled down the windows, the chill of the rain only hours earlier in that alley, you washed each other clean.

The two of you lay sprawled out over the covers of his bed, eyes closed, content in the quiet; basking in the presence of the other. At some point, his pinky finger had wrapped itself around yours in a loose imitation of an embrace.

It was a cool evening. The window had been left open from when he had crawled in earlier. He lay there still in his suit, his top half exposed, part of the suit hanging slack around his waist, mask discarded somewhere on the floor.

“So, Ned told her that he loved her, huh?” You asked, thinking back to his excitement earlier, at how happy your geeky, sunshine of a friend had been. Over the moon, really; she had told him she loved him back.

You didn’t have to open your eyes to know that he was smiling. His pinky clung a little tighter to yours.

A comfortable silence filled the room again as you instead took to just listening to him breathe; trying to match the rhythm; to meet him breath for breath.

His hand moved to cover yours entirely, the warmth of it crawling up your arm and reaching your heart.

“I love you, you know.” He said quietly, not wanting to entirely disrupt the peace.

It was impossible to contain the smile that threatened to spill out into joyous laughter as his words hit your ears, sending a bolt straight to your heart and a wave to your stomach.  He was looking at you, you could feel it. You met his eyes and his smile matched yours, his eyes crinkling in that way you adored.

“I know,” you finally whispered, when you remembered that it was your turn to say something. He nodded his head and looked back up towards the ceiling, his eyes still pinched as he smiled.

He let out a little chuckle and said, “Have I told you that you look good on me?”