#this doodle is so fucking dumb i made it months ago

[ramahavenna]

*transferring my pre period cramps onto my favorite character*

[ratwithhands]

More old concept art, this one's been rolling at the back of my workshop for a bit.

You know how some humans just turn into pokemon? Not ghost types or dead pokemon, pokemon like Kadabra that are just the result of some freaky transformation? Yeah anyways grief go brr here's a design for Emmet.

I made this mostly concept on a whim for shits and giggles, but I did outline some basic stat specifics. For starters there this godawful possible learnset from google slides:

wonder if there's any noticeable patterns, anyways the ability is Anger Point just because of how absolutely fucking atrocious it is. It comes from how the whole rage/aggression factor of Emmet's transformation and makes him an absolute pain to deal with once the Interpol find him.

Stat spread was originally based on pseudo-legendaries' BST but I ended up cutting down some of the numbers cause they were feeling like a bit too much. The values are weighted heavier in offensive stats and lower in defensive.

HP: 70 ATK: 150 DEF: 70 SPA: 110 SPD: 70 SPE: 100

BST: 570

Anyways hope you guys like the art, I made this concept like a month ago off of dumb idea but ended up having fun sketching a researching stuff for it. See you later ^^

Bonus doodles:

(someone from the server I'm in asked for Emmet having a treat so he's having a biscuit/stuffed donut)

also here's the gesture drawings when I was still concepting cause I think they're funny

[anaer]

wip wednesday (july 10 24)

even more time travel fix it fuck it up fic in which gojo ends up back in time and decides its time for a hostile takeover sukugo/stsg, rating: its true love actually

It was, as Gojo had established multiple times this morning with Suguru, September. Sure, Sukuna didn’t know him yet, but that didn’t mean everything was lost. He was ready this time. Yuji would eat the finger in June. That meant he had nine whole months to plan, and everything was going to be perfect. None of this getting sealed bullshit, no letting his second favourite sweets café get destroyed with Shibuya, but most importantly: he was going to impress Sukuna before Sukuna killed him.

Gojo decided then and there: he would stop at nothing to get into Ryoumen Sukuna’s pants.

Well. Maybe he’d stop at the destruction of all society; he had some limits.

Maybe.

First things first: Gojo still wasn’t entirely sure of everything that had led to the end. He needed to sort that out. The empty space on the back wall looked perfect for his needs. With a grin, he fired off a quick message to Ijichi with his requests. The hapless manager stumbled in some time later with an armful of Daiso bags and confusion written over his face.

“What took you so long?” Gojo demanded, taking all the bags from him to dump everything out on the floor. “Do you know how long ago I sent you that list? The world could have ended because you took your time.”

“I didn’t take my time!” Ijichi protested. “I only took half an hour—”

Gojo stopped rifling through craft supplies to point a finger at the manager. “Don’t talk back when I’m scolding you.”

Ijichi made a tiny, terrified noise. Irritating, but predictable. He pulled out the giant index cards from the pile and a red marker (the color of Sukuna’s eyes) and got to work. He scribbled furiously, a card for every event he remembered, from the most recent (‘Sukuna kills me’ with a heart drawn around it) to the most impactful (a very cute illustration of Yuuji eating the finger) to the closest in time to now (‘Suguru’s a dumbass’ and a purposely bad doodle of him shooting red at Suguru’s dumb body).

While he was in the middle of drawing a brain sawing open Suguru’s tiny head, Ijichi cleared his throat. “Umm…Gojo-san…what are you doing…?”

Gojo looked at him like he was stupid. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’ve got nine months until Sukuna’s back, if everything goes right, and a little over a year until he kills me. I’m making a timeline.”

Ijichi cleared his throat. “Uh…right.”

His timeline finished, Gojo moved onto the next most important thing. It would take some time to figure out what he needed to change and what he should keep the same, but the most important goal, he wrote in large, bright purple print:

FUCK SUKUNA.

Gojo grinned to himself and added in a little penis. “Anyway, Japan also gets destroyed next year, and I’d like to avoid that, if possible.”

“You just wrote,” Ijichi cleared his throat again, fidgeting nervously, voice going up in pitch with each word, “fuck Sukuna on a card labelled...goals?”

This time, he glared at Ijichi, obvious even through the cloth wrapped around his eyes. “I can multitask.”

“Yes, definitely. Of course you can!” he hurried to agree. “Just…Sukuna as in…Ryoumen Sukuna?”

Why was this so hard for Ijichi to wrap his mind around? Gojo had been very clear talking to him this morning. “Yes, obviously.”

“Who died a thousand years ago? And is just…fingers now?”

“Is there another Sukuna you know of?”

Ijichi adjusted his glasses, face pale like he was two steps away from fainting. “No,” he said. “Just…clarifying.” He took two shaky steps back. “I have to…uh…I needed to…talk to Ieiri-san about…” A quick bow, and he exited the room without saying anything else.

God, Ijichi was so fucking weird sometimes. He pulled out another card, stuck his tongue out as he contemplated what else he knew he wanted to do for certain, and then cackled loudly as he scrawled ‘Kill the Higher Ups’ with a flair. And a smiley face. Even if it wouldn’t impress Sukuna, it would make him happy. It had last time.

[hiraunia]

Guess who made more fanart? This lil' guy!

@crinklytinfoil 's Series The Best Laid Plans of Crewmates and Imposters has been carrying my mental state(Funny considering how dark and fucked it gets) for the past few months so it was only natural for me to make some more, finally getting out those little scenes in my head on to something.

I know that the uniforms should all be the same but I just couldn't help myself! I just couldn't get the idea that the Emancipator and Parmenides gets special uniforms out if my head, like Parmenides is a special base/mission thing so they get some bulkier, more insulating outfits and the Emancipator is like the best Gaurdien Ship in Mira so they get the cool fancy outfits to signify how important they are. Kinda backwards but I designed the standared Mira suits(Browns) last so I already ran out unique uniform suloetes which is why its skin tight, not what I would typically give to them but the Parmenides ones where already what I would tyically give to an astronaut or whatever but I thought they looked too cool for your average crewmate and Mira sucks so they get the dumb skinsuits. Don't ask why the fancier uniforms are monocolor and basic ones have grey accents, I needed something to make it more intresting.

So I drew this like a month ago and I kinda hate it but also still like it. I figured I may aswell show it since I did work hard on it. This was atcually drawn traditionally, like I inked it and then edited a photo so I could add the colors digitally which is why its a little more janky than the first doodles and theres ink everywhere. I love Yellow so much, that pose made all the bs I delt with with the ink worth it. Also if you hadn't noticed Dani's design is different, yah I made this a month ago and only realiseds like two days ago that Dani was described with black locs not brown curls! Wish it didn't take me that long to realise that becuse locs are SOOO much eaiser to draw than curls, esspecially shorts curls I hate them so much! Atcually I hate drawing short hair in general, this has been a somewhat tourturous experince for me!

This is from another tradtional sketch I colored but it was the only doodle I liked so behold! Cyan and Grey being cute together on the way to the tower(?)

I love this doodle so much, it the only one i have of any one with their helmets on and thats kinda a shame becuse I feel like geting rid of the face makes me give them more expressive body language. I've been struggling to make the helmets with the other uniforms look good so thats probly why. The Parmenides uniform have that tall neck that connects the head to the body better but the other two are having this odd bobblehead(heh) effect. I need to experiment more with it.

Anyways its 3 am and I need to stop staying us so late! Have a good time of day!

[tired-o-fighter]

Today TMNT 2003 turned 20 years old

I wasn't exactly around the day it aired and can't exactly talk about how it's been so long since then

But i want to use this awesome day to talk about my experience with 03 and how important it was in my journey

So back when i was around 5-6 , there was this new TV network that only played cartoon DUBBED IN MY LANGUAGE which was something every kid was so excited about becouse we could "turn on the tv and there'd always be a cartoon that we actually understood"

And every Tuesday night at 8:30 pm we'd watch the ninja turtles. And that was without a doubt the most popular cartoon for every kid around my age

My and two distant relatives fell in love with the show and it became our entire life.

Me and the girl chose a turtle to "marry" and we made the boy a girl turtle to "marry" and we kept playing pretend

Oh i was married to leo

We still have recordings of 6 year olds filming what we've learned to be a western style wedding through TV.

And Sometimes me and the boy played together we'd BE the turtles

Again i was always Leo

And as time passed i never stopped loving the show. After a while it was "too childish" and"too dumb" to love the show so I decided to hide my love for it but there were still slip ups when i got too excited and started to infodump about it.

Eventually i just stopped caring when i realized tmnt 03 is the reason i loved animation and story telling and why i wanted to make shows in the future

And embracing my love for the show and comfortably doodling them without fearing people seeing it. Liking fanarts and Reading fanfics led me to find the most incredible tmnt family i could have ever dreamed.

Thank you tmnt 03 for always being my comfort when i needed it I can't believe I've loved this show for so long and that i still watch my favorite childhood show. Little me would have been so proud knowing that

Anyways this was a little doodle i drew like a month ago but school literally fucked with my plans and my actual drawing is still a wip so i just turned this digital

Here's a tiny sneak peek at it (already finished don but I'll share it as a complete piece)

I'll work on it IF this stupid school lets me get my diploma

[shurisneakers]

shut in [8]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, guns, anxiety

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: oh my god oh my god sam stans how are we feeling djkghdfjkhgdf. no thoughts only sam wilson in ep1 of tfatws <333

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Hey, I’m just going to step out for today.” You looked up from the doodle you were making on the corner of the paper. “Catch you later? Just find me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” You automatically sat up straighter, blanket creasing under you. Something was amiss in his body language.

“Yeah, just-” He seemed like he was struggling for words. “-Brooklyn.”

You didn’t get what he was making a reference to until it suddenly dawned on you.

It was the codeword he had suggested right at the beginning of your time in the house. If he was in danger you were sure he’d tell you, at least an inkling of information.

But no, this was for some time alone, further confirmed by the distant look in his eyes.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here if you need.”

He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning around and leaving the room.

You were left staring after him, the drawing you were making of the house layout discarded on the bed. You were working on strategies, vantage points- anything that could help in case something went wrong.

Was it because of the dumb ‘moment’ you had shared two days ago? It didn’t seem like it because he hadn’t brought it up at all and God knows you would never. Was it something else that had happened, something you did?

Stop overthinking. He probably just needs a day to himself.

You had spent almost a month in each other’s company and he had never once complained. He had a tendency to be petty about minor inconveniences, like you trying to watch a movie when his favourite segment on the local news channel was going on. He liked the cooking show they hosted.

He had never made it a point to specifically tell you that he needed some time to himself, much less use the word.  

“Get yourself together,” you whispered to yourself, shaking off the nagging feeling you had.

If he had an issue, he would have voiced it. He never shied away from doing that before and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

You forced yourself to think about something else, grabbing the copy of American Gods you had already gone over once before but were subjecting to a reread. Opening the page you had last left it at, you were determined to distract yourself.

Nearly twenty minutes later and exactly zero pages since you had started, you realised that no matter how much you forced yourself to get into it, you went over the same line over and over again, not a single word registering in your head.

“Motherfucker,” you groaned, letting the book fall on your face. You took a long look outside the window, mind drifting.

It was a nice day out. Maybe some sun would help.

You lifted your legs off the bed, taking your book with you to the kitchen. You could get a nice sandwich-- the same as the last three fuckin’ weeks but you digressed-- a glass of water, and you could sit outside for a while. A mini picnic.

You opened a new packet of sliced bread, taking two out before stopping. You pondered over whether you should make him a sandwich for when he returned, knowing that he didn’t eat lunch before he left.

You thought about it for a good minute before rolling your eyes, pulling out two additional slices to make him one as well. It was just a sandwich. It wasn’t a big deal.

Tucking your book under your arm, you carried your lunch and a glass of water to the patio around the back.

The wind rustled the leaves and the sun wasn’t harsh. The low buzz of insects was the only sound that kept you company.

The air was crisp and you instantly felt better than you had all day in the room.

Setting your stuff down on the bench, you sat down, inhaling deeply.

The book suddenly didn’t seem so impossible to complete as you tried once more, slipping into the pages easily. Even after you finished your food, you continued to lounge about there, too engrossed and content to move.

You didn’t notice the afternoon go by, evening coming and going just as swiftly. You swatted at the occasional fly but nothing else bothered you.

It felt like summer break. At least what you thought it would feel like. You never had one, being homeschooled about things from various people in the organization. There wasn’t a singular, long break. You were just forced to adapt.

You didn't know how to deal with the suffocating realisation of knowing there were so many things you missed out on. It grew the longer you spent time away. You just shoved it away, forcing yourself to deal with it another day.

He comes back when the sky is slipping into shades of orange, a backpack on his shoulder. There was a patch of sweat around his neck and his head was hung low as he walked.

“Hey,” you hoped it didn't look like you were waiting for him. It could easily be taken as you camping out there, waiting for your husband to return from a hard day in the fields.

Sam looked up at your greeting. You noted that the bruise on his nose was starting to change colour but the swelling had reduced from how bad it used to be.

“Left you a sandwich on the counter if you’re hungry,” you added. He nodded in acknowledgement, making his way up the stairs and into the house without another word.

You let out an exhale, feeling a little better knowing that he was at least back in one piece. No reason to believe otherwise other than the anxiety you had developed over imagining the worst case scenarios.

You picked up your book again, intending to finish off the last bit before you went back inside for the day.

About half an hour later Sam re-emerged from the house, your attention snapping to him as the door opened and shut. He had changed into a new pair of clothes, looking a little cleaner like he was fresh outta the shower. He had a sandwich in his hand that he had already taken a few bites out of. You wondered if it was the one you left for him.

You didn’t expect him to take a seat next to you on the bench. He didn’t look at you or open his mouth to talk so you followed suit. You continued reading, or at least tried to, as he just sat there, finishing his sandwich without any kind of other interaction.

There was a strange tension he wasn’t addressing. He instead leaned back, arms crossed behind his neck to support his neck and closed his eyes. His foot tapped against the wooden floor and rather than getting annoyed, you found solace in the repetition.

“They recruited me on this day,” Sam said to no one in particular. His eyes were still closed and his feet still tapped against the ground. “Parents died when I was a kid, I got shifted around orphanages and homes a lot. Finally Ransone had someone pick me up.”

You closed your book softly, setting it down beside you. That’s what was bothering him.

Secret adoption is what they called it officially in the business, but around the organization it was just known as the recruitment process. Every record of Sam being alive would have been destroyed to maintain anonymity.

To the world he just… disappeared.

It was a day that clearly brought with it so much pain. You were too young to remember when you joined, and no one had kept track either. You supposed it was for the good.

It was supposed to be a happy day, one filled with new beginnings. Maybe that’s what he would have thought when he got picked. It’s what you did.

“I’m sorry,” you said, not having anything else to offer. You relieved your memories everyday in your head. Having a morbid anniversary of sorts would no doubt drain the life out of you; remembering one singular day that would trigger the rest of the decisions you made in your life.

He didn’t say anything in return. You turned your attention to the sky, finding it easier to look at that than the disturbed look on his face.

“Do you regret this?” he asked out of the blue.

“All of it,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“Every single one, huh?” Sam’s one eye opened to peer at you.

“It wasn’t up to me to take someone’s life away.” You were just a child. You knew nothing other than what you were taught; so then why was it so fucking hard to forgive your past self for straying into this. “Even once I realised that I couldn’t leave.”

You didn’t form any relationships while you worked with Ransone. Whoever you did allow yourself to care for ended up dead or worse, sometimes as a cruel lesson to not make friends in the organization you worked in because all they served as were distractions and liabilities. Others were plain scum; people who you knew were using you but you didn’t care. The loneliness hurt worse.

“What about you?”

“I’d give anything to go back and change things,” he admitted. He didn’t have a say either. It didn’t make things easier.

“You regret all of ‘em too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “One of them I don’t.”

“That one must have deserved it then,” you deduced. It was the only logical explanation you could think of; the worst of the worst.

“Nah. I let him go.”

It took a while to register what he said.

“What?” You twisted your body to look at him.

“First mission I ever did.”

His hands were shaking lightly, barely holding on to the gun. This wasn’t what he was taught. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He had already managed to get his way into the house through the back. His partner had taken care of most of it and Sam only had to knock people out. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet.

But now his partner was injured outside the door. Quick shot to the leg, a punch in the face and he was out cold. Sam was already in the master bedroom by the time it happened. He had no idea about where his partner was, only the crippling fear of being left alone and the nerves from the threat posed to him if this didn’t go right.

He knew he didn’t have enough time. He had only a few minutes to kill him and get out of there before his family returned.

The man itself was sitting at the study table, his back towards Sam. Just pull the trigger and get out of here. It was deadly silent.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” the man said suddenly. Sam nearly jumped but instead tightened the grip on the gun.

“Stay where you are.” He sounded confident.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” His chair swiveled around, letting him face Sam. His hair was white with a beard that matched. He was dressed down in his pajamas, a robe covering him. He didn’t look nervous.

“Stop talking.”

“You’re younger than what I expected,” the man observed, not paying heed to what Sam was in. He was a considerable distance away. “You’re not even legal yet, are you? I got kids, I would know.”

Sam didn’t say a word, only lifted his gun up to align with his forehead. “I said, stop talking.”

“I’ve made mistakes. Several, actually,” he mused, “It’s why your boss sent you here. I’ve accepted my fate.”

“Then it should be easy.”

“Oh, it never is,” the man chuckled. “It doesn’t get lighter. You learn to ignore it but it’ll weigh on you for the rest of your life.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. It would get easier. It had to.

“I doubt that’s what you heard, however,” he continued. “Ransone’s a bit… unstable. It’s in his blood, but you- you don’t look like you could live with it.”

Ransone’s history was well known enough that rival gang leaders knew it too, apparently. The man would have been delighted at his infamous reputation.

Just shoot him. Just shoot him and end this.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, taking a sip from the tumbler he had in his hand. “You’re going to be the last person I talk to. It’d be nice to have a name.”

“Sam,” he whispered, inwardly cursing himself.

“Sam. That’s a strong name,” the man said, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sam?”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t have a choice.” He hated how defeated he sounded. It was a weakness.

“They want you to believe that. It takes away your freedom. I would know, I’ve used it.” The man smiled, setting down his glass. “I’ll tell you this though, Sam. You always have a choice.”

“Stop talking, man.” Sam pulled the safety off.

“Once you go down this way, there’s no way you can escape. Someone will always have to die; either him or you.”

“That’s not true.” He could leave at any time. He just needed-

“You’ll see for yourself.” The man leaned back on his chair, resigned. “But for now, go ahead. I’ll make it easy for you.”

He simply closed his eyes and sat back.

You waited for Sam to continue.

“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Son of a bitch got in my head and I knew what he was doing too. Told him to get the fuck out before my partner shot him in the face.”

“Does Ransone know?” You were still reeling from the incident he recounted. You didn't know what else to say.

“Holds it over me every damn day,” he scoffed. “Some fucked up way of saying that I owe him one.”

To be frank, you were surprised Sam was still alive to tell you. Everyone knew that Ransone forgiven the first mistake someone made, but this was huge. If it were anyone else, he would have had someone try out a hundred different ways to push Sam to the brink of death and back; having him begging for the release that death would bring.

“He hasn’t ever cashed in that favour?”

“He did. Had me take out the leader of the Ten Rings after that.”

“So then why did you still continue?”

“I did something extremely dangerous a couple of years ago that he found out about recently. Used that to get me to come for this mission.”

He didn’t elaborate what he meant and you didn’t ask him to. You supposed it was a story for another day. This was heavy enough.

“He wants to get rid of me as much as I want to get away from him, trust me. We’re the weird, toxic relationship those self-help Instagram pages warned you about.” Trust Sam to make a dumb joke during a conversation like this. “Probably the only time someone from the gang let their target go and not died.”

That wasn’t as true as he thought he was but you didn’t want to seem like you were one-upping him. You didn’t want him to think you were making this about you.

“You remember the big break you were talking about?” you tread carefully, gauging his reaction before you continued. “The one that pushed me up the ranks or whatever.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgement, bringing his hands from behind his head to fold across his chest.

“Similar story, ‘cept Ransone doesn’t know.”

“What?” His eyes shot open. “How?”

“I was so tired of him treating me like a child. Everyone around who joined after me was out there doinghardcore missions and I was stuck with petty shit.” You didn’t know any better. You wished you had. “So he told me if I made it through this one, he’d send me on more.”

This wasn’t your first mission. You had handled hits before, mostly in the shadows, from a distance.

This was different. It was broad daylight, waiting behind a wall near the gated entrance of the house for a car to pull up.

A challenge, Ransone had posed, with strict instructions to do it in broad daylight. If you got out of this undetected, he’d consider sending you on more sophisticated missions.

“Highly stealthy. They’re dangerous,” you were warned. “You won’t know what hit you if you’re caught off your game.”

The low rumble of the car outside the gate alerted you of your target’s arrival. The gates weren’t going to open, the guards were dead.

The car stopped, waiting for the path to open up. When it didn’t the car’s engine slowed to a stop. The man in the driver’s seat got out to open the gate, giving you a clear shot.

You took a deep breath, clenching your eyes shut for a second before taking aim.

The body hit the gravel and you quickly made your way to the car. You could see the woman in the backseat gaping at where the man was standing a few seconds ago. She was struggling against the door, trying to escape.

She finally succeeded, the door opening suddenly as she stumbled over herself trying to get out.

“Stay there,” you commanded. She slowly looked up at you, face white as a sheet.

“Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt us.”

“I’m sorry.” You truly were.

Her face changed, dropping the facade immediately. She just looked on in acceptance, not making an effort to move. Manipulative. She almost had you convinced

You held the gun over her, pulling the trigger. A single shot. Her body slumped over.

You stared at her in silence, expressionless. You let out an exhale, tucking the gun back into the waist of your pants, stepping over her body to leave.

A small, staggering breath made you stop in your tracks. It was so slight you barely heard it. You took a step back, trying to trace where it came from.

You ducked your head to peer into the car, your heart stopping. Your hand instinctively reached for your weapon.

“What the-” you muttered, facing a boy who looked only a few years younger than you. He was staring straight ahead, muscles in his jaw tight.

The son wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be abroad, according to the case file. Unless there were two of them you didn’t know about, this boy wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Listen,” you began, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, body trembling. He was scared. He didn’t show it.

“Show no mercy,” Ransone’s voice rang in your head.

“He’s a child,” you murmured to yourself. Your gun felt heavy in your hand.

Show no mercy.

You could only imagine what would be in store for you if you returned to Ransone with some tale of sympathy. This boy was only a few years younger than you. He didn’t have anything to do with this.

Show no mercy.

“Kid,” you called out. He slowly turned his head. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Leave. You can’t be seen if someone comes back,” you urged. “I won’t be able to help you.”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

When he didn’t shift, you slammed the hood of the car, scaring him enough to pull at the door and stagger out of the car.

You turned your back to him, not waiting to see where he was going. The more deniability you had, the better.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“And Ransone doesn’t know.”

“There’s no record of this kid. He thinks he was at boarding school.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t going to correct him either.”

“If he did find out-” Sam trailed off.

“I’d be dead,” you concluded. “Being his favourite wouldn’t matter.”

“Why was it such a big deal, this mission?”

“She was a part of a major gang that Ransone was losing to.”

Sam just nodded knowingly, looking ahead again. You knew he’d done missions like this as well. Things like this were common so it didn’t need further elaboration.

“This job sucks,” he let out.

You gave a short laugh. That was an understatement.

“I want out. Can’t keep doin’ this for much longer,” he continued, however, to your surprise. “Don’t wanna keep doin’ this.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You will.”

“How?” You hadn’t seen him like this before, this hint of desperation in his tone that left as quickly as it came. “I’ve tried, everything just comes up short.”

“I’ll help you.” You wanted to, God you did.

“You gonna kill him for me?” He looked at you. “‘Cause that’s really the only way out of this.”

If you were pushed to the limit, if he was on his knees in front of you and there was a gun in your hand pointed at him; would you be able to pull the trigger? Would you be able to kill the only constant you’d had for more than half your life?

“I can’t,” you muttered, dejection making its way into your thoughts.

“I know,” Sam said softly, “I wouldn’t ask you to either.”

You took a moment to observe him. The sun did him good. There was a soft glow to his skin, the colours of the sunset dancing in his dark eyes. Laugh lines were becoming more prominent around them, only adding to its charm.

He was a good man. He deserved better.

“I’ll find a way,” you sounded determined, “I promise.”

You didn’t say that very often. Your word didn’t mean a lot to people in the business, but it seemed to, to him.

“Thank you.” He appeared taken aback but didn’t show it in his words.

You simply sent him a smile, a reassurance. You knew what you had to do, just weren’t sure how.

He was right. There wasn’t a way out of it other than the one he proposed, but it wasn’t an option. You had to find another.

You would. You’d figure it out.

“It’s Cinnamon, by the way,” he said without any context.

You looked at him in question.

“My embarrassing nickname.” This was not where you saw the conversation heading but you were delighted all of a sudden. “My ma used to call me that all the damn time. Mortifying.”

“Cinnamon and Buttercup.” You didn’t bother hiding the grin that spread across your face. “World’s best assassins.”

“If that name ever leaves this conversation, I’ll know who to murder.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” you said playfully, nudging his shoulder.

He shrugged, face relaxed. “T’was worth a shot.”

An unintentional pun you snickered at. You didn’t tease him any further, just filed the name away as a memory. Maybe you’d use it later.

“Have you ever let anyone go after that?” You didn’t want to keep coming back to this conversation but you liked having someone to relate to.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t want to test my luck.”

“Me too.” One had been enough. You lived in fear for so long, waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell him what you’d done. That fear only grew everyday, finding a place at the deepest corner of your mind to fester.

“It’s what I meant when I said Serpentine had a motive to want me dead,” Sam said, piquing your interest once more.

“Huh?”

“The man I was supposed to kill- he was their old head. He disappeared after that and no one heard from him but it pissed off everyone, right from Ransone to their stupid gang’s janitor,” he explained, your eyes going wide with every word. “So the irony is, if we’re right, I might have led us into this situation. They’re looking for revenge.”

“Holy shit,” you uttered under your breath.

“I just assumed he died of old age if someone didn’t get to him first. He looked like he was one birthday away from the grave anyway.”

“How are you still alive, Sam?” you asked in wonder.

“I’d do it again.” He laughed, a deep one from his stomach.

He was reckless, clearly. Happily and unashamedly so. And if you continued to hang out with him after this was over, he’d probably get you killed in some stunt or two.

But maybe you’d deal with that if the time came. 

He leaned back again, this time no creases on his forehead from stress. He looked at peace.

You sat together in silence. You occasionally stole glances at him as the sun set in front of you, a small smile on your face.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tentatively. You could feel him tilt his head to look at you and you prepared to have him ask you to move.

It never came. Instead, he scooted closer to you, letting you rest against him more comfortably. Your heart skipped a beat; barely but surely. 

A realisation quickly hit you, suddenly before consuming you. Your stomach sank.  

“Fuck.”

Next part

[paper-n-ashes]

The Late Shift

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: There’s actually none (I hope). I know. I’m surprised too.

Authors Note: This is so dumb. I’m aware. Look, I’ve been dealing with a horrendous writers block and shattered confidence and I made Paul Sevier gifs to ease my pain. It turned into this. I just wanted to try something a little cute and fluffy to get back into the swing of things. So... here it is.

*

It was going to be a long night.

Stuck on the Wednesday evening shift for the third time this month, you mindlessly fiddled with the pen in your hand. Twirling it between your fingers, your mind drifted away from the present moment, wondering why your boss seemed to dislike you so much to keep you here past 6pm in the middle of the week. He’d always been adamant this was prime selling time for this boutique suit store, with corporate clients needing to do their shopping outside of normal business hours.

You, however, knew keeping this place open was senseless, barely seeing more than a few unenthusiastic customers in these agonizingly slow stretches. Working on commission also made you all the more bitter about being paid minimum wage to stand behind a counter and doodle sketches of imaginary clients dressed in the outfits you personally tailored. This isn’t where you thought a Bachelor of Arts in Fashion Design would take you, that’s for sure.

“H-hello,” you heard a deep voice quietly greet you, startling you into focus. “Are you busy? I… think I need a little help.”

Eyes flickering up from the notepad, you were sure your pupils blew wide at the sight of the man in front of you. Standing at an imposingly large height, his hair a severely murky shade of black, with honeyed irises shining brightly behind delicate spectacles.

A human personification of tall, dark and handsome. Well, except for the clothes.

The stranger wore the layered combination of a grey tweed jacket and argyle patterned sweater, arranged over a particularly heinous, mustard-coloured button up. While the ensemble made you internally cringe, it gave him an air of intelligence, like the kind that hangs around stuffy, old college professors who have more academic accolades than you have fingers and toes.

“Me?” you coughed out, knowing full well you were the only other person in this tiny little shop. “Uh, yeah. I mean- No, no I’m not busy. What is it you need help with?” Even when you stood, the man towered above you, making you silently begin to calculate the high-numbered measurements you’d need to fit him in something.

“I have an important meeting scheduled for Friday. You know, the type you need to wear a suit to?” Evidently the thought of it made him nervous, as you noticed his cheek twitch slightly, his eyes scanning momentarily at the garments filling the space. “I’m… uh… not so great with clothes.”

Clearly, you chuckled inside your head, holding the word from your tongue. “You want me to pick out something for you?”

He took a defeated breath, his mouth twisting into an awkward yet wonderfully endearing smile. “Would you mind? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble!” you burst, maybe a little too excitedly. “It’s my job!” Bounding out from behind the counter you’d been imprisoned by, you moved directly to the section of classic navy business suits. Slim line. Something to accentuate his well-built frame, rather than hide it away. You had to pause, swivelling back around to the dumbfounded man. “Is price an issue… uh…?”

“Paul,” he answered for you, slowly moving to where you stood. “And… I suppose not. Probably should spend the money on something that will last. If you think it’s a good idea.”

Oh thank god, you mused without showing the relief on your face. He’s not some rich asshole trying to flash his cash. “A good suit can last you five years, if you treat it right.” Your hand reached over to graze one of the deepened blue sleeves of a jacket at your left. “And a classic colour will never go out of style.”

Paul let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I think you’ve already noticed how lacking in style I am…” He glanced to your nametag, murmuring your name with a goofy smirk curling his lips. You’d never seen a grown man, especially not one of this stature, appear so adorable. It was horribly distracting.

“I’m sure you have expertise in other areas,” you stumbled, realizing only when the words came out how offensive they might seem. Yet Paul conceded to your comment, his rumbling laugh making your chest feel tight.

“Debatable,” he shrugged. “I’m just glad I found some qualified personnel to help me in this instance.”

Oh boy. Humble and charming? You were in so much trouble. Surely someone as sweet as this had another waiting for them at home. “I’m sure your partner could help you pick out something nice too.”

“Not an option in my case.”

Shit. Single too. You were truly fucked.

You turned, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat by focusing on finding an outfit that would contain his longer limbs. Plucking out a matching jacket and trouser set, with an ivory, collared button-up, you offered them to Paul, his features having melted into a sweetened look of intrigue. “Go and try these on. There’s a changeroom just behind the counter. See how they feel, and we can go from there.”

He nodded, taking the pieces with both of his large hands and shuffling away to where you’d pointed to. No sooner than the latch had locked were you dashing to where your phone was sitting at the register, flitting out a rushed text message to your favourite co-worker.

There was rustling you heard emanating from the changeroom stall, doing your best to ignore the urge of picturing Paul, a man you’d met only minutes ago, gradually slipping off his clothes to reveal the toned muscles underneath. You grimaced at yourself, shaking your head to banish the imaginations. God this was unprofessional.

Finally, a response lit up on your phone screen.

You laughed softly through your nose, about to type a reply when you heard the lock click open again. The breath in your lungs was stuck as Paul made his way out, the expensive textiles draping over his burly frame in a way that made your whole body tense.

He rustled a hand through his hair, looking up to you while fidgeting with the starchy material stretched over his chest. “Does it look okay?”

After all these years working this job, the enticing novelty of attractive men in well-fitted suits had slowly worn off, especially when most of them treated you with about as much respect as the used gum they spit out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, all those preconceived notions were gone. On Paul, this ensemble instantly became the most captivating thing in the entire universe.

The inside of your mouth flooded with saliva, having to swallow hard before speaking again. “Great… it looks… great.” You did your best to conceal a settling exhale. “What do you think? How does it feel?”

Paul shifted to look at his reflection in the mirror, pupils trailing up and down, flexing his limbs in an attempt to get a proper impression of the new apparel. “It feels really good. Makes me look… sophisticated.” He turned to you, his expression unsure. “Right?”

Your smile was sparkling, nodding to his question. There was a small amount of work to do, noting how in your effort to make sure everything complemented his physique, you’d oversized him. The waistline of the jacket needed to be taken in, the shoulder lines sitting slightly off, and the trouser length needing to be taken up slightly. “A couple of adjustments and it’ll be perfect.”

“You mean taking it to be tailored?”

“No need.” You pulled out the wheel of berry pins from your pocket, kneeling down on the floor next to Paul’s feet. “All our tailoring is included in the price. Done completely in house.” You began to fold the bottom edge of his pants, pinning it to an adequate length. “I can have it ready for you tomorrow, all ready for your Friday meeting.”

“You do all the tailoring yourself?” Paul asked as you slinked another pin through the fabric.

“Sure do,” you chirped, moving onto the other leg. “3 years at a design school taught me a few things about cutting and sewing.” With the hemlines in place, you straightened in front of him, plucking out a roll of measuring tape from your other pocket. “I just… need to take a few measurements to properly alter the jacket.”

His cheek twitched, the line of his jaw seeming somewhat strained. “Sure. F-fine. Do what you gotta do."

You went with determining his arm length first, feeling out the boney point of his shoulder and striping the lined tape all the way down to his wrist. Then, after taking a deep inhale, you curled your arms around his hips, focusing hard on the little black numbers to ignore the fact Paul’s breath had started to skate over your skin with this close proximity. It was when you were lining up the thickened stripes indicating his chest circumference that you made the mistake of peering up, finding his alluring stare fully concentrated on you.

There was a moment. A spark to waiting kindling. Where impulse could have led you to do a dangerous thing. You’d never been the hasty type, never acted without considerable thought. Usually so shy and composed, never making the first move. Although right now, you could scarcely hold yourself back, desperate to know the sensation of Paul’s lips, how they’d move over yours, what they tasted like.

No. This was so inappropriate.

The compulsion was about to wither away when you felt a hand skim up your waist, the lightened touch shooting a thrill over your skin.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice called from your side. “How much are these dress socks?”

You immediately stepped back, smacked into reality again. “$12.99. Exactly what it says on the box.”

The older gentlemen scrutinized the packaging, lids narrowed until he finally saw the numbers plastered at the border. “Oh, right. Eh, a little expensive for my taste. Thanks anyway.”

Flustered, you began to coil the measuring tape into its resting spiral, forcefully glaring at the floor. “I’m all done. You can get dressed into your own clothes now.”

In your periphery you saw Paul regarding you with a gentle nod, walking back into the changeroom without another word. Every part of you wanted to sink beneath the wooden floorboards, so horrendously embarrassed you could feel a smoldering heat prickle at your cheeks. Only to relieve some of the nervous energy, you ran to your phone.

Again, Paul was exiting out of the stall just as you were going to submit your reply, placing the neatly arranged garments over the counter. It was difficult to look directly at him, having to summon all remaining shards of your courage to drift your eyes up to his face. “Was there anything else you needed?”

His mouth parted, only to quickly snap shut, scratching at his hairline in the seconds it took for him to give you a response. “No. Nothing else. Unless there’s something more you think I need.”

You shook your head, wishing you could give another answer just to keep him here. “You’re all set.” The full price of his items flashed on the monitor in front of you, spouting it to him as your fingers flicked across the keyboard to finalize the purchase, with a personal discount that wouldn’t show on the receipt.

“When should I come by to pick it up?” he queried, passing you his credit card. “Oh, but there’s no pressure. Whenever you have the time is just fine.”

An idea flared. “If you give me your number, I can text you when it’s ready.”

“That works for me.”

Erasing all evidence of the conversation you’d been having, you brought up the number pad, handing your phone over. Paul swiftly typed in his details before placing it back in your palm. ‘Paul the Suit Guy’ the contact read, unable to stifle your laugh.  

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His eager expression made your heart quiver through a beat.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I’ll see you then.”

Paul waved his hand in an awkward flourish to signal his goodbye, eventually moving far enough from your vision for you to finally take a full, relaxed breath. In a dazed hurry, you keyed in your returning message to your co-worker.

It was the precise moment your thumb had pressed into the ‘Send’ button that you realised your recipient wasn’t the one you’d intended.

You’d sent this message straight to Paul.

Fuck. Oh fuck. This was bad.

While you were scrambling to formulate a believable excuse, a new message popped up onto the screen.

Tags for my lovelies who might tolerate this nonsense: @tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @blackberries45 @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynzandtonic @beskarbabs​

[forthehpfanboys]

Match Already Made

Pair: Draco Malfoy x Reader; he/him.

Summary: Hermione tries to play match maker. She is so determined to see you and Harry get together she's obvious to the fact you're already taken. Even if you’ve kept it a secret.

Warnings: Swears, arguing, sass

Notes: I absolutely adore this holy fu ck

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

-

“Drop it!” You slammed your book shut with aggravation, your hands running through your hair as you stared down at the cover. Your friends didn’t even flinch- well, Ron did a little but would never admit it. “There isn’t anything between me and Harry.”

“Harry and I-”

“Do not. Seriously, Hermione. He’s like my brother and this isn’t Alabama.”

“What?”

“Never mind, Ron.” You sighed. Your hands ran through your hair before gripping the locks and tugging. It was far less painful than hearing your best friend talk about how you could be exchanging saliva with your other best friend. 

On that note, why in the flying, flip flapping fuck was Hermione so damn determined to get you and her bestie together? Don’t get me wrong, you love Harry, sure, but like a brother, and that’s where it ends. Everyone around you assumed since the two of you were so buddy buddy that you were basically made for each other, but no one knew a specific snake had slithered his way into your heart and was determined to keep it that way.

See, you’d gotten along with Harry and Co. because you were put in Gryffindor and, naturally, that begs the question of how you started dating said snake. Well, one day you decided you had enough of Harry and Ron fighting over the dumb Tri-Wizard Tournament and literally dragged the specks wearing boy by his ear across the dining hall and forced the two friends to apologize. 

Instead of focusing on the scene and laughing at the Gryffindor’s embarrassment, Draco was busy falling head over heels for you. The blonde realized just how attractive Harry’s stupid friend was and nothing could stop him from wanting to see you react like that again. Something about you hit him differently than any wizard or witch he’d ever met. 

Since then, he made it his daily mission to tease you at least once a day. Whether it was sitting next to you at the library to ask if he could borrow your legs as earmuffs or calling to you across the dining hall asking if you used the stupefy charm or if you were a natural stunner, he did it all. He’d snicker when you’d solute the middle finger in his direction, but he noticed the blush across your cheeks and kept up the game, determined to have you swooning for him.

Eventually, the blonde realized he’d have to make the move first, leading to him approaching you after potions when the class was empty and, much to Snape’s dismay, asked you to a Hogsmead date. What surprised Draco the most was when you actually said yes without making fun of him. Since then, you have been dating the Slytherin. You two would sneak out after curfew, go swimming in the Black Lake together and spend particularly hard nights in his dorm room all while using the hidden passageways the Weasley Twins trusted you with. They were probably the only Gryffindors that knew you were kissing the lips of their little brother's best friend's rival and they kept it to themselves.

When you started dating the blonde, you both made a pact. You would keep the relationship a secret from the residents of Gryffindor tower and he’d cut the ‘mudblood’ bull crap and at least try to be nice to Harry and his friends. He doesn’t have to be their best friend but just, don’t be rude. He kept up his side of the promise easily, as did you. Except you were so close to yelling it from a fucking mountain top- or the astromony tower. 

Hermione had this idea stuck in her head and Ron agreed too. See, the idea was that you and Harry would make the best couple for many reasons and she was, once again, trying to get you two to at least try. She would go on and on about how there was a spark, whatever that meant.

“Oh come on, (Y/n)! One date! What harm could it possibly have?” Hermione was basically begging- she had been for weeks. She wasn’t one to go for this but ever since Ginny noticed how you two would bump hips in the hallway or wrap your arms around each other's shoulders, she was convinced there was a spark.

“Mione, I love you, I do, but please, drop it.” You spoke up, shoving your book off to the side to cross your arms over the table. “The spark doesn’t exist.” You and Harry both knew it was true. 

“(Y/n). We all know you don’t have eyes on anyone so why not? The spark could form over time.. Right?” Ron added in, his chin resting in his hand as he shrugged his shoulders. You held your breath at his statement. It almost slipped out that you did, in fact, have someone.

“What? Like it did with you and Lavender?” Harry spoke up, causing you to snicker. The male in specks had barely spoken two words since the conversation turned from potions essays and charms homework to love lives.

“I thought we agreed not to bring that up again..” Ron mumbled, looking back down at his book.

“Anyway, I could still see it! I really do think you guys have potential.” Hermione shrugged her shoulders, before going back to her book. You could tell she was tapping her foot against the wooden floor. She must’ve reread the page seven times before looking back up to you. “But seriously! You guys could have quidditch dates! The seeker and the fanboy.”

“Hermione, stop. There’s nothing here. Trust me.” You were rubbing your temples in anguish. You knew she was a determined witch but holy hell. You and Harry let out a collective sigh of physical pain when she went on anyway. Stubborn girl, seriously. 

“But there could be, (Y/n)! That’s my point! Could you imagine how amazing this could be for you two? You both need an amazing partner! Someone who cares! Someone who’ll take care of you! Someone who’s willing to themselves on the wire for a chang-” She stopped abruptly, causing you to glance side to side. What caused her to stop like that and how do you keep it around you? 

You squealed in surprise and jumped when a hand landed on your chin and the other landed on the back of your chair. You were about to throw a nice right hook, but the hand on your chin directed your gaze upward, showing Draco with a smirk.

“Hello, love.” He planted a hard kiss against your lips, leading the entire library to become, somehow, quieter. Like, before it was drop-a-pin quiet, but now it was like drop-a-hair-follicle quiet. When he pulled away, he chuckled at your confused expression. “How was divination today? I heard you have a test tomorrow. Is that what you’re studying for? I could help.” He removed his hands from you and pulled the empty chair out next to you before sitting down and wrapping his arm around you. 

Your eyes stared at your boyfriend in shock, your jaw hanging like you had a broken hinge. When his icy blue eyes met yours, you could see the jealousy burning in his irises. He must’ve heard Hermione talking about how perfect you and Harry would be. Of course he did, everyone in the library heard it.

“What the bloody fuck just happened?!” Ron yelled, earning himself a few glares from studying students. Your head whipped over to your friends, almost forgetting about them. Hermione’s jaw was practically against the floor while Harry didn’t look the slightest bit shocked. “No, I take that back. When did this fucking happen?!”

“Language, Ronald.” Draco spoke up, his arm tightening around your shoulder while his eyebrow raised. The blonde put a curled finger to his lips, counting the time in his head. “About four months ago.”

“Four. Four?” The fuming red-head held up said number of fingers. “Four months and you just.. What? You didn’t tell us? What kind of bloody frie-” 

“Godric, Ron! This is why we didn’t say anything.” You kicked the leg of the table and turned to look away from your friends, trying to ignore the soft ache in your chest. It hurt that your friends didn’t really accept the relationship and, why would they? Draco has been a twat to them for years. Suddenly it felt like you were in a sauna as your eyes slowly pricked with tears. Were they ever going to talk to you again? Did you just lose the friends you have? The twins took it so well-

“That and my father would disown me faster than a fire bolt flies.” Draco shrugged casually, a smile coming across his lips when you turned to him. 

“Wait, you guys didn’t know?” Harry asked, lifting his head up to turn to his friends, who turned to him quickly. “Oh, come on! It was so obvious!” Harry’s words left Ron, Hermione and yourself struggling to find something to say back.

“What?” Was all you could manage out.

“If Harry noticed, we might have an issue.” Draco snickered out. “I wonder who el-” The blonde was cut off by your hand covering his mouth.

“Wait, Harry, you knew? And you didn’t tell me?” You stared at him.

“Well.. Yeah. I figured it out when you were doodling his name all over your parchment in transfiguration and when you guys were making goo goo eyes at each other that afternoon.” Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. Right, he.. He sat next to you in that class. Your cheeks turned bright red before you could hide it. “I didn’t wanna say anything in case you guys kept it a secret on purpose, so you’re welcome.” 

“Gee, thanks Potter. I’ll keep that in mind.” Draco snickered out, a grin spread across his face when you gently shoved him in his chair.

“So, I still have one question.” Ron grumbled out, raising his hand halfway like he did in all his classes. “Why?”

“Same reason you’re dating Granger.” Draco paused, looking down to avoid anyone's gaze before licking his suddenly dry lips. He cleared his throat and glanced back up, choosing to look Ron right in the eyes. Ron nodded, waving his hand in a circular motion in a ‘go on, spit it out’ kind of way. The blonde could feel your eyes gaze on him, but chose to ignore it.  “I love (Y/n). I thought that was obvious.” 

Your eyes grew wider somehow. Ron blinked a few times, as if understanding but also not understanding. He’d only seen Draco as a cold, heartless beast and Hermione was in the same boat, but now they were confused. Or maybe it was just Ron. Hermione was smiling at you. This was the first time he’d said it out loud. You looked down at the desk, before looking at Harry, who was hiding a grin behind the now standing book, before turning to Draco. 

“Wait, really?”

“Of course. Why do you think I basically ran over here when I heard Hermione speaking about you and Potter going on a quidditch date? No offense to you, Potter, I’m sure you’re a lovely partner.” 

“None taken.”

“What universe am I in?”

“Ron, listen, please? We all know Draco has said some shit in his past, ok?” You turned to him. “We know and-and he’s trying to change and Godric, please don’t hate me when I say this. He.. Look, he-” You started stumbling over words, not wanting to put any in Draco’s mouth. He decided to speak up for you, hoping to put you out of your misery.

“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t fix what I’ve said, how I’ve acted and what not, but a lot has changed in these four months and I’d rather not see my boyfriend lose his best friends over who he’s dating. He deserves the best of the best.”

Now even Harry seemed shocked. Ron looked down at his book before shutting it. He took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. 

“You’re lucky you make him happy or else I would throw you off the astronomy tower.” Ron spoke up.

“Oh thank Godric.” You sighed out, your body slumping back in the chair. 

“But if you hurt his feelings, I swear to Merlin and who’s.. Who’s that muggle one?” Ron turned to his girl, confusion etched across his features, leading to giggle a tiny bit.

“Jesus?” Hermione grabbed Ron’s hand from the table.

“Yeah, him!” Ron pointed to his girl again for emphasis. “I swear on both of them I will not hesitate to do so.”

“Not if I do it first. If I do hurt him, I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself.” Draco nodded his head a tiny bit and pulled you closer into his side, a grin across his features. 

“.. I’m not gonna get used to this.” Ron shook his head. The brunette witch sitting next to him elbowed him in the side gently. “Ow! I’m just being honest!”

“Ronald, you can’t just say stuff like that!” She countered, rolling her eyes.

“Why not? It’s the truth!”

“Because it’s rude..”

The couples arguing faded when Draco leaned into your bubble, whispering under the arguing so only you heard.

“Is this ok?” Draco’s arm was around your waist now, his eyes glancing into yours when you turned to him. You were so close to him, you could feel his tiny puffs of breathing brush across your lips. 

“Of course, just not how I expected it to go.” You twiddled your fingers. “But I’m glad we told them.” You smiled, leaning up to brush your nose against his.

“So you feel the same way then?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Nope. you haven’t said it yet, (Y/n). I must hear you admit it.” Draco smiled at you, his eyes fluttering shut. He smiled wider when you sighed dramatically. 

“I love you too, Draco.” You pressed your lips against his and ignored the fake gagging noises from the red-head across the table. When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead against his, a matching smile across your lips.

“So does that mean I get to be the best man at the wedding?”

“Harry!”

“What? I’m just curious!”

[katlivesinthewoods]

Some vaporwave Dandy + some headcanons!

some dandy Dandy headcanons

》Andy is 150% calmer since they started going out. Like Barely Ever Angry

》Sometimes Dan goes from Boyfriend Mode to Therapist Mode and Andy needs to remind him to take a step back

》Dan is the BEST at comforting Andy when he feels dysphoric and is ALWAYS prepared to help, even at 4 am

》They Never fight Ever because Dan is basically a free relationship counselor

》They probably go for ice cream A Lot

》Dan is like 5'10" and Andy is 5'5" - the latter DEMANDS piggybacks, especially while his leg is still healing

》Lots and lots of cuddles!!!

》Dan wears Andy's jersey number RELIGIOUSLY, even if there's not a game that day and after he graduates. Conversely, Andy NEVER wears Dan's but he makes up for it by being the literal loudest person in the crowd

》Whenever Andy has a game Dan writes "KING KANG IS MY BADASS BOYFRIEND" on his chest for everyone to see and 100% screams the loudest

》Dan eventually takes his Supportive Boyfriend Role to the next level when he literally takes on the role of the Westchester Wolf mascot (the extra cash doesn't hurt, either)

At first he doesn't tell Andy because he wants it to be a surprise and everyone's like "wtf why is Chester showering King Kang with all this affection???"

And Andy is still super confused until he hugs Chester after the game and Dan is just loudly whispering "ANDY IT'S ME"

》Ice cream dates!

》Also probably workout dates at the gym! Gotta help support each other

》They always go on bike rides together no matter what time of day or night

》Tom buys them a tandem bike as a joke but joke's on him!!! They use it all the time

》"Enjoy your old people bike, losers”

"Don't worry, we do"

"Wtf you're supposed to hate it"

》Speaking of Tom, he's a very jealous boy (but still very supportive of the relationship) because Andy spends like- ONE less hour a day with him since he started going out with Dan

》Before Andy gets top surgery, Dan always reminds him to take off his binder at 8-hour intervals and change into a non-supporting sports bra before a game or else he'll forget

》Dan is a pretty Rich Boye and helps Andy pay for his T prescription, and Andy is super grateful because he wasn't able to before. And three months in, they're chatting one day and out of the blue Dan just goes "God, your voice is almost deeper than mine already!" And externally Andy starts teasing him about it but inside he's crying and fluffy and soft because Validation!!!

》On top of that he helps pay for his top surgery too and at first Andy REFUSES to accept, but Dan drops the L word for the first time and Andy MELTS

》Once Andy finally gets the surgery Dan kisses his scars whenever he can (once they've healed so he doesn't hurt his boye) because they mean so much to both of them. However, Andy is Very Very Ticklish and has the Most Infectious Laughter Ever so they always end up in fits of giggles

》Dan takes literally every possible chance he can to validate Andy

》There are some Very Rare days when Andy feels absolutely awful and whenever Therapist Dan tries to help, it basically goes nowhere. But one day Andy's just pissed at the world in general and when Dan offers to help Andy snaps at him

》On top of this Andy sometimes has periods of heavy dysphoria where he doesn't believe anything Dan says and it hurts them both but Dan knows that he just needs a lil time to himself (and a LOT of chocolate ice cream)

》ICE CREAM DATES!!

》Andy is VERY particular about his hair - once he does it for the day, NO ONE is allowed to touch it. But then Mister Dan Pierce comes along when they're cuddling and he runs his fingers through Andy's hair and he just MELTS

》They wear cute couple costumes EVERY chance they get. Their top five favourites are:

>Andy as Mario and Dan as Princess Peach

>Andy as Wario and Dan as Waluigi

>Andy as Mermaid Man and Dan as Barnacle Boy

>Andy as Dan and Dan as Andy

>Andy as a dragon and Dan as a princess

》The group with be chilling wherever and Dan will suddenly go "Oh my God you guys I love Andy so much"

"We know, you said the same thing five minutes ago-"

》They move in with each other almost IMMEDIATELY after Andy graduates and their apartment becomes the go-to hangout place for their friend group

》They end up getting like, three BIG doggos

》The doggos are most likely a St. Bernard, an Alaskan Malamute, and honestly probably a Wolfdog

》And after ILB, Tom convinces Harper to let Dandy keep the coyote too, and it takes some time but Dan eventually is able to convince the landlord to keep him 'cause he's basically an oversized pupper

》They basically run a dog shelter and any time anyone comes over they basically Drown in Doggo (tm)

》Andy always has to get his way or Dan will FITE

》And if someone has the AUDACITY to insult Andy in front of Dan, someone's wig is boutta get snatched

》One day they're goofing off and doing that "age and gender" face recognition thing and it says that Andy looks like a 12-year-old girl-

Dan RIOTS, like he's genuinely so upset and Andy is just cracking up because it's hilarious

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANDY"

"KSHSKS YEAH IT IS"*

》Whenever they play basketball Andy keeps "accidentally" messing up, and vice versa with football

》ICE!!! CREAM!!! DATES!!!

》Andy gets hit on A Lot, even when Dan's around, and he gets Super Flustered and Dan is just cracking up before explaining they're together. Sometimes he'll say they're married just to make Andy Extra Flustered

》They 100% dare each other to do a lot of dumb stuff for very small rewards (i.e. seeing who can drink a whole bottle of hot sauce the fastest, blindfolded skateboarding even though neither can skateboard, "hey drink this gross concoction I made" "sure thing!")

》Neither of them can cook but you can bet your ass they both try-

Because of this, birthdays and anniversaries are usually spent at a restaurant while they wait for the smoke to clear out of the apartment

》They actually go on Real Dates like restaurants, beaches, movie theatres, bowling alleys, mini golfing, etc.

》It's 100% Dan who eventually proposes and it's probably when they're glow-in-the-dark bowling and they've doodled all over each other in highlighter so their skin glows. He gets a ring pop from one of those fancy candy dispensers and proposes with that (even though it's their shared least favourite flavour) because he Just Can't Wait

》Their eventual kid 100% becomes a vet because of all the doggos

》And when they do finally adopt it doesn't take long to adjust because Dan is already the group mom and Andy is group dad

》TOM IS THE BEST GODFATHER!!!

》Their kid is Spoiled As Fuck because their dads are literally both renowned in their fields and thus Very Rich (Andy is a big basketball star and Dan probably has three self-help books and a booming therapy business)

》Whenever they need a babysitter the ENTIRE GROUP comes to look after the kid. Shenanigans always ensue

》ICE CREAM DATES!!!!!

[marvinswriting]

a new friend

NEW AU????? Bear and I worked together to create this one. Continue reading to find out whos giant and who’s tiny and SEE BEARS FIC FOR PART TWOOOO  Janis and the borrowers au

Damian had only been on his own for maybe six months now. Yeah, it got boring, but it was manageable. The house he was living in had pretty predictable schedules, no bugs, and no noisy children.

There was a girl, Damian's age, maybe a little younger but no literal child like in his old house. She wasn't home much anyway, apparently always at a friend's house. 

Damian wasn't complaining. Between the mother working full days with overtime and the father never home anyway, it made Damian's life pretty easy. 

The Sarkisians.

Damian considered himself pretty lucky with this house.

Growing up with his mom, they live in a small house with four kids. Somebody was always out of their rooms and nobody slept at the same time as the rest of them.

So Damian deemed his life pretty easy at this point.

The front door slams signaling somebody's home. The mother and father typically fought a lot so it wasn't uncommon for yelling and door slamming. But when a younger voice began shouting Damian sat up straighter, paying attention a bit more.

Hey, life in the walls gets boring. Drama is drama.

"Janis, sweetheart, please come out of the bathroom."

"No!"

"Why not, honey. I understand this is hard for you-"

"You understand?! No, you don't!"

Jesus. Teenagers.

"My best friend outed me to the entire school! Somebody wrote dyke on my locker in sharpie! I can't walk down the hall without getting shoved or yelled at or-" The yelling was cut off by a sob. "You don't understand that."

Damian couldn't tell if his area in the walls was closer to the bathroom then he realized or if there was just a lot of yelling.

And crying.

There was no talking for a bit. Only the muffled cries from in the bathroom.

"Janis sweetheart, I have to go to work. I picked up an extra shift tonight not knowing this would happen. I don't know when your father will be back but just promise me you won't spend the whole time locked in the bathroom?"

"Sure." A bitter voice responded. "Bye, mom."

"Goodbye. Love you."

"Love you too."

The door shut, a lot quieter then when it was opened, and the house was quiet again for a bit.

And then he heard the crying.

Oh god, Damian hated hearing people cry.

When you live in the walls, you tend to hear a lot (if your thinking about that then yes, you can hear that too). But the one thing Damian hated listening to the most was crying.

Not because it was loud or annoying, but because it was sad. And he wished he could help. 

But he knew the borrower rules. He wasn't dumb. His mother raised him well and Damian likes to think he's a pretty skillful borrower. But every time he heard crying he couldn't help but feel like the borrower code wasn't such a bad thing to break. 

Like- he was right there. He could help. Or try to. 

Try to. 

Damian carefully pushed the outlet out of the way and stepped into the hallway not really thinking about what he was doing. He could see the bathroom from here with the door cracked open a bit. He walked over, still pushed up against the wall.

All borrower rules went out the window in his head. He needed to make sure this girl was okay, even if it was hidden and from afar.

There was a toiletries cabinet right at the bathroom entrance that Damian ducked under. 

The girl, Janis, was sitting in the far corner of the bathroom, knees pulled up to her chest, shaking slightly. 

Damian watched as she pressed her phone, audio filling the bathroom.

"Janis, I know you didn't let my call go to voicemail. Anyway, I don't see why you're so upset. I'm just looking out for you. You're a lesbian. I'm just doing what's best. How was I supposed to know you'd have a mental break and lose it? Also, you won't be sitting with us on Monday for- obvious reasons. Don't call back! Tata!"

Well, Damian already hated whoever that was.

He watched as Janis coughed out another frustrating sob and played another voicemail. "Hey, its Gretchen. Regina called and said you can't be seen with us Monday but she wants me to tell you again to make the message really clear. So yeah. Bye Janis!" There was whispering. "Oh- right. Bye Space Dyke."

Damian made a face at the nickname.

Janis did too. 

She continued to play more audios. Why was she doing that to herself?

"Hey!" This person sounded bubbly. "Its Karen. Listen, I don't fully know whats going on but remember the rule of twos! Yeah, Regina is mad at you, but now you don't have to deal with her being mad to your face." Karen laughed. "Okay, byeeee."

Janis let out a dry chuckle at this one. "That's rich."

There were more voicemails played and videos opened. None of them said particularly nice things. 

Yet Janis kept watching them.

Damian watched as she put her phone down, burying her face in her knees and pulled into herself more. 

Every time her phone dinged she jumped a little but make no efforts to check the messages. 

Her shoulders shook as she cried and Damian wasn't really thinking as he-

"Hey, are you okay?"

His hand slapped on his mouth as he froze. He did not just do that. 

Janis glanced up in confusion. Her eyes landed on Damian's small form and the confusion turned quickly to panic. "Ohmygod what are you?"

She pushed herself against the wall holding her phone up like she was ready to throw it defensively. 

Huh. Damian always thought he'd be the one scared of a human. Not the other way around. It strangely made him feel braver as he lowered his hand from his mouth.

"I'm-"

"Ahhh- oh my god, you talk- what the fuck. Tiny bug man talks- what the?! Whatever I did I'm sorry please just don't-" She put a hand to her chest, teary eyes wide, heaving slightly. "What is going on?!"

"Please breathe," He said tentatively, Janis did not seem to listen. Tiny bug man. Huh. Damian forced down the small smile that made way to his face. He was not gonna laugh at a girl freaking out.

Well, this will be interesting. Damian took a step forward before deciding against it and instead taking two steps back. He held his hands up in defense. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Janis did not seem extremely reassured by this. "Whatthefuck what the fuck?!"

Damian lowered his hands slowly. Before he could open his mouth to talk, Janis cut him off in a panic ramble.

"You're so small- you fucking talk- oh my god. I hate bugs they make me cry. Please don’t like- do anything- I’m sorry. I just- What ar- no. Who are you and what are you doing in my house?!"

Well, shes got manners. At least shes knows I'm not an 'it'.

"I'm Damian." He says slowly. Janis is still holding her phone like a weapon and he's not in the mood to dodge projectiles. Maybe next time. "I'm a borrower."

Hey if I'm gonna break one code may as well break them all.

"How are you so- small?" Janis slowly lowered her phone.

"Born this way."

"Oh," Her face flushed with embarrassment. "That was a bad question. Sorry if that was offensive or something."

Damian shook his head. "Not necessarily. To me at least."

Janis nodded. "A borrower? I thought those were myths."

"Nope," Damian grinned. "I'm standing here, aren't I?"

"I guess so." Janis mumbled. Her phone went off again and she cursed under her breath.

"What's going on with that?" Damian asked. "You seemed pretty upset."

Janis waved her hand, still shaking. "It's stupid."

"Clearly not if it had you that upset." Damian points out, but he doesn't push further.

Janis is quiet for a moment, picking at a stray string on her sweater. "So, borrowers? They're real, huh."

"Last time I checked," Damian said with a smile.

"How long have you lived here?" Janis asked. She slowly was starting to uncurl herself as she talked to Damian.

"Maybe about half a year."

"Half a year," Janis repeated in awe. "Wow."

"Yeah," Damian laughed. "It's pretty cool."

They chatted for a bit, just passing questions back at forth to each other. Janis avoided the topic of whatever had her so upset like the plague. But Damian knew other things about her now. Like he was exactly four months older then she was, Janis actually hated the color pink (despite her outfit) and she liked drawing but never looked into it further then doodles. 

Damian, who never thought he'd even talk to a human, found himself relaxed and opening up to this girl. Maybe it was risky but- Janis seemed nice. She didn't get any closer to him and gave him his space. He told her tales about his mom and borrowing and Janis seemed in awe by it all. Damian wasn't sure how long they talked but he didn't mind. After leaving his Mom, life got lonely. Talking to himself just made him feel crazy.

Janis looked at the clock on her phone. "My mom will be home soon."

"Then I should get going," Damian said, turning around trying not to seem upset. 

"Wait-"

Janis paused like she didn't even know what she wanted to say. Like her mouth just kinda spoke without thinking. Kinda like his brain not even an hour ago. That's what started all this.

"You- you won't leave now, right?" Janis asked softly. "Isn't that a borrower thing, to leave when they're caught?"

"Yeah," Damian said. "It is." His heart broke a bit at how Janis deflated slightly.

"Right," She said. "Then," She took in a breath. "I guess it was fun meeting you. Thanks for talking with me today. It was a nice distraction."

Damian paused. He didn't want to leave. He just morally knew he should. But-

Was it worth it to break every rule he set for himself in life? He liked talking to Janis, yes. But they've been chatting for half an hour at opposite ends of the bathroom. They both hadn't made any more to get anywhere near each other. But-

Did he like talking to Janis or did he like just having somebody in general to talk to? Damian didn't have any roommates. 

"Damian?"

He had been standing there silently for a bit too long.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," He said slowly. "I think- I think I'm gonna stay." 

Damian gave a soft smile which quickly grew when he saw the bright grin on Janis's face. 

Yeah, they only just met. And yeah, Janis was still slightly pressed against the bathroom wall like a bug was gonna fly at her- but something told Damian maybe this was worth breaking the borrower rules for. They both clearly needed somebody and hey, Janis wasn't crying anymore. 

Damian hated when people cried.

part two HERE! (i’ll add the tink when bear posts it lmao) taggggssss @realmisspolarbear @smallsoysauce @musicallygt @sourishlemons

[peachyteabuck]

eye on the prize

summary: commission for astrid, who asked for chris evans x reader interview fluff.

pairing: chris evans x reader

words: 3,006

trigger warnings: RPF, slow burn, heavy flirtation, idiots in love, nondescript mentions of misogyny in the media as a business, a likely poorly reconstructed timeline (time fake and reality is a construct!)

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The hotel bed is large, big enough for four of you. The blankets are thick and the soft, the pillows a perfect balance of structured but plush. Sunbeams stream onto the mused sheets, warming your face. It’s nice, but only as nice as the calm before a major tropical storm can be. As your phone alarm blares next to you, you start to wonder if being caught in a category five hurricane would be better than press junkets.

A whole day talking to people about a movie you made months ago that you know jack shit about. Sometimes you have nightmares about giving a book report on a novel you’ve never even opened (you’re how old? And high school is still haunting you? Jesus, you need to go back to therapy) that cause you to break out in a cold sweat and kick all the covers from your bed and buy a bunch of stuff online to distract yourself from your racing heart and shaking hands.

Still, those are never as bad as interviewers asking about character arcs and plotlines and your relationship with actors you’ve barely (if ever) met and whatever else a normal interviewer would ask a normal interviewee when all you know is your character, the fact that she does shit with magic, and she’s Dr. Strange’s daughter. Anything other than that is anyone’s guess.

Your stylist and makeup artists are the ones to eventually drag you out of bed and plop you into hair and makeup after squeezing you into an incredibly tight pair of jeans and a non-controversial sweater. The forty-five minutes are a complete blur, but then again, nothing feels real until Sebastian hands you a large coffee in a travel cup that bares no logo or other kind of copywritten signifier – your knight in shining…cardboard? What are travel coffee cups even made of? Paper? Can paper even “shine?”

You’re nearly purring when the taste of caramel macchiato burns your tongue. “Ah. Thanks, Seb. I appreciate it.”

Sebastian shrugs, sipping at his own drink masquerading as generic brand. “No problem. I didn’t want you to bite an interviewer’s head off this morning. Or worse, mine.”

You play-hit him in the face and laugh with him, making small talk and trying to kill the time before the mind-numbingly long day really begins. You’re halfway through a rant about the woes of make up artists trying to put you in a full face of makeup to a man who barely has to put on concealer, the fucking asshat, when Chris makes an appearance.

“Hey, guys,” he’s is also drinking coffee from the unmarked travel cups. He looks you up and down before taking another sip. “You look really nice today.”

You blush, smoothing out your sweater – one of the color-blocked ones that sits at the intersection of casual, feminine, and not-intimidating. “Thanks, you too.”

Sebastian’s about to say something snarky when someone wearing a headset calls upon the three of you.

“Let’s get going, people!” she calls, ushering you into three barely-comfortable seats. You’re between Chris and Sebastian, the sheer mass of them making you feel approximately three feet tall. It doesn’t take much to forget how large they both are – even if Sebastian doesn’t weight two hundred pounds anymore and Chris was able to tone down his exercise regime since finishing Infinity War, you still feel like you’re sitting at the big-kid table for the first time.

The first interviewer is from some YouTube channel you only know because your fourteen-year-old niece gushes about them every family dinner. The woman who sits in front of you is young, cute. Dresses trendy, dark eye makeup and red lips.

She’s nice, too, along with being knowledgeable about the projects of each of you. She banters with Sebastian about his seven million movies before turning to you.  

The interviewer turns to you. “And you! You’re nominated for some pretty major awards!”

You smile wide, unable to help yourself. “Yeah, best actress and best original score.”

“That’s so cool,” Chris mumbles. You blush and pretend not to hear him as you speak again.

“It’s just super crazy,” you tell the interviewer. “Not even gonna lie. When I was younger, I would look at stars who like, cried when they found out they were nominated. Not even winning, just their name shows up on the ballot. But now I’m like, it’s me, two-time Grammy nominee! I was nominated for a Grammy, twice!”

Sebastian chimes in, laughing. “When we were at bunch together, I got there early and the caterer showed up and they were like, we’re here for the two-time Grammy nominee?”

“You had a brunch?” The interviewer asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I bunch of the Avengers cast and the cast from my last movie were in my hometown, which is super rare, so I hosted this giant brunch-”

“As one does,” Sebastian chimes in with a crooked smile.

You nearly hit him. “Yes! As I do! I wanted to see all my friends, whom I love, so I host a brunch. Sue me! Anyway…I hosted this brunch and invited a bunch of people over. Just a bunch of my favorite food from my favorite restaurants. Everyone I’d wanted to see for such a long time was there. It was amazing.”

The interviewer paints a faux frown across her face, looking at the man on your right. “Chris, you look very sad.”

“I didn’t get invited to the brunch,” Chris frowns. Unlike the woman in front of you, he looks genuinely sad. A twinge of pain bounces in your ribcage, and you rub his cardigan-clad back

“You were out doing Broadway shit!” you laugh. “You were halfway across the country!”

Chris continues to frown, staring at the printed-out pictures from the social medias of various guests. A few are from yours – you in a flowy sundress with your head thrown back laughing, a shot of you and a few of your friends from college drinking alcohol in the bright mid-afternoon sun. One you recognize from Sebastian’s Instagram, another from Hemsworth’s. A few from Twitter of a few of your non-movie-star friends. You look so happy in all of them, so beautiful in each shot. “I still wanted to be invited.”

You just roll your eyes. “Okay, call me when you’re in my region of the country and I’ll host a brunch,” You touch your forefinger to his nose. Chris blushes, profusely, in his cheeks and his ears. “just for you and me.”

You don’t hear much after that, too focused on Chris’ eyes meeting yours and his small smile. You’re taken aback by how sweet, tender he looks, and before you know it the interviewer is saying goodbye and the next one is taking her place.

It’s a man this time, a little older than the last one with artsy facial hair and a button hip. He mostly pays attention to the two men and soon your brain goes on battery-saver and you’re lost in your own thoughts.

Are hipsters still a thing? Is that what this guy is trying to be? Do hipsters even like Marvel? Is that too “mainstream for them?”

Eventually he asks a question about you, your recent entry into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, your music, your composing. You’d be happy to talk about your passions, of course you are, but the first genuine question of the interview is positing towards…not you. You’re about to tune everything out again, but then Chris speaks and you snap back to attention.

“It’s always interesting to meet people who bring something new to the art form, ya know? A huge part of acting is learning and evolving and all that, especially from other actors,” Chris avoids your gaze, and the gaze of everyone else, as he speaks. “If you stop learning, if you stop growing, what’s the point? Why would I do this job if I didn’t think it could change me for the better?”

There’s a moment of thick silence, the heavy weight of Chris’ introspective answer settling over the people in the room. It’s one of the things you lo-

It’s one of the things you enjoy most about Chris, how dedicated he is to acting as more than a job. It’s amazing, truly, how much he adores what he does. You could spend the rest of time with him, a plate of cheese, and a bottle of wine; listening to him talk about how he thinks of acting as an art, how that art can impact people and society, how actors have a responsibility to that art (that is, of course, after you mock him endlessly for Not Another Teen Movie and Fantastic Four).

You feel like a high schooler again, doodling your first and his last name in hearts in your math notebook with your favorite pink glitter pen. You’re an adult, why are you blushing red as a raspberry every time he says something smarter than a fast food order?!

The rest of the day goes down in a blur, the only time you start to care again when someone on the production staff calls for dinner (yeah, no lunch on press junket day. You can ask for a light snack, but you learned the hard way a full meal is “bad for your figure” and “makes you likely to burp on camera” and a bunch of other stuff you care very little about).

All three of you groan in happiness when you enter the room designated as craft, the thick smell of barbeque hitting you like a baseball bat. But a good baseball bat, though, like…one you ask to be hit with. Honestly, you have no idea what you’re talking about because you’re so hungry.

When you finally manage to scavenge food, Sebastian’s right behind you as you stare at a very delicious looking tray of pulled pork. Your plate is already full, but what if they take the food away? And then what if you get hungry later?

“You know he’s flirting with you, right?” he whispers as you watch the man in question scroll through Twitter on his phone. Chris is eating about the same thing you are, plus celery. You almost make a quip about it being “nature’s floss,” but then you realize that would be dumb because Sebastian definitely wouldn’t find it as funny as Chris would.  

You shrug, picking up a French fry from your plate. “Yeah, but you were, too.”

He scoffs into his second Americano of the morning. “Nah. Not like that. He likes you! He like likes you!”

“He does not-“

“And you like-like him!” He boops you on the nose and pinches your cheek like some sort of grandmother who hadn’t seen her fifteen-year-old son since he was five. “My little baby has a cruuuush!” he coos while making small kissy noises.

You’re about to bite back about how you’re not that much younger than him, but then the sound guy on the other side of the meat tray glares at the both of you. Looks like, while Chris couldn’t hear your bickering from the across the room, this dude definitely could – and he’s not very happy about it.

“Sorry,” you both mumble, shrinking away from the persecuting techie and his judgmental eyes.

Sebastian only talks again when you find an unpopulated corner, devoid of prying eyes and anyone who could be annoyed with the two of you gossiping like high schoolers.

“You know I’m not wrong, right?” he says around a bite of crisp apple. What is up with this guy and fruit?  Sure, he’s on a restrictive diet for a role to keep him from bulking up (something at the intersect of keto and vegetarian but able to eat lean meats) but he’s can’t eat like, the vegan stuff? Why must he always eat like rabbit in your presence? “Have you not seen what he says on Twitter?”

You scoff. “No, because I don’t have a Twitter. And neither do you!” You narrow your eyes accusingly. “How do you know what he posts?” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “I see screenshots on Instagram, first of all. Second, he could be complimenting your music on the inside of a cave. It’s about the principle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you hiss. “Also, I’m done arguing with you about this. Let me find a cheeseburger and eat in peace. Is that too much a woman to ask, Sebastian!?”

He just laughs you off and lets you eat in peace, eventually getting his own food. Though, you suppose the meal was specially timed, because then Chris Evans is sitting next to you.

He’s about to say something, too, and you’re about to listen, but then you get called for an individual interview for a women’s health magazine and you have to leave him and you plate of food and fuck…you hate this job. A lot.

The interview is boring, once again, and the next time you have another coherent thought you’re taking the elevator back up to your hotel room and waving off your manager, who is telling you to be downstairs by seven tomorrow to catch your flight back home.

You’re just kicking off your heels when you hear a faint knock at the door. When you look through the peephole, you see a very sad-looking Christopher Evans. With his small frown and hunched shoulders, he looks like a kicked puppy; and even though all you want to do is take your bra off, you let him in.

He’s quiet for a moment before speaking as if he was a child preparing to be scolded.

“I lost my hotel key. And my backup got demagnetized.”

You bite back a laugh, trying to seem sympathetic. “Do you want to chill in here until security brings you another one?”

Chris nods solemnly as he steps through the threshold. “Thanks.”

Neither of you speak for a while, instead Chris looks around your quite messy (or “homey,” as you call it when you FaceTime your best friend and she scoffs at how easy you can make a room look like a hurricane tore through it) room and you…find an outfit for tomorrow?

You’re the first one to speak, only breaking the quiet after changing into fuzzy socks and sneakily taking off your lacey bra (and tucking it under the covers of the bed for you put away later).

“Well, that was excruciating,” you mumble. All you want to do is change into your biggest, most comfortable hoodie and your cotton panties and order room service and ignore humanity until you leave for a flight the next morning, but a man you’ve had a crush on since he appeared as Johnny Storm is right in front of you and after that talk with Sebastian your world is kind of shaken to its core and should you make a move? Is he the kind of guy to not like that? Would you want to be with a guy that doesn’t like that? What if he-

“Always are, I guess.” Chris interrupts your train of thought, saving it from going off the rails. When you at him he looks just as, if not more than, exhausted than you are. “That’s one of the things that you forget, I think. How hard it is to talk about these movies.”

You snort. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Chris smile a little wider as you laugh. “Yeah. Other movies I can talk about like, characters and plots and shit. With these I live in constant fear I’m gonna pull a fucking Ruffalo and get my ass fired from the best paying gig I’ve ever had.”

Chris laughs with you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Word.”

An awkward silence fills the room and you find something, anything to do to avoid his heavy gaze under those thick eyelashes and his thick beard that you just want to run your fingers through or his even softer hair that you want to mess up while you-

“Do you want to get dinner together sometime?” you blurt. You’re ready to take back the words as soon as you say them, wanting to backtrack or say “just friends” or “ha-ha, just kidding!” or something else that absolves you of non-platonic commitment.

By a long stretch of luck that you can’t even begin to thanks a long number of deities for, Chris doesn’t laugh at you or turn you down or even walk out of the room. He meets your gaze with excitement in his eyes and a smile wider than your home state. “I’d love to,” is all he says. It’s all either of you get to say before his phone rings loudly, and the name of the head of security flashes on his screen. He sighs loudly, apologizing as he takes it. Somehow, you feel more awkward as he turns away and answers the call. You fidget with your hands, with a loose thread on the sweater you’ve come to hate more than anything else in the world, with your phone. Nothing makes it easier to face Chris again once he hangs up.

“That was…,” he laughs lightly. Not laughing at you, maybe at life or how weird his life is, but never at you. “You know. They fixed my key and want to give it to me in person.”

You swallow and nod. “Yeah, understandable. I’ll, uh,” you clear your throat. “I’ll see you…”

Chris finishes for you. “How about we find a good restaurant near here after I’m confirmed to actually be me by the private security detail our employers hired to make sure no one kills us? We can have that second dinner I’ve heard you always eat late at night.”

Holy shit…he remembered that time you vaguely mentioned how much you enjoy staying up late and eating lots of food. It makes you blush as you respond.

“Yeah that sounds,” you sigh happily, smile just as big as his is. “That sounds great.”

[coffeefairy]

Writer’s Month August 2020 - Day 2

Second day running of the challenge, go me!

Day 2, Quarantine

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender

Ship: Sheith

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Keith is stuck in the infirmary with the flu. Shiro visits to hear why Keith landed himself in detention - again - especially since he knows it somehow involved his name...

Excerpt: Keith had never liked Adam. He was too by-the-book, too boring, too uptight, but right now he’d pay to have him back in Shiro’s life. He made Shiro happy and that was all Keith had ever really wanted. And, he provided a buffer, a “no trespassing” sign on Shiro that helped with tempering his wish to reach out, to confess to everything that boiled under his breastbone. Now that buffer was gone and he’d have to watch Shiro, kindly, obliviously, reject him just for who he was, not for who he already had

Tags: Hurt/comfort, one-sided pre-Sheith from Keith’s side. Note Keith is underage but that Nothing Happens - because he’s underage.

Quarantine

Keith was entering his third day of having the flu and he was ready for death to take him. Not because of the flu, but because of the boredom. Confined to the Infirmary at the Garrison to not “spread those germs around, Mr Kogane”, he was utterly bored. There was a TV but it had two channels and they both showed re-runs. He couldn’t read because he kept distracting himself sniffling and his foggy brain wouldn’t let him study. The only thing that broke the tedium was mealtimes and the food was so bad he might starve before the boredom killed him. At least his quarantine counted towards his detention time.

The door at the end of the room swung open and Keith spotted Shiro. Or, Captain Shirogane as he was whenever other teachers or students were around. Shiro had been the one who got Keith to apply to the Garrison, who encouraged him to try out for the pilot program. The one who’d helped him fill in the scholarship applications and who had to date been the only person in Keith’s life who had never once let him down.

He was older than Keith by five years and at twenty-two he was the poster boy for what the Garrison wanted to showcase. Ace pilot, squeaky clean record, top grades. In addition he had the looks, the personality and the charisma for a stellar career in the Garrison Forces. If Keith hadn’t loved Shiro from the bottom of his heart, he probably would have hated him. But he knew Shiro cared for nothing but the flying, not really. It was the love of his life and Keith could wholeheartedly understand. Flying, to both of them, was freedom. 

Glad that he for once had a good excuse for the rosy cheeks he developed whenever Shiro was around, he allowed himself to soak in the picture he made. He’d finished for the day but his uniform was as pristine as it always was. He filled it out like he’d been made to wear it, all wide shoulders and narrow hips. It was a chest to waist ratio that sometimes made Keith’s stomach drop and leave a dark, echoing, slippery hollowness of need inside him. Just like his height, the sight of his hands and the soft hair at the nape of his neck did. 

“Hey, Keith.”

Not to mention his voice. 

Keith, who had had enough spare time - and then some - to prepare in case anyone (he’d only hoped Shiro would) visited, held up the legal pad he’d been doodling on. On the page he’d written in capitals:

Lost voice, can’t speak.

“Oh, so the conversation will be just as normal then,” Shiro joked. 

Keith sent him a rude gesture and the older man laughed. It made something soft and squidgy move in his chest to hear it. 

With a sigh, he sat down on the uncomfortable chair next to Keith’s bed, peered at him.

“You look good.” 

Keith knew what that meant but he bent his head over the pad anyway to let his hair shield his warm face. 

“You looked a lot paler last time I saw you.”

Keith frowned in askance. 

“I was here two days ago. You were asleep.”

Oh great. He’d probably slept with his mouth open, drooling on the pillow.

“You look younger when you’re asleep. Less angry.”

I’m not angry, Keith scribbled. 

Obediently, Shiro read it. 

“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “Then why did I hear about you getting into a fight with McClaine in Flight Sims?”

Keith had hoped talk of that particular scene would not make it to Shiro’s ears. 

McClaine’s an idiot, he wrote. Shiro leaned forward to read it and though he didn’t have his sense of smell, Keith could swear he sensed the scent of laundry powder, after shave and the hint of motor oil and gasoline that came from riding his hoverbike. A smell so familiar to him it haunted his dreams. Including the waking ones.

He could swear he saw a twitch to Shiro’s (unfairly attractive) lips before he leaned back.

“Keith, he’s on your team. You need to find a way to get along. Teamwork is the cornerstone of the Garrison philosophy.”

The Garrison philosphy could fuck itself for all Keith cared, but he didn’t like when Shiro’s voice took on that tone. Not like he was disappointed, or tired of his behaviour but...softly chiding. All Keith wanted was to hear Shiro say good things about him, praise him. Not that he’d ever let the older man know that. 

“Fine,” Shiro sighed lightly when Keith didn’t reply. “What did McClaine do?”

Keith stiffened. There was no way he was telling Shiro. Crossing his arms, he rested back against the pillows.

“I spoke to Captain Parilla about it. He says he heard my name.”

Oh, shit. 

Keith had no issue telling Shiro that McClaine was a bumbling moron who should learn to keep his tongue behind his teeth if he wanted to keep them in that dumb face of his. But he didn’t want to tell him why he’d had to punch him for it this time.

It was common knowledge at the school that Captain Shirogane and his boyfriend were breaking up. In such a small place, gossip was rife and unfortunately this week the hot topic had been the end of the match of two of the teachers. 

Keith had overheard some girl talking about it in the cafeteria, asking her friend excitedly “if she’d heard” and an almost breathless “heard what” had followed. 

“I heard from Maggie whose sister has the late watch that Captain Tremaine and Shiro had a shouting match that ended with them breaking up and Captain Tremaine driving away at like one in the morning. He hasn’t come back yet.”

Keith had stilled but hearing it, he put his tray down and spun on his heel. Unseeingly he turned right and headed down the hallway towards the officers’ quarters. Captain Tremaine, or Adam as Shiro called him, had left Shiro? He knew from Shiro, despite him glossing over the details, that they had been fighting but breaking up? Knowing how seriously his friend took commitment he could only guess how he was feeling now.

He’d gotten as far as Shiro’s door, lifted his hand to knock. Imagined what he might find inside. He hesitated. Why would Shiro want to see him now? What comfort could Keith offer? He was prickly, contrary, awkward. He had to be the last person who could be of any help right now. 

Comfort Shiro? Don’t kid yourself, Kogane, you’re his charity project. 

With this thought ringing in his head he had walked away. He got to his room and crawled into bed, flinging an arm over his eyes. Shiro was the one going through a breakup, why the hell did he himself have tears in his eyes? Despite the question he knew. He knew that everything inside him for Shiro was a tangled mess.

He might have had dark dreams about Shiro leaving Adam but it had never made him sad. He had just realized he could have Keith and he and the other instructor had parted, amicably. 

He was such a child. 

Shiro would always take a breakup seriously, would think he was the one to fail. The kind of person who would try and keep trying to make the other happy. He would always try his best and when it wasn’t enough it would break his heart. 

Keith rolled over on his side, drawing his knees to his chest. It was aching with what he knew would be killing Shiro. 

It was weaved in with the misery that to Shiro, Keith would never be anything more than a kid. They were friends, but with the years between them it would be a long time before they could even be friends on equal footing. Shiro was his teacher, even if they waited a decade, he would still have been Keith’s teacher. And even if they did, if they waited, if Shiro would eventually see him as an adult or an equal, why would he ever want Keith? He was a skinny, awkward reject with a bad haircut and a worse attitude and Shiro deserved… everything. Better than Keith Kogane could ever be. 

And still his traitorous heart wouldn’t just take the defeat and leave him in peace. It had to light up in hope every time Shiro smiled at him in the way that made the corners of his eyes crease, or when he put a hand on Keith’s shoulder, or when he told him he’d done a good job in that deep voice. It sang, lifted, soared and hoped. 

Keith had never liked Adam. He was too by-the-book, too boring, too uptight, but right now he’d pay to have him back in Shiro’s life. He made Shiro happy and that was all Keith had ever really wanted. And, he provided a buffer, a “no trespassing” sign on Shiro that helped with tempering his wish to reach out, to confess to everything that boiled under his breastbone. Now that buffer was gone and he’d have to watch Shiro, kindly, obliviously, reject him just for who he was, not for who he already had.

Still struggling with the decision if he should go see Shiro or not the day after, he’d been flying in Flight Sims on autopilot when McClaine had to open his big mouth.

“You hear Shiro’s boyfriend broke up with him? And no one’s seen Shiro for days.”

“That’s Captain Shirogane to you,” Keith said quietly.

“Whatever, Kogane. I wonder if Shirogane’s out for the count? He looks all badass but he must be a giant softie if he can’t leave his room for three days after some guy leaves.”

“Lance…” Hunk, the large engineer on their team said, clearly trying to defuse the situation. 

“What Hunk? I’m just saying he might talk tough but really, he’s just a big p-”

Keith flew up, the screen in front of him showing the stars spiralling and an explosion “MISSION FAILURE” flashing in red letters. But he didn’t care. In one move he was up, grabbing McClaine by the collar, hauling him to his feet and pinning him to the wall. 

“Shut the fuck up, McClaine! Just because you blame Captain Shirogane for not making you pilot when your scores are way too low doesn’t mean you can talk shit about him behind his back!”

“Get off me, Kogane, I can say whatever I like!”

“Guys…” Hunk tried to pull them apart but Keith just shook it off. 

“What, you gonna comfort him, Kogane? Hold his hand, dry his tears, tell him everything will get better?”

Keith growled.

Lance’s eyes widened and something gleeful slipped into his gaze.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You wanna bang Shirogane?”

His fist connected with the boy’s goading smile and in a flurry of limbs they fell to the floor, Keith kicking, punching, tearing at the other boy. 

Shiro spoke again, returning him to the present. 

“Why were you fighting, Keith?”

Keith scribbled.

McClaine was being a dick.

Shiro’s eyes gentled in a way that made Keith feel small. 

“Cadet McClaine insulted me, is that it?”

Apparently Keith’s refusal to answer spoke volumes. 

“Keith, I…” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you would stand up for me, whatever McClaine said, but you need to find a way of controlling your temper. Punching someone you don’t agree with is going to cost you something more than detention one day. And I would hate to see that. You have too much talent, Keith, too much going for you.”

Keith hadn’t had a lot of people praising him in his life. He had no idea how to deal with it and he twisted the covers in his hands.

With a sigh, he then reached for the pen.

I’ll stop fighting him...if he stops being a dick.

Shiro chuckled, tenderness creasing the corners of his eyes. 

Damn. Keith couldn’t deal with that look, it made him want to both curl up and bask, and hide under the covers like a child. It made his heart race and his throat slam shut.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Shiro tilted his head. “Lance goads you because he’s jealous.”

It was clear he didn’t need a pad to convey his disbelief in the notion.

“Keith, Lance has wanted to come to the Garrison since he was five. He’s dreamed of being an ace pilot, of being at the top of his class. He’s worked really hard for it. Then he meets you and...you know all these things instinctively that he has had to learn. You fly like you were born to do it, you’re crushing every flying record we have and you do it without looking like you’re even trying.”

For you, Keith wanted to tell Shiro and was glad his voice wouldn’t let the incriminating words slip out. He only ever cared about impressing Shiro, about making him proud, of...proving himself. Proving Shiro hadn’t been wrong to put his trust in him. 

“You just have everything that Lance wants.”

Keith crossed his arms over his chest, stared hard at the floor on the other side of the bed, away from Shiro and his gentle voice.

“So just think about that before you punch him the next time.”

At this, Keith couldn’t help the twitch of a smile. Shiro did know him really well. He didn’t decree, or order, or use the authority he clearly had over Keith. He just explained, and asked that Keith thought about it. 

To distract himself from the growing tenderness in his throat, Keith lifted his pen. Hesitated. Glanced at Shiro.

“Go on, ask what you want to ask.”

Keith wondered how to phrase it. Then he decided and wrote,

How’s Adam?

Shiro read, a flash of something broken in his eyes.

“You heard, huh?”

Keith nodded. Then waited. He knew Shiro understood what he was really asking. If he’d asked “how are you?” Shiro would have responded “fine” because that’s what he demanded of himself to always be for others. Asking about Adam made it more roundabout, gave Shiro an out if he didn’t want to talk about it but also let him know Keith knew about the breakup. 

A sigh escaped the older man. He rubbed his hands over his face and let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. Keith kicked himself for getting distracted by how the column of his throat looked, bared and inviting. 

“I...I don’t think he’s doing so well.”

Keith nodded, kept fiddling with the covers. 

“It’s hard,” Shiro continued and Keith couldn’t believe he was trusted to hear this. He swore to himself whatever Shiro told him, he’d take to his grave. “He’s not...wrong, or not completely wrong but I…”

Searching his memory he tried to make sense of this as an argument he could have heard about. He couldn’t think of anything. Apparently Shiro realized too, and backtracked.

“There’s a new mission. I can’t talk about it, really, but it’s deep space, Keith. Real flying, for months.”

Fear for missing Shiro like he would miss a limb twisted the joy he felt for him. Decisively he strangled the sensation. It was Shiro’s dream. 

“And it’s...it’s my last chance. With my health, this will be the last opportunity for me to ever go into space.”

He knew that too. Knew the unfairness of Shiro’s life, the one part of his physical form that wasn’t perfect. The disease that lay dormant under his skin, that would one day rob him of all the things that made him a legendary pilot. 

“Adam...Adam thinks I’m foolish. That I should stay back, not take any chances. Settle for a shorter mission, something easier.”

Every line of Shiro’s face and shoulders screamed out his pain. Keith reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. The older man’s head dropped. His shoulder shook under his fingers and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Shiro, hold him, tell him he deserved better, deserved everything. 

One handed, he managed to write.

Shiro, hearing the pen against the paper, looked up. He hadn’t been crying but his eyes were glassy.

You need to go

It’s your dream

A shudder travelled through him. Gratitude seeped into his eyes and Keith’s throat started squeezing shut.

“Thanks, Keith.”

He took his hand and squeezed.

[klaushargreevesofficial]

i'll crawl home to her

summary: steve & reader fight before the battle of Starcourt 

requests: Helloooo 😄 I saw your requests were open so could I request an angst/fluff fic with Steve Harrington who gets into a fight with his girlfriend right before the Battle of Starcourt and make up after? Thanks 😍😍 

Heyyyy could I request a steve Harrington x reader where steve shows up at the readers house right after all the shit of s3 went down and she just like takes care of him??? Like soft hugs and first aid and maybe steve being the little spoon??? Your writing is amazing btwww

title from hozier’s work song

warnings for cursing..

-----------------------------------------------------

“fuck off, steve.”

“get out of my car.” you cocked your head and crossed your arms, staring straight ahead as a sign that, no, you would not get out of his car. after a dramatic beat of silence, steve unbuckled his seatbelt, and swung his door open. stalking around to the passenger side, he yanked the handle and stood, feet planted, at your door. “get. out.”

“what the fuck steve, i’m not going to walk home!” delicately placing your feet on the dashboard, you turned to look at him, a defiant glint in your eye. you had the upper hand, you knew. steve wouldn’t touch you or physically make you get out of the car. he’d get tired of waiting, frustrated to no end, and eventually drive you home. the feet on the dashboard was just a little touch you had picked up to speed up the process. you & steve had been here before. 

the fights had started about a month ago. the honeymoon period was gone, worn off as soon as school ended and the two of you had found yourselves with nothing to do but argue. they were about different things, steve forgetting to call you after work, or you “flirting” with some other guy when you came to visit steve at work. they usually all followed the same format; the silent treatment, then steve would ask you to go for a drive and talk things out in his car. this almost never worked and ended with you guys getting into a big screaming argument. then, steve would ask you--nay, tell you---to get out of his car. it usually ended with him driving you home silently and you kissing him as you left. sometimes you’d invite him in for a nap. fighting took a lot of energy.

this fight in particular didn’t quite follow this archetype. there had been screaming matches all week leading up to this moment.  on Sunday, you and steve had walked hand in hand into church, dressed in your Sunday best, smiling at the congregation. you’d been pinching each other’s wrists and swatting at each other discreetly the whole service. Robin pushed you out of scoops ahoy on monday when you stalked in with an accusatory finger pointed at steve. (she had whispered in your ear, “this is for your own good.” you loved robin.) on this tuesday morning, steve called your house and charmed your mom when she answered, just to curse you out when you answered the phone.  (“I’m picking you up in my fucking car before my shift, and we’re gonna talk this shit out, and kiss and make the fuck up.” “what if i don’t want to, asshole?” he had already hung up and was on his way.)

cut to being pulled over on the side of the road, with your feet up on steve’s dashboard. “I'm gonna miss my shift, y/n. just get out.” his tone shifted into one of apathy, and you felt the change.

neither of you had the energy to fight anymore, truthfully, but you were both still mad. you sighed. no way in hell you were getting out of the car. flatly, you replied, “if you care so much about this job, you’d better start driving. you’ve got to take me home before you go to the mall.”

steve let out a loud, exasperated groan and slammed the passenger door shut, making you flinch. as he made his way back around the car, your eyes filled with tears. you were tired of fighting. you missed your old steve, the one who would visibly light up when he saw you, or tell scoops ahoy customers “that’s my girlfriend,” when you sat at a table visiting at work. you missed when he was proud of you, when he craved your presence and would come over quickly before work just to kiss you and tell you he loved you. and this car, god, this car. you missed when it wasn’t a symbol of a fight. you missed drive-in movies and backseat makeouts and laying on the hood watching the stars.

the engine started up, and steve began the drive to your house. “aren’t you tired of fighting?” you asked softly, wiping your eyes. no response from steve.

and truthfully, this was just as painful for him as it was for you. he missed when you’d call him baby, or laugh at his dumb jokes, or calm him down after a family dinner. he missed sleepovers, you wearing his shirt and kissing his neck gently. he missed his girl, he missed feeling like he knew you well enough to call you his girl. he missed when you’d come in to Scoops and sit in the backroom, doodling on the white board that once held a single point with your name on it under “you rule.”

he was speechless. truly, he couldn’t answer you, and he felt like shit about it. you sighed in the spot that should’ve been his reply, and focused your attention out of the window until steve pulled the car into your driveway slowly. you turned to him as you unbuckle your seatbelt, waiting for what usually happened. you waited for him to turn to you, kiss you softly, and send you on your way.

it didn’t happen. eventually, you got out of his car with a quiet “love you,” which steve again didn’t return. he pulled out of the driveway as you stood there and watched.

that was tuesday. you hadn’t heard from him since. it was thursday, july 4th, and steve’s radio silence sent you a loud and clear message that your plans to stay home and watch movies with the word “America” in the title were cancelled. you would have called robin or the party to hang out, but you hadn’t heard from them either. calls to robin weren’t even answered, and after two times of calling the henderson house, you started to feel a little weird. it felt like the whole town of hawkins was either ignoring you or hanging out without you. you even went to joyce’s house with your bike basket full of ingredients to bake cookies with her, but no one was home.

so you spent the day in bed, sad, contemplating if you and steve were even still together. your parents were working, so you had free reign to lounge on any of the surfaces in the house without judgement. part of you hoped steve would show up, regret written on his face, and a bag full of greasy mall food. but 8pm came and passed, and there was no one. no one home, no one around. no one setting off fireworks in your neighborhood. and definitely no remorseful boyfriends here to sweep you off your feet.

after spending the day lounging and moping, you weren’t exactly tired, but the absolute failure of a day upset you to no end and you just wanted it to be over. as soon as you retreated from the couch to your bed and wrapped yourself up in the covers, there was a loud, urgent knock at the door. you should’ve checked, should’ve made sure who it was before running down the hall, socked feet pattering and swinging open the door. but you knew. you knew it was steve because you knew him. you knew he wouldn’t bail on plans without no call, even in the nastiest of fights.

and although you were expecting steve, you were absolutely not expecting him in his scoops ahoy uniform, bloodied and beaten. “come in, what the fuck, come in!” you ushered him inside, instantly emotional.

“hi,” he grinned.

“what the fuck, steve?” you asked, no malice behind your words, just genuine confusion.

he thought for a few seconds then sighed into a chuckle. “it’s a really long story, and one i owe you, but right now, my face is killing me, and i need you.” you’d been waiting for him to say he needed you for months now. no matter how mad you two had been at each other prior to this moment, this is what you both craved.

“well, go shower first, because you smell like piss, then i’ll patch you up and we can talk.” you paused. “really talk, this time.”

---------------------------------------------

“I call bullshit. Russians? no way.” steve was perched on the closed toilet seat, eyes closed, as you tried to clean his wounds to the best of his ability. “would I lie to you?” you thought for a second. through everything, no, steve had never lied to you.

“I suppose not. but also, being trapped in a secret russian elevator seems like a pretty sick excuse for not calling, if it wasn’t true,” you replied, and steve laughed, opening his eyes to look up at you.

“I thought about you the whole time, y/n. I missed you.”

“you missed me when you were trapped in a russian base camp? noted.” you gave him a soft kiss over his eyebrow and closed up your first aid kit. “I missed you when i was sitting at home, doing nothing.” you grabbed some of steve’s emergency hair product from under your sink and began to work some into his still-damp hair.

“nothing? you didn’t watch our ‘america’ movies?”

“without you?” he hummed in response.

--------------------------------------

an american in Paris was playing softly on the tv when steve turned to look at you in his  arms. “I'm really sorry, you know? I was a dick. I hate fighting with you. you know that.” you nodded, prompting him to continue. “I thought I was going to die down there, baby. I was drugged, tied up---don’t look at me like that, i know---” you tried to mask your incredulous expression. “--and I truly thought I was dead. and I didn't wanna die knowing that we were fighting. it tore me up. and, like,” he paused to sigh, '' I could die at literally any moment. I could've died on tuesday on my way to pick you up, and my last memory of you would’ve been you being escorted out of scoops by robin because you were inconsolably angry with me.”

you let out a little chuckle and pulled his arms tighter around you. “sorry about that.” there was a lingering moment of comfortable silence as you came up with your response. this healthy communication was something you weren’t entirely sure how to navigate yet, clearly. steve’s entire body was engrossing you, physical contact you had been longing for. you had his full attention, and you weren’t sure what to do with it. “i think...i think that we need to talk more. and if we get mad...just, talk rather then instantly resort to screaming or silence. we need an in-between.” you turned to face him, your hands cupping his cheeks. you let your thumb ghost over his lips, narrowly avoiding the still swollen cut on the side. “this can be our in-between. i love you, i love you so much. i hate wasting all of our time together fighting. i’m tired. i want to be able to come over and just love you, nothing else to it. so maybe, stop being so infuriating all of the time.” he gasped and stuck his tongue out at you. “just kidding.”

“i missed you, baby,” steve murmured. you knew he wasn’t just referring to his time trapped under the mall. you and him both realized that his conversation was one that you both desparately needed to have, and that this marked a new dynamic between the two of you.

“i missed you too,” you sniffled, sticking out your bottom lip. he kissed it gently, making you tear up.

“why are you crying?” he laughed softly and rocked you back and forth in his arms.

you let out a watery chuckle and wiped your eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “i just missed you!” steve pressed his lips to the top of your head and let them rest there, humming along with the movie. after a few seconds you gasped and pulled away. “steve! stop comforting me!” he gave you a weird look and lifted his hands up in surrender slowly. “you’re the one who was literally tortured by evil russians tonight, and fought a….”

“the mind flayer,” he supplied

“a mind flayer!” you continued, “get up.” steve furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to figure out what your plan was. you stood up and gestured for him. “get. up.” when he stood up reluctantly, you laid on the couch and opened your arms for him.

“stop,” he whined, pulling out the p.

“this is happening, steve!” you grinned and he slowly lowered himself onto the couch and into your arms. this had been a subject of many conversations between the two of you. steve’s aversion to being the little spoon is something he doesn’t like to pinpoint, but you know it’s because he’s so conditioned into being the primary caretaker for people, that it’s hard for him to soften and let that care come in for himself. you figured that being tortured by russians and interdimensional creatures should be an exception to steve’s “big spoon only” rule.

“relax, stevey…” you kiss above his ear and you feel him physically untense in your arms. he sighs, the exhaustion from his week finally hitting him. “go to sleep, patriot. i love you.” he smiles.

[swan--writes]

Hey! How about "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me" for the Feb asks?

I did not edit this. At all. Not a single sentence. Heard you were having a rough time though, so I wanted to get this out tonight. I hope you feel better, and if you need to talk you can chat with me!

Warnings: VERY negative self-talk, total despondence, just a really bad day man

Words: ~1,380 (this will probably be the longest request I write this month)

What’s the matter with the clothes I’m wearing?

You held the thick paper with one hand, shading with the other.

Can’t you tell that your tie’s too wide?

The radio played softly in the background. You sat hunched over your wooden kitchen table, the light hitting the page just right through the window.

Maybe I should buy some old tab collars?

“It’s a sign,” came a voice from over your shoulder.

Welcome back to the age of jive.

“What’s a sign?” you murmured. You didn’t look up from the comic strip you were working on. It was your morning warm-up – a pointless little piece about two chairs having an existential debate à la Calvin and Hobbes. Personally, you agreed with the sturdy, elegant armchair, but of course, the folding chair had the final word.

Dewey turned up the radio, then set his briefcase on the bench beside the door. Dewey with a briefcase was still a very…very strange sight, but Peggy and Ned had given it to him for his birthday a few days ago and damnit, he was going to use it whether he liked it or not.

Your boyfriend came to stand before you. “Look at me.” Serenely, you obliged. Shiny oxford shoes, grey pants, scarlet and burnt orange knit vest over a white button down and orange tie, floppy wavy hair. “I look ridiculous. I can’t go out like this, there’s no way.”

Where have you been hidin’ out lately, honey?

Raising an eyebrow, you let go of your pencil and stood. “Well yeah, you gotta tuck your shirt in.” Dewey’s breath went shallow when you straightened, only a few inches from his soft, stunning body. “Where’s your belt?” You lifted your leg over the chair you had been sitting on and hopped away from the table, heading over to the coffee maker.

You can’t dress this trashy till you spend a lot of money.

“Uh, it’s in the bathroom. Always forget it.” You smirked at his breathy tone, loving the affect you had on him. “Um…” Dewey’s feet seemed to carry him toward the bathroom before he had made a decision. Swaying to the music, you poured the rest of the coffee you had made earlier into a travel mug, spooned in some sugar, screwed on the top, and shook it. He always swore he could tell when his coffee was stirred, and apparently it threw off his whole day.

Dewey came back into the kitchen, going to stand where he had been moments earlier. His button down was tucked in now, and he wore a belt. You walked up to him, handed him the travel mug, and loosened his tie.

“You’re trying way too hard, love.”

“Right,” he laughed shakily.

Everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout the new sound…

When you slipped his down out from his collar, you could feel the heat radiating from his neck. You smiled at him sweetly, kissed his cheek, and smacked his hip gently with the tie like you would with a dish towel. “Enjoy the meeting.” He nodded, picked up his briefcase, and rushed through the door before you could do anything else.

Funny, but it’s still rock and roll to me.

You spent the full day drawing comic after comic, writing plotline after plotline, singing along with old song after old song.

Nothing seemed to turn out right. You tried turning off the music, it was too quiet. You tried turning it up, it was too distracting.

Oh, it doesn’t matter what they say in the papers ‘cause it’s always been the same old scene.

You moved with the sunlight. You took breaks, dancing around the living room of the apartment you and Dewey shared.

There’s a new band in town but you can’t get the sound from a story in a magazine…

You doodled aimlessly in the cheap sketchbook Dewey had given you for your anniversary. But nothing you tried helped. Nothing worked. Eight hours and you had not produced a single goddamn worthwhile thing. How – fucking how did this become your job?

Aimed at your average teen.

Eventually, you collapsed onto the couch, your legs hanging over the arm.

That’s how Dewey found you when he came home after music coaching. The plan had been for him to get changed and get a drink with Ned and some other guys they had gone to high school with. The plan had been that you would be at home working all day. The plan went out the third story window and crashed to its rather graphic death the moment he saw you lying half-on the couch, staring at the ceiling with your hands clasped on your abdomen like a corpse.

Ooh, what’s the matter with the crowd I’m seeing?

“Honey, what are you doing?” he asked, not entirely without humor but clearly concerned. You couldn’t see him, he was standing at your feet and you were still staring at the ceiling, but you imagined a creased brow and a nervous smile. You shrugged as best you could with your shoulders pressed into the cushion beneath you.

Don’t you know that they’re out of touch?

“Chillin’. Maxin’, relaxin’. How are the kids?”

“Stuck up little brats.”

Well, should I try to be a straight-A student?

“Talented brats,” you pointed out. He made a playfully indignant noise. “You love those guys.”

“Yeah…” For the first time since Dewey had left that day, you smiled.

If you are, then you think too much.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. It wasn’t often that his tone became this gentle, but when it did you knew you couldn’t brush him off if you tried. Dewey came to sit on the couch. You thought he would sit beside your head, but instead he slipped his soft, strong hands under your head and the center of your shoulders and lifted your head into his lap. He stroked your hair and leaned back, clearly prepared to listen to you.

Don’t you know about the new fashion, honey?

“Nothing I do is good enough,” you rasped, gravity pulling an involuntary tear from the corner of your eye.

All you need are looks and a whole lotta money.

“That’s not true.” You shook your head at Dewey’s insistence. What did he know about visual arts? This was your job, not his. And you were failing. But trying to explain it to him would be too much, and you knew it.

“Forget it,” you said, stretching an arm across your torso. “Can you just scratch my arm?”

It’s the next phase, new wave, dance craze, anyways…

“Uh-uh, not until you talk to me.”

The sigh that escaped you nearly took out a lung tissue sample. Dewey just raised his eyebrows and waited. You forced yourself to speak through your readily tightening throat. “We all have industry standards, and I am falling miserably behind.”

It’s still rock and roll to me.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” you insisted.

“Y’know who else fell behind?” You simply watched him and waited. “Every artist who’s ever lived. Me. This time last year, I was a basement-dwelling trashcan who literally impersonated my best friend so I wouldn’t get kicked out.” His voice was flat but sympathetic, pressing against the doubts crashing through your head and trying to force them behind the dam that had been in place that morning. “So get out all the dumb shit. Trust me, I know it’s in there.”

At that, you had to laugh. You couldn’t help it.

He laughed with you and slowly started scratching your arm soothingly. “I’m serious, let yourself make terrible art! We went to the battle of the bands with a song written by a ten year-old because I couldn’t write anything worthwhile. It’s okay to make bad art–even just art that you think is bad. Just make art, a’right?” Dewey lifted your hand and kissed it.

“But it’s my job,” you protested, voice cracking.

“Technically, teaching was my job, and look how that turned out.

“It turned out perfectly.”

“I almost got arrested, Y/N!”

Everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout the new sound…

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled. He laughed at you and nuzzled the back of your hand.

Funny, but it’s still rock and roll to me.

.

.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[all-hail-the-witcher]

are you drunk, high, or sober

so kids

today is,,,,mikeys birthday!! my lil bean boi is growing up awww

anyway though, so, obviously we did not go to high school together cause fuck distance so for this Special Occasion I decided to combine my freshman bio class, my senior English teacher, and a bunch of mikeys 1 am bullshit together to create what I think could be an accurate rendition of how we would have met if we had gone to high school together.

really it’s just a crack fic about evolution and hot cheetos.

_____

ship: platonic (bro) ralbert

genre: straight crack

words: 2529

editing: I was about to say no but I actually did !!

warnings: Race is a raging bromosexual, hot cheetos, danny devito, conspiracy theories, fish are untrustworthy monsters, yaks, lactaid, bros bein bros, albert just wants his pencil back okay

_____

Albert fidgeted in his seat slightly, highly uncomfortable in his priest clothes. Well, okay, they weren’t priest clothes, they were his graduation robes. Except he had bought them a size too big accidentally and they now looked like priest clothes. Race had made fun of him endlessly, even commenting that they should cosplay as priests sometime. Obviously, Albert had flat out refused, but that didn’t stop Race from sending him the occasional Psalm or slightly incorrect Bible passage.

But enough about Albert’s priest clothes. Let’s get back to the matter at hand: graduation.

It was a daunting day for both of them: a relief that they had finally made it and yet also sad because they wouldn’t get to pelt each other with spitballs during psych anymore. High school was where Albert had met Race, all because of a particularly cursed biology lesson during freshman year. It had never been established if Race had been entirely sober during that first exchange. Albert had always claimed that he was hungover at the least. Whatever the case though, Albert felt a smile stretch slowly across his face as the voice of the valedictorian faded into oblivion and he recalled the events of that day…

•••

“-in fact there was a time when people thought that giraffes were just horses who decided they wanted to eat leaves.”

Albert tuned back into the biology lecture he had effectively been ignoring when the blonde kid next to him with the dead fish hair swatted the pencil he was sketching with out of his hand.

“Dude!” Albert whisper screamed. “Give me that back!”

The kid, who was an asshole for stealing his pencil, instead twirled Albert’s pencil thoughtfully. “Nah, you're missing the best part of the lecture! I’m doing you a service!”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Look, people were dumb. It’s not my fault that some idiot 500 years ago thought that a giraffe was a horse in disguise.”

Asshole glared at him sideways in a manner that Albert could only describe as disappointed.

“What?”

Asshole sighed heavily. “Some people don't appreciate the cryptid animals of the world.”

Now it was Albert’s turn to stare disappointedly.

“Okay so like,” asshole’s eyes lit up and he threw Albert’s pencil with such force it landed two rows away from him before bending forward to stare into Albert’s soul, “you know about fish right?”

Albert’s disappointment was beginning to morph into annoyance. Plus he really just wanted his pencil back. “...yes?”

“Okay so essentially, fish aren’t real.”

“Wrong. I have three.”

“They’re government spies!”

“No they’re not! I bought them myself from petco!” Albert considered for a moment. “And besides, one of them is paralyzed.”

“He’s malfunctioning!” Asshole slapped the table so hard that the people in front of him looked back slightly to see what was going on. “It’s a glitch in the system!”

“What? No. He’s just...dying? I guess?” That was actually kind of sad now that Albert thought about it. Maybe he should just euthanize Rudolph…

“No, dude, I’m telling you. Fish aren’t real!”

“And I’m telling you that you're wrong!”

“Look,” asshole was starting to sound exasperated now. “Have you seen a fish since the government shut down?”

“Yes, I literally just said that I have three at home!” Albert leaned down to grab another pencil out of his bag so he could continue drawing. He was about done with this conversation.

Asshole sighed heavily. “You're a horrible person. A non-believer. When your robot fish report you to the government for hoarding all the lactaid for yourself in your basement then I will say I Told You So.”

“First, they’re not robots. Second, I’m not even lactose intolerant?”

“Well.” Asshole paused to pull a bag of hot cheetos out of his bag. “I am. And I fully intend to hoard all the lactaid myself when I take over the world with my seven yaks so you better have a good security system.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Albert paused looking for a pencil to stare at the asshole next to him.

“My master plan to take over the world with seven yaks,” asshole said as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“And what does that have to do with fish?”

Asshole considered for a moment before pulling off one of his white converse high tops and pointing to his socks that were covered in- wait were those cryptids?

“You see my toes?” Asshole said, wiggling his foot around for emphasis. It was then that Albert began to question whether or not this kid was entirely sober.

“Yes…?”

“They can fuck them. Honestly. Fuck fish and fuck everything they stand for fuck them.”

“Okay.” Albert gave up searching for a pencil, deciding that talking to a potentially high person was more entertaining than doodling shitty flowers in the margins of his notes. “Do you have any other opinions about animals that I should know about?”

Asshole considered for a moment while crunching loudly on his hot cheetos, effectively getting orange spicy dust all over the table and Albert’s notes.

“So, whales,” he said finally.

“What about them?” Albert almost regretted asking.

“They sLap. But also, they’re BIG,” He turned to face Albert, his eyes wide, “and they don't need to be.”

“I mean, they do eat a lot of fish, they have to store it somewhere.”

“They could just, like, shit it out.”

“That would be a lot of shit.” Albert tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and began to fold it into a paper airplane. “Also I’m pretty sure that they already shit, so that doesn’t solve the problem.”

“But they could shit like, POOF!” He threw a small handful of cheetos in the air for emphasis.

Albert stared in confusion at the pile of orange crap now littering the lab table. “You want…..whales…….to have explosive diarrhea…..so that they can be smaller?”

“Yes,” asshole said confidently, beginning to eat the cheetos off of the table.

“That's...interesting.”

Asshole threw a cheeto into his mouth casually. “You know if you made out with a whale technically it would be brushing your teeth.”

Albert turned his head slowly to face the asshole seated next to him. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted to,” Albert muttered under his breath.

“Also-”

“Oh no.” Albert put his head in his hands.

“Hey! You asked for my animal opinions!”

“That was before I knew they included making out with whales who have explosive diarrhea!”

Asshole threw a hot cheeto at him.

“Fine, fine,” Albert sighed, brushing hot cheeto dust off of his shirt, “let’s hear it.”

“Well, no offense to anyone who actually likes them but kiwi birds are weird and why did they need a fruit named after them and why are they fuzzy and who gave fruits the right to be fuzzy like what the fuck- WAIT-” he flung out his arm so that is wacked Albert in the chest and stared into oblivion as if he had just seen the ghost of shrek, “WHICH CAME FIRST THE BIRD OR THE FRUIT?”

“I don't know?” Albert said unhelpfully.

“God they’re as cryptic as whales,” asshole groaned, all but slamming his head into the table.

Albert chose to ignore the mess of a person next to him and pretend like he was still taking notes, as the teacher had grown suspicious of what was happening in the back of the room and was beginning to eye them. But, Albert still didn't have a pencil so it didn't really work.

“What does a kiwi bird look like anyway?” He asked once the teacher’s eyes were off them.

“Your worst nightmare.” Asshole turned his face on the table so that he was looking at Albert.

“Alright then.”

Albert decided that if he was going to pass this class he better take out a pencil and at least pretend to take some notes. However, after digging a pencil from the very depths of his bag, he discovered that the asshole was still intently staring at him.

“Aren’t you going to take notes?”

“Notes and my brain don't mix well,” asshole said, eating another hot cheeto. Albert wasn't quite sure how there were that many in the bag considering he had thrown at least half of them on the desk. Maybe he was a wizard. “Ask me more questions about animals.”

“Can’t you tell me your name first?”

“You've sat next to me for two months and you don't know my name?” Asshole clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Tisk tisk Albie.”

“Oh no, you are not allowed to call me that,” Albert groaned. He hated that nickname more than anything. Well, he potentially hated kale more, but only cause it tasted like unwanted veiny leaves.

“I’ll call you whatever I want until your sorry ass learns my name, Albie.” Asshole smirked. “Now, ask me about animals.”

“Alright, uhhh…” Albert’s eyes wandered across the doodle-filled pages of his notebook until they landed on a drawing of a shittly looking smiley face sheep. “Opinions on sheep?”

“I want a sheep,” Asshole whispered wistfully. “They seem fluffy. And precious. Like clouds.”

“Good to know.” Albert doodled a sheep jumping on a cloud. “What about, uh, crickets?”

“Hmmmm. They’re kinda scary.”

“Are they now?”

“Yeah. One time one got stuck in my brother’s dorm room and he was so scared he sent me a snapchat video of him screaming.” He paused to monch another cheeto. “Yeah. Crickets are scary but rubbing your legs together under a blanket as such is nice so crickets make some points I guess.”

“Rubbing your legs together under a blanket?” Albert asked incredulously.

“Yeah like, when it’s 4am and you can't sleep? Have you never done that before?”

“No…?”

“Oh.” Asshole looked disappointed for a minute. “Well, you're missing out bro.”

“Oh so now I’m your bro?”

“Of course, bro. You’re my bro, bro.”

Albert scribbled down a line about Darwin from the board. “Stop saying the word bro.”

“No bro. I gotta let everyone know we’re bros, bro.”

“No bro.” Albrt sighed loudly. “Fuck, now you got me doing it!”

“Isn’t it great bro?” Asshole used his finger to draw a heart in the cheeto dust that was still sitting on his desk. “Bro, look that's us!”

Albert glanced briefly at the cheeto dust. “Isn’t that kinda gay?” he asked, returning to his notes.

“It’s not gay if you have socks on,” Asshole said quickly. “And I definitely have socks on, so we’re good bro.”

Albert stared long and hard at his seatmate.

“Got somethin’ to say, bro?” Asshole smirked.

“Are you high?” Albert finally asked.

“Nah bro. My body is a temple. I only do-” he paused to wink “-brocaine.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Albert said definatively. “Never talk to me again.”

Asshole shrugged and went back to eating his hot cheetos. Albert went back to taking notes, pausing every few minutes to flick cheeto dust off of his paper.

Eventually, the teacher said something about cheetahs and the asshole next to him sighed deeply.

“I wish I could be a cheetah,” he said wistfully. Then he looked down at his bag of cheetos. “Or a cheeto.” Carefully, he pulled one out and inspected it. “Danny DeCheeto.” he decided, popping the cheeto into his mouth and crunching loudly.

Albert burst out laughing. He just couldn’t help himself. There was something about the way that he has said it so bluntly that made him have to laugh at the terrible pun.

“DASILVA!” The teacher, Jeff, who Albert lovingly referred to using his first name because he was a crappy teacher and didn’t deserve formalities, yelled.

“Oh now you’ve don’t it,” asshole whispered excitedly.

Albert elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop interrupting my lesson with your absolute idiocy! I’d give you detention if I didn’t run it!” Jeff yelled halfheartedly. Albert didn’t particularly care.

“It wasn’t my fault!” he called back. “This kid’s been talking all through your lesson and it’s really distracting!” He pointed at the asshole next to him. “I was really enjoying your lesson on cheetahs!” he added just to be a kiss up. Albert always made it a point to kiss up to teachers who hated him because it just made them hate him more.

“HIGGINS!” Jeff yelled again, this time at his seatmate.

“I’m not on a sports team so that’s not my naaaameee!” he singsoned back, also just to annoy Jeff.

“RACE!” Jeff yelled instead.

“Yeeees?”

“Stop distracting my students who actually want to learn!” Jeff gestures wildly with his hands. “It’s rude! There are some people in here who want to actually hear about cheetahs, not about whatever you’re doing back there with cheeto dust!”

“Terribly sorry!” Asshole, or, Race, called back in a way that was clearly not sorry at all before Jeff returned to his lesson.

“So,” Albert whispered, “Race, huh? I thought I wasn’t allowed to know your name.”

“Oh be quiet Albie.” Race scowled, licking cheeto dust off of his fingers.

“Hey! I told you not to call me that!”

Race pointed a cheeto dust covered finger at him menacingly. “One more word out of you and I’ll have my yaks come lick your eyeballs.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Albert gasped in fake horror.

“I would,” Race said just as the bell rang.

Albert watched as he swiftly brushed all of his cheeto dust into the floor, scooped up his bag, and gave him a mock salute. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If you bring cheetos I’ll have to steal your socks!” Albert called after him.

As he scrambled to put his stuff away, Albert couldn’t help but think that this was the start of a really good, yet definitely weird, friendship.

•••

Albert was pulled out of his memory by the crowd clapping wildly for the valedictorian. Soon after the student council President was announcing that it was time to move their tassels and then everyone was filing out of the rows back out to behind the field.

From somewhere in the crowd, Race materialized, attacking him in a giant hung.

“WE DID IT BRO!” Race yelled, jumping up and down.

“YEAH BRO!” Albert yelled back.

After a few minutes of celebrating, Albert reached into his pants pocket for the bag of hot cheetos he had stashed there, handing them to Race, who immediately started laughing.

“Do you remember the first time we met in Jeff’s class?” Albert asked. “You were being an asshole and got cheeto dust all over my notes.”

“I remember,” Race smirked. “I was literally talking out of my ass to try and get you to laugh.”

“Well, it worked.”

“Oh yeah, he got so mad at you.” He picked up the bag of cheetos, smirking. “You know, the funny thing is, I don’t even like hot cheetos. They’re too spicy and they make my mouth burn.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Albert chortled.

“But, since they’re a gift from you bro, I’ll cherish them forever.” Race made awkward kissy faces at Albert who shook his head in response.

“That’s gay bro,” he said mock seriously.

“It’s alright,” Race reassures him, winking. “I have socks on.”

________

see I told you it was cursed

hbd b r o (o no I don’t have soccs on :o)

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the tag list

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@humanracoon @irondad-spiderson-duo @holistically-eating-cookie-cake @nico-nasty

[callisofcamelot]

sunlight through broken glass

pairing: hort x beatrix

setting: modern au, canada, uhhhhh they’re like in their twenties??? (this isn’t even a setting but you get it)

notes: im not dead!! *insert surprised pikachu face* this also isn’t edited at all, it’s a hot mess but please enjoy.

word count: 1342

part 1/??? (ooooo me making a new series i’ll never finish)

*****

It’s not that much a surprise, and it’s not even bad.

When she looks through the mail and finds it. Beatrix doesn't have to open it to know it's the divorce papers. Chaddick had moved out months ago, leaving their too big home to herself (which was right in the mountains, and Beatrix hated mountains. But if he knew things like that maybe they wouldn't be here in the first place). The home was okay. . . but the smell.

God.

It was horrible.

Everything smelled like him. His favorite cologne was embedded in the walls and even gallons of bleach and millions of Bath and Body Works candles couldn't get rid of it. Beatrix can’t stand it and it hurts so much, and she's a big girl and big girls don't cry but nowadays all she does is cry.

She texts Millie and Reena, and they both tell her they'll be there in a few seconds.

But it's not even that bad, she tells herself. It's not like the time Tedros basically led her on for years and then broke it in a single second.

So here's the inciting incident. She's fifteen and has shelves filled with romance novels and watches One Tree Hill and Gilmore Girls religiously and doodles her crushes names on her binder and she's just fifteen.

Tedros was supposed to be her soulmate. It just made sense to her. Their parents were friends and they’ve known each other forever and childhood friends always fall in love. Right?

She stands in her mother's heels that she stole and a dress that cost far too much just for a dance. Beatrix knows she's beautiful, she's always known she's beautiful, but at this moment she doesn't feel like it, because what is beauty if no ones there to admire it?

It's nothing, she realises an hour into the night.

The punch in her hands is cool but so is her heart, so maybe that's a good thing. She is fifteen and has never really felt this feeling before, she has never felt the sight of Tedros dancing with Agatha, Tedros laughing with Agatha, Tedros looking at Agatha like that, she has never felt this kind of . . . betrayal.

Beatrix feels the knife in her heart, a merciless cold blade that seems to leave a gaping hole in her chest. She is bleeding out while drinking Hawaiian Punch, and perhaps that isn't the worst way to die, but at this moment it sure feels like it. Tears prick her eyes, and she hopes she will turn invisible because at this moment Beatrix isn't the most beautiful girl in the room, she's the most heartbroken.

People can see it because people always see the things you don't want them too.

"Bee," a voice says carefully, a hand slowly being stuck out in front of her. "Do you wanna dance."

She turns her head to Chaddick. Chaddick who has always teased her and never really cared for her, with this crooked smile and messy amber hair and his eyes that are the ocean during a storm. Yet at this moment he looks small and awkward, and very much a teenage boy filled with too many emotions and not enough words.

She gives him her hand. "Okay."

That's the start of them, and you see she hears years later about what would've happened if she'd have said no to him, but that's a story for another time.

-

Millie makes her a cake because that's what she does.

It's a chocolate cake, and it tastes so fucking good, and Beatrix doesn't care it'll take her hours of pilates to work off the calories, because this makes her feel good.

God knows that she deserves to indulge at least a bit.

"Did you know twenty-eight is the prime age of women," Millie says, while they all sit on the couch drinking some hundred dollar wine she got for an anniversary. "You’re super fertile and attractive and funny and smart and like look at your body man, it's bangin'."

It makes her cry, and the fact she's on her period makes her hormones go crazy. "Then, god, why'd he leave."

"He was pretty dumb," Millie mumbles.

"I know," she says. "But he tried, he made me laugh, sometimes made smoothies, and treated me so nicely, and well, his abs were really nice."

Reena rubs her arm. "It's gonna be ok. We'll get through this, we always do." She believes Reena, not only because she's really smart and is married and has kids, but also because Reena is her best friend. "What're you in the mood for Bee," she asks, she flips through movies, thousands of them from her and Chaddicks daily movie nights. It's a collection of them from the past five years, like a mixtape of them living together. "I'm kinda leaning on something Disney."

Her eyes pick something in the sea of thousands, it's a movie that wasn't apart of the mixtape, it's apart of something completely different.

"Put on, The Fantastic Mr. Fox."

-

Beatrix is nineteen, and she's freshly single, and very much ready to mingle.

Her and Chaddick’s long distant relationship ends, and for some strange reason, she isn't upset. But of course she doesn't tell anyone, because that would make her a horrible person, and for some reason, though popularity was left in high school she still puts far too much effort in putting up appearances.

Going into university, Beatrix is alone for the first time. It's her fault for choosing one where none of her friends are going, but for some strange reason, she doesn't mind. She's been surrounded by people her whole life, but now she's free, and it feels good, well until it doesn't.

It's a Friday night and instead of partying she's in the library studying, and it sounds sad and terrible and it is but she's not even that upset.

Ok, that's a lie.

She's a tiny bit upset.

But doesn't try to tell anyone that.

(Even if she wanted to she couldn’t because Reena and Millie are building schools in Asia, and they have no service for the next two weeks)

She stares at her textbook, Policy In The New Age, trying to get all the knowledge to somehow magically go into her brain (it hasn't worked for the last 20 minutes but who knows, maybe that'll change).

"Beatrix," a voice suddenly says to her out of nowhere, she turns her head and is greeted by two long legs and she has to look up and god it's Hort, but it's not him at all. He's so tall, and tan, and almost muscular in some areas, yet still gangly, and his smile is the same because she recognizes those dimples, and god he got hot. "Haven't seen you in such a long time."

Her mouth has forgotten to talk because human interaction has become rare for her, and she feels so dumb, but all she can do is stare at him.

He frowns. "Something wrong?"

Then her brain finally starts to work. "No," she croaks out. "I'm just tired and very bored."

"That's great," he says, and lord she regrets thinking he was hot this is-- "Oh, fuck, that's not actually great it's just I'm very tired and bored too, so . . . like, I don't know, but would you-well, like to go to this new Chinese place around the block."

She has to blink a few times before she can comprehend what he just said, and then, she smiles. "Yes please, anything than this."

He smiles and it's familiar and comforting, and she likes it.

(Hort tells her while they're walking to the restaurant about a film that includes foxes. He tells her it's his favorite movie in the whole world when she says she's never watched it, he seems appalled and invites her over to his dorm to watch it. That where it starts, the movie that is them.)

-

Beatrix is drunk by eight.

(She also has always believed alcohol makes her spontaneous, not dumb. So that's why she emails him.)

Hey Hort!!

What's up.

From Beatrix.

(Her email writing skills have never been good, she doesn't wanna talk about it.)