#this literally made me shake my fists at the sky in victory

[valyrfia]

the lestappen padel date prophecy has been fulfilled god bless

[outofangband]

Awhile ago I hijacked @katekatharos‘s post about this so I’m finally making my own! More in the post Angband and in the iron hell tags

The cultural context of Morgoth is really fascinating to me.

There was Morgoth in the beginning of the elves. A dark specter, the dark rider they called him, who came in the night to take their children, steal them away to a dreadful unknown fate. After Morgoth is defeated in the War for the Elves, these memories fade to whispers and ghost stories but the fear does not. Perhaps some of their numbers are still lost to those dark lands. Sauron was maintaining control over Angband in the absence of his master, after all

And when black smoke rises from the Thangorodrim, the Avari, Sindar, and Silvan who see it know exactly what it means. And they are afraid. Some scatter, some leave over the Ered Luin, some prepare to fight. But the cultural memory exists among them and in that memory there is no knowledge of a true escape or victory.

The Green elves of course do suffer more direct losses in the beginning with the death of Denethor at Amon Ereb, etc

Then we have the returning Noldor, Maedhros, his family, and the host of Fingolfin. Only a small number, if any of them, were likely of the original group of Noldor who had once been in these lands and traveled from them to Valinor which is I think always interesting to consider.

Many of them knew him personally! Now, the fact that the Noldor and other Caliquendi know the gods on a personal level is always difficult to scale or compare but regardless, this is still a betrayal in this way. Many might have learned from him! They might have laughed at an off color but seemingly harmless comment he made at an otherwise dull event! They might have admired his style or persona or his work! They brought their trades to him for approval.

Some mistrusted him. Some were frightened by the stories that their population have grown up hearing, of Morgoth and his dread fortress carved into the Iron Mountains, the evil things that befell elves who were taken there.

But their people have not grown up in the shadow of Angband. To them Morgoth was a known figure, the deeds of his time beyond Valinor the stuff of rumors and ghost stories.

Maedhros’s imprisonment is in a place he grew up hearing about, always with the assurance that it was no longer one his people had to fear. The cruelty, dehumanization, violence and death he witnessed in Angband on such a massive scale was inconceivable to him prior to his capture.

The being who oversaw his torture he could remember from scattered events and ceremonies!

I also think about the differences in the ways former prisoners are treated by varying elven groups based on their history of imprisonment in their cultures.

Then we have Húrin, a human, who, after the death of his young daughter, goes outside to literally shake his fist at the sky and yell at who he (correctly) believes to be the culprit; Morgoth, the Dark Enemy, the being who has haunted the lives of his people and his allies, who’s forces burned Morwen’s family and home to the ground and nearly killed him and his brother at a young age...he’s never known Morgoth as anything other than a villain. Distant as a distinct entity though his forces and destruction are not and always evil, always a threat On that note, for Morwen and her people, the evil of Morgoth is an even more immediate evil, one that as taken their home, is responsible for the massacre of her people For the humans, many of them at least, Morgoth is not simply an evil god, he is a tyrant and warlord who has cost them their homes, families, lives, and cultures.

He is both a distant enemy, an evil tyrant, and an actor in a variety of mundane and even pleasant memories and stories.

It’s fascinating to me  

[prael]

Special

18+ Loona Haseul x Male reader smut Masterlist

Word count: 5,351

Tonight is brutally cold, not just the negative temperatures outside or the frozen water falling from the sky. Enter ‌your apartment and accept the warmth. Embrace the heat on your cold flesh. Brush away the snow from your jacket and the disappointment from your feelings. If tonight had gone to plan, you either wouldn’t be home at all, or you wouldn’t be alone.

The apartment had been heated all evening—your roommate has minor considerations for energy costs. A problem you stressed to her countless times without reparation. But right now, you were grateful for the cosy atmosphere it created in contrast to what lay outside. The snow continues to descend past your living room windows on the far side of the room. Between the black curtains, the white barrage falls in front of the backdrop of nighttime Seoul.

“Haseul?!” you call out into the mysteriously ‌vacant apartment. When you left in the afternoon, she said she would be here all night, and all the lights are on, so where is she? You hang up your jacket and take off your shoes before calling out again, “ya! Haseul?” 

In search of your roommate, you check the tiny kitchen first. You peer your head into the doorway to find it empty. You often caught Haseul here when she was cooking food. Her fried rice, in particular, was one of her best dishes, as was her soup that she always made when you were feeling under the weather. Alas, maybe it was a little late for her to be here. 

You flick the light switch in the kitchen and then the living room as you walk past it to your bedroom. That’s when you hear it. It was a rare treat for your ears to be blessed by this sound. Haseul usually reserved her music practice for when you were out of the apartment. Of course, right now, Haseul had no idea you were home. 

Haseul took the translation of karaoke far too literally. An ‘empty orchestra’ was a strict requirement. No matter how often you asked her to sing for you, she refused. However, you can now seize the chance to hear her play and heal your broken pride with this minor victory. To listen as best as you can, you press your ear against the closed door of her room. Her delicate fingers pluck away at the six strings of her acoustic guitar. She provides her own supporting melody for the main event of the evening, her melancholic voice. 

Her low tones lull you into a dreamlike state. Her voice is as clear as spring water and soft as silk. Each syllable is delivered with precision. Each word is an emotion-filled arrow fired into your eardrum.

“... I feel all this tension

You show me no attention

Yeah, you’re selfish with your affection

You make my heart beat

Like it never has before

I stare down at my feet

As you walk—”

Haseul’s finger hits the wrong string and breaks her tune, cutting her off mid-verse.

“You were a little pitchy there, Seulie!” Silence answers your comments for a few tense seconds.

“YA!” Suddenly, the stomping of feet echoes through the apartment. Haseul marches to her door and swings it open. “You’re not supposed to be home!”

Haseul stands in the doorway of her room. Her face is a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Like traffic lights imploring you to stop, her cheeks burn red. Balled into fists, her hands hang by her side.

“I thought you had a date with a girl from that app? Why are you back so early?!”

“Well, I heard my favourite singer was performing here, so I came over. I can’t find her, though.” Pointing at Haseul, you tease, “All I can find is my annoying roommate, so where’s the singer?” You raise your hand to your face and place your forefinger onto one eyebrow and your thumb on the other—comically pretending to search, looking over and past Haseul.

“You’re such a goof and an unfunny one at that.” Haseul pouts and shakes her head while crossing her arms. 

“Ah, that hurts.” you clutch at your chest, then close your eyes and grimace to feign pain.

When your eyes open, you realise what Haseul is wearing, or rather, what she isn’t wearing. She is wearing a purple silk gown which hangs from her shoulders. The gown hangs open and creates a gap down the front of her body where she isn’t wearing clothes. There are no trousers or shorts in sight. She just wears her black lace underwear that hugs the flesh between her legs and extends over her hips. The opening also exposes the inside of her long legs down to her feet. Above her panties is her toned stomach, the faint outline of her toned abs on show. 

Haseul’s crossed arms present the principal attraction; they frame and push together her voluminous breasts. The low-cut lingerie barely covers her small nubs and offers a deep view of her cleavage. “Damn, Haseul, cover yourself up around the apartment. You’re going to give me a heart attack.” 

“Oh, come on, you’ve seen it all plenty of times before. Don’t overreact.”

“Well, in that case, how about a little tease?”

“Fuck you,” she says, waving dismissively and walking back into her room. Haseul takes the guitar on which her mistake ruined the song just moments ago and places it on the stand in her room. She then takes the little blue book from the bed and rounds the corner where you cannot see. After coming back into view, Haseul takes a seat on the bed. She pats her hand on the soft covers and says, “are you going to come in and take a seat or are you just going to ogle me from afar?”

“Ahem, right, yeah.” You step into the room, head towards the bed, and then take a cross-legged seat near the bed's centre.

“So, are you going to answer my question or not? Am I being too distracting for you to answer?” Haseul grabs the edges of her gown and pulls it over her body. 

“No, no.” To reverse her action, you place both your hands on hers. Haseul drops the gown back to her sides with a smirk on her lips.

“Well?”

“I got stood up.”

“So you didn’t even speak to her?” Haseul lets out an unfiltered belly laugh at your embarrassment.

“No, she never showed.”

“Maybe she did show, took one look at you and turned right around.” Haseul looks you up and down as she speaks, chuckling to herself as if mocking you.

“At least I go on dates. What about you?” 

Haseul’s smile disappears from her face, her lips now pursed, and her eyebrows furrowed. “Ya! That’s not funny. I’m just not… not—just don’t.” 

“Oh, but me getting stood up is hilarious?” 

She breaks out in a little giggle again and replies, “yes. Yes, it is. I thought you didn’t even like her much anyway? Why did you go?”

“She wasn’t fascinating, you're right, but she was hot.”

“There you go, thinking with your dick again. And if you want interesting women, you would stop using that app.”

“How else do I find someone?” Haseul drops her head and replies under her breath with words you can’t make out. “Huh?”

Haseul sighs and says, “maybe you should take a break to think about what you really want?”

“I suppose. My last four dates haven’t worked out at all. I can’t be that bad, right?” you ask quizzically.

“No, not at all,” she says with more sincerity. In an act of reassurance, Haseul places her hands on yours. “Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places.” 

“I’m looking at the right places right now, though.” You tilt your head forward to make sure she knows that you’re looking between the gap in the gown at her perfectly weighted mounds.

“Oh, seriously? You get rejected, and now you’re acting like some pent-up pervert?”

“You just spent the last five minutes with your push-up bra forcing your tits into my face.”

“Well, that's a bit of an overreaction and hey, what the hell? This isn’t a push-up bra, you horny fuck.”

“I dunno, Haseul, they’re not normally that big.”

“It’s been a week since you’ve seen them. Your memory must be as bad as your flirting, Mr Four-Rejections.”

“If my flirting is so bad, does that make you easy? Because it’s worked on you plenty of times.”

Haseul grabs the pillow from behind her and strikes you on the side of the head with the soft bag of feathers.

“That’s for calling me a slut.” She winds up and strikes you again. “That’s for being a pervert.” Again. A third hit to the side of your head. “That’s for saying I’m wearing a push-up.” This time, on the other side of your head, she connects with hit number four. “That’s for not fucking me for over a week.” 

Haseul winds up a fifth strike, a huge overhead lunge that bears down on the top of your skull. You reach up and catch the pillow, holding it now above your head. Your faces are closer together now. “There it is. Now, who’s horny and pent-up?” 

“Well, before someone came home rejected, I was about to get my toys out and fuck myself senseless.”

“Sounds like I made it home just in time, then. Maybe you should call and thank her for standing me up.”

“Yeah, I’ll stick to my toys. Thank you.”

“What did you say last time?” You pull on the pillow, taking it from her hands and throwing it back where it belonged. “I think it was, ‘Oh my god, your cock is so big, I never want to use a toy again.’ Do I remember that right?” 

Haseul strikes your shoulder with an open palm. “Fuck you!” 

“Oh yeah, thanks for the reminder; then it was ‘I only want to fuck you, I want to fuck you all day.’” You let out a soft laugh at her reddening face as she hits you again.

“God damn it, I hate you,” Haseul says through grinning teeth. Despite her rosy cheeks, your renditions of her words clearly excited her.

“Really? Because I bet you’re dripping wet right now that I’m making you relive those memories. Hate me? You fucking love m—love fucking me.” Haseul turns away from you. Maybe your last comment was a little too personal and not as fun as your imitations of her. You decide it’s best to dial back on feelings and make fun of her again.

You continue, “I can still picture your face now, right there on the bed, looking up at me as I fuck you. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh my god, yes! Fuck me harder, fuck me faster! That’s it! Oh, Oh OHH!’” You exaggerate your imitation of her orgasm by almost shouting at the top of your lungs. 

“I do not sound like that!” she shouts as she turns to face you. Her face is burning, but not in embarrassment. The raging blaze of desire inside her is apparent on both her fiery face and lust-filled eyes. “Let’s see if you can actually make me orgasm, and I will remind you how I actually sound.” Haseul leaps forward into a new sitting position. Her long legs wrap around your waist, crossing behind you. On your lap rests her thick thighs and ass. The soft flesh of her thighs melts around your jeans as she rests down on your lap. You bury your fingers into her soft flesh, which feels much like the pillow you just threw away. That’s not the only similarity between her thighs and her pillows—you’ve slept on both of them before. 

The heat of her core radiates onto your crotch as she pushes her body against yours before engaging you in a passionate kiss. A week without your body must have been torture for her. It was rare she came at you so aggressively for sex, but it was also welcome. She is hungry for your lips, eating them like her final meal. Between hungry periods of making out, she pauses only to bite your lower lip. Her nibbles hurt a little due to her aggression. If she doesn’t stop soon, your mouth will be sore.

“I’m going to make you orgasm, Seulie, more than once, and I’m going to make you scream so loud the neighbours downstairs will write a formal complaint—again.” Your words make her breath hitch. 

“Oh my god, please!” Her ‘please’ came out barely as a recognisable word, more so as a moan. Her eyes roll back as she pushes herself further into your body. The thin layer of her soaked panties rubs against your trousers. Haseul takes pleasure in just the slightest friction. “Mmmm, that feels so nice.” Her hot breath hits your face as she moans softly from just not-so-dry-humping you. A wet patch forms on your trousers, right over your stiffening cock. During her furious mounting of your body, you push the silk gown from her shoulders down to her wrists. Haseul slips both of her hands out of the cloth and throws it to the floor.

You take hold of her juicy ass. One cheek fills each of your palms. With a hard squeeze of your hands, Haseul lets out a small whimper and closes her eyes. You pull her in by her ass and push your own crotch forward, your stiff cock pressing your wet trousers against her crotch with more friction than before. With all the strength in your arms, you pull her body back and forth over your crotch. Her entire body is now under the control of your hands, and you play with her like a puppet. 

Haseul throws her head over your shoulder and her arms around you. She buries her face into the crook of your neck, alternating the actions of her mouth between biting your skin and moaning loudly right below your ear. Her hands claw at your back, pulling at the fabric of your shirt and occasionally scratching the skin below. You continue to grind Haseul’s body against your own forcefully. With a repeated push and pull of her wide hips in your hands. 

Haseul’s moans become more pronounced—louder and sharper. Her breath has become erratic and rapid. Short blasts of hot air hit your neck in relentless succession. To draw air deep into her lungs, Haseul’s chest heaves, and her heart pounds against your chest. The pulsations travel through the soft mounds on her chest which press against you.

“Are you about to cum for me, Seulie? Just from a little grinding?”

“Shut… shut up. And make—make me cum.” She gasps out the words through sharp, swift breaths. 

“I have to shut my mouth, but you can jus—” Haseul’s palm plants itself squarely in your face and paws around to find your mouth. Once found, she traps your lips shut.

“Shut up,” she sternly whispers into your ear. Haseul’s grinding is now aggressive as she chases her high. Her soft moaning stops; she holds her breath as her high hits her before releasing her pleasure in a long moan. Much like her singing, the pitch is perfect. Melodic. Her whole body shakes on top of you as she rides out the last of her orgasm on your crotch. Her juices become too much for the lace barrier to hold back and soak through onto your trousers.

Haseul releases her hold on you, falling backwards onto the bed. Her glistening thighs still rest over your own legs, a delicious dish presented on a fleshy platter. She takes a series of deep breaths with her eyes closed. “Fuck, that was good. I needed that.”

“Wow, Seulie, how long have you been holding that back?” You say as you stroke your hand over her still twitching pussy.

“Too long.” Haseul opens her eyes and smiles with a mischievous look. “Well, thanks for that. You can leave now.”

You can’t find the right words to answer back and sit there stunned into silence.

“Haha! The look on your face, I should take a picture. Now I know what you looked like sitting at that table when your date didn’t show.” 

Incensed by her teasing, you intend to wipe the smirk from her face. In one fell swoop, you push her drenched panties to the side and slip two fingers into her drenched, hot pussy. 

“Oh my god!” Haseul shouts before biting her lip in anticipation, but your next move shocks her. With your other hand, you pinch the flesh of her thigh. “Ow! What the fuck! That hurt!”

“Well, it’s your choice: Be nice to me, and I’ll make you cum again, laugh at me, and I’ll pinch you until these thighs are red.”

“You wouldn’t do that to my thighs. You love them too much, especially around your head,” she says before letting out a chuckle. You pinch again, a little harder this time, and you leave a small red mark. “Ow! Okay! No more jokes. Now please take my panties off and claim what’s yours.”

“That’s more like it, Seulie.” Despite her wanting pussy clinging to your fingers, you extract them to pull down her panties. A small whimper can be heard from Haseul’s mouth. You reveal fully what hides beneath: her well-kempt pussy. The smooth skin of her lips just barely hid the pink flesh inside. Her slightly open hole slowly closes again in the absence of your fingers.

You spread her thighs almost split to one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. Her new workout has really helped her flexibility and, with it, your sex life. With just two fingers, you spread her folds and admire what lies between them. It really is yours, just like she said. You’ve never heard nor seen any other men visiting Haseul. You were her satisfaction, and she was yours. Small whimpers escape Haseul’s lips as the tension builds; she waits for you to spring to action.

You reposition and dip your head into your favourite meal. You never had a chance to eat dinner, but that doesn’t matter. Just like when you were younger, you’re happy to skip right to dessert. And what a special dessert it is. From the first taste of her sweet juices discarded on the exterior of her pussy, your hunger is appeased but not satiated. You collect everything on her thighs and lips like it was liquid gold. In anticipation, your platter squirms on the bed before outright begging. “Please, just eat my little cunt. I’ve been waiting so long.”

Underneath her outstretched thighs, you hook your arms. Your hands reach up and take hold of her waist. Haseul takes a deep breath in preparation, one that’s both audible and can be felt in the movement of her stomach. You connect your open lips around her sweet spot and apply a little suction. With the first slow swipe of her clit with your tongue, Haseul exhales via a moan.

You lavishly lick at her swelling clit. The replacement of the rough friction of fabric with your wet tongue created a fresh sensation for the girl spread before you. One that she is not shy about as she calls out into the room, “That’s it! Right there. Don’t stop. You know how I like it.” That you did. You know exactly how to make her cum in your mouth, but you also know how to make her orgasm as intense as possible; tease her a little. You move your securely attached lips down to right over her hole and leave her clit unattended, much to Haseul’s dismay. She lets out a disappointed whine.

She loves how you like to switch things up and pleasure her differently. You fully extend your tongue, punching it into Haseul’s hole. Back and forth, you tongue fuck her until she resumes her soft moaning. This always leads to a more intense orgasm for Haseul and a larger deposit of tasty cum for you. 

Down Haseul’s toned midriff, right above your head, snakes a hand. Not yours, but Haseul’s. Reaching for her clit to force herself to orgasm. Action denied. You run one of your hands over her stomach to intercept the invader of your alone time with Haseul’s pussy. She calls down to you in a shaky voice, “nooo, let me cum. I need it.” You slide your hungry tongue out from inside her and position your mouth back over her clit. With your head back where she wants it, Haseul closes her juicy thighs around your head and crosses her calves on your back to pull you into her warm pussy. You apply a series of rapid licks to Haseul’s swollen clit, at a constant speed, rhythm and pressure. Now you will make her cum. 

“YES! That’s it! Right there! Yes. Yes! YES!” If Haseul weren’t shouting, you wouldn’t be able to hear her through the juicy thighs covering your ears. You can barely make out her muffled moans through the fleshy obstructions as they get louder and louder. The pressure on your skull peaks as Haseul’s thighs clench around your head. Her lower back rises from the bed as she pushes her pussy into your face. With that final push, the fluids that had been held inside her came crashing down onto your mouth and chin. The liquid falls like monsoon season. You desperately try to catch as much as you can in your mouth and savour her sweet taste, but there’s too much. Her sheets join your trousers in being ruined by Haseul’s cum.

“Wow, that was amazing. I admit you really are better than every toy I have.” You can hear her clearly again, even though her voice is now softer than before. Unleashed from your prison, you can sit up as her powerful legs fall back to the bed. All the hard work has made you unfathomably hot, so you pull your shirt over your head. “Take off the rest too,” Haseul says with a renewed hunger in her tone. “I’m going to ride you until you cum for me.” 

With your shirt off, you lie on the bed next to Haseul. “About time. I’ve been desperate to cum since you opened the bedroom door.” 

Haseul sits up to unbuckle your trousers and then pulls both them and your underwear off together and says, “you don’t have to wait any longer. I’m going to hump you dry.” Now on her knees beside you, Haseul leans over and looks down at your stiff cock. “You need to stop making me wait a week between rides. A cock like this is going to waste if it isn’t fucking every day—fucking me every day.”

“You can fuck me every day, Haseul.”

“Don’t let your horny mind write cheques you can’t cash. I’m serious. I want to fuck you every day. Then you don’t have to go around dating bimbos. You can just be with—you can just fuck me.” Haseul looks away from your face and down at your cock. Her aqua hair falls to hide her face. From behind the wall of hair drops a ball of her spit, which she catches in her hand. She rubs her hand messily over your entire stiff cock, covering it in her saliva. This is the first time tonight Haseul’s soft skin touched your cock, and it felt amazing. But it would not stop there. Haseul intends to up the ante quickly as she swings one of her legs over yours.

With her full ass and wide hips facing you, you admire the form of her sculpted body. Above her thick ass—which hovers teasingly over your cock—her arched back presents her two dimples on her lower back; they punctuate the crevice that runs all the way up her spine. Haseul herself may be an artist, but you’d like to meet the artist who crafted her. She is a genuine work of art. 

With a hand between her legs, she guides you against her entrance. After a little rub around her folds, she sets you in position. In a swift move, Haseul lowers her body onto the end of your cock. She takes you exactly to the hilt before you reach the tightening end of her pussy. It clenches the end of your cock. Everything you had done up to this point had only built Haseul’s arousal, enabling you to slide right into her wanting pussy. As the only cock she had ever had, her pussy seemed to preset to your shape. Her walls hugged you tightly, but never enough to push you out. She is made for you.

There is very little build up in pace. Haseul is intent on doing exactly what she set out to do—to hump you dry. Her plump ass threatens to run away from you each time she pulls it forward before she slams it back against you. She causes a tremor in her voluptuous body with each hit against your crotch. “You like that?” she calls over her shoulder. “You like my ass bouncing in front of you as I fuck your amazing cock?”

“I love it Haseul.” You reach out and play with her bouncing ass. You squeeze and pull at her flesh, which moulds under your touch like soft dough. “Your ass is amazing. Your whole body is amazing.” 

Now settled into a rhythm, Haseul swings her head back, and her hair falls onto her upper back like waves invading a golden beach. Her moans echo in the room as she shouts out directly up into the air. “Your cock is amazing! It’s filling my little cunt! You’re so fucking fun to ride! So long, so thick, so special!” Haseul continues to shout superlatives into the air as she enjoys every moment of your cock impaling her right up to her womb.

“Haseul, I’m getting close. Face me.” She does as you wish, regretfully pulling herself off your cock and then turning to lie on top of you. Haseul arches her back and reaches behind her to direct your cock from resting between her ass cheeks and back inside her. This is one of Haseul’s favourite ways to fuck you. She gets to orgasm again face to face with you, before pulling you out and letting you cum all over her back and on her ass. Her eyes show ‌she is close to step one, and the feeling in your stomach means you’re close to step two.

Haseul rests her head against yours. Your noses and foreheads touch, exchanging sweat between the two. She tries her best to keep her eyes open and look into yours as she slams her pussy down onto you, but the pleasure keeps making her eyelids flutter. You take a hand on each hip and match her movements. You buck your hips up into her to meet every bounce on your cock. Each time you make sure to bury yourself deep inside her. 

“You’re so fucking hot, Haseul. Look at me when you cum. I want to see your pretty face while you cum on my cock.” Your words alone sent her over the edge, but the hard fucking you are giving her seals the deal. She attempts to kiss you as she cums, but her moans make it impossible. She forces her eyes to stay open, but they roll back as her pussy tightens around your cock. It took every manner of breathing technique and willpower not to cum inside her. 

You continue to buck up into her, just enough to let her ride out her orgasm but not enough to finish yourself. As her orgasm finishes, she locks eyes with you again. “You look so beautiful when you cum, Seulie.” She blushes and buries her head into your neck. “Seriously, it’s something special. You’re special.”

Haseul freezes with her head still buried in your neck. For a few seconds, her body is tense. Static on top of you, your cock is still planted to the hilt inside her. Haseul raises her mouth to your ear and whispers, “cum inside me.” 

“But you sai—”

“No questions. Just cum inside me. Fuck me and cum in me right now.” Haseul bites your earlobe softly and moans into your ear as she moves her hips again. There was a newfound hunger in the way she rode you. Her pussy almost refused to let you out, gripping onto you like it was the only thing that mattered. Haseul speaks again, urging you on. “Go on. Fuck me. Fuck me and fill me. Make me feel special.”

You give her everything you have, holding her hips and taking as much leverage as you can to pump your cock into her pussy, intending to fill it completely. It doesn’t take much longer of her curvy body bouncing on you to draw you to the edge of cumming.

“Are you su—”

“YES! Cum for me!”

You release shot after shot of hot liquid from your cock buried deep inside her. You paint the very back of her tight pussy white with cum. With little space left in her pussy, it pushes through right into her womb. 

“Oh, fuck yes! That’s it! I feel it all inside me. Fuck, there’s so much!” She was right. After several shots of cum, you had completely emptied your balls inside her. “Now I feel special…” 

Haseul rocks her wide hips slightly with slow, timid movements to make sure she has milked you dry. As your cock softens inside her, Haseul throws herself off to the side, lying beside you. She takes one hand down to touch her leaking pussy, catching some of the liquid that falls out of her twitching hole. She lifts her hand and looks at the cum that’s on it. “I can’t believe you just filled me up. It felt so good, so right.”

“Haseul, what was that? What came over you?”

“I—I—nothing. I just—I’m going to go clean up.” Haseul reaches down the side of the bed and grabs one of her spare towels, holding it between her legs as she sits, then stands, and then walks to the bathroom.

You relax for a moment and soak in the events of the night. What started in being painfully stood-up, then a cold walk through the snow-covered streets of Seoul, ended with you fucking your roommate—which was relatively normal. Then you cummed inside her—which was absolutely abnormal. 

You’re not sure why it had happened, but you didn’t want to dwell on curiosity. The intense sound of the gushing water inside the bathroom fills the apartment. You ‌look around the room as you regain your strength. 

Protruding from under the wardrobe is a little blue book. You recognise it from earlier, the one Haseul put away before inviting you in. It couldn’t hurt to have a look right. It was out in the open, after all. The cover of the book reads ‘Lyric Journal. You never knew she wrote her own songs; she really is talented. The ribbon marks a particular page in the middle of the book. You flick it open to that page and a verse to a song with various markings on the page.

And the title of that page? 

Your name.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Into The Unknown, Part 2

First

Interdimensional travel? Awful. Don’t try it at home. It’s a lot like how one would imagine getting sucked up a straw: you get squished and pulled until you come out the other side a goopy mess.

Speaking of goopy messes: Tim keeled over and threw up.

He ignored the yelling right next to him because, honestly, he couldn’t even bring himself to look up at the moment. The bright light of this world -- apparently it was daytime here, ew -- hurt his eyes even through his sunglasses and he really didn’t want to move from where he had curled up in what seemed to be grass.

But, eventually, he did. He pushed himself up onto his knees and squinted over at her.

Ladybug had detransformed at some point and was now wearing an old t-shirt and some sweats… and she was apparently fighting off a baby. Damian kicked, screamed, and wiggled in her hold as she tried her hardest to trap him in the blanket again.

“... how are you losing to a baby?”

She sent a glare at him and then mumbled a curse as a tiny fist connected with her face and Damian wriggled away from her.

“Let me think about that, Red. What could go wrong if I, a meta used to fighting other metas, tried to use force against a human child?”

Okay, yeah. It was probably for the best that she hadn’t tried anything.

Oddly enough, when Tim walked over and replaced Marinette, Damian started behaving immediately.

He frowned, tipping his head to the side confusedly. He picked up his younger brother and stood up. “Why’d he start freaking out?”

She did the exact opposite of standing up, opting to spread out in the grass and glare at the sky. “I don’t know. He just started freaking out when I tried to put the watch around his neck.”

“Weird,” he mumbled.

“Yeah.”

He took the time to look around properly for once. They were in a park but it must have been a weekday because there was hardly anyone around. The only people that had paid them any mind were a group of teenagers -- probably ditching, he thought -- that were staring at them with wide eyes.

Tim glanced at a street sign to make sure the common language was English before sending them a glare. “It’s rude to stare, y’know.”

The teenagers quickly looked down at their phones. Tim knew better than to believe that they were actually paying attention, they had the same posture that a lot of lookouts did, but whatever. No one would believe them, anyways.

He gave her a few more minutes before he adjusted his hold on Damian and offered a hand up.

Ladybug took it with a faint smile and he pulled her to her feet. She grabbed their discarded suitcase and they started walking aimlessly.

“Okay, we’re here… but we still need a cover.”

“Um… you’re the one that’s good at hacking, right?”

He nodded. Damian reached a hand out of the blanket and began touching his hair. He was too busy wondering what to do to really mind.

“Great. How about… we’re the kid’s siblings?”

“We can pass as his parents. I mean, it’d be a teen pregnancy but it wouldn’t be bad,” said Tim. “We still had him at eighteen-ish.”

She shook her head. “He’s darker than both of us, it wouldn’t make sense. Maybe I had him with some… darker guy and now you’re my boyfriend? No, that feels racist for some reason. I’m his half-sister, our parents died, and you’re my boyfriend.”

Tim frowned. “Why am I always the boyfriend? He’s my brother.”

“Well, frankly, you look nothing like him. He and I, at least, have similar noses.”

He scowled. It made sense but it still annoyed him. “Fine. I’m your husband, though. I want to have at least some rights.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Guess that’s good for tax benefits, too. Better get me a cute ring.”

“Okay, but the diamond is going to be fake.”

“Cheapskate.”

“Cheskae,” Damian said, yanking Tim’s hair like the little shit he was.

“See, he agrees,” Ladybug said with a victorious grin.

~

They went up to a hotel (Red Robin had tried to talk her into a five-star one but she managed to bring it down to a two-star when showing him the cost) and tried to reserve a room.

“May I have a name for the reservation?” The nice lady at the front counter said, smiling at them.

Red Robin glanced up from where he was awkwardly bouncing with the baby in his arms to shoot her A Look. It was unfortunate that she had no clue what the look meant. She considered the question for a moment before eventually saying:

“Dupain-Cheng.”

Red Robin relaxed a little so she was pretty sure she had gotten it right.

She hesitantly took the baby from him -- the kid had apparently forgotten about his earlier freakout because he was just as weirdly still as he had been back in Gotham -- so he could pay.

The moment they got into the hotel room she fell back in the bed. The baby squirmed a little on her stomach to get comfortable before joining her in her laziness.

Red Robin sighed and sat next to them, resting his head in his hands. “Okay. We’re going to need supplies for him. Do you want to do a supply run or should I?”

She shrugged a little, much to the baby’s dismay. Have you ever had a baby babble angrily at you? It’s very cute.

“You’re so helpful. Thanks, Ladybug.”

“No problem,” she said as if she couldn’t hear the blatant sarcasm in his tone. Then she pushed herself up to squint at him, the baby sliding down to her lap smoothly. “Wait, are we still going to be using codenames?”

He frowned. “Obviously.”

“... for fifteen years?”

“Obviously.”

She rolled her eyes. “Great, so when we take the kid back we’re going to explain to him that, on top of all the adjustment of moving to a different dimension, he needs to now use a different name for you, and messing up isn’t an option. Also, I feel like people are going to question two random people called ‘Red Robin’ and ‘Ladybug’ at some point.”

Red Robin frowned, clearly thinking hard, and then nodded slightly. He removed his glasses and looked at her with an awkward smile. “This is Damian, I’m Tim.”

She raised her eyebrows because he was looking at her expectantly and she really didn’t know what he wanted from her. “Uh… am I supposed to know you?”

“I mean… kinda?”

She squinted at him for a while before shrugging. “That one guy? Timothy --.”

“Yep!”

“-- Chalamet?”

He looked oddly hurt now. “You think I look like Timothy Chalamet?”

“I mean you both have the same sickly Victorian boy look about you.”

“... for the sake of our fake marriage I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that. I’m Tim Drake.” She still didn’t show any hint of recognition (probably because she didn’t recognize him) so he groaned and motioned to Damian. “This is Damian Wayne.”

“Wayne? Like Waynetech?”

“There you go,” he said.

She grinned at him. “It’s not my fault you made me guess.”

He huffed a little. “Alright, fine, then who are you, then?”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“... who’s that?”

“A nobody. Like secret identities should be,” she said, giving him a smug look.

He rolled his eyes. “I feel like this is going to be a long fifteen years.”

“Shouldn’t have dragged me into your mess, now you gotta deal with the consequences.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. She returned it. So did the baby.

~

It was decided that Marinette should be the one to go on a supply run since Tim needed to start making identities for them.

… it would be a lot easier if there wasn’t a baby crawling all over him. She’d better get a crib while she was out because he didn’t know if he could deal with a baby smashing the keys for much longer.

“Dami -- no, stop, I -- I swear to god -- you’re a baby okay I can literally just drop you and you would -- please stop --,” Tim cut off his irritated rambling when Damian nearly got them on a good few government watchlists by smashing the keys at the wrong time.

Fed up, he grabbed the kid and set him on the ground. It’ll probably be fine. He only needed to do a few quick things, anyways.

He was shocked to find that there was a version of him in this world. The idea of a Tim who didn’t do vigilante-work was foreign to him. He had apparently stayed with his parents and was now working towards a business degree. This dimension’s Tim wasn’t nearly as famous as he was and the three of them had landed in Texas so it was unlikely that he would be recognized but he would prefer not using the name if he didn’t have to. Just to be safe.

Damian didn’t exist, as far as he could tell, but Bruce Wayne did and he was still famous so it wouldn’t be a good idea to use his last name either.

There was a version of Marinette, too, but she was currently in France helping her parents run their bakery. Very little chance of her getting recognized.

So, he decided to use her last name for all of them. Quick and easy. He’d have to tell her that he changed her birthplace to New Jersey when she got back to the hotel but he doubted she’d have much of a problem with that.

… oh. His phone was ringing. Apparently he could tell her now.

He picked up and wedged it between his ear and his shoulder as he worked at finding them a few social security numbers to… ‘borrow’.

“Yeah?”

“How big is the baby?”

Tim blinked a few times. “... baby sized?”

“No. Like… what size diaper do you think he would use?”

He scoffed. “Do I look like I would know the diaper sizes?”

“Do I look like I do? Just… how old do you think he is?”

Tim looked over the edge of the bed to where Damian was currently shaking Kaalki like she was a maraca. Kaalki, for her part, only looked vaguely annoyed as she bounced around in his tiny baby fists.

“I dunno. Like… a year-ish? Just buy one of everything we can see what fits.”

“Fucking hell I forgot you were rich. You said a year? I’m using that.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay -- OH SHIT DAMIAN NO!”

He tumbled out of bed and raced over to Damian before he could stick his finger in a socket. He didn’t really know if that was enough to get shocked but this was not the way to find out.

Damian was apparently very annoyed about him foiling his attempt at dying because he squirmed around in his grip and yelled incomprehensibly. Tim ignored the baby fists trying to knock his teeth out -- his teeth had faced far worse before -- and scooted across the ground to his phone.

“-- to god, Tim, what happened if you don’t answer I will run over there --.”

“It’s fine. Just get… you know the things that cover electrical sockets? Make sure to get some of those,” he said, tipping his head back to rest against the bed so he could kind of relax despite the ball of anger in his arms.

Marinette groaned. “Fuck, you can’t just scare me like that.”

“Yeah, you were the one that suffered the most during that.”

She scoffed but he swore he could hear a tiny laugh hidden under her mumbled ‘shut up’.

He smiled a little.

She didn’t hang up, probably expecting to ask him something else soon, so he listened in idly as he tried to calm Damian down enough to start working again.

She mumbled to herself while she looked for things. Some of the speech was normal but most of it was pretty much as incomprehensible as Damian’s babbling (admittedly, it probably didn’t help that he was only half paying attention).

“... tty trai… now?... oh... alright… oh, great, does she work here?” She murmured to herself. Then, louder: “Hey, lady --!”

“We’re in Texas,” he reminded her. “People are expected to be more polite down here.”

He was too late. Someone started yelling on Marinette’s end and, if the tiny sigh of annoyance was anything to go off of, it wasn’t her.

The yelling lasted approximately five minutes before someone intervened.

He heard her speak in rapid Spanish to the employee and, to his surprise, he could actually understand every word of them talking shit about the lady who had screamed at her. He didn’t know what to think of this outside of pulling the phone away from his mouth so he could try and roll an r. He was delighted to find that he had gained that ability as well. He continued rolling his tongue.

Damian stopped his squirming and gave Tim a confused look… and then he started to giggle. He twisted around in Tim’s lap and started trying to mimic the sound.

He tried to hide his smile as the two of them kept making r sounds at each other. He didn’t think he’d succeeded at keeping his face relatively neutral, but he didn’t really mind.

~~~~~

Next

@nathleigh @peachmuses @unoriginalmess

[snickiebear]

Hello hello nadia, i’m in a leesaku mood today so pls indulge me with a three-sentence fic for this lil prompt “you are my best friend and I’ve known you platonically for years now but every time you look at me I get fireworks in my chest and butterflies in my stomach” tysm ilyyyy ❤️❤️❤️❤️

haha... this is, two days late. NIASDUKDSK IM SO SORRY THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST YOURE THE BEST ILY

side note: this is.... kind of what you wanted? AND LMAO ITS NOT THREE SENTENCES AGAIN WHOOPS

side side note: this is now crossposted bc i liked it a lot tbh :")

a cocoon in the heart, a spark in the brain.

It starts with a glance. An innocent, fleeting look. Naruto’s smile is too bright to look at for more than a handful of seconds and Sasuke’s glare is too dark to find anything of interest, so Sakura glances away, as she always does.

She glances away and there is Lee, dirtied and bloodied but he holds Neji’s hand, Tenten tucked under his arm, and is laughing, tears streaming down his face. He must have felt her eyes because he looks over and sends her a beaming smile. 

And. And her heart picks up, her breath catches. 

She quickly looks over to Naruto and Sasuke, being blinded by the light and dark both, and tries her best to not think of why one look from Lee can breed butterflies and moths in her stomach. 

.

.

.

They rebuild the village and everyone endures. Sasuke leaves once more because he is a boy who has never known staying, he has never stayed long enough to put roots in, to know how to stay. So, Naruto and Sakura let him go. 

(If she is being honest, Sakura is more than happy to have him leave. Sasuke will always be a rotten fruit in the tangle of her feelings, something that she will never quite understand, something that will haunt her no matter what she does. If he is not there, she does not have to think about it. He’s like a curse, and it hurts her to think that but it is true.)

Kakashi is the Hokage and Sakura is still laughing at him, clutching her stomach and howling at her friend’s “misfortune” as he calls it.

“Mah,” Kakashi half drawls, half pleads. “Must you laugh at your poor ex-sensei?”

Naruto is losing his absolute shit as they clutch each other to stay standing. “Kaka-sensei you do not look good in white.”

“It,” Sakura gasps, wiping tears from her face, “It-It really washes you out!”

Naruto’s knees give out and they both tumble to the ground, a mess and tangle of laughing limbs and leaking eyes. 

Kakashi sighs heavily from his desk but she knows he’s having just as much fun as they are. Kakashi is her best friend, she knows how he is when he’s drunk out of his mind and when he’s trying to bite back laughter. 

The door swings open and Lee steps in with Team Gai flanking him. Neji recovered incredibly well thanks to Sakura’s magic hands (as Naruto has deemed them) and they’ve been taking low ranking missions since he was deemed fit to return to duty. 

It takes a few moments for Sakura and Naruto’s heaving, snorting laughter to subside as Kakashi clears his throat, his eyes crinkling up in the way Sakura knows he’s really trying not to laugh. 

She looks up and glances at Lee, to find him already watching her, his eyes soft and smile softer. Sakura is a God Slayer along with Naruto and Sasuke, she has faced down hundreds of opponents with only her raw fists and come up victorious, she has dragged people back from the brink of death with a tap. 

Sakura does not blush. Out right refuses to. 

“Hey,” All breathless and raw from laughter.

Lee’s smile widens as he steps forward to offer his hand, she takes it without hesitation and thanks the God whose heart she ripped out that he was wearing gloves. She can feel the heat through them nonetheless. Sakura does her best not to shiver as their eyes meet. 

“You guys heading in or out?” Naruto asks after he hauled himself onto his feet, not hiding the way he eyes Lee and Sakura’s hands. The entire room’s eyes are on them. 

“In,” Tenten says slowly, and Sakura does not blush as she carefully extracts her hand from Lees and does not think about why there are fireworks exploding within her mind, why she misses the heat and the way his hand encompasses hers. 

.

.

.

She sees him everywhere now. 

At the Rusty Kunai, at the training fields, at lunch, sometimes even in the hospital. And every damn time he smiles at her, she feels like she’s coming back to life and being stabbed in the heart. 

Sakura has no idea if this was love or just lust. What she felt for Sasuke was not love, that was obsession and cruelty. She had crushes on civilian boys but they were too soft, unmarred compared to her countless scars, visible or not. 

Ino stares at her as if she’s the stupidest person in the world and Sakura smacks her for it. She hopes it leaves a bruise. The Bitch. “Stop giving me that look, Pig. I’ll hit you again, don’t tempt me.”

Ino glares as she rubs her arm, sticking out her tongue. “It isn’t my fault you aren’t using that big forehead of yours! You’re telling me that you two drink together, train together, you go to lunch together, he even visits you at the hospital because he knows you haven’t eaten or slept. And then you tell me you get all those stupid fluttery feelings and you don’t know what it means?”

And well. When she puts it like that. . .

Sakura pouts and crosses her arms, “It's confusing!”

“You’re a genius. An actual genius, Sakura.” Ino deadpans. “Your IQ is literally right next to Shikamaru’s. Lee has been in love with you since we were twelve! There is no way you don’t know what this means.”

Groaning, Sakura slumps into Ino’s lap, hiding her face in Ino’s thigh. “When did you become so smart?”

“When I made out with Hinata and then fucked her.” Ino says easily and Sakura laughs. “What? Don’t laugh! It's true!” 

Ino cackles when Sakura pinches her calf.

.

.

.

Lee moves with such elegance that Sakura aches with it. 

This boy made man who had known nothing but sweat and hardship, who still cups things with such tender and care, who moves so fluidly and hits so brutally.  

They are both the earth, solid and unyielding, they are the water, the hills, the mountains. They are unbreakable because they have broken themselves apart, pushed themselves past the very limit to reach where they are.

Sakura and Lee are 20 and they have saved the world. 

Now, they tear apart the training grounds just to keep life interesting. 

With every dodged fist her heart quickens because Lee is smiling and laughing, calling friendly taunts as she grins right back. 

This is nothing like Team 7’s spars, all bloodied teeth and snarling as Sasuke underestimates her again and again and again. Kakashi, Sai, and Yamato know better. Naruto is learning slowly. Sasuke never pays attention enough to know.  

No, sparring with Lee is like dancing, is like thriving, and a fresh breath of air at night as fireworks light up the sky and a butterfly lands on your nose. 

She lands a kick to his ribs and spends him flying back as she advances swiftly, pinning him down with a hand on his chest, knees on either side of his hips. 

A long pause as they try to catch their breathes.

They’re both breathing heavily, Sakura cannot tear her eyes away from him as he reaches a hand to tuck loose hair behind her ear.

“Lee,” She breathes, ignoring the way her face burns and the way butterflies have swarmed her insides, how her heart is raging against her ribcage. “Lee I-”

“Sakura.” Lee says, voice deep and rumbly and cracking. “Sakura, will you go out to lunch with me? Forever. Well, hopefully forever- you are so very Youthful, you are incredibly Strong, you do not need my protection, but Sakura, let me protect you anyways, just as you will me. Sakura-”

She channels her inner Ino and leans down to kiss him, all lips, teeth and tongue. His hands settle on her waist and he flips them without breaking contact and if they weren’t in public, well. . .

Sakura pulls back breathless and wide eyes before forcing the words out, “I’ve known you for years Lee, you’re one of my best friends.” Her hand on his chest can feel the way his breath catches, the way his heart is pounding. “Everytime you look at me I get fireworks in my chest and butterflies in my stomach. They’ve bred and infested my very insides, my brain blooms and rots with the thought of you.” 

He is shaking beneath her, staring at her as if she is Divine and Righteous and she cannot think of anything else she would want except his eyes on her. 

“Lunch?” She breathes, hand at the base of his neck. “I would like to have lunch with you. Forever. If the offer still stands.” 

Lee smiles wide and bright as he stands, pulling Sakura up with him, “The offer will always stand, Sakura. For you, there is very little I would not do.”

She kisses him again and hand in hand they go to lunch.

Facts:

The very first day Lee saw Sakura a cocoon formed within his heart, everytime after that more would form, more would crack.

The butterflies and moths have a home in his heart but only come alive when they see her.

They never die, no matter what he does.

He saw her crack the world open with a first, saw her tear open a God’s chest. He was the first thing she looked at after. He thought he would become alight with it all.

Lee loves Sakura. He always has, he always will. His heart has a butterfly garden full of fireworks just for her.

Her laugh makes his skin prickle, makes his muscles loose. He is addicted to it.

She looks at him like she sees the green of the trees and the blue of the sky. Lee revels in it.

Sakura loves Lee and it nearly breaks him.

He will take her out to lunch until the day they die and well after.

The butterflies and moths and fireworks never go away for either of them. It is the beauty of it all.

[onyourmemory-ha]

Chapter One

little changes can pave lanes

Auggie broadens their horizons and meets their best friend’s girl. 

The seats are crammed together, packing everyone in like sardines. The sweat and general body odor seem to go along with the disgustingly fishy trend. All of that Auggie could forgive but the hollering child was where they drew the line. The demon spawn pounded its fist against the back of some poor unfortunate soul’s seat and yelled about wanting to go play.

The sole reason they don’t join in and match the child’s volume is because of Trish, the woman keeping a firm hold on their hand as if reading their thoughts. And considering the type of woman she was, they really wouldn’t put it past her if that really were the case. As it is, it helps ground them and not lose it on a literal child.

“I thought your dick of an ex was rich now,” They grumble lowly, debating if they should give in to the desire of banging their head against the headrest.

“He is,” Trish tries to hide her amusement, hiding her grin behind her drink as she pushes further. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Snorting, Auggie gestures to the hell hole they’ve been forced into. “The bastard skimped out on getting the good seats. But it’s good to know Dick is just the same.”

“We’re just lucky to have found tickets at such short notice,” She gently squeezes their hand with a wordless scolding and it’s enough to have Auggie’s frown deepening.

Flushing, they look to the cloudy sky. It’s a cruel reminder, being indebted to someone like Ken of all people. Instead, they choose to focus on the reasoning behind it, easily shifting the blame onto the person who’s truly at fault. “I’m gonna beat your son’s ass when we see him, fair warning.”

And Trish, the traitor, just laughs to herself. “I love you, honey. But I don’t think you’d like who the winner was in something like that.”

“Oh, I know,” Auggie just shrugs. “But I’d get a few good hits in there and that’s all I need to ruin his day.”

This just has Trish laughing even more though she clearly tries to fight it. When Auggie snorts as a result, she lightly slaps their knee, and they both tune back into the movie playing overhead. And when Trish begins to tear up at the lovers reuniting on-screen, Auggie just squeezes her hand tighter and doesn’t mention it.

ㅤ⠀                                                        |♛|

It’s barely even noticeable, hidden beneath postering and a surprisingly fragile smile. If it hadn’t been for the years of knowing him or the sudden edge in Trish’s eyes, Auggie might have not even picked up on it. But they did and therein lies the issue.

The thing about Hardin was that he was similar to a horse. Big and intimidating but one good blow will end him for a long time. And so easily spooked on top of it. He wasn’t the type to confront, not when he was trying so hard to hide it like he was. They already knew how that would play out and it wouldn’t be pretty.

So, they did the only thing they really could do. They waited. Hardin wasn’t exactly someone subtle nor was he someone who bottled everything well. He was the explosive sort and that meant all Auggie needed to do was wait. Preferably without pushing him to that breaking point themselves but if they needed to, they would.

“Look at you!” Trish beams, holding his face gently. “How’ve you been, love?”

He places his hands over hers, his smile growing stronger. “Better now that you’re here. Was the flight okay?”

“Oh, it was fi—,” Trish goes to assure but they cut her off there, a screaming child flashing beneath their eyelids.

“It was absolute shit,” They announce with a proud grin. “I expect compensation, just so you know.”

Trish just shakes her head, pressing a kiss against her son’s forehead before pulling away. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was but you can pretend otherwise,” Auggie corrects, rocking on their heels.

He just snickers, shaking his head as he grabs Trish’s bags. “It wasn’t too bad if you’re still in high spirits.”

He walks forward without a warning, leaving the two of them to catch up. And Auggie does just that, their own bag thumping against their thigh with each step. “Of course I’m in high spirits now! I get to see my favorite white boy named Allen!”

He stops, just for a moment, and levels them a fierce glare from over his shoulder. “I’m sure they could always arrange a flight back home for you by tonight.”

“Or I could just go on with you two,” They beam, eyes wide and ready to play the innocent card.

Trish huffs at them both, her smile betraying the notion as she gestures them to hurry up. “If you two don’t play nice, I’ll ground you both!”

That has Hardin laughing, the shadows being chased away for the moment and it’s a small victory that Auggie soaks in. They walk with a purpose after that, Auggie shuffling after the mother and son duo with a smile that feels more real than any other one has in months.

ㅤ⠀                                                     |♛|

The apartment isn’t the cleanest of places but Auggie can still tell how nice it is under it all. They wonder whether or not it was another attempt on Hardin’s sperm donor to win him over and how successful it actually was considering he accepted it. The only thing out of place, besides the strewn-about clothes, is the light that streams in through the large, modern windows. It feels like the darkness should be trapped inside by thick curtains, not released to the light. They can’t help but think that maybe that was exactly the case before Hardin left to pick them up.

“Well, here we are,” He announces with little enthusiasm. “Go ahead and get comfortable.”

“Ooh, might as well draw me a bath in that case,” Auggie teases lightly before seriously considering it themselves. The warm water really would be nice right about now. “We can make it like old times and you can join me.”

“No thanks,” He snorts, dropping the suitcases in front of what they assume is the guest room. “One almost drowning was enough for me.”

“So boring,” They tsk, flopping on the couch as Trish rolls her eyes at the pair of them.

That’s when the newcomer makes themselves known, slinking out of the bedroom with a heated glare and her hands on her hips. The first thing Auggie notices is how pretty she is. It’s the type of prettiness that can be weaponized, the kind of features that were found on the faces of the popular kids back in high school. Her blonde hair pulls upon that cliche even more, cascading over her shoulders in a gentleness thats betrayed by the poison pooling behind her teeth. And it’s with a sinking feeling that Auggie realizes who this is at the same time that Trish does.

“You must be Tessa!” She exclaims after a pause, striding across the room and pulling the other girl into a hug. “Oh, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you ever since Hardin mentioned you!”

And that is very true. When they’d discovered Tessa couldn’t make it, leading to Hardin canceling as well, the woman had almost been heartbroken. That alone would have been enough for Auggie to be on guard around her. But the already set glare and the way Hardin seemed to shrink in on himself yet attuned everything to her, that did it. So Auggie stayed where they were seated, not bothering to stand up to greet the girl that their entire body seemed to rebel against.

“Oh, I thought…” She trails off, flushing with a sheepish smile. Her eyes though, they remain sharp. “It’s so good to meet you! I was just going, though.”

“No, you can’t just go now! Please stay! At least for dinner!” Trish pleads, the desperation matched in her son’s eyes.

“I mean, I told my mom I’d be there by dark…” She trails off, guiltily looking towards the door.

“Surely it wouldn’t hurt another night. It’ll be safer to drive in the morning anyways,” Trish reasons and they don’t miss the way Hardin’s eyes begin to brighten at the prospect of her staying.

It seems to be enough to convince the girl though and she gives a weary smile as her decision is made up. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

And for some reason, Auggie highly doubts it, but they keep their mouth closed for now. Although, they do throw their head against the back of the couch and let out a big sigh. “Is that bath still an option?”

ㅤ⠀                                                      |♛|

They end up ordering in food, the empty cabinets and fridge having given Hardin pause in his plans. And pause in conversations as well, it seems. Trish makes an effort, asking simple little questions to get to know the girl her son has become infatuated with, for some reason, while Hardin sits there staring at his plate like it spit in his face. Tessa, for her part, answers as politely as she can with a well timed smile.

The fakeness is stiffening and they all know it. Or at least, Auggie hopes they aren’t the only one picking it up. By Hardin’s awkward gazes between the blondes, they think they aren’t. So when Auggie is finally brought up, they’re pulled out of their overanalyzing thoughts about Hardin, the apartment, and the awkwardness. “What?”

“I was just saying how you and Hardin met,” Trish beams like the proud mother she is. “They’ve been with us through so much.”

“I had no idea,” Tessa enunciated slowly with an indescribable look leveled at their way. “Hardin’s never mentioned anyone other than his mother.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Auggie shrugs, trying to shake the edge in their voice before it's noticed. “Hardin always has been a private person. Plus he’s always been a momma’s boy.”

Tessa nods, glancing to her boyfriend before focusing back on the odd creature that Auggie must look like in their perfect apartment. “So what is it you do back in London?”

“Wiltshire,” They correct.

“What?” She frowns, sitting back in her seat with a deepening frown.

For some reason, Auggie finds relief in that. “It's outside of London. That’s where we’re from. But I mainly just help look after Mum and work down at the convenient store. Hoping to broaden my horizons soon and all that.”

“Oh,” Tessa trails off, looking towards Trish now like she’d somehow done something. “So you and Trish are close too?”

“Of course,” Trish answers with no hesitation, missing the way the girl’s smile tightens. “I practically raised this one and when Hardin moved away for uni, this sweet thing stepped up and moved in with me.”

“I’m basically the favorite child,” They grin ear to ear, nudging Hardin with their foot. “Isn’t that right?”

He, finally, stops staring after Tessa like a lost puppy and scoffs. “She only tells you to keep the peace in the house.”

That’s what Auggie considers a good opening, especially for what they’ve been meaning to discuss, and there’s nothing like biting the bullet head on. “About that.”

He turns his entire focus to them and almost looks scared. “What? What’s happening?”

Trish picks up on it immediately and sets down her drink softly. “Before you say anything, know that this was something I pushed.”

“Just spit it out already,” He snaps, hackles seeming to rise.

Auggie takes a deep breath. “Remember them broadening horizons? Well, I think it's time I actually do that and I’ve been talking with the Dick…”

“Ken? Why the fuck have you been talking with my Dad?” Hardin exclaims, eyes narrowing between them and his mother.

“I wanna go back to school and the only way I could afford that is if I had some help or knew someone. I ended up having both.” Auggie further explains gently.

It finally clicks in his head and his guards fall at once, his eyes widening. “You’re going to attend Washington?”

“If I can get a place to stay at,” Auggie slowly explains, clearing their throat. “I might need a place to stay while I get everything in order, though.”

“And it would be very generous and kind if you were to help Auggie out with this,” Trish adds on, eyes narrowed as if daring him to deny them this help.

Hardin just rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair now that he knew what the conversation was about. “Don’t be stupid. Auggie can have the spare bedroom once you leave,” Then he pauses, looking towards Tessa. “If that’s alright with you.”

If it weren’t for her white knuckles around her fork, her easy expression would have fooled Auggie. She even smiles sweetly and nods. “It’s your place too. Of course they can stay for a little bit.”

“Then that’s perfect,” Auggie claps. “I packed all that I could and once Trish gets back, she can ship me my things!”

Tessa nods, her knuckles whitening and her smile stretching almost uncomfortably. “Mhmm, perfect.”

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Just some general angst

I mean, it’s kind of ‘fluffy’ angst because it has a happy ending and it isn’t CRESTWOOD, but still angst. 

Enjoy a concept of Fane’s vallaslin removal. (I’m writing a follow up with smut, so shhhh!) I told you there would be tears, @oxygenforthewicked! I supplied them, even if I was somewhat tearing up the whole time writing this! 

***

“Sit down, vhenan.”, Solas directed Fane gently, holding his face between his hands with a tenderness he had long thought was wasted on him. “Let me free you from these shackles you should never have known.” Two thumbs ghosted along the high points of his cheekbones before they flicked up to trace his vallaslin - his shackles.

Fane let his eyes flutter shut at the feather light touch, reveling in the feeling of safety and warmth it gave him. He became literal putty in this man’s hands - melting, molding, and melding until their souls felt as if they were intertwined like a beautifully tied knot. To anyone else, that may seem like slavery, like the very inked bonds upon his face, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. This was a promise, a devotion that ran so deep he no longer knew where one end began and another ended. 

This was a vow plated in gold so, so long ago. A vow that had been shattered, forgotten, and then reforged anew with emerald fire and blue water. It would never be sundered again. Never.

Fane took a deep breath, opening his eyes slowly to see a pair of stormy blue gazing at him patiently, lovingly. The gorgeous array of blue, grey, indigo, and hints of lavender were waiting for him, but not rushing him. They housed eternity, and a sky he had turned his back on for too long. They would never end, never go completely grey. Not as long as he breathed. Not as long as he endured.  

Fane paused in his thoughts as he stared ever deeper into Solas’s eyes, watching as quiet indigo sparked within steely blue. That spark made a similar spark within his chest ignite, slamming his prior, old thoughts into the ground. No, he didn’t just endure this world, or the ignorant people within it. He didn’t just observe how that ignorance did not paint everything without feeling this same spark in his soul, or fostered guilt when otherwise there had been none. He knew more now, he knew better now. 

He lived, and everything they had been through; the tears, the triumphant victories, the soul crushing anguish, the seemingly uncrossable rifts, and the madness of a world so desperately crying for help, proved he was alive and had a place in it.

A place, but a place without being bound and shackled with chains that had always threateningly rattled in the back of his mind even when he had not known the truth. 

“I’m ready.”, Fane said after a few moments, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. Their eyes connected without hesitation, without reservation, and he couldn’t help a tiny smile from forming despite his inner trepidation. “Take the vallaslin away. Free me from this nightmare I unknowingly walked into due to forgetfulness and my own ignorance.”, he pleaded with a desperation he hadn’t known was still lying dormant within him. 

Solas’s eyes softened further at his words, the grey within swirling with age old sorrow and guilt before they shut themselves slowly. He momentarily mourned the loss of those eternity bearing eyes. He had never realized just how much he had missed them until he had realized who they belonged to once again. 

They sat in silence amid the moonlit grass and the starry bathed canopy of trees that shielded them from the world outside of this forested refuge they had found after their flight from Skyhold, from the Inquisition. Fane’s eyes idly roamed the expanse as he waited for Solas, offering the elf resting against him the same amount of time that he had offered him. He watched the quiet bobbing of fireflies as they wove up and under each other in a seemingly ritualistic dance of their own. Their gently ebbing glow lightly bringing a golden sheen to the pale green grass every time they hovered along it. 

I wonder, will my eyes look the same when the ink is taken away? Fane found himself thinking as he watched the grass take on a more verdant hue. Once upon a time, the thought of seeing his eyes in their full glory terrified him, disgusted him to the point where he’d shatter glass without fear of slicing into his fist. But now, he yearned, painfully yearned, to see them ebb and flow like the fireflies did with so much whimsical abandon. 

Fane let his gaze travel away from the dancing dopplegangers of his eyes to look upwards. The moon was out in its full glory this starry eve, bathing the world in white ivory and pale yellow. It was such a beautiful contrast to the twinkling, but dark sky that was its home. He felt his eyes go hooded as another thought flickered into his mind without a preamble.

So white. Like new fallen snow. Will my face be as glowing as ivory? Will I be unscarred, and untouched as if I had just awoken once again? As if I still had my scales? Will I be able to see every freckle and birthmark that I couldn’t, or rather, wouldn’t before? 

These questions permeated his mind like the scent of steaming water - invigorating and freeing. How far he had come. To being repulsed with his own reflection, thinking it looked so much like a monster’s he now knew he had no connection to, to desiring to see it and to never look away.

To never look away. The thought made him smile a bit more as he watched a shooting star soar across the blue-black backdrop of the night sky. Yes, he would never look away again. Not for fear or indifference. He would keep his gaze skyward as the world reflected him in two forms. 

One form would be as itself - ever reaching and boundless. And the other form..

..would be his sky - flesh and bone with a spirit so bright that he couldn’t look away even if he tried.

Fane slowly drew his gaze away from the sky above, giving it a silent nod in acknowledgment before looking at his very own expanse of eternity, who had reopened their eyes to watch him with a tender smile and a wealth of adoration. He had to clear his throat a bit as embarrassment at being watched so closely had his ears heating up a bit. Okay, maybe he would look away sometimes, but not often.

“Something interesting?”, Fane grumbled with a tiny frown, shifting his gaze back and forth between Solas and the ground below. Damn, he was getting flustered so easily now that it was just the two of them. It was refreshing to be able to indulge without constant stares, but he was still getting used to vulnerability.

Solas let out a quiet chuckle before shifting closer to him. Fane felt himself stiffen a bit as their knees brushed together, his scars jumping in protest before he forced them to relax. No, now wasn’t the time for his body to ruin things. He had accepted the pain of his body, and he would live with it. 

Live. Such a freeing word. Yes, he would live. Live, live, and live. The word made him feel light like he could fly once again.

“I am merely curious as to your conversation with the sky.”, Solas said after a few moments, voice light and soft instead of guarded and measured. It would see he wasn’t the only one to have changed with their disbandment. It was...nice, even if Fane knew they both held guilt and dread of years to come in their hearts.

Fane let out a quiet scoff, turning his gaze back to give Solas a withering glare. “I wasn’t talking to the sky.”, he said. Okay, maybe he was a little bit, but the elf didn’t need to know that.

“Mm-hm. The illumination of gold told me otherwise.”

“Do you ever stop talking? Like seriously?”

“I believe you said you enjoyed our discussions.”, the Elvhen mage quipped back with amusement, eyes surprisingly bright for once.

Fane let out a tiny growl. “Only when you aren’t being full of yourself.”

“I thought I was only asking a question. You like curiosity, correct?”

“I swear to anything that’s fucking holy, Solas...”, he warned, leveling the man with a dangerous glare that he knew wouldn’t make the other shrivel up, but he did it anyway. Force of habit.

Solas only raised an eyebrow at him, one side of his face bathed in moonlight to where many of his already sharp features appeared sharper, while the other was shrouded in gentle shadows, making those same sharp features soften as if melding with the darkness. There was a tiny knowing smirk upon his lips, stormy eyes twinkling like the stars above with mirth and tenderness, but still a form of apprehension towards what they were about to do. 

Fane’s embarrassment and grumpiness trickled away at that hint of hesitation in deep blue. He let out a quiet sigh, calming himself of his agitation before reaching down to take a hold of Solas’s hands, which had been resting on his lap as if awaiting his command and consent. Immediately, the mage’s fingers entwined with his own, giving his hands a reassuring squeeze. He let out a tiny laugh before shaking his head at that. He should have known. Leave it to this fool to worry. All the taunting and all the teasing was just Solas’s way of trying to filter that emotion out. He was starting to think that’s all his sky could manage some days.

“I’ll be fine, Solas.”, Fane said, gently tugging on their joined hands to coax Solas closer. He would be lying if he didn’t feel a smidge of anxiety towards the removal, but that was only because of the fact that he may potentially get sick. Sensitivities didn’t just go away within a year when they had been festering for ten, but it was no matter. He wanted this, and he would have it.

Solas let out a quiet sigh of his own, easily coming closer to press their foreheads together again. “I know, but the last time such magic had been so close to your mind, you--”, he trailed off, softened features hardening with painful memories.

Fane shook his head firmly, even though they were connected. “Stop. I’ll be fine.”, he reaffirmed before unraveling one of their hands to place it upon the back of Solas’s neck. “I can endure any amount of discomfort.”

“That you can. However, that does not mean I like that you must, ma’isenatha.”, Solas told him, reaching up with his own freed hand to cup his cheek reverently. “I would prefer you knew no pain.”

He rolled his eyes a bit at that before sighing gently. “You know that’s a hazy dream, Solas. Pain is a part of life. It’s embedded in the path we tread, and the one before.”, he stated before leaning in closer, brushing their lips together to whisper against them. “But so is love, and I’ll endure anything, anything, if it means that that’s what’s waiting for us in the end.”

Solas chuckled, lips curling into a smile against his own. “Such optimism. Are you sure I am the one dreaming?”, he teased.

“Maybe.”, Fane said with a light shrug before giving the lips against his a light peck. “But dreams are nice, aren’t they?”

“They are, indeed.”

“Then let’s make one seemingly unreachable dream a reality. Let’s make the world a little less grey. Let me be free.”, he offered before continuing with more determination. “So, please, free me, Fen’harel. Let me be your dragon again. Not the..”, he trailed off, motioning to his own face. “...Not the ones who enslaved me in the first place.”, he finished, huffing a breath out through his nose as an ember of anger tried to break through. He wasn’t going to get angry during this. Not this time. He wouldn’t let his creeping insanity spoil this one happy moment. 

He pulled away slowly with those words, watching as Solas’s pupils widened and then narrowed from the change in light. He had to smile a bit at that. Eyes were windows indeed, and how he loved the ones shining back at him with equal emotions of wonder, adoration, and tempered grief.

He loved the sky, and all it offered.

Solas watched him closely, steely eyes boring holes into him before a tender, but slightly sorrowful smile graced his lips. Fane felt his own widen a bit more at that, the muscles straining slightly, but he willed them to obey. It was time, he knew. 

It was time for him to be freed from the leash that ensnared him.

“You will tell me if anything is beyond bearing, understand?”, Solas said with a stern expression, his softness and unguarded smile gone to harbor seriousness. “I know this is something you desire fiercely, vhenan, but I will not put you in jeopardy if I see agony in your eyes.”

Fane felt his own face fall and harden with seriousness as he nodded once. “I understand.”, he said, even as minor irritation made him want to growl. He knew Solas was just being caring, but he wanted this more than anything right now. He wanted to see himself without a mask hiding him.

“Very well.”, Solas said before reaching up gingerly to delicately cup his face, his hands cool despite the warmth of blood rushing through them. “Take a deep breath, but do not hold it.”, he instructed.

Fane let out a tiny snort. “I know how to breathe, you ass.”

He watched with a tiny spark of mirth as Solas gave him an exasperated glare. That only made him give the other a tiny shrug before a tiny smirk broke his serious mask.

“That’s what you get for being full of yourself.”, Fane said with the same smirk, trying to ease the tension that had settled in the air around them. As much as he knew this was a serious situation, it didn’t have to be. This was a moment, and he wanted it to be light.

My, how he’s changed, hm? Who would have seen this day? Not him.

“You are insufferable.”, Solas said flatly before shifting closer, face relaxing a tiny bit. 

“You love it. Don’t lie because I can see it.”

A deep chuckle had a shiver running down Fane’s back as Solas came closer, holding his face all the while. Ohh, he had forgotten the other could make that sound. A sound that reminded him of his kin. That was a dangerous sound. 

“And I can see you love me being an ‘ass’.”, the mage shot back, the area around them beginning to glow a calming blue. “Or is it more you love my ass? I seem to recall you stating something along those lines.”

Fane grimaced slightly despite their banter, the smell of mild ozone making his mouth water with the want to expel, but he swallowed around it. “Ngh.. Shut it.. mgh..”, he said between quiet grunts. 

“Breathe, Fane. Listen to me.”, Solas gently instructed, dropping their back and forth immediately upon signs of his discomfort. “Focus on my eyes, block out all your other senses. Use your abilities, if you must, and tell me what you see.”

Fane swallowed around some rising bile, his body beginning to tremble slightly and sweat lightly as more magic was gently brushed along his face like a thin sheet. Focus on...Solas’s eyes? He wanted him to...observe him right now? Why? As a distraction maybe? Well, if it would get him through this then he’d give it go.

“I...ngh..!”, he grunted out harshly before he could even try to do what was instructed of him, feeling how the ink upon his face pulled like a bandage was slowly being peeled away. “D..Damn..”, he cursed, reaching out blindly, as his vision was blurring with pained tears, to wrap his arms around Solas’s waist. 

Ugh, how this hurt! Solas had stated it wasn’t supposed to be painful, but maybe this was just his body’s doing. It was so sensitive to magic that it spurned even the most gentle spells? How typical!

“Shh, ma’isenatha. You are doing fine.”, Solas murmured to him soothingly, easily coming closer when he pulled with insistence. “Tell me to stop and I shall.”, he offered a way out, even as methodical hands continued to work their magical cleanse. 

Fane shook his head lightly, merely tightening his hold around the mage’s waist with a gasping breath. “I..It’s fine. I..I’m fine..”, he managed to get out before blinking away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes to meet Solas’s worried, but proud ones. That nearly had Fane wanting to cry openly. Such pride. For him. He couldn’t take it, but he wanted to!

“Are you--?”, Solas began to ask, but Fane cut him off with a deep growl.

“I want this. N..No matter the agony.”, he snarled out as another wave of nauseous had him nearly ripping his head away to puke onto the pure, moonlit ground. Yes, he wanted this! He wanted this! For the first time in his life, he would proudly soak in all this pain if it meant he could be free to live!

Through his own tears and slightly blackening vision, Fane swore, for just a moment, he could see a line of dampness reflected back at him from the sky watching him. He swore he saw rain clouds beginning to roll in hues of purple-grey and deep blue. He swore he could feel droplets kiss his cheeks as the sky closed him to meet him.  

He swore Solas was crying. 

At that, gold tinted his vision, obscuring it more with its gentle brightness before it ebbed away to signify his eyes had swapped colors from emerald to gold. He watched as Solas’s whole visage nearly crumbled with more pride and more grief built love, the hands upon his face trembling for a moment to where magic washed through his it with renewed vigor. Fane bit down on his cheek, willing his eyes to stay open despite how they wished to close from the sudden surge of hot pain that bit into it. There was no turning back, no matter what Solas saw! 

With a shaky, tense movement, Fane reached up to cup Solas’s face with his hands, brushing away a few errant tears that had miraculously escaped from the stormy clouds harboring them. A sensation of warmth and relief washed through his sweating body as his earlier observation was confirmed.

“You’re crying..”, Fane murmured, stroking the mage’s damp cheeks with clumsy movements. “You’re crying with so much love within blue. Adoration with indigo. Devotion within grey. Pride within lavender.”, he rattled off each emotion as his draconic nature burst forward, wishing to soak in and freely observe every last morsel given to him. “And they..ngh..all swirl together..to make eternity.”

Solas’s expression only twisted with a sorrowful, but yet, happy smile as the aura around them brightened another fraction. There were no words, no comments, no distracting banter. His sky was watching him, just as Fane watched it. He let out a slightly choked sound, taking a deep breath as he felt more of his skin tug and unwind. It was almost over. It had to be! Almost, almost, almost!

It was warm. It was cold. It was stinging. It was soothing. It was grey. It was blue. It was eternity. It was the end. The ritual was all of these things, all of them, and he could feel how his body tingled and shook with them rather than pain. 

Come on. Come on. Come on! Fane’s mind roared like the dragon within his soul as impatience began to rear its head. They were nearly there! Nearly! The tugging was becoming less in certain places, the sting left behind no more than a memory!

Suddenly, upon those thoughts, as Fane thought he was about to pass out from how much he was gasping and sweating, it was over. No contradictory sensations. No tang of ozone tickling his nostrils. There was stillness, and silence, apart from both he and Solas’s gasping. 

The blue aura dissipated, his vision clearing to allow delicate moonlight and glowing fireflies to grace it once more, and most of all, there was no more pain, no more sharpness. 

There was only light and freedom soaking into his soul much like how the sweat upon his brow was. 

“Ane vasreëm, ma’isenatha.”, Solas’s voice pushed through the euphoria and residual pain, eyes swimming with tears, but also genuine wonder as they flitted across his face as if never having seen it before. 

Fane blinked, his mind in a haze as magic continued to slip away from his face like water on a cliffside. He was...free? He was free… He was free! He was free!

“I’m..”, Fane began to say as unrestrained jubilation coursed through his body, but soon after, a sudden rush of dizziness had the world spinning before him. “I’m..”, he tried again, but couldn’t continue as he felt the world rush to meet him and black suddenly drowned out all the eternal colors that were widened in horror and deep concern.

“Vhenan!”

The desperate voice of Solas reached him, but he was unable to respond as his body met the ground behind him. However, he knew he would be okay. He just needed to nap. Just a small one. Nothing to fret over. He’d apologize when he woke up for making his sky panic. 

I’m free. I’m free. I’m free. Those words echoed with certainty and childlike joy, even if he could not see himself as black finally followed with true silence.

***

I’m not crying. Solas is crying! I make him cry because he needs to, so yeah! I’m not fucking crying! *sniffles*

[cockasinthebird]

“I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.” -William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 3 Scene 5

Brown and blue both stare up at the many a love declarations on the underside of the bleachers of Hawkins High. Football practice has begun, along with their ever so faithful cheerleaders, and while Robin was here just for how short those skirts went, Steve was here for both those legs, and the sweaty muscles of the blonde haired quarter back; how he shone like diamonds underneath the ruthless summer sky.

Robin hands him the roach, and he has possibly never felt more at peace than now, in the shade with the occasional breeze. But of course, he thought so every time the two of them decided to get high and lie in the grass.

“Tommy + Carol 4 Ever,” Steve reads out loud. “Fucking asshole.”

“Aw, does poor Steve still feel abandoned?” Robin pouts falsely and puts both hands behind her head.

“Shithead was my best friend for most of our lives, and now he's off somewhere licking Billy Hargrove's boot.” He frowns whilst pressing the final embers of their joint into the grass.

“You're just jealous,” she laughs mockingly at him and turns her head to peek out through the seats.

And Steve leans up on his elbows to look past her and in the same direction, to where he sees Billy Hargrove tearing off his helmet with a victorious smile, mullet done up in a low bun, bangs clinging wetly to his forehead.

“Fuck no,” he lies.

“Come on, Dingus.” Robin knocks their shoes together. “You know you can't lie to me.”

“I can try,” he huffs a laugh and looks at how she mimics him genuinely.

“You think I got it any better?” her laugh turns to a scoff and points up. “Tammy Thompson loves John Johnson.” And there's a deep silence for a few short seconds as she keeps her finger in the direction of that etching. “Who the fuck names their child John Johnson?”

Steve cannot contain his chortle, and she is right behind with her usual snort; the one that only comes forth when they're this high.

“It would be like-” Steve takes a deep inhale. “If you were named Robin Robinson!”

“Or you Steve Stevenson!”

“Is that a real name?!”

“Y-yes?” Robin fights against the grin that wants to spread all too wide, and looks at him. “Robert Louis Stevenson!”

“Who?” Steve keeps breathing slowly to try and calm down from something that isn't actually that funny, but when you got bloodshot eyes like these, everything is.

“The famous writer? He wrote Treasure Island and Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”

Steve leans up on his elbows again to stare down at her with the most bewildered look this illiterate teen can manage. “Mr Hyde as in... our chemistry teacher?”

“Oh...” Robin's blue blue eyes grow as wide as they can. “My God... Steve... No wonder you're failing literally every class.”

And his expression falls from confused to somewhat offended, but it is the inevitable truth. “It's fine,” he says with nary a worry, “I will get a job at my father's office as... I dunno, coffee guy? Mailman?”

“You really think he'd put you in charge of something as important as their postal service?”

Rather than come up with a sensible reply to that remark, he simply grabs a fistful of grass and throws it at her.

He smiles, she laughs, and the both of them settle down once more with only the loud cheers from the girls in uniform to fill the comfortable silence they find themselves in again, as they continue reading everything that's been carved and written into the far too old wood.

Steve's name can be found numerous times, both in forms of compliments-

“I wish Steve Harrington would notice me.”

“Mrs Harrington is my dream job.”

“Steve Harrington the Keg King.”

All surrounded by hearts.

On one step it reads, “Steve 'The Hair' Harrington” in suspiciously familiar handwriting.

He used to bring girls down here, too, and would have them watch as he reached high above them and wrote his name + theirs.

Steve + Laurie. Crossed out. Steve + Amy. Crossed out. Steve + Becky. Crossed out.

He never got to bring Nancy here. Brought Robin here originally for the same reason as the rest, but she was quick to tell him the truth as he stood too close.

At least they remained friends.

“Is your name up there somewhere?” he asks her, having never actually found it.

“I'm a band dweeb, what do you think?” she sighs but acts like it doesn't bother her.

“Do you want it to be?”

“Nope,” she lies and pops the p.

And of course he doesn't believe her, but he considers himself too nice to press her on any of it.

Silence drags on for what feels like eternity crammed into one minute, and he's got something on his mind, but has absolutely no clue how to work it into conversation all casual like, because it's kinda a big deal, but he doesn't want to seem a fool for thinking so.

So he tries to just flat out say it, “Robin?”

“Steve.”

“You're... smart, right?” He feels himself failing at just saying what he's thinking.

“Smarter than you, although that's not saying much,” she chuckles out and looks to him, but he seems... nervous, and she stops. “What's up, dingus?”

“I... I got a note in my locker today, and I don't really know what it means,” Steve speaks hesitantly and rips small pieces off of a blade of grass.

Robin's brows quirks up. “Oh? And you want me to decipher it for you?”

He sits up far too fast, and even though his body remains still, the world spins for longer than what is possible. “Would you?” There is such a brightness to his tone.

“Sure, what does it say?” She gets up as well and crosses her legs.

Steve fishes out a paper that has become impossibly crumbled up in his front pocket, to a point where the letters written in beautiful cursive is almost unintelligible.

“I love you more than words can wield the matter; dearer than eyesight, space and liberty.”

And while she turns the paper around and re-reads those words, Steve stares unblinkingly so at her.

“So?” he finally asks, bursting with anticipation.

“So, it's a love letter.” She hands it back, and he looks at the paper with such admiration, as if he had forgotten he was worthy of such, just to be reminded of it now. “It's Shakespeare, King Lear. It means that she loves you more than words can describe.”

At that he looks up, beaming with elation as he asks for reassurance, “Seriously?”

“Yup.” She is clearly far less excited, but there's optimism to her tone, to know that he might find what they're both longing for, whether out loud or in secret.

“Someone wrote me a love note...” His smile wide with shocked disbelief.

“Congratulations.” She rolls her eyes although with raised lips, and lies down again.

-

The very next day, shortly after lunch has begun, he finds another in his locker and runs to where Robin would be eating her lunch alone in the unattended library.

Steve slams down the paper in front of her, and she pauses just before biting into her boring ham sandwich.

“Well well well lover boy,” she mocks lightly and places her food back down on the tray. “I assume you're in need of my service once again?”

The chair next to her screeches across the floor as he sits down with a hard bump. “Yes, and it's the same handwriting as last, so that means it's the same girl, right?”

“Hey now, I haven't agreed to anything yet!” She slaps her hand down on top of the paper, and smirks. “I will help you with this, again, if you buy me pizza after school.”

“Yeah, deal, whatever, just-” He gestures wildly to the neatly folded paper. “Tell me what it means!”

Robin shakes her head and slumps back into her seat; slipping down a bit with her legs splayed out all comfortable and taking up far too much space.

“Love is blind, and lovers cannot see, the pretty follies that themselves commit.”

She nods for a moment in thought, fully ignoring the way Steve's eyes could drill holes in her skull.

“I think it's from The Merchant of Venice. It means... something like, how love makes you act different?”

And since she seems satisfied with that, nods more and lets out a little “Yeah,” so is he.

“Okay, so, someone that acts differently around me?”

Robin taps her temple with a blackened nail and continues nodding like it's all he understands. Still, to ensure he gets her point, says, “You got it.”

Now it is his turn to slump into his chair, but far more confused. “How... how am I supposed to know that they act differently around me? Isn't that how I'll always have seen them, then?”

She raises her brows at that and sits up a bit more straight. “How astute!”

As if he knows what that means.

-

Through the weekend he waits on his bed, each note in hand and smiling so wide his cheeks grow sore.

Two love letters in two days? They are meant for him, right? This girl didn't accidentally put it in the wrong locker, right?

Steve catches himself briefly hoping she's beautiful, but pushes that aside by the fact that she's so poetically inclined, so sweet and shy that her looks hardly matters, for her choice of words warms his heart and makes it beat in a way that he has oh so missed.

Another thought is what if it's Robin, but he shakes his head violently at that stupid little thing, because no, she's his best friend and that's all they'll ever be, and he truly is happy with that. But everyone gets wrong and bad ideas from time to time, so he won't fault himself for her name popping up, as he mentally goes through a list of all the girls he knows. Or thinks he knows.

And though he tries to distract himself with TV and swimming in his pool and letting Robin paint his toenails, Monday always feels so far away.

-

It is the first thing he does when he shows up at school; pushes his way through his peers to fling open his locker, and sure enough a little note slips out.

He skims it for just a second before he rushes off to stand by Robin's locker for when she eventually moves to it and shoves him aside.

“Another?” she asks with her head in her locker as she rummages for gum.

“I knew she was gonna leave me another! I could feel it in my body the entire weekend!” his tone pitched high with excitement.

“Ew, gross, I don't need to know that!” she jokes and yanks it from his grasp.

“Come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy, that one short minute gives me in her sight.”

And Steve folds it, lovingly so, before placing it inside his wallet, and thankfully he doesn't have to wait long for a more modern translation of it.

“Something something about how her pain and misery goes away in your presence; in the presence of a loved one. Romeo and Juliet, which is not a happy love story!” she says ardently and points a stern finger at him for emphasis.

“Okay, but does that mean we have classes together at least then?” Steve shrugs and runs a hand through his shiny hair.

“Probably? Or maybe some extra curricular activity,” Robin's tone careless and she starts down the hall, with Steve right behind.

“But the only other extra whatever I take is basket.”

“So maybe your admirer is a guy.”

He shakes his head with conviction. “Nah, I doubt that completely, I mean you've seen the handwriting! And what guy is into Shakespeare?”

“Anything is possible Steve, don't be so close minded.”

-

For once he is early to first-period history class, and he sits on the desk Robin usually occupies, to which she responds with throwing her bag into his lap, accompanied by a cocked brow and strong stare.

Steve doesn't say a thing, simply lifts up a fourth note, and she snags with from his fingers with an exasperated sigh.

“I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

She groans out loud now and pushes him off of her table. “Come on dingus, this one is easy! You cannot be this stupid.”

“Just tell me what it is!” he says as he shuffles into the seat in front of hers.

“She only wants you, no one else, Jesus.”

“Oh,” he breathes out, his wide grin that of pure joy, and although this is a tiring thing to be bothered with every day now, she does appreciate his happiness to some extend.

-

Wednesday morning Robin is already by Steve's locker, arms crossed and a friendly smile painted across her face.

“Let's see what your stalker has come up with this time,” she says and leans away so that he can twist the lock in the right order.

And today it is a far shorter note.

“Love hath made thee a tame snake.”

She doesn't bother waiting before saying, “Love will humble and soften even the most hardened individual.” And there's a glint in her eyes, so short and easily missed, revealing that she might have an idea as to which hardened individual this could be. Not that she hadn't thought about him before already.

For she had seen his copy of As You Like It by Shakespeare fall from his bag in English Literature, but it is not her place to out anyone.

“That's a weird one, right?” His brows furrowed as he awaits affirmation. “Hardened individual? What does that even mean?”

“Steve, I-” She rubs her eyes hard and nods. “Yeah, it is a weird one. But it probably means someone who's acting tough, but in truth softens around you.”

He folds it back up and slips it into his wallet together with the other four.

“Tomorrow, then,” Robin says and pats his shoulder a few times before heading to class.

Steve stays still for a moment, looking at how the five notes stretches the leather of his wallet. His thumb runs over their ripped edges, all seemingly from the same piece of paper, thinking about the dainty fingers that must hold the ballpoint pen to write him such loving words.

Cheeks flushed, smile tender, eyes soft, he wanders towards class as well.

-

Months ago when he and Robin became best friends, she took a very slight interest in him and his education, because he very clearly needs help with school, and she's suspicious of the fact that he might be dyslexic, but when asked about it he gets mad.

So instead she demands food and favors from him whenever he starts screwing up in school again, starts falling behind, or shows up late to class. And of course he has slept through his alarm for the first time in weeks on this Thursday, the one day of two where they have first-period together, and now he'll have to pay for dinner at the diner, but he has a good excuse!

Sat up all night with several books written by none other than William Shakespeare that he had checked out at the library.

He's hungry and tired and in a goddamn hurry to get to class ASAP; the hallways empty and silent save for the occasional teacher yelling at an unruly student, but even that he can hardly hear over the beating of his heart, which is just great, because now he'll spend all day with floppy hair and reeking of sweat.

He just has to make a quick stop by his locker to see if there's a new note, the only thing that truly matters and overshadows the importance of getting passing grades or upholding his deal with Robin.

Around the next corner and... and...

And it never dawned on him at any point, even with Robin's constant droning of “Guys can read Shakespeare, too!” that his secret admirer might not be a girl at all. Maybe he was just so stuck in the expected reality of the world, the one he's so used to, before Robin helped him see the light, to help him realize that there's other options than gay or straight.

No he never even bothered thinking that way, till he sees Billy Hargrove slip something into his locker.

[miniaturephantomprincess]

You know those times, when your thoughts go flying and your own headcanon gets thrown into an (alternate) bad ending scenario?

Definitely guilty here... ^^‘

The bad ending

„You do realize this is quite your own fault right?“

Neptune came to hate this voice so much during the last weeks and months. Her fists were already trembling by the bare sight of her opponent, while she simply refused to believe any of those words Venus’ whispered to her right now. However, the former Senshi of love was far more successful in this than Neptune would have liked. While manipulating Haruka had been fun but far from any real challenge, Venus had come to particularly enjoyed teasing and driving Neptune over the edge. It had ended painfully for herself on more than one occasion but damn, it had been worth every single moment. Haruka had been easy. There was so much anger, so much hatred for herself buried that close beneath the surface. A small little push and pull, that’s all that had been necessary for the nice little chaos to unfold and things quite naturally following their way. Neptune on the other hand… even Venus had to admit it was way different with her. The senshi of the sea was much more complicated, her feelings much more concealed, but oh how her strength had proven to be her greatest weakness. It shouldn’t have surprised her but still, even Venus found the irony behind this strangely amusing.

„I actually have to thank you, you know.“

Venus grinned as she carefully followed the impact every single one of her words caused. Oh, how she enjoyed having Neptune on this point. Her careful held facade breaking away slowly, giving way for the much more pleasant feelings of hate and anger Venus feed on for her own joy.

„I don’t think I could have done all of this myself. Not that quickly anyway. You did help quite a bunch you know. Poor Haruka. In the end, you broke the very rest of her spirit.“

Venus felt the by now nearly familiar pressure on her chest, rapidly and mercilessly growing as Neptune used her powers, however, none of this stopped her lips from forming into a cold and deeply satisfied smile. Despite everything, this was her victory. They both knew it was.

„Shut up!“

The roaring depths of the sea sparked back through Neptune’s eyes right before a wild hit of energy knocked Venus off her feet. Neptune’s attack sent her crushing against the nearest wall, the force breaking at least two of her rips in the process. Nevertheless, Venus laughed out loud.

„Well, look at who cannot bear the truth!“

Venus coughed, the sharp pain exploding at her side, but the so-called senshi of love grinned. She bathed in the sea goddess’ hatred. In that guilt cracking up Neptune’s soul and seeping through this raging sea of emotions. To Venus, this felt like the most exquisite wine or perfume and it was worth each and every risk she just took.

“Come on! Tell me I am wrong.”

Quite some dance with the devil this was, but Venus had not come this far to let this end without a little bit of fun.

“She asked you not to keep her away, didn’t she? Her only wish not to be a useless bystander on the battlefield. And you...? Tell me again, what did you do exactly?”

Venus never actually was surprised to find her body lacking the ability to move. She knew that part of Neptune’s powers all too well by now. She could also tell what probably would follow, but Venus never actually intended to give Neptune time to call upon the crushing waters of the sea to rise deadly from beneath her feet.

“Don’t worry.”

The pressure on her chest made it more impossible to breathe. It literally cut off her breath and caused Venus to cough. Her mocking words no longer escaped her as easy as before, but nevertheless, she pushed on. The blonde tasted her own blood in her mouth and fought to take her next breath, yet she knew in only a moment she would have won everything there was.

“I fixed your mess.”

The wicked grin on Venus’ face quite successfully drove Neptune mad. She would end this. Here and now. Once and for all.

But along with those last mocking words came a change of atmosphere that made Neptune freeze. The very air seemed to have changed and shifted. The wind picked up and with it came a far too familiar brush not only on her skin but on her soul.

“Haruka...”

Venus forgotten, Neptune turned, instinctively knowing where to look for her partner. Standing several meters across and away from her was Uranus, strong and mighty, her presence so radiant Neptune actually shivered. The aura of her partner choked her and she painfully realized how long it had been since she felt the soldier of the sky embracing her full potential and power like this.

“You know what to do.”

Neptune didn’t even turn as Venus summoned another portal to disappear, maybe to watch in all safety the confrontation that was about to happen. Neptune could not care less about their former leader, retreating once more cowardly and fleeing from their battle. It could not be more insignificant when it was Uranus who caught Neptune’s every attention.

It had been weeks... no months...

Months since Haruka had vanished.

No... since Michiru’s very own actions had driven her away...

Since then, since she had found the crash-site of Haruka’s bike and all traces were grown cold, Michiru had pushed herself to her own breaking point and limits, both physically and mentally, with her powers finally growing (or was it breaking?) to their fullest potential.

Vision after vision she had witnessed Haruka suffer…or get tortured…

As vague as her visions could be, the pictures they brought to her this time always remained crystal clear. Right to the point where Michiru, for all she knew, felt like she too was with them back at that chamber of tortures. A powerless bystander to Haruka’s cries, her screams…to every damage inflicted on her bruised and broken body as well as to her spirit.

At times, Michiru was sure Mars knew she was there as well, for she could feel a grin behind the searing flames occasionally appearing on the edge of her mind. For some reason, they both shared this strange connection to this realm of visions. And Michiru was sure the only reason Mars allowed her to stay was because the senshi of fire knew to have Michiru watch her lover’s endless tortures would do way more damage, than burning down Michiru’s thoughts.

It never made a difference anyway.

No matter how many times Michiru returned back to this living hell, no matter how many times her visions either overtook her out of nowhere, or she forced her mirror to do her bidding, she never got closer to actually find Haruka or reveal her location.

The prickling on her skin, the actual shift of the wind should have warned her, but Neptune cast away all instincts of the warrior inside her because they could not matter less.

She still managed to dodge Uranus’ attack, close as it was, but never rose her arms to send the roaring sea down at her attacker in response. Instead, Neptune’s thoughts, ever so calculated even within the fiercest battle, grew blank.

Too many things she wanted to say... too much to apologize for...

But there she was, staring back at eyes clouded by a dark and restless storm, that did not even seem to recognize her and her own regrets and guilt bound her tongue, as she looked at Uranus with disbelief.

„How pathetic.“

Uranus‘ voice was as cold as her appearance and demeanor. It did not bear any emotion other than the ever so small sign of growing impatience.

The senshi of the skies took one single step towards Neptune’s direction and with it came another set of attacks Neptune barely managed to avoid. Uranus always had been fast. Way faster than her and it never took long for the raging winds to cut deep into her skin. Those blows she reflected with her mirror didn’t make much of a difference, leaving Neptune bruised and shaking, way too soon for her own liking.

„This is a waste of my time.“

Again grey, empty eyes looked down on her and if Neptune recognized anything it was the displeased hint marking the end of Uranus‘ patience.

This wasn’t the challenge she had hoped for. Too easy. Too weak. It was a mere mystery to her how no one before her had not already silenced the disobedient sailor of the seas. But it wasn’t her place to question the princess‘ orders. She had been sent her with a clear mission and order she planned to execute without further toying around or wasting her time.

A sudden change of energy washed over Neptune senses, a spark, bright and clear, that spiked the second Uranus across from her summoned her sword.

„You got it back..-“

Neptune watched the scene in front of her utterly puzzled. Seeing the mighty talisman appear in her partner’s hands shocked her in a way she never had expected. It took the ground from underneath her feet and Neptune never grasped the moment Uranus charged at her without further hesitation. Instead, visions flickering in front of her eyes robbed her of the reality. Fast and hectic fragments, all tinted dark and red drilled themselves into Neptune’s consciousness.

Flashes of chains…of pain and suffering…a broken pledge of obedience…the cover of nothing…of strength..and purpose…and power born anew…

Neptune choked, both from the impact of her visions rendering her frozen, as well as the force of the blade knocking out of breath.

„Does it mean, it’s gone..?“

Neptune barely noticed it, the searing blade cutting through flesh and bone, nor the pain exploding from her abdomen to quickly cover and wreck every last part of her body.

„All your suffering and pain....“

Neptune blinked. Her vision blurred from sudden tears and pain, neither of which she could differentiate at this point. But still, the strangest kind of smile flickered across the dying soldiers face.

„I-I … I am glad…-“

She tried to raise a bloodstained hand. Just once... just one last time...but another thrust cut off her words, robbed her of her breath.... her pain...

Her last moment, gone just like that...

The transformation of the warrior vanished, leaving behind the body of the young woman who suddenly appeared way more fragile. The storming sea gone and vanished from deep blue eyes, turquoise locks torn and tattered while the mirror shattered on the ground.

A broken relic to prove the execution of her order.

A useless thing the princess told her to keep, without Uranus ever grasping the reason or intention why.

[agreatperhaps12]

There are a lot of misconceptions about Warren Peace. Five times Layla Williams saw through the bullshit, and one time Warren returned the favor.

happy holidays, @katiewont :) 

Misconception No. 1: Warren Peace loves a good fight.

Warren Peace does not go looking for fights. Fights find him.

See: Stronghold chucking a lunch tray at him the first week of class. Dumb and Dumber challenging them to Save the Citizen. Stronghold’s date going full supervillain at homecoming and nearly dropping a school-size anvil on an unsuspecting suburb.

That’s just the highlight reel for September.

When another villain interrupts Warren’s History of Heroism midterm with another school invasion, Warren’s first thought is: Could everyone around here chill for five fucking seconds.

No. Literally, not ever. See: three weeks later, when Warren is standing in line for lunch with the entourage of freshmen he’s long since given up trying to shake off. It has not even been five minutes since Warren and Stronghold defeated their latest challenger at Save the Citizen, and Zach is already doing a clumsy live-action replay.

To Stronghold, “Did you see his face when you were like?” Zach swings his arm with the spectacular confidence of someone not standing in a very crowded cafeteria. To Warren, “And then you were like—” Zach mimes shooting fireballs from his fists, complete with sound effects. “Totally brutal. You looked scary, bro.”

“He always looks scary,” Ethan says, smiling at Warren like that’s a compliment.

Warren glares down at his tray. He and Stronghold have been defending champions of Save the Citizen for over two months, Hero Team every time. He doesn’t get how people are still managing to make him feel like the bad guy about it.

“How was play-pretend battle?”

Layla has emerged from the crowd to stand beside Warren, with a smirk that makes a stupid something flutter behind his sternum. Layla stopped coming to their Save the Citizen matches after their dozenth victory, because “violence should be the last resort in any hostage situation” and “Save the Citizen completely undermines a valuable opportunity for Sky High students to learn strategic negotiation skills.” Warren doesn’t know what she does with the free period. 

Take me with you, he thinks.

“The match was epic,” Zach says. “Will got to throw a car.”

A bashful smile overtakes Stronghold’s dumb, Labrador face.

“And Warren almost barbequed Evans,” Ethan says.

Jesus, could they shut up about it already.

“Really,” Layla says, eyes on Warren while he pays for his food.

“Yeah,” Warren says, in a deadpan to rival Magenta. “It was epic.”

Layla frowns, but instead of launching into the pacifist manifesto that Warren is expecting, she holds up her bagged lunch says, “Want to eat outside?”

Before Warren can answer, Stronghold says, “Outside?” like he’s never heard of such a place. “It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s almost forty degrees,” Layla says, “and I had to come in early to finish a project, so it’s been over—” She checks the clock. “—five hours since I’ve felt roots under my feet. I’m eating outside.”

“Okay, but like.” Stronghold glances at Warren. “Do… you want me to come?”

“No, you’ll just be a baby about it,” Layla says gently. “Warren doesn’t get cold, do you?”

She looks to Warren for confirmation of a fact that Warren is one hundred percent sure he’s never told her. He shrugs to hide his wrong-footedness.

“Great.” Layla claps a hand on Stronghold’s shoulder and uses it to steer him toward the others, who are already sitting at what used to be Warren’s personal lunch table, once upon a time. She shrugs on her jacket, flips her hair out, and looks to Warren. “Shall we?”

Warren follows her outside warily. Sitting down across from her at the picnic table closest to the edge of school grounds, he says, “So, what is this, exactly?”

Layla pauses in uncurling her lunch bag. “What do you mean?”

Warren shrugs. “We don’t really hang out. Alone.”

They did, a little. Back when Layla was using Warren to make Stronghold jealous. But that pretty much ended with the homecoming debacle—after which Layla and Stronghold spent a few weeks trying to get their romantic relationship off the ground, decided they worked better as friends, and went back to normal.

“What are you talking about?” Layla says. “We hang out at the Paper Lantern all the time.”

It’s true that Layla eats at Warren’s workplace a few nights a week, when her mom is too busy with day-saving to make family dinners at home. But Layla is always doing homework, and Warren is always doing Work work, so, “I don’t think that counts.”

“It does,” Layla says confidently. It’s the kind of confidence that only Layla can pull off, because rather than coming across as arrogant, she gives the air of a mysterious woodland nymph, whose secret knowledge mere mortals wouldn’t understand.

“Okay,” Warren says, because he has precious little personal experience to back up any assertions about how friendship is supposed to work. “But this isn’t the Lantern.”

Layla raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to go back inside?”

“No,” Warren says. He doesn’t want Layla to leave, either. There’s a sureness about her that Warren finds comforting. She’s never been afraid of him—probably because she could kick his ass. Warren likes that about her. But he also likes to know where he stands with people.

By way of explanation, Layla says, “Did you know that when you get stressed out, literal steam comes out of your ears?”

“What?”

“Mm-hmm.” Layla pulls an apple out of her lunch bag. “A little. It’s easier to see when your hair is pulled back.”

Warren brings a self-conscious hand to the rubber band he used to tie his hair up during Mad Science Lab.

“It happens a lot when Zach is doing his Save the Citizen play-by-plays,” Layla observes. “Thought I might spare you an entire lunch of that.”

“Oh.” Warren’s hand drops into his lap, blind-sided by the unexpected kindness. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Layla maintains eye contact while taking a bit of apple. Warren shifts in his seat and drops his eyes to his pizza. “You could tell Coach Boomer to assign Will a different partner,” she says after a moment. “Save the Citizen isn’t mandatory.”

Yeah, except it kind of is. No one’s ever voluntarily stepped back from a winning streak like Warren and Stronghold’s. Benching himself would never be worth all the extra side-eye in the halls. Not to mention the explanation he’d have to give Boomer. What kind of superhero-in-training refuses to fight?

Except for the one Warren is currently sitting across from, of course. Who’s looking at Warren with such doe-eyed earnestness that it almost squeezes a “Yeah, maybe” out of him. But Layla is a difficult person to lie to, so he says, “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Save the Citizen.”

Layla sits up a little straighter. “Right,” she says. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Thanks.”

Not that Warren doesn’t trust Layla, but she is the kind of person to press points she thinks are important. Before her mind can cycle back to Save the Citizen from some other angle, Warren says, “Sorry I dragged you outside in the middle of November.”

Layla tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t drag me. I dragged you.”

“Yeah, but for me,” Warren says, and there’s that stupid fluttering feeling again.

“And for me,” Layla says. “I wasn’t lying about needing to get out for a bit. Being inside all day, with the linoleum and cinderblock.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s creepy quiet, when you’re used to feeling everything alive around you.”

He’s never actually thought about it, before. How Layla has her finger on the pulse of something so vast and intricate, even when she’s not bending it to her will.

“Even in November?” Warren says. “Isn’t everything, like… dead?”

Layla laughs. “No. Just taking a long nap.”

“Huh.” Warren looks around the grey-brown landscape of the schoolyard, with its bare branches and faded grass, with new eyes. It’s a nice idea, that all these lifeless-looking things are just waiting to wake up.

Misconception No. 2: Warren Peace doesn’t give a damn about his bad reputation.

Anyone who dyes a single streak of hair, wears fingerless gloves, and walks around like he’s got nothing to prove has something big to prove.

For Warren Peace, that is: I do not give a fuck about my family legacy.

Before starting high school, Warren figured a couple kids might recognize him, by name or by strong family resemblance. But Warren’s dad had already been locked up for a long time. It wasn’t like he made the news anymore. Worse came to worst, Warren thought he might have to field a few awkward questions about it.

Homeschooling did not prepare Warren for how big a household name Barron Battle was.

The first week of school was all open seats around Warren in class and at lunch, cold and curious looks over shoulders on the bus, “Check it out, that’s Barron Battle’s devil spawn” and “I can’t believe they even let supervillain kids in.”

It was treat or be treated like dirt, and Warren chose the former.

Fast-forward to junior year, and Sky High students know Warren Peace for the asshole he is, rather than the asshole his father was. Warren is comfortably back to pretending like his dad doesn’t exist. It mostly works.

Except during a History of Heroism unit on the most notorious villains of the twentieth century, when Warren’s class is staring at a PowerPoint slide that depicts the leveled Brooklyn neighborhood where Barron Battle and the Commander had their final showdown.

Warren ignores his classmates’ not-so-covert glances as Mr. Magnificent rattles of statistics like ‘seven dead and dozens injured’ and ‘nearly one billion dollars in damages.’ Magnificent has to pause his lecture to silence the white noise of whispers that has swelled up, and Warren wants to sink through the floor.

It’s like the first week of freshman year all over again. Warren is projecting I don’t care vibes so hard, there’s a good chance he’ll spontaneously combust.

What feels like an eon later, the classroom lights come up. Warren shoves everything into his backpack and heads for the door before anyone can try to talk to him. As usual, Layla is out of Hero Support early and waiting in the hall to meet Warren for lunch. Her patent sun-bright smile slips as Warren escapes the classroom.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” she says.

“What?” Warren stops up short. “Nowhere. There’s no fire.”

“I was kidding,” Layla says, and winces at herself. “Poor choice of words. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Warren rakes his fingers through his hair. “I can’t come to lunch today. I have to—work on something.”

Normally, when Warren is feeling like shit, there’s nothing he’d rather do than sit with Layla in their little oasis of calm at the schoolyard picnic table. But right now, Warren needs at least thirty minutes to pace around the empty auto shop classroom, literally and figuratively cooling off, before he subjects himself to more human company.

“Okay,” Layla says, hugging her notebook to her chest and looking at him critically. “Are you—”

“Yeah. It’s—whatever. I’ll see you later.” Warren shoulders his way through the crowded hall toward the shop room, head down.

Smooth, he thinks at himself. Very smooth.

Shut up.

Warren assumes the first chance he’ll have to apologize to Layla is the next day at lunch. But when Warren shows up for his shift at the Paper Lantern at five, Layla is already sitting at her usual table. Weird, because Layla usually doesn’t come to the Lantern on Thursdays. Weirder, because when she does come, she typically arrives sometime after eight, when the dinner rush has mostly cleared out.

“What can I get you?” Warren says, drawing his pencil out from behind his ear as he approaches Layla’s table. They do try to maintain some appearances of an employee-customer relationship, to appease Mrs. Zhou.

“Hmm.” Layla examines the menu. “I’d like one kung pao tofu, one green tea, and—” She looks up at him. “—for you to explain why you fled your History of Heroism class today.”

“I didn’t flee,” Warren says. “I stormed out.”

“All right,” Layla agrees easily. “Why did you storm out of History of Heroism?”

Warren crosses his arms. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” Layla holds out her menu.

Warren blinks. “What?”

“You’re right, it’s not my business,” she says. “I just thought you might want to talk about whatever it was.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Warren squints. “Okay…”

“Okay,” Layla says again, and flaps the menu in her hand.

Warren takes it slowly, waiting for the catch. But Layla just pulls a binder and notebook out of her backpack. “Honey with the tea, please,” she says, and clicks open a pen.

“I know,” Warren says, and leaves Layla to her homework. He spends most of the next half-hour trying to untangle why he feels disappointed rather than relieved.

The thing is, Warren sometimes gets a “What was that about?” or “Dude, what the hell happened back there?” from classmates after he goes nuclear. Like after his cafeteria fight with Stronghold in September. Those questions always feel voyeuristic. Prickly and probing.

With Layla, though, the question feels less invasive and more inviting. For the first time, Warren wants to explain himself. He wants Layla to understand. He doesn’t want her to see him as some moody, unapproachable asshole. But he also doesn’t know how to approach her, or the subject, now that he’s already shut it down.

He’s been talking himself in and out of going back over to Layla’s table for ten minutes when Mrs. Zhou sidles up to the pass-through window where Warren is brooding.

“If you’re going to stand around making eyes at your girlfriend, take your fifteen and go over before the dinner crowd arrives,” she says.

Warren’s face heats, and he looks around to see whether anyone is in earshot, even though he’s pretty sure none of Mrs. Zhou’s whitebread suburban customers understand Mandarin. “She’s not my—never mind.”

Deciding he’d rather be having any other conversation besides this one with Mrs. Zhou, Warren forces himself to walk over to Layla’s table and sit down.

“We learned about the Barron in class today,” he says, abandoning any attempt at preamble, “for a lesson on notable supervillain takedowns.”

If Layla is surprised by Warren’s sudden attempt at conversation, she doesn’t show it. She hooks her pen through the spiral of her notebook, closes it, and waits for him to continue.

“Magnificent was showing pictures from the last time Dad and the Commander fought in New York,” Warren says, “and people were looking at me like I was involved somehow, even though all that shit went down when I was still in diapers, and those people have been in my classes for three years, like—I know, we all know Barron Battle is my dad, why can’t everyone fucking get over it already—”

Layla lays a hand on his forearm, cutting Warren off and drawing his attention to the fact that his clenched fist is smouldering like a hot coal. “Shit. Sorry.” Warren shakes out his hand, and Layla pulls back. He wishes she wouldn’t.

Layla waits for the red glow of Warren’s knuckles to dim and then says, “Mr. Magnificent is an idiot. It was totally inappropriate to include your dad in a presentation, especially without asking you first.”

Warren shrugs. “A lot of people’s parents end up in his presentations,” he says. “They’re just usually on the right side.”

“He still should have asked you,” Layla says. “Also, you helped save the entire school in September. If people still think you’re anything like your dad after that, they’re idiots and you shouldn’t care what they think.”

Warren wants to say “I don’t.” What comes out is, “This is high school. Everyone cares what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t,” Layla says.

Warren wants to contradict her, but from what he can tell, Layla genuinely doesn’t. “You have to care a little,” he says.

Layla raises her eyebrows like oh, yeah? and points to her characteristically Whoville-style twist of braids and glittery clips. “You think these hairdos made me a lot of friends in middle school?”

“I didn’t go to middle school.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Layla says.

“Then why do you wear your hair like that?”

“Because I like it.” Layla twirls a stray piece of hair around her forefinger. “And I don’t need to be one of the pretty girls to feel good about myself.”

“You are pretty,” Warren blurts, and immediately has to suppress the urge to set himself on fire.

Layla’s eyes go wide. The last time Warren saw her blush this deep, he’d just called her out for crushing on Stronghold. But instead of straight-up embarrassed, this time Layla’s blush is weirdly, shyly pleased. “You think so?” Her chin is tilted down so that she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, which is not fair.

“Me?” Warren points at himself, like an idiot. “I don’t—I mean, I do, but it’s not just—you are pretty. People know that. It’s an objective fact.”

“Really.” Layla’s cheeks are still pink, but her smile has a playful slant now.

“Yeah,” Warren says, more defensively than he intends. Christ, he was so much better at this when they were fake-dating, when none of Warren’s smirks or swagger could mean anything. Now, without the protection of pretense, everything feels altogether too personal. Warren is not good at personal.

“Thank you,” Layla says, and bites her lip in hesitation before tacking on, “you’re pretty, too.”

Whatever that comment is—reflex, or politeness, or something else—it is officially too much. “I have to get back to work,” Warren says, overloud in the quiet restaurant, and bangs his knee on the underside of the table in his haste to stand up.

“Okay,” Layla says, trying to hide a smile behind her hand. Before he can turn away, she adds, “Warren,” and points to either side of her head.

Warren stares at her blankly for a second before he catches her drift, yanks his hair down from his ponytail to hide his surely steaming ears, and practically runs back to the kitchen.

Misconception No. 3: Warren Peace thinks he’s got the best power.

“I feel like I should warn you,” Layla says as she turns the key in her front lock, “my house is kind of crowded.”

Warren frowns. “I thought you were an only child.”

“No siblings,” Layla says. “A lot of roommates. You’ll see.”

What Warren sees is a menagerie that would do Ace Ventura proud.

“Watch out for the—everything,” Layla says, leading him through a flock of peacocks, a few dogs and several cats that slink by too quickly to count.

“Why… is this?” is the only semi-coherent question that Warren can formulate as he shoos a parrot from his shoulder and shakes his pant leg free of a fox’s jaws.

“You’re not the only one who has to live with your parent’s superpower,” Layla says.

Layla’s mom, apparently, is a zoolinguist. The only place in the entire house not overrun by furry or feathered residents is Layla’s room.

“Wow,” Warren says as he crosses the threshold.

Layla’s bedroom is situated on the back corner of the house, and the two external walls and ceiling are all paneled glass. Presumably to usher in maximum sunlight for the greenery that crowds almost every inch of space besides Layla’s bed and desk. Warren has to shed his winter coat immediately to avoid overheating in the humidity.

“Yeah,” Layla says. “Sometimes I forget how weird it is. Will’s the only friend I’ve ever had up here.”

Layla is the only friend Warren has ever had in his room—which she immediately declared “entirely predictable,” on account of the punk rock posters plastered across his walls. Layla’s room is way more predictable, if you ask Warren. Or at least, Warren would have predicted this, if he’d known literal greenhouse was a legitimate option.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Peaceful.”

“Isn’t it?” Layla takes Warren’s coat and hangs it on a hook behind the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “Mom had the place renovated before we moved in. I think she figured, if she was going to let every animal in the neighborhood have the run of our house, it wasn’t fair to exile my plants to the backyard.”

“Do they all live here all the time?” Warren says, pointing at the floor to indicate the veritable petting zoo downstairs.

“Some of them,” Layla says. “Mom is good at finding homes for most. I think donations from her fans are single-handedly keeping every shelter in the city afloat.”

It’s rude to ask about superheroes’ secret identities, but context clues give Warren a pretty good idea who Ms. Williams might be. Charismatic Megafauna is basically a one-woman PETA operation, liberating animals from factory farms and delivering them to free-range pastures as often as she commands her elite squadron of apex predators to take down baddies. She’s a more controversial figure than the Commander and Jetstream, but she does have an extremely dedicated cult following.  

“Her power sounds amazing,” Warren says.

“Most of the time,” Layla says. She collects a watering can from beside her bed and begins to fill it with a knee-high spigot beside the door. “But there’s a lot of animal suffering in the world. It can get exhausting for her to be tapped into it all the time, you know?”

Warren pauses to consider. “Yeah, I guess that would be overwhelming.”

Layla turns off the tap and carries her watering can to the closest table laden with potted plants. “Everyone’s superpower looks spectacular on the news,” she says, with a very un-Layla-like smile. “No one’s around to see it when your power makes you so sad you can’t get out of bed.”

“Except you,” Warren guesses.

Layla drops her not-really-smile. “Except me.”

Warren shuffles along the row of plants beside Layla while she waters them. He waits until she finishes refilling the can and starts a new row before asking, “Does that ever happen to you? Your powers getting you down.”

Layla studiously waters a flower with orange starburst petals. “Plants have more…auras and vibes than thoughts and feelings,” she says, and tickles the flower under one leaf. The plant visibly perks up under her ministrations, and Layla smiles. For real, this time. “Their pain doesn’t feel as sharp to me as animals’ pain does to my mom.”

“But,” Warren prompts.

“But sometimes, yeah,” Layla says, and moves on to the next plant.

Warren casts around for something comforting to say, but comes up with nothing better than, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Layla says, “but it’s the exception to the rule. Most of the time, I wouldn’t give up feeling this—” She rubs her fingertips over a browning leaf to paint it green. “—for anything.”

Warren shouldn’t be jealous of Layla’s powers. Especially after she’s just admitted what a burden they can be. But Layla has also just confirmed what Warren has long suspected: Superabilities, even the ostensibly powerful ones, are not created equal. Warren’s pyrokinesis is, fundamentally, a weapon. A blunt tool to wield when the situation calls for violence. Layla’s power, on the other hand, seems more like a sixth sense. A trapdoor to another plane of reality.

How much of Layla Williams’s worldview draws on the alien insight of plants that no other human being, least of all Warren Peace, could ever possibly understand?

Layla interrupts Warren’s inferiority spiral with, “I’ve never talked about this with anyone but my mom.”

Warren watches Layla coax a stem into standing up straighter. “Not even Stronghold?”

He should not take as much pleasure as he does in Layla’s dismissive laugh. “Especially not Will.”

“Why not?”

“For a long time, he didn’t have any powers, and he was so jealous of mine, it seemed mean to complain about them to Will.”

“And now?”

“Now, he’s in the honeymoon phase with his new powers,” Layla says, “and it seems mean to bring him down.”

Not even Warren believes Stronghold can be that fragile. “I’m sure he’d get over it.”

“Maybe, but, you know. The things we do for our best friends,” Layla says, with a what can you do shrug, and returns to the faucet for another refill.

“So, why tell me?”

Layla chews the inside of her cheek. “I guess because you already have a complex about your own powers the size of Texas, thanks to your dad.”

“What?” Warren balks. “I do not.”

Layla squints. “Don’t you, though?”

“No. I—shut up.” Warren looks away, feeling hot all over.

Layla bends down to turn off the tap. A moment later, her hand on Warren’s shoulder startles him into looking back at her. Her big, brown eyes are wide with sympathy. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” Warren snaps.

“Okay.” Typical Layla, letting him feel whatever he’s going to feel and say whatever he’s going to say and refuse to throw hands about it.

Warren’s spark of anger sputters and dies. He huffs out an exhale. “It’s not only about my dad,” he admits, quietly, mostly to the floor.

Layla’s hand remains on his shoulder while she waits for an elaboration. Warren very carefully does not acknowledge it in any way, for fear it might stop.

“Fire is...useful,” he says. “But it can only destroy things. I can’t create. Not like…” He waves a hand around Layla’s room. “All I’m good for is fighting, and sometimes I wish—” Warren shoves a hand through his hair. “I dunno. It’s stupid.”

Layla’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “First of all, you are not your power,” she says. “No matter what Boomer or anyone else says. Second, fire is creative. It creates light and warmth.”

“If I’m ever transported back in time to an era before electricity, I’m sure that’ll be extremely handy,” Warren says, aiming for wry and not quite making it, because the tickly feeling that flitters to life in his chest whenever Layla says nice things about him is going wild.

Layla rolls her eyes. “Third of all, you do not need a superpower to create and nurture things.” Before Warren can stop her, Layla has pushed her watering can into his hand.

“What?” he says. “I don’t know anything about plants. I’d probably kill them all.” He holds the watering can out to Layla, who does not take it.

“Don’t act like you don’t have a book of Keats in your backpack right now,” she says. “If you know ‘To Autumn,’ you already know the most important things about plants. Everything else is technicalities.”

Warren gives her a doubtful look.

Layla sighs. “Trust me. Which you should, because I know literally everything about plants, and I’m a very good teacher, and I would not let you hurt any of my babies. Okay?”

Layla holds out her hand, and Warren has to channel all his concentration into keeping his cool enough that he doesn’t burn her when he takes it in his own. Layla grins, and Warren feels a little light-headed with the thrill of it.

“Come on,” she says, and pulls him toward the row of potted flowers where they left off. Warren follows, as helpless as any of the flora around them to resist the benevolent force of nature that is Layla Williams.

Misconception No. 4: Warren Peace doesn’t get scared.

This illusion is at least partly on purpose. Part of the do not fuck with me ethos Warren has been cultivating for the better part of three years.

In reality, plenty of things scare Warren. Like the idea that everyone is right about him after all, and he’ll end up on the Superheroes Guild’s Most Wanted List someday. Or that deep down, a kernel of grudge in his mother resents Warren for taking so closely after his father. But those are more midnight-existential-crisis concerns than acute fears.

Warren gets scared during battles, too. But the initial kick of adrenaline always seems to knock his consciousness clear of his body, such that he spends most of the fight controlling the firestorm of his fists from somewhere above the action. He usually doesn’t realize how freaked out he is until after the fact, when his brain plugs back into his body and he thinks, huh, my hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s rare that Warren feels, in real time, the bass-drum beat of his heart and a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. But that’s exactly what happens every time he gets close to asking Layla out on a date.

He’s come close so many times. He’s had the tickets in his jacket pocket for weeks. But the prospect of actually asking Layla invites the prospect of Layla saying no, and Warren—can’t.

Sometimes, he can almost convince himself that she would say yes, despite the fact that Layla is kind, beautiful, mystical Layla, and Warren is social-pariah, problem-child Warren. Like last Tuesday, when Layla said “you’re such a disaster” with such heart-stopping fondness, while she pulled a rubber band from Warren’s hair to replace it with one of her own, more comfortable fabric hair ties. Or last Friday, while they were watching a movie at Layla’s place, and she tucked her socked toes under Warren’s thigh on the couch. Or yesterday, when she held her hands out over the picnic table for Warren to warm her pink fingertips between his palms.

And always, in the back of Warren’s mind: “You’re pretty, too.”

But whenever Warren opens his mouth to ask, his tongue goes dry and his palms go damp. It’s such a stupid thing to be afraid of, it makes Warren want to close his head in a locker. Worst case scenario, Layla turns him down. They’d still be friends. She wouldn’t be cruel. She’s Layla. But Warren isn’t used to having so much of himself caught up in another person. The idea that Layla isn’t equally caught up in him provokes a strangled, withering feeling in the pit of Warren’s stomach that he can only imagine would intensify tenfold after the actual rejection.

So, Warren’s been procrastinating.

But time is running out.

It does not help that Stronghold’s flock of freshmen is currently obsessing over Winter Formal like a bunch of… well, freshmen.

“You guys asking anyone?” Zach says at lunch, one day when freezing rain is lashing Sky High too hard for even Layla to sit outside. Zach hooks an arm over Magenta’s shoulder, as if to underline the fact that she’s already spoken for. Magenta rolls her eyes but doesn’t shrug him off.

“I would ask Larry,” Ethan says, pushing steamed vegetables around on his plate with his fork. “If I could stop going full-puddle every time he looks at me.”

Layla and Magenta make sympathetic noises.

“I think I’m gonna ask Abby,” Stronghold says, eyes cast over at a table where Warren assumes this Abby must sit. He hasn’t bothered to keep up with Stronghold’s latest romantic fixation. They’re already two—three?—full crush cycles past Layla. Warren can’t believe he ever felt threatened by a kid with the attention span of a housefly.

“She’d totally say yes,” Magenta says. “I overheard her about how hot you are during the Shapeshifting Students Association meeting.”

“Really?” Will says, at the same time Layla goes, “Magenta!”

“What?”

“Gossip.”

“Okay, Mother Williams,” Magenta says. To Will, “We’ll talk later.”

Layla looks intent on pressing the matter, but Ethan says, “Do you have a date, Layla?”

Everyone turns to Layla, except for Stronghold, whose eyes inexplicably flick over to Warren—who glares him into dropping eye contact.

“No,” Layla says, unconcerned.  

“Not yet,” Zach says. “Just a question of who asks first.”

Warren’s heart stutters, and he swallows back a “What?”

Luckily, Stronghold has less restraint. “What?” he says, like he wasn’t ogling another girl 0.2 seconds ago.

Zach looks at Stronghold like, Are you kidding? “Layla’s hot,” he says slowly. Magenta nods in agreement. “Chen, Robinson, and Feinstein are all thinking about asking.”

“And those are just the ones we’ve heard about,” Magenta says.

“Where are you guys getting this intel?” Ethan says. “We’re your only friends.”

“You can hear a lot from the inside of a locker,” Zach says.

“Or from the vents,” Magenta adds.

“Who’s still shoving you in a locker?” Layla says, frowning at Zach.

“Don’t deflect,” Magenta says. “Who are you going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Layla says, very pink and very determinedly acting like she’s not. “I didn’t know I had options until right now.”

Warren didn’t know he had competition until right now. In his defense, he deliberately pays as little attention as possible to rest of the Sky High student body, except for the five freshmen who invaded his space last fall and refused to leave. But of course other guys want to ask Layla.

Fuck.

“What about you, Bucky Barnes?” Zach says, throwing Warren an upward nod. “Got your eye on any hot junior goths we don’t know about?”

Warren scowls. “No.”

“Warren’s too cool for school dances,” Magenta says.

Stronghold frowns. “He took Layla to homecoming.”

“Only to make you jealous,” Layla is quick to correct.

Warren’s eyes snap over to her, but Layla isn’t looking at him. Just stabbing at her salad with her fork and letting her hair partially obscure her still pink cheeks.

An uncomfortable, sour feeling settles in Warren’s stomach. He makes himself look back at Zach. “I don’t do school dances. I have a thing anyway.”

“What thing?” Magenta says.

“A thing,” Warren says, with enough finality that even Zach knows better than to push it.

That is, until Stronghold corners Warren at his locker after final period to ask, “What thing do you have to do instead of Winter Formal?”

Warren continues loading books into his backpack. “A thing.”

Stronghold, in a bid for Warren’s full attention, shuts his locker door. As soon as Warren turns a glare on him, the kid goes bug-eyed.

“I am so sorry!” he says, reaching out to open the locker, only to remember that, duh, it’s Warren’s and he can’t. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Warren must be spending too much time with Layla, because instead of picking Stronghold up by his shirt collar, he merely swats Stronghold’s hand away and unlocks his locker.

“It was only—I know someone who was hoping you’d ask them to Winter Formal,” Stronghold says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Warren fixes Stronghold with a flat expression. “You’re not my type.”

For an aspiring superhero, Stronghold flusters extremely easily. “Wh—not me!” he says, and then leans in and lowers his voice. “You know.”

Warren, who is not in the business of getting his hopes up—no matter how many summersaults his stomach is doing—raises his eyebrows.

“Layla,” Stronghold murmurs, so low that Warren has to read his lips.

Summersaults, cartwheels, handsprings. Warren’s stomach is performing a full-on gymnastics routine. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Stronghold admits, and Warren’s stomach immediately flops. “But I am something of an expert on Layla Williams.”

Warren, who has an entire September’s worth of evidence to the contrary, makes a psh noise.

Stronghold squares his shoulders and ticks off on his fingers: “She hangs out at the Lantern all the time. She eats lunch with you, alone, every other day. The way she talks about you—”

“She talks about me?”

“Dude.” Stronghold lays a hand on Warren’s shoulder, looking so delighted with the irony that it takes everything in Warren not to ignite. “You’re so stupid. She’s totally into you.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Right.” Stronghold’s hand immediately slides off. “Seriously, though. If you don’t ask Layla to the dance, someone else will.”

“Noted,” Warren says, like he isn’t already tying himself into knots over that exact possibility.

“You’re gonna ask her, then?”

Warren heaves a sigh. He can’t believe he’s about to confide in Will Stronghold, of all people, but at this juncture it seems like the path of least resistance. “I have tickets to something that night, and I want to ask Layla to go with me.”

Stronghold has the audacity to look innocently perplexed. “So, why haven’t you?”

“I’m, you know.” Warren pushes back his hair. “Waiting for the right time.”

Stronghold looks dubious. “It’s a date, not a prom-posal.”

“I know that,” Warren snaps.

Stronghold blinks, and something seems to click in his head. His expression goes slightly amused and, even worse, sympathetic. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” Warren says, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Okay, well.” Stronghold blows out a breath and puts his hands on his hips. “Any chance the right moment might be, like, today? Around now-ish?”

Warren narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Magenta texted me five minutes ago that Andrew Chen is standing next to our bus, waiting for Layla.”

Warren’s heart lurches. “You should have led with that, Christ.” Guess he’s doing this now. Is he really doing this now? He has to, so he is. Warren slams his locker and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Where is Layla?”

“Magenta said she stayed after class to talk to Mr. Boy about—oh, okay, then. Bye! Good luck!” Stronghold calls after Warren’s retreating figure as he strides off down the hall.

Warren is so preoccupied with figuring out what he’s going to say to Layla when he finds her that he nearly runs into her as she exits Mr. Boy’s classroom.

“Warren,” she says, blinking up at him in surprise. “Hi.”

Warren, who suddenly feels like he’s stepped on stage with no lines prepared, takes a second to remember how to breathe before he gets out a “Hi.”

Layla stares up at him expectantly. Right. He’s supposed to say more words.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

A pucker forms between Layla’s eyebrows. “Sure. I actually wanted to talk to you, too.”

Warren clenches the tickets between sweat-damp fingers in his pocket. “Okay. Do you want to…” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mostly empty hallway.

“Okay.”

Layla follows him out into the hall, and they stand in semi-awkward silence until Warren says, “You first.”

“All right.” Layla tucks her hair behind her ears. She already looks embarrassed. Not good. “So, I might be way off base here, but I get the feeling you’ve been working yourself up to asking me to Winter Formal?” Her voice lilts up like a question, but she must find all the confirmation she needs in Warren’s expression, because she immediately continues, “and I just wanted to make it clear that you don’t have to.”

When Warren opens his mouth, “Oh” is all that comes out.

“Yeah.” Layla hooks her thumbs through the straps of her backpack. “I know school dances aren’t really your thing—and they’re not exactly mine, either. So I didn’t want you to think homecoming set some sort of precedent, that you have to ask—”

“I wanted to ask you,” Warren says, finally unsticking his throat.

It’s Layla’s turn for surprised silence. It takes a full two seconds for her to get out, “You did?”

“Yeah, but—not to the dance. Here.” Warren pulls the tickets out of his pocket. His thumb has smudged the ink of the top ticket, so he hands the bottom one to Layla. “Town hall is holding a fundraiser gala next Saturday to raise money to build a park on an empty lot in my neighborhood.”  

Layla takes the ticket in both hands and stares down at it.

“There’s going to be food and music and dancing,” Warren says, heart rate accelerating. “I think they’re going to auction off dedications for benches and flower beds and stuff. There will probably be a couple boring speeches by some government officials, but.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I dunno. It sounded like it could be fun.”

Layla still hasn’t said anything, and Warren’s heart is throwing a fit in his ribcage, so he adds, “It’s the night of Winter Formal, though. So if you wanted to go to the dance with someone else and hang out with your friends, I totally—”

“No,” Layla says, looking up at him with bright eyes and a wide smile. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Warren says, too overcome by the cold flood of relief pooling in his gut to say anything more substantive than, “Cool.”

Layla carefully slots her gala ticket into the front pocket of her backpack. “Took you long enough,” she says, angling a teasing smile at Warren. “I couldn’t take another week of you opening your mouth like you were going to ask me something and then not saying anything.”

“Thank Stronghold,” Warren says, wondering what his life has come to, that those words just came out of his mouth. Must be the generosity of giddy relief.

Layla’s nose scrunches up in tickled confusion. “Why?”

“He warned me that Chen was gonna ask you to the dance this afternoon,” Warren says. “Sort of lit a fire under my ass.”

“But Andrew—” Layla breaks off with a laugh and shakes her head. “Will.”

“What?”

Layla takes Warren’s hand and starts walking them down the hall. “Andrew Chen’s been sick with the flu all week,” she says. “He’s not even here today.”

Warren’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds. “Stronghold.”

Layla laughs again and swipes her thumb across the back of Warren’s hand, and a great, soft warmth blooms in Warren’s chest.

Well. If he has to be indebted to Will Stronghold for something, this is as good a favor as Warren could have asked for.

Misconception No. 5: Warren Peace is not a touchy-feely person.

Warren himself would have sworn by this one, until a month ago. He has never, in all his life, considered himself a cuddly person. By any stretch.

It turns out that in order to identify as a cuddly person, you need someone to cuddle. Or, more specifically, someone you have permission to cuddle.

Dating Layla Williams finally gives Warren that permission.

He expected it to be harder, weirder, more awkward to transition from being someone who looks at Layla and thinks I want to put my arm around you, to being a person who can actually reach behind her back and curl his fingers over her hip bone.

It’s not hard at all. The first time Layla kisses Warren, up on her toes with her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, in the dark of her front porch after the fundraiser gala, there’s a shift. A gravitational kick that sends them into closer orbit around one another, so that now it’s routine for Warren to wrap Layla in his jacket and tuck her into his side as they walk. Steal her hand to press her knuckles to his lips. Knock his knee gently against hers under their picnic table.

“Who knew Warren Peace was such a cuddle bug,” Magenta says, tipped back in a papasan chair to peer at Warren upside-down.

Warren is sitting on the shag carpet of Stronghold’s basement with his back against the couch to let Layla play with his hair while they talk over a movie. She’s just tied off an elaborate braid, so now his cheek is resting against her knee while she twirls the fine hairs at the nape of his neck around her fingers.  

“Call me ‘cuddle bug’ ever again and I’ll roast you like a marshmallow,” Warren says, too sleepy and comfortable to put any real heat behind the threat.

Magenta, true to form, doesn’t so much as blink. “Hate to break it to you, but an elegant Dutch braid kind of undermines your whole tough-guy act.”

Warren simply shrugs. It’s an occupational hazard of dating Layla, spending a lot more time around her—their?—friends outside school. Warren resisted at first, but at this point, it’s more exhausting to continue holding them all at arm’s length than to let them have the run of his life.

“Layla, in general, kind of undermines his whole tough-guy act,” Zach says. “You know he wrote her a poem for Valentine’s day.”

“Read her a poem,” Warren says. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well get Layla clipped flowers.

“That’s still sappy as hell, dude,” Ethan says.

“It was very sweet,” Layla says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Warren’s forehead.

Warren unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile.

“He’s preening so hard right now, oh my god,” Magenta says.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tease him, or he won’t come back,” Layla says, but Warren hears the smile in her voice.

“Please. He’d go anywhere you go,” Magenta says, and as Layla’s fingertip traces the shell of Warren’s ear gently, always gently, Warren doesn’t even attempt to contradict her.

+1 Misconception: Layla Williams is a just happy, go-lucky hippy chick.

Outside Layla’s bedroom window, everything green is tucked under snow and the weight of waiting for spring. On the other side of the world, everything is burning.

Record-setting wildfires have raked Australia for weeks. Neither Layla nor her mom can directly feel what’s happening to the outback. But Layla knows her mom must sense it like she does, every time a singed koala or graveyard of splinterlike tree trunks appears on the news: a gnawing sensation that something on the far edges of her mind is vanishing into smoke.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing Layla can do. Even if she had the means to get to Australia, there’s no way to salvage the aftermath of a forest fire. Layla wields incredible power over living organisms. But it’s like conducting an orchestra. Not much to be done if the entire ensemble is already dead when she takes the stage.

Actually, the real worst part is knowing that the inferno currently eating up Australia isn’t an outlier. The warming world is parching landscapes and revving up hurricanes, and every weather-related threat to her beloved biosphere is only going to get much, much worse. It makes Layla feel horribly, inescapably small.

To avoid sitting around the house and chewing her nails down, Layla takes on more volunteer shifts at the animal shelter. Helps Magenta with outreach for the Shapeshifting Students Association. Spends a couple Saturdays with the local river cleanup volunteer crew. Cooks dinner on the nights her mom is actually home. Overstudies for an exam in Hero Support.

It’s all a good distraction, but at the price of exhaustion. Layla feels emotionally sore. Like she’s been doing the psychological equivalent of running springs.

Case in point: “Layla?”

Layla blinks herself out of her middle-space-stare at the picnic table. “Hmm?”

Warren frowns. “I said, are you coming to the Lantern tonight?”

“Oh, no,” Layla says, and winces her apology. “Will’s coming over to study for Hero Support.”

“Why? You’re gonna ace that thing.”

“I promised Will I’d help him review.”

Warren’s frown deepens.

“What?”

“You should take a break,” he says.

Layla hides a yawn behind one hand and waves the other dismissively. “I’m fine.”

Warren gives her a flat look. Most of his expressions are pretty flat, but Layla has gotten good at reading the subtleties. This one says, quit your bullshit.

“What?” she says.

“You—” Warren spends a couple seconds struggling to find the right words. “Your hair is in a ponytail.”

Layla replays that in her overtired mind, wondering whether she heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

“No sparkly clip things. No scrunchies. You didn’t even do the thing where you wrap a little piece of hair around the elastic to hide it,” Warren says, as though that clarifies anything. When Layla’s expression makes clear that it does not, Warren sighs. “Babe. You’re exhausted.”

“Am not,” Layla says, and feels totally betrayed by her own body when the words are stretched out by a yawn. “Coincidence,” she says, in response to Warren’s unimpressed eyebrow-raise.

“Layla.”

“It’s fine,” she insists.

“Take a break,” Warren says, more insistently. “Stronghold can survive cramming for one exam on his own. Let baby bird learn to fly.”

“He’ll drop like a rock,” Layla says mournfully.

“Probably,” Warren says. “But you don’t have to be there for everyone all the time.”

Layla studies her bitten nails. “It makes me feel better.”

Warren’s ever-warm hands take hold of Layla’s, making her look up. But whatever he has in mind to say is interrupted by the bell. Warren gives her fingers a brief squeeze before releasing them, so that they can collect their things.

“Tell Stronghold to find himself another tutor so you can have a night off,” Warren says, hooking an arm over Layla’s shoulders as they head for the front doors. “Please.”

Layla does not. Which is why, when she says “come in” to the soft knock on her bedroom door at eight o’clock, she expects Will. Instead, she gets Warren, hovering on the threshold with his usual carefully concealed uncertainty, like he’s a vampire who has to wait to be invited in.

“What are you doing here?” Layla says, sliding off her bed. “I thought you had work.”

“Got someone to cover my shift,” Warren says. He’s holding what looks like a magazine. “This was more important.”

“What is… this?” Layla says. “You know Will’s going to be here any minute.”

“No, he’s not,” Warren says. “He’s at Magenta’s”

Layla narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Told him to go find another study partner,” Warren says. “Since you’re already prepared.”

Layla crosses her arms and sinks her weight into one hip. “I told you, I want to help.”

Warren adjusts his grip on the magazine. Layla hears the paper stick to the sweat on his fingertips, but his determined expression doesn’t change. “Then help me.”

Layla blinks. “With what?”

Warren holds up what turns out to be a gardening catalog. “I want to get my mom a couple of indoor plants for her birthday,” he says. “Something pretty but doesn’t require a lot of attention, because she’s gone so much. I thought maybe you could help.”

Layla stares at him. “I love shopping for potted plants,” she says slowly.

Warren exhales a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I know. And you are a good teacher, so.”

He rolls the catalog up between his hands and looks at Layla with guarded hope that shoots a bolt of affection like heat lightning straight through her stomach. She needs to sit down.

“Come in, then,” she says, and ushers him through the door. While Warren is taking off his shoes, “Just so we’re clear, you are not going to make a habit of rearranging my schedule behind my back.”

Warren stands up straight, dead serious. “Got it.”

Layla indulges a smile and leans up to kiss him. “I’ll forgive you this time, though.”

They sit on Layla’s bed, flipping through Warren’s catalog, as well as a stack of magazines that Layla has pulled out from under her desk. Warren loops his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder, listening intently while she explains the care and keeping of flowers. It’s comfortable and easy and requires just enough idle attention to avoid falling into a slump. Layla could do this forever, she thinks.

Not an hour later, Layla is lying with her chin propped on her hands, which are folded over Warren’s chest, struggling to keep up conversation through yawns of increasing frequency.

“You can go to bed, you know,” Warren says, dryly amused, and tucks a strand of hair that has fallen out of Layla’s loose ponytail behind her ear.

“I might fall asleep right here on top of you, if you keep talking about it,” Layla says, closing her eyes and pillowing her cheek on her hands.

She feels, rather than hears Warren’s hitched inhale, and suddenly feels more acutely awake than she has all week.

Three seconds pass before Warren murmurs, “You can. If you want.”

Layla very carefully keeps her body relaxed and does not open her eyes to avoid breaking the fragile moment. “Mmm-kay,” she says, and adjusts to find a slightly more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Warren says, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, his other thumb smoothing the hair back at her temple.

Layla is so keenly aware of every point of contact that she thinks she might stay awake after all. But within minutes, the soft touch pulls her down into sleep.

[rchtoziers]

fuck it. 37 + reddie. its hella cheesy so u can reword it but i’ll give u my firstborn ty i love u 💓

37. “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

this took me one billion years to answer because *jean ralphio vc* i’m the woooooooooooooorst BUT TO MAKE UP FOR IT I MADE THIS EXTRA CHEESY. love u xoxo

*

Eddie finds him at the Kissing Bridge.

It’s the last place he had expected Richie to wander off to, but he supposes any place is better than the haunted halls of Derry High. None of them had been particularly enthused to return for a reunion commemorating a place that was never really kind to them, but Bill had suggested they give it a chance if for nothing but a chance to all be together again, and when Bill suggests things the others have always fallen into line.

Still, Richie hadn’t lasted very long. His attempts to wallflower himself to the side of the gym were thwarted by people from their graduating class coming up and congratulating him on his big break. Eventually he had excused himself with an awkward pat on Stan’s back, a brief nudge against Eddie’s shoulder, and a halfhearted wave of his carton of cigarettes. Eddie had watched him leave silently, watched as Richie slinked across the floor and fled, frantically, out the gymnasium doors.

Eddie had followed after him without even thinking about it.

The Kissing Bridge isn’t far from the high school; some people say it’s a coincidence. Eddie says that desperate horny teenagers just stumbled across the first place they might have some privacy and called it good. The bridge is covered in carvings and graffiti and the same old garbage bullshit Eddie always remembers there being, but it’s got an extra accessory in the form of Richie Tozier as he leans up against the posts, danging an unlit cigarette from his lips.

“Not to sound like I’m condoning smoking,” Eddie says, “but those things usually work better when they’re lit.”

The corner of Richie’s mouth lifts up into a smile. “Ha, ha,” he says, without removing the cigarette from his mouth. “Maybe I’m finally taking up your advice and quitting.”

“Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Richie snorts out a laugh. Eddie settles in next to him, leaning his arms against the post and looking out over the creek. It’s dark, the sun long past gone, but the water is illuminated by the lone street light at the beginning of the bridge. It casts a hazy glow over Richie’s face, highlighting the prominency in his cheekbones and the curve of his nose and deepening the shadows under his eyes.

After a while, Richie takes the cigarette out of his mouth and rolls it idly between his fingers. “Why’d you come find me?” he asks finally, voice quiet in a way it rarely is.

There’s something suffocating about being back in Derry that brings out the worst extremes in their personalities; Eddie hates that he feels like Richie is reverting back to the same quiet pensiveness he took on during their last year in high school. It was hard enough watching Richie close in on himself then. Eddie can’t stand the thought of it happening again.

“Someone’s gotta be your babysitter,” Eddie says after a moment. It takes a great deal of strength to look away from Richie’s profile. He counters, “Why’d you run away?”

Richie lets a long sigh. “Something about being back here just reminds me that even though I got the hell outta dodge and moved as far away as fucking possible, I haven’t really changed. I’m still the same person I was when I was here.”

Eddie frowns. “Bullshit,” he says. Richie laughs and rolls his eyes. Eddie knows him well enough to recognize that Richie’s trying to deflect. He presses on. “I’m serious, Rich. You’re not the same person, what the fuck? The kid you left behind in Derry, he wasn’t even funny. I mean, seriously, his jokes sucked. That kid couldn’t have gotten on a TV show. That kid would have been thrown out of Hollywood right onto his ass.”

“Gee, you’re such a supportive friend, Eds, I’m truly lucky to have such a swell dude in my corner,” Richie says dryly.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says. “I’m serious, Richie.”

Richie finally looks at him. There’s something in his eyes that Eddie has never seen before. They’ve known each other for their entire lives; Eddie has catalogued every emotion Richie feels and how it manifests on his face, and he still doesn’t recognize this one. It makes his heart pound in his chest.

“I’m serious, too, Eddie,” Richie insists. “Being back here? Nothing has changed. I’m still that idiot little kid with the feelings he refuses to acknowledge. Still the coward who is too afraid to say anything. I thought moving away meant moving on, but I’m still in the exact place I used to be.”

Eddie blinks, feeling a bit like he’s swimming through molasses as he tries to get to Richie’s point. “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

When Richie laughs again, it sounds hollow. Forced. Sad. “I tried my best to not feel anything for you,” he admits. He puts the cigarette back between his lips and starts digging in his pockets. “Guess what? Failed that one pretty bad.”

“What?”

“Where’s my fucking lighter?” Richie mutters. The cigarette bobs dangerously up and down as he talks. Eddie only notices because he can’t really look away from Richie’s mouth.

Eddie’s own mouth snaps shut. “Richie,” he tries to say. It comes out strangled, inhibited by the fact that Eddie can’t truly wrap his head around the fact that this is actually happening right now.

Richie glances up at him, just for a moment, before his cheeks turn red and he drops his gaze back down to the ground. He starts patting around his pants pockets, still struggling to find his lighter. “Where the fuck?” he hisses.

“Don’t light that cigarette,” Eddie snaps.

“Fucking why?” Richie retorts back. He finally finds his lighter and pulls it out of his pocket with a victorious crow. Eddie lurches forward and covers Richie’s hand with his own before he can flick on the lighter.

“Don’t light the fucking cigarette!” Eddie repeats harshly.

“Why not?” Richie demands. His hand shakes underneath Eddie’s, trembling in fear or anticipation or maybe all of it. Maybe there’s a reason they moved out of this town but maybe this is the reason they had to come back. Maybe everything was leading them here to this shitty bridge in a tucked away corner in their shitty hometown where everything started and where everything would begin. Maybe it would mean something, this time, when they left together. Maybe it would mean what it should have meant the first time they left.

“I’m not kissing you if your mouth is gonna taste like tobacco, jackass!” Eddie says, feeling a little bit frantic and a little bit cranky and a lot like this could be the happiest he’s ever felt.

The lighter slips out of Richie’s hand, tumbling to the ground with a small click as it hits the pavement. Richie blinks in shock. “You want to kiss me?”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Eddie snaps. “Get with the fucking program, asshole! Of course I want to kiss you! You just—you dropped this huge confession on me but you didn’t even give me a chance to respond to it, which was fucking rude, so I was just gonna kiss you to get you to shut up, but I can’t very well kiss you if you have a fucking cigarette in your mouth and I’m not kissing you after you’ve smoked because that’s fucking disgusting, but Jesus fucking Christ I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were kids, you idiot! How fucking dumb are—”

In one fluid movement, Richie reaches up and yanks the cigarette from his mouth, throwing it unceremoniously over the edge of the bridge, before his hand cups Eddie’s jaw and tugs him forward and then finally, finally, he kisses Eddie square on the mouth.

Eddie reaches up, grabbing a fistful of Richie’s jacket and tugging him closer, closer, kissing him the way he’s dreamed of since he was old enough to understand what it meant. It’s messy and it’s just a bit desperate and it’s awkward when their noses bump into each other the wrong way and when Richie’s glasses bump against Eddie’s cheekbone but it’s also the most perfect Eddie has ever felt.

Seconds or hours or years might pass and Eddie feels so cliche he could drown in it, but Richie breaks away with a laugh and Eddie is left chasing it. He’s left with the dawning realization that he’s going to spend the rest of his life chasing it, no matter what.

“So,” Richie drawls. The grin on his face should be obnoxious, splitting from ear to ear, but Richie looks so shocked and pleased and warm that it just makes Eddie warm, too. There’s nothing cocky about this. Nothing teasing, even if that’s what Richie’s tone suggests. It’s just them. Richie and Eddie. Going, inevitably, where they were always meant to go. “You’ve wanted to kiss me since we were kids.”

Eddie’s grip tightens on Richie’s jacket. “If you’re looking for an idiotic childhood confession, it’s about three feet down the bridge where I carved your initial in a heart.”

Richie’s face goes slack. “No.”

“Yes,” Eddie mimics.

“Eds, that’s so embarrassing.”

Eddie refuses to be embarrassed by it. “You’re the one who dramatically came out to the Kissing Bridge to wax poetic to the night sky about how you still had feelings for your childhood crush, I don’t think you have any ground to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be embarrassed about.”

“No, no,” Richie laughs. With the hand still on Eddie’s jaw, he tilts Eddie’s face down towards the section of the post they had previously been leaning against. Their initials are carved there, too. Eddie’s face feels like it must be on fire. “I can say it’s embarrassing, because that right there is embarrassing, and that’s something I did. We were just a bunch of idiot teenagers with secret gay boners for each other and we literally carved our own names into the same general area of space.”

Eddie groans. “I fucking hate you, could you have phrased that any other way?”

“Truthfully? No,” Richie says. His tone is smug but he’s still gone that love-drunk look on his face. Eddie presses up on his toes until he’s almost kissing Richie again.

“Truthfully?” Eddie repeats. Richie swallows thickly. “I don’t hate you.”

Richie’s gaze darts back down to the bridge. “Think that much is obvious, Eddie my love,” he teases.

Eddie shuts him up with a kiss, and then another, and then another.

[izaswritings]

all that’s left in the world | chapter one

Title: all that's left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku's been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn't mean they've forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

-

AO3 Link is here!

-

part one: neku

.

Hey… is anybody there?

Someone… anyone…

Please.

.

.

.

Neku wakes up in the middle of a crosswalk.

For a moment he is mute, is still, frozen on the road and just staring at the sky, fingers digging so hard into the gravel of the street he’s starting to tear up his fingertips. Neku hardly notices. He’s here again. Again. All that fighting and all those weeks of trying to move on and— and here he is. Back again. Right where he started.

He takes a breath and pushes his hands against his eyes, because if he doesn’t he really does think he’s just going to break down into hysterical tears right then and there, and thinks: At least it wasn’t Joshua who shot me this time.

Small mercies. The Joshua-with-a-gun vision had apparently been Joshua trying to help him (???) or save him, or something. Instead Neku had—literally, this time—been shot in the back by the cotton-candy-colored Reaper with the cutesy speech and yeah, in hindsight, he really should have seen that coming. Go fucking figure.

Beat saw him die, Neku thinks next, and then: oh, man, Beat is going to freak.

His phone buzzes in his pocket (fuck off, Neku thinks, I'm having a moment here, go the hell away,) and the sharp pain of the timer searing itself on his palm is as familiar as breathing. Neku breathes into his hands until the urge to scream is gone, and then he shoves himself to his feet and runs his fingers back through his hair, missing his headphones like an ache. No time for breakdowns, no time for the crisis looming up behind his eyes. Time’s ticking. The Game’s begun. Neku has to move.

Shiki is going to be so upset.

No, no, no time to think about it. Neku tugs once, hard, at his hair, and then he looks up and prepares to make for Hachiko.

His brain stutters to a stop. Neku stares. He’s… this is… this isn’t Scramble Crossing.

This isn’t Shibuya.

Actually, Neku thinks, breathing starting to pick up a little, is this—is this even a city? It looks like one, in theory—except somewhere in making the city someone forgot to fill in the blanks, so to speak. There are no people, no cars, not even a single ad broadcasted on those strange, empty white buildings; the screens are filled with nothing but static.

Neku takes a step back. There’s no one else around. He has no idea where he is. But that buzz of a phone in his pocket—the burn of the timer in his hand—if he needed any proof that he's back in the UG, lo, there it is.

Neku reaches up and grips at his hair, pulling hard. It’s a bad habit that for once is sorely needed, and the brief ache of pain is almost enough to ground him. His hands are shaking.

“Fuck,” Neku says, lowly. “Oh, fuck this,” and then he yanks his hands away, back to his side, and turns to run.

Midday on the Monday, and yet, this strange not-city is completely empty. Where are the crowds, the cars, that constant hum of noise in the air? Where’s the battlefield? It feels almost like an insult—finally, Neku has gotten used to it, has learned to love that whisper of sound and music in the air, the murmur of a living city… and now it’s gone, dead silent, so quiet it makes him feel like his ears are bleeding. He hates it. He hates it. This isn’t Shibuya. Where is this?

Neku rounds the corner in a straight sprint, and then skids to a stop, hissing through his teeth. Oh, shit. Noise.

But—god, Neku thinks, really starting to panic now, because the Noise are wrong. They’re supposed to be symbols in the air, burning like a brand against the backdrop; the monsters crawl through only if you get too close. But these Noise have already manifested. Fully formed, no symbols at all, and that… that’s not right, Neku thinks. Nothing about this is right.

No time to panic. Neku catches his breath and rocks on his heels, backing away from the Noise. They’re drawing close—they’ve noticed him—and Neku backpedals, faster now, looking around—people, he thinks, other Players, hello, where are you?

But no one’s getting eaten, as far as he can see; no one's running or looking panicked or—there’s no one out here but him, and he remembers this game only has one player and no, fuck, no. Not happening. Not again.

“Hey!" Neku shouts, and his voice doesn’t even echo, swallowed whole by the complete emptiness surrounding him. The fear sparks. "HEY! Is anyone else—any Player, come on, answer me! Someone answer me! Is anyone—?"

Hey… is anyone there?

Neku stops mid-word, almost coughing on it; his vision grays, and he stumbles. What…?

Someone… anyone—

There’s static in his ears. He can’t breathe. He presses his hands against his head and—

“So zetta slow,” a new voice snaps, and Neku drops to his knees, stunned, the static gone and his head feeling oddly empty. There’s an ache in his chest like someone took a knife to his heart. “Took you forever to get here.”

Someone’s walking up to him. Leather boots. In hindsight, a really familiar voice. Neku grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, and abruptly takes back his wish about someone answering him. One player game is fine, actually. Silence is fine. This is fine.

“Get up, you factoring hectopascal,” Sho Minamimoto says, with a smile settled wide and wild on his face. “The longer you stay on the floor, the harder it gets to reach my desired solution.”

Neku stands very slowly, his hands strangling to fists. “I thought you got crunched.”

And yeah, there’s no mistaking it: it’s the Grim Heaper, in the flesh, the guy Joshua once described as a math fetishist to his face, a description Neku had very tellingly not disagreed with. Hatless, because Neku took that sucker off this man's dead body without an inch of regret, given everything, but still the same as ever. Taboo-tattooed, open-shirted, smug.

Or no—not so smug. At the comment he almost seems to twitch; his eyes narrow. “I miscalculated,” he admits, sounding a little grudging. “Unforeseen factors, and now someone new is punching in the equations; you and I are just constants.” He looks away, grimacing, reaching up as if to tug at his hat; he makes a face when he doesn’t find it, and Neku resists the urge to smirk. Petty, maybe. But so, so deserved. “No say in how we get used. Undesired solutions all around.”

Neku has forgotten how much of a headache this guy is. He’s remembering really quickly. “What?” No, it doesn't matter. He casts a glance around—still no apparent Players and god, okay, fine.

Neku slides back into a stance. He doesn't know what pins he has on him; he never thought to check. He has no partner. Taking on Pi-Face with his bare hands is stupid, but the Noise are everywhere and Neku, on sheer principle, refuses to go down without a fight.

Sorry, Shiki. Sorry, Beat. “I don’t know what you’re on about and I don’t care,” Neku says, shortly. “I’m not—”

“Zetta slow,” Minamimoto snaps again, and Neku resists the urge to punch him in the face just for that. “Haven’t you noticed already? Get with the program!”

“What are you—” Neku starts, and then he feels static crackle at his back, and freezes. The Noise. He forgot about—

There’s no time to run. The Noise slam into him from behind; Neku catches himself in a roll and rises back to his feet, hands shaking. What is this? Pi-Face is here, and the Noise… as ironic as it sounds, they’d made no sound. He hadn’t even noticed them coming. And where is the Noise pocket? He can still see Minamimoto. Is this because he isn’t in a pact yet? But—

The Noise lunge at him. Neku’s thoughts white out. He reaches for his pocket before he can think better of it, and his hands close around his pins on instinct.

It’s like grabbing hold of the sun.

It’s a rush of power so sudden it almost dizzies him. Strength crackles through his fingers, lightning singing through his veins, and the Noise are dust within moments, Neku blinking in the afterglow. There’s no victory to it, though. No glee. He feels ill. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut, a building realization—because Sho Minamimoto is alive and Joshua tried to save him and Neku is starting to suspect this isn’t a true Game at all. This is something a lot worse.

He takes a deep breath and pries his hand away from his pins, his heart in his throat, anger turned ashy on his tongue. And he looks at the city around him, really looks. And he thinks of those visions he had. Of that city, turning to dust.

He curls his hands to fists and tries to breathe, because that isn’t the only thing. Because now that he’s thought to look for it, he’s found it. Because it’s there, again, ignored only because of the panic—the sense of someone else, an awareness of them, as though he could close his eyes and still know exactly where they are.

A pact.

He turns back around. Minamimoto meets his eyes, and juts up his chin with a smile edged murderous and grim. “Get it yet, yoctogram? FOIL! We aren't the ones crunching numbers this time.”

No, Neku thinks. They’re not. This isn’t the Game he knows. This isn’t anything like he knows.

Neku takes a deep breath. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. And this time, finally, he takes out his phone, and looks at the mission mail proper, the lone text scrawled out in cutesy font and casual text-talk.

Kill the Composer of Shibuya. You have, like, 7 days.

Fail, and face total and complete erasure.

Good luck!!!

-Coco <3

[vincess-princess]

ex malo bonum

Chapter 4.

Word count: 5707 Warnings: violence, self-harm tendencies, restraints, lots of blood, GRAPHIC NON-CON. Proceed with caution!  Author’s note: you wouldn’t believe this, fellas. arnold updates. a one in the lifetime experience. 

The rest of the night Vince spent in hazy slumber, the one that at first feels like a heavy, cozy blanket that grows heavier and heavier until it starts strangling. It might have been because of his blood loss, he figured later, since neither angels nor demons, no matter who he was at the moment, actually needed sleep. Tommy was probably right, though. This body, which didn’t let him destroy it at first, was now on the verge of collapsing. It needed more careful treatment.

And… Tommy. Vince couldn’t get his head around him. Hurting him, then coming in at night to fix him. Trying to help him get through an encounter with Nikki, then attempting to do the same Nikki wanted to do to him. There was no logic in his actions, no motivation. And he called him “a lot of fun”. There was no innate hate behind his words, the feeling so natural to both angels and demons, the feeling that kept them against each other. There was nothing fun in that. Tommy, however, managed to find it.

Vince was dragged back from his slumber in the early morning when the sky had only started to color. There was a sound, sharp, loud, alien to Vince. He had never heard it; it was so hostile it sent a shiver down his spine. Vince was both curious and averse to seeing its source. Must have been one of those terrible inventions humans used to kill each other not so long ago. Vince had never seen them; he was kept up there snowed under all the paperwork. So many people to die meant so many souls needed handling.

The sound thundered along the streets unnervingly close to the house Vince was kept in before fading away in a few seconds, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness in the air.

Then the emptiness was broken by a scream, a scream in a very familiar voice. Nikki’s. And… angry.

Vince shuddered. He could only hope the anger hadn’t been caused by Tommy’s night affair. The entire conversation they had with Tommy was now running in his head, with no end and no beginning, and every time the word “Nikki” stood out in that mess, Vince could feel his own fear, almost physical at this point, pulsating in his stomach. It felt like a cold icky lump in his chest unfolding more and more, releasing more cold, liquid fear into his veins. It was irrational, of course, because what would Nikki do to him apart from hitting? How would he hurt him when Vince welcomed his pain, even longed for it?

Still, the lump was there, a constant, merciless reminder of Vince’s own weakness over something he didn’t even know about, of his unworthiness. He had to remind himself that he, after all, used to be God’s warrior once. He might not have been one anymore, but he surely wasn’t going to just let Hell claim him like that, without an effort. He would take everything Nikki would do to him like He did. He might have rejected him, but Vince wasn’t yet going to discard everything his life had been about before that happened.

Wait, yet?..

Vince waited, flinching at every sound from behind the door. He could hear worried voices in another room, voices that from whispering sometimes rose up to screaming, but even then it was hard to make out words. Occasionally he heard quick footsteps in the hall, but none of them stopped in front of his door.

The sun had gone up and was approaching its highest point in the sky, and still - nothing. Vince stared at it until he went temporarily blind, dull pain starting to throb behind his eyelids. The pain in his shoulder had decreased, turning from sharp strikes of pain throughout his whole upper body into a dull and totally bearable pulsation under the skin. The cut had closed over the night, and only a drop or two of blood oozed from it from time to time. The scratches from claws on Vince’s cheek had almost healed as well, leaving only red itchy traces. Vince dug his nails into one of them as hard as he could, but his nails were too short to actually hurt him, only leaving faint traces. He tried to tear the thread off and open the cut, but the thread turned out to be very strong.

Vince needed the pain and couldn’t get it.

Nikki came when the sun had already started to set, coloring the sky so brightly Vince couldn’t tear his gaze away from them. The Earth was ugly, ugly and cruel, but there were times when Vince remembered that it once was His creation. Humans might have disfigured it beyond recognition, but the core, the idea behind the Earth remained unchanged.

Now, however, it didn’t seem good. No world that had given birth to such a creature as Nikki did.

Nikki closed the door quietly, approached the bed and bent down to Vince’s face. Vince pretended to be asleep when he entered the room, but he didn’t need eyes to sense him. The air as though grew colder with his presence. Or was that the trickle of fear down Vince’s spine that made his hands shaky?

Nikki’s hand, that stretched out to grab his hurt shoulder and shake it violently, also was cold.

“Wake up, blondie,” he whispered quietly, almost tenderly, and this hint of tenderness made Vince open his eyes in surprise and, maybe, maybe, a little bit of hope. It was taken from him that very moment. The eyes that met his gaze were not green – they were pitch-black.

“I see Tommy visited you last night,” Nikki continued, rubbing his thumb over the stitches. It stung under his touch. “What a dumbass, huh? Didn’t even use the chance.” Nikki’s other hand slid across Vince’s chest, fingertips barely touching the skin.

“He did,” Vince said, staring right between Nikki’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly into those pits of darkness, but he’d be damned, and he meant that literally, if he showed his fear in front of Nikki, even slightly. He wasn’t afraid, he reminded himself. Nikki couldn’t hurt him more than he had already been hurt - when he fell.

“Oh, really? Glad to hear that,” Nikki grinned and sat down on the bed, his palm pressing lightly onto Vince’s chest, not deep enough to hurt, but enough to hold him in place. “And how did it go? Did you like it?”

“He was interrupted,” Vince murmured. It felt as though cold threads of fear were seeping from Nikki’s fingers into Vince’s chest, sticking together into an icy lump.

“By Mick, right?” the hand moved down onto his stomach, tickling his skin with the claws, half an inch away from pain. Vince remembered how deep those claws could dig in. “Such a pity. In this house, I always have to do everything myself.”

Vince didn’t answer. Next moment, the claws dug into his skin, drawing a sharp inhale out of him.

“You know no one will come and save you now,” Nikki smiled sweetly.

“All bark and no bite,” Vince croaked, his mouth suddenly going dry.

Nikki blinked, taken aback for a moment. Only a moment, though.

“Kinky,” he said then and leaned towards him in a swift movement, obscuring his vision by a mass of black hair with an artificial, somewhat bitter smell. Teeth closed on his neck and bit through the skin, drawing blood and shooting strikes of pain down his spine.

Here was the pain that Vince craved so much. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in it. He waited with bated breath for the familiar rush of relief to wash away the discomfort of pain, to clear his head and to bring his emotions under control.

Only, it didn’t come. It was just simple pain now. Humiliating. Undeserved. Senseless. Pain he had to endure for a demon’s enjoyment. Not for the sins of humankind. Not even for his own sins.

For Nikki’s hard-on.

Vince’s hand grabbed a fistful of Nikki’s hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to unclench his teeth. It was a short victory: he made Nikki yelp in pain, but then he grasped Vince’s wrist, digging his claws into it so deeply Vince’s fingers weakened their grasp. He had to release Nikki’s hair and jerk his hand back, unsuccessfully trying to break free from the grip.

“Well, you’re fucking making me,” Nikki hissed, reaching for Vince’s handcuffed hand. Next moment cold metal wrapped around his hurt wrist - Vince had no idea how the demon managed to do that without a key - chaining it to the bedhead like the other wrist. Again.

Nikki straddled him, disheveled. “Usually I don’t like my toys restrained,” he said through heavy breathing. “But having you like this is kinda hot. What are you gonna do now, angel?”

Vince kicked him on the back as far as his left knee, the only unrestrained part of his body, could reach. He aimed at the head, but only reached the shoulder, making Nikki fall forward and almost sprawl on top of him. Nikki rolled to the side and with his elbow stopped another kick, gripping Vince’s leg once it reached his arm and clutching onto it. He then pinned it to the mattress with both his knees and scrambled to get his belt out of the belt loops. Vince wriggled helplessly under him, trying to push him off, but to no avail. The belt wrapped around his ankle and tied it tightly to the bedpost.

Once it was done and Vince couldn’t move at all, Nikki sighed with relief and leaned back, observing his work with a satisfied smile. Vince tried to jerk his legs and arms before realizing he probably looked like a dying animal in a trap, the most undignified situation he could imagine, so he lay still – he would not let Nikki enjoy seeing him struggling like that. Only his eyes were burning holes in Nikki’s face.

“As I said,” Nikki continued like nothing had happened, “I don’t usually like my toys tied up. But you’re truly something else. So… fierce. And so helpless at the same time.” He smiled, and Vince was sure he caught a moment of unexpected fondness before the smile turned into a sneer.

Nikki stretched out his hand and caressed Vince’s cheek, the one with the scars – now barely visible lines – from his claws. “I like your spirit, y’know.”

If not for Nikki’s quick reaction, Vince would have bitten his fingers off.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” the demon grinned, but the next moment his smile wilted as fast as it appeared. “Now back to business. I’ve had enough of your stubbornness already.”

“If you’re so pissed with me, why don’t you leave me alone then?” Vince spat out.

“In your wildest dreams, honey.”

Nikki got on top of him again and leaned forward to the bite on his neck. The blood oozed from it slowly but steadily, and a few drops had already stained the sheets. Not that it made a big difference: the sheets were already dark red and black, and smelled no better than they looked.

Nikki licked the blood off, his tongue warm and wet on his skin. Vince winced in disgust.

“You taste heavenly,” he carefully tucked a stray lock of Vince’s hair behind his ear and leaned towards it, so close Vince could feel his breath on the skin. “And I mean that literally. You still have a lot of heaven in you.”

Still. Vince turned away from Nikki, not wanting to see the complacent expression on his face. But even that he wasn’t allowed to do.

“Squeamish, huh?” Nikki’s fingers grasped Vince’s chin and forcefully turned his head back to face him. He smiled, but Vince would rather he didn’t. “That won’t do, angel. You’re gonna look at me the entire time. Get me? Look up there, right in my eyes. And if you don’t,” he paused for effect, his grip on Vince’s chin tightened, “it’ll hurt.”

Pain, more pain. Wasn’t Vince craving it?

“Good,” he said indifferently, staring right at the ceiling above Nikki’s shoulder.

For a second Nikki looked at him blankly. Then Vince’s guts were torn out of his stomach, dragged out alive and wrapped around the bedpost.

Or rather, he felt like they did. This terrible, unbearable pain in his stomach couldn’t be a result of anything less than that. Vince screamed, but even his voice was taken from him, and his mouth only drew in short, panicky gasps. Vince cried, but tears weren’t coming, as though afraid of blurring Nikki’s face in front of him, his calm gaze and satisfied grin. Edges of Vince’s vision started going black, Nikki’s face – fading away. Vince’s throat was raspy from all the screaming, his breath broken and shallow. The demon must have stuck a hand into his stomach and tear out his organs one by one, so slowly, so cruelly-

It was over. Oh Lord, it was over. Over. Must be His help. Of course, He hadn’t forgotten about him, or He would let him pass out from the pain. Of course, Vince still mattered to Him. After all, he was His son – a wayward one, but a son nevertheless.

The world around Nikki’s face gained clarity, and Vince could again feel the warm metal of his bracelets, now bloody from all the jerking he unconsciously did, and the rugged belt against his skin. He couldn’t help but glance down at his stomach, to see if his guts were still there. The skin was dirty and covered in dry blood, but otherwise perfectly unharmed.

“Still feel like it’ll be good for you, wannabe martyr?” Nikki grinned. “Or will you be a good boy and do what I say?”

The urge to spit him in the face was almost irresistible. Almost, because the pain, terror, and desperation Nikki had made him feel were still fresh in his mind.

The grasp on Vince’s chin tightened again, claws digging into his skin.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Nikki notified coldly.

“I’ll…” humiliation got the right words stuck in his throat. It took Vince an immense effort to push them out. “I’ll – I’ll do what you say.”

“That’s a good boy.” Nikki let go of his chin and wiped a drop of sweat off Vince’s forehead. “Alright, now let’s finally get down to business. I swear, if you pull one more trick, I’ll just choke you, and not in a romantic way.” Wait, there was a romantic way of cho-

Nikki unzipped Vince’s pants and pulled them down together with his underwear, and as Vince felt goosebumps on his naked skin, every thought he had in mind drowned in a sudden wave of pure, primal fear. It was hard to believe Nikki wouldn’t do what he promised, but hope, oh, that bitch had almost made Vince believe that it was just bluff, despite Nikki looking like the last person to do it. But now it was actually happening, with Nikki settled between his legs, undressing him, all so terribly real, that every little drop of hope Vince had had before evaporated, and instead of a steady flow of emotions in his mind, there was now a desert, blinding rays of fear turning every positive emotion into sand, and the hot, dry wind of desperation forming dunes out of it.

Nikki’s voice brought Vince’s mind back to the real world. “Damn, that won’t do,” the demon frowned, and Vince’s stomach sank. What else did he want from him? Wasn’t what he had already done enough?

But Nikki only poked at the belt around Vince’s leg with annoyance. Apparently, it prevented him from taking the pants off completely. They just bunched under Vince’s knees, not letting Nikki spread his legs wide enough.

“Should have undressed you first,” Nikki muttered, looking thoughtfully at the pants, then raised his hand, with those long, pointy claws, and then there was a sound of fabric tearing. “I hope you weren’t attached to them or anything," Nikki patted Vince’s bare leg and with the last pat left his hand on his thigh.

It slowly slid up and settled on his hip, with a finger carefully circling the hipbone. Then it moved onto his stomach, as though Nikki could feel where Vince’s terror was located. He probably did. No, he definitely did.

Something switched in Vince’s head. Wasn’t it enough that Nikki enjoyed his helplessness and humiliation? Did he want to enjoy his fear too? Completely break him, turn into a wrecked mess?

Those thoughts felt alien to him, like they had been sent to his brain from the outside. But this was only for a moment – as they ran like poison through Vince’s veins, they became so personal, so incredibly his, that no other person in the world could feel exactly the same.

The very next moment from a poison they became a drug. Vince let it into his thoughts. Embraced it.

Well, he better make a fucking effort then, the drug whispered in a familiar tone.

“You’re so tense,” Nikki said sweetly. His voice felt like a bitter pill in a sugary coating. “That won’t do.”

“What the fuck else do you want from me?” Vince threw his head back onto the pillow, looking at Nikki with exhaustion. He wanted all of it to be over already, but he knew Nikki wouldn’t just let him out like that. Still, one could dream. “Just do the thing already.”

“We’re not in a hurry,” Nikki reminded softly, but his hand on Vince’s stomach tensed up, ready to let out claws at any second. “Do you remember what I told you at the bar?”

“You talked a lot of bullshit,” Vince spat out.

“Oh, for sure,” Nikki snorted. “But there was a moment of truth there. It’s going to take as much as I need, and in the end, you’ll be begging for more. Remember?”

“You fucking wish.”

“Wanna make a bet?” Nikki offered, flashing a toothy smile. “That you’ll like it, little slut that you are.”

Vince spat at him. Most of the spit was left on his own chin, but some reached the aim.

Nikki wiped it off of his face, his grin growing wider, and oh God, did he have that many teeth before?

He pushed Vince’s legs wider, jerked one up by the knee, looking at what no one had ever looked before. Even Vince hadn’t, too busy coming up with various suicide scenarios in his time in the vessel. Vince wasn’t sure what the purpose of all those body parts he had down there was – there surely was some, but he hadn’t got to know. Still, he felt blood rushing to his cheeks against his will. Some kind of instinctive reaction? The feeble remains of the vessel’s own consciousness?

He didn’t get to finish this train of thought, though.

“You know,” Nikki kept smiling, that fake, terrifying smile of his, with too many teeth, “usually there’s supposed to be some kind of lubrication there. To, y’know, relieve the friction. But, unfortunately, we don’t have any.” He pushed Vince’s leg up onto his shoulder, giving himself better access to his lower parts, raised his hand to his face, so Vince could see it, and curled two of his fingers, and Vince slowly started to realize what he wanted to do with-

Then his flesh was being ripped open, Nikki’s finger digging deep into it with the claw out.

Vince dropped his head back onto the pillow, clutching at the handcuffs with so much desperate power he felt the skin on his wrists bruise, scratching the bedhead frantically and trying so, so hard not to scream - all in vain. It was muffled whimpering at first, then, when the second finger joined in, screaming. The world went bleak and blurry with tears, blackened at the edges of Vince’s vision.

Then Nikki pulled his fingers out, squeezing a hoarse gasp – all Vince could get out at the moment – out of him. Through tears, Vince could only see something red where Nikki’s hand was supposed to be.

“So we’ll replace it with natural lubrication,” Nikki finished as if nothing happened. The sound of his voice barely managed to get through the buzz in Vince’s ears, whether it began from his own screams or from how hard he tried to hold them.

“Don’t wanna talk back anymore, angel?” Nikki bent down to Vince’s face and wiped a tear off his cheek. “Funny how just a little bit of pain made you change your mind so quickly."

The poison, no, the drug, drowned out by pain before, fluttered weakly in his chest and wilted. Vince looked dumbly at Nikki and through Nikki, not seeing his face inches away from his own.

For that, he got a powerful slap to the face – this time without claws.

“You’ll space out when I allow you to,” Nikki reminded him sternly. Vince had to focus on him and blink to show he heard him. A simple nod seemed too much of an effort.

“Let’s move on then.” Nikki returned to his place between Vince’s legs, now with a growing red spot on the sheets between them. Vince heard him unzipping his pants.

No one will come this time, he thought.

No one did.

It was bigger than fingers but at least didn’t have claws on it. It went easily through torn flesh, making Vince writhe and whimper with every inch deeper. Nikki’s hand lay heavily on his chest, pressing him down to the mattress, not letting him resist in any way. Not that Vince even tried.

“Say goodbye to your virginity,” Nikki told him once he was fully inside, his hands on Vince’s hips, one holding onto them firmly, the other rubbing his thigh - back and forth, back and forth. “A little too much blood than there usually is, but you’ll survive. Most likely.”

Most likely?

Vince’s stomach twitched. Maybe it was just another one of Nikki’s threats, he tried to calm himself. Just another threat with no ground behind it, said solely for the sake of it. He lifted his head up to check Nikki’s face, but then caught a glimpse of his eyes and dropped it back, his arms weakening. While Nikki’s face was calm, his body relaxed, his movements well-calculated, his eyes were where his real emotions could be seen through.

He didn’t lie - he couldn’t guarantee for Vince to survive this. His eyes were that not of a sentient being, but a reflection of a single emotion so intense as though it took human form. It was hunger. Hunger for pain.

For Vince’s pain.

Nikki thrust in for the first time, and Vince exhaled a soft, almost unrecognizable “damn”. Nikki’s dick felt burning hot against his flesh, and Vince’s blood was boiling, and his entire lower part of the body was on fire. Not a good kind of fire - the kind of fire that burned witches. Just like it burned sins out of their bodies, it was burning something out of Vince’s.

Nikki’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and he thrust again, and again, and again. Vince grit his teeth and bit his lips till they bled and swallowed his own screams till his throat ached. He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t give Nikki that pleasure.

When Nikki changed his position and hovered over him, placing a hand at the side of his head, Vince instinctively turned his head to the side - only to be gripped by the chin and turned back. Nikki kept thrusting in, but more for the sake of keeping up the rhythm.

“You’re so quiet,” Nikki remarked idly, his other hand moving slowly, too slowly from Vince’s hip to the stomach and then the chest. “Doesn’t it hurt anymore?”

Vince didn’t answer. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, his tongue sat swollen and dry in his mouth.

He should have learned by then that Nikki didn’t like being ignored. A hand wrapped around his throat, and Vince suddenly realized this was how he was going to die. He didn’t pay much attention to the way his nose inhaled and exhaled air before, it came so naturally to his vessel… now it was gone, taken from him. Vince gasped, trying to break free out of the grasp, but was immediately pressed back onto the pillow by the relentless hand on his neck. Panic washed over him, panic so intense he hadn’t felt even when he stood in front of a heavy truck, flew off a building, fell into a delirium of drug overdose. He had something there with him then – confidence, security even. Back then he was invulnerable, indestructible, bulletproof; he just needed to show the extremes he was ready to go for to be forgiven.

Now there was no security, no connection, no feeling of protection. He was alone, and nobody was going to save him. The hand on his throat cut off his air. He needed to breathe to live, and he couldn’t, and he was going to die, Vince realized as the edges of his vision started to blacken.

Then the grip on his throat loosened.

“Scary, right?” Nikki whispered in his ear, tickling his face with his hair. “Vessels are so fragile. Squeeze their throat for three minutes – and they’re gone. And you’re gone. No vessel - no you.”

“Don’t,” Vince managed to get out. His hurt throat distorted his voice, turning it into barely understandable croaking.

“Why not?” Nikki put his hand on his throat again, and Vince tensed up, but Nikki’s hand only stroked the skin where his fingers were digging in merely a minute ago. “Don’t you wanna die a martyr? Go back to Heaven?”

“I can’t,” pain accompanied every sound coming out of Vince’s mouth. And you know that was left unsaid, hanging in the air, too long a phrase for him to handle.

“Fallen angels who haven’t finished transformation belong to neither Hell nor Heaven.” Nikki informed him matter-of-factly. “Do you know what happens to them when they die?”

“No,” Vince moved his lips silently.

“They stay here, on Earth,” Nikki said casually. “With no vessel, nowhere to go. Restless spirits without a purpose, full with grief over what they had lost. Nobody knows them, nobody needs them, and the only recognition they get are horror stories.”

Why are you telling me this? Vince wanted to say. Only a barely audible “why?” came out.

“Just to be sure you know what lies ahead if you decide to end your miserable existence,” Nikki smiled, but only with his lips. His eyes were devoid of emotion, fixed on Vince, examining him, watching his reaction. “Do you prefer that, angel?”

Three days ago the answer would have been obvious for him. He would have gladly accepted immortal grief and desperation if it meant he wouldn’t fall even lower, wouldn’t turn into something he despised so much. He did something terrible and deserved to be punished for it, and if those grief and desperation were his punishment, then so be it.

He wasn’t the same as three days ago, though.

Vince knew that every moment of silence elongated the time the hand that now was stroking his skin leisurely was going to spend squeezing his throat.

He knew that and he kept silent. He didn’t know what he would choose anymore.

“Don’t wanna talk? Alright then.” Nikki’s grip hardened, and Vince was once again gasping and suffocating and clutching onto his restraints. Then Nikki entered him again, thrusting into him with merciless determination, and the world became a mess of flashes and blurs in front of his eyes. He heard ringing and gasping in his ears. Pain was the only constant thing in the background.

Nikki released him only when his jerking became weaker, more like a convulsion than a struggle. Vince inhaled hungrily, not noticing the pain going through his neck and chest with his every breath.

“Look at this. I made an angel cry,” Nikki wiped a tear off Vince’s cheek. Vince hadn’t even noticed he was crying. “What a monster I am, right?” He kept moving his hips at a steady pace, but the pain didn’t feel as unbearable anymore. Maybe Vince had gotten used to it already.

All he could do was a barely noticeable nod, but it was enough for Nikki.

“Yeah, of course- oh fuck, angel-“ Nikki moaned after an especially deep thrust which made Vince bite his lip, “-of course, I am.” He smiled crookedly, no usual complacency in his expression, and sped up, thrusting with such a violent passion even moans didn’t manage to form in Vince’s throat – only short, hiccupping gasps.

The bed was shaking, its headboard was bumping against the wall, and Vince tried to focus on that, on the simple, repetitive sound, but the hotness and pain in the lower part of his body and the sounds of skin slapping against skin were too loud, too strong to be drowned out. Barely minutes must have passed, but to Vince it felt like ages.

Maybe he died as a result of one of his suicide attempts and this was his Hell. His own, personal torture. Maybe no fallen angel really became a demon and was instead given their own punishment. Maybe there were no demons at all, and those were just other angels taking revenge for their own sufferings on the newer ones since they couldn’t reach those up in Heaven. Maybe Nikki was just the same as he was, just had gone further down the road. Maybe he…

Nikki let out a choked moan, his movements growing more and more erratic, his breaths shallow. Vince didn’t know all the whereabouts of hooking-up, but this surely meant something.

“Damn,” Nikki choked on his own breath. His hands, gripping Vince’s hips, were shaking, “damn, angel-“

Then he squeezed his eyes shut, his thrusts faltering, and something spilled inside of Vince, something hot and slick and oh God, was that really what he thought it was?

No, thank God, it was white. It mixed with blood on the sheets, and Nikki watched it with complacency on his face and exhaustion in his eyes. Vince dropped his head on the pillow. He wanted to pass out so badly. Just fall into darkness and come back when it’s all over, when Nikki’s gone.

Nikki, still breathing heavily, stretched out his hand and grabbed Vince’s torn pants, wiping off blood and sweat and the white thing.

“So how was that?” he asked casually, throwing the pants away and lying down on his side beside Vince. He propped Vince’s head up with his hand and examined him. His face was so close to Vince’s he could see his nostrils move when breathing. he looked away, at the ceiling, and this time he was practically sure he could see eyes up there. Or were those just colorful circles in his eyes?

“Answer me,” Nikki poked him in the chest, but not very strongly, just to attract attention. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you didn’t? Or is oxygen deficiency causing memory loss for ya?”

Vince looked back at him for a little longer this time. Nikki’s expression wasn’t mocking or smug like it had been throughout the whole thing. And his eyes - his eyes started going back to green again, now the color of rotten leaves.

“You didn’t fulfill your promise,” Vince whispered hoarsely.

“What, about the pleasure?” Nikki raised his eyebrows. “But we didn’t make a bet, did we? Or do you consider spitting in the face an expression of agreement?”

A demon is always a demon, Vince thought wearily. It wouldn’t help him anyway: he would find a way to turn the bet against him. They always did. That’s why they were demons.

“Are you satisfied now?” Vince whispered almost soundlessly. His throat was sore and couldn’t get out anything louder than a whisper.

“Huh?” Nikki seemed to be taken aback, but only for a second. “I guess,” he said slowly, even thoughtfully. “I should be.”

So all of that wasn’t enough for him, Vince thought with growing desperation. What was he going to do next, flip him on his stomach and start again?

It must have been written all over his face because Nikki laughed and pinched his cheek.

“Calm down, angel. I’ve had enough for today. Poor little thing, I even feel sorry for you. Not your fault that you got into my hands after falling. Though I doubt there are demons out there who wouldn’t jump at the chance.”

“Sorry?” Vince tried to sound indignantly, but with his voice barely louder than a whisper it came out almost pitifully. “You loved it!” he got the intonation right this time, but this three-word phrase sent him into a fit of coughing.

Nikki patiently waited for him to finish, then spoke quietly, in a tone too calm to be natural.

“You see, it’s not so much about you personally – though you did piss me off with that holy toothpick of yours – as about you being an angel. A fallen one, yes, but still an angel. And I’m a demon, blondie. And Heaven has done me a lot of wrong.”

“And you’re taking the revenge on me?”

“Not quite. That’s not a personal matter between people, or demons, or whatever. Honestly, any other angel with a fuckable vessel could be in your place. It’s more of a desecration, sweetheart. God loves his children, so what could hurt him more than hurting one of them?”

Vince expected to hear hate behind those words, but there was nothing. Nikki sounded like he was explaining something simple to a child. Like it was so obvious it didn’t even need an explanation. Like it was normal.

Maybe it really was, and Vince just couldn’t understand it yet?

“You used to be a child of God too,” he murmured, avoiding looking at Nikki and practically feeling his eyes staring intently at him, waiting for something.

“I rejected him,” Nikki finally said after a long pause. “Long ago.”

[straight-to-the-pain]

To mean something

I literally have no excuse for this, it is just Sam angst from the darkest corners of my brain. TW for near death situations, suicidal thoughts and Sam’s usual state of mind. I wouldn’t really call this a suicide attempt, but then what isn’t with Sam... I really am sorry. Thank you to @highheelsinblood for the suggestions and inspiration. I think this got a bit darker than you might have been expecting. 

It occurred to Sam, as they lay in that dark alley, their warm blood pooling beneath them, that their wish was finally coming true. They had always imagined it would end like this, a fight, a knife, a stab wound. It hurt (and they had been expecting nothing less), but the pain was less urgent now, and somehow detached. It lapped at the edges of their consciousness like the gentle waves of a calm sea, and they could feel the current of it pulling them under. Darkness clouded their vision, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to let it take them, to let go and lose themself to that peaceful stillness. 

And yet, something was making them hold on. They were alone. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Death was not a luxury that they would be able to experience twice, so they knew they had to make it count. They couldn't be alone. 

They were thankful for the time that had been afforded to them, to contemplate, to reflect, so say their last goodbyes, if only in their head. They thought of all the people in their life that mattered to them, starting with their sister. They knew that they could try to call her for help. She was a doctor after all. But they didn't want help. They wanted company. Besides, they couldn't leave their sister with the shadow of their death. It would break her heart to be with them in their last moments, and she would never be able to move on. They couldn't do that to her. 

Their mind flickered to John. They had spent their whole life being a burden to him, a weight around his neck. It would be unfair to put this on him as well, and they knew that their friend would forever blame himself for not doing more to help them. Not that John should ever feel guilty. He had given them everything, and they would forever be grateful for it. 

This left one last person. It wasn't a number which was written in their phone, but it didn't need to be. Sam would never forget those bright red digits, slipped into their pocket once upon a time. Maia had wanted to kill them then, and now she'd get her wish. 

With blood stained fingers, Sam reached for their phone. It was a trusty brick that had served them well, and they felt a strange sort of fondness for it. Or maybe that was just the blood loss... They had been pressing down on the gash in their side, more out of instinct than in an actual attempt to stem the bleeding. 

But now their shaking fingers fumbled to key in that familiar sequence. Maia picked up on the second ring, replying with such a cheerful voice that Sam found it jarring. 

"Hi, dear." She had long begun to recognise this number, and somehow this had become her standard greeting. "Looking for a good beating at midnight?" she teased. Sam laughed at that. God, if only she knew... 

"Still killing people for money?" they retorted, though it came out sounding weaker than they had hoped. 

"The things you say," came Maia's reply, dripping with fake indignation. "I would never. But really, what do you want?" A pause, then quieter, more sincere. "Are you okay?" 

Sam swallowed before answering, taking another shaky, rasping breath. They noticed that their eyes were wet, and idly wondered when they had started crying. "I'm fine... just wanted to hear your voice." Another shaking sob that sent a tremor through them. God, they were cold. 

"I just wanted to say thank you, for... whatever it is that we had," they continued, swallowing back pitiful whimpers that kept trying to escape their lips. "Thank you for not killing me."

At first, there was only silence and Sam wondered if she had hung up, heart dropping at the prospect. But then she spoke again, and it sounded strained, as if she too was trying to hold back her feelings. "You goddamn idiot, are you breaking up with me?" 

Sam laughed, but it came out more like crying. "I suppose I am." They never had quite figured out the nature of their relationship, but it hardly mattered now. "For what it's worth, I am sorry." 

"You're crying." It wasn't a question, but a fact. Maia had seen them cry enough times, and Sam knew that there was no point in denying it. "What the hell have you done?" Her words were harsh, but her voice was soft. 

They found that they could no longer recall the cause of the argument that led them to this alley, outside the bar, but they knew it had not been worth their life. "There was a fight... I wasn't expecting the knife." It was true. They had come to this place for a fight, to feel the bright pain of fists and to not think. But something had gone wrong. 

"I'm calling you an ambulance." Another statement, not a question. "Where are you?" Maia sounded angry, but they didn't know if the anger was directed at them. “You better not die, or I’ll come and find you, and kill you myself.”

Sam sighed. They knew they shouldn't tell her, should accept their fate and let life go. This was what their life had all amounted to: a body on the street. They didn’t deserve more, and yet, they wanted more. They wanted to see their sister’s wedding and sit on John’s floor while he made them tea and finish the book they were reading. They wanted to see the sunset again and feel the soft brush of the ocean on their feet. They wanted to feel the bright, clean warmth of pain, to find out what else there was that they hadn’t tried yet. But most of all, they wanted to mean something. ‘Let go,’ a voice in their head told them. ‘It won’t matter anymore after that.’ But they found that they couldn’t. 

So they picked up the phone, and they answered. “Behind The Styx, off Firs Avenue.” The words felt like a defeat and a victory in one. Their mobile slipped out of shaking, sticky fingers, and they stared up at the sky instead. The more they looked at it, the more stars they could see, each one a shining beacon of hope. ‘Please,’ they asked the universe, as they felt their eyes flicker shut. ‘Please let me see the sky again.’

[weirdochick56]

Troublemaker- John Shelby Imagine

John Shelby x Reader 

Warnings: Explicit Language. 

Disclaimers: I don’t own any PB characters/plots mentioned. 

Word Count: 1,985 words

Summary: The reader is new to Small Heath but is already brewing up trouble. She heads to the Garrison afterward and there she catches John boy’s eye. She’s fiery and brave and against every word of caution can’t help but fall for those deep blue eyes as well. 

A/N: I’ve been watching Peaky Blinders obsessively and can’t seem to stop, so I did what I always do when I join a new fandom. I wrote a fanfic. I’m also thinking about writing a Michael and Tommy one. 

The thick smoke of Small Heath filled your lungs as you took huge gulps of air through parted ruby red lips which were probably smudged by now. The wide smile on your face was starting to induce a barely-noticeable ache on your cheeks. 

“Bloody hell, Y/n, you’re fucking insane!” Your best friend, Y/b/f’s, strides slow down to a speed-walk as she laughs loudly. 

You grin mischievously at her, trouble sparkling clearly in your youthful y/e/c eyes. “Am I?” You shrug, walking proudly through the murky streets. “I don’t think it’s all that crazy. That bitch was talking shite about me.” 

Y/b/f raises an unconvinced brow. “So you decided the best option to put that to a screeching halt to that was to beat her to a pulp?” 

You look down at your bloodied knuckles with a slight wince, a dark, twisted part of you enjoying the pain burning through your bruised hand. “Yes.” 

She throws her head back, laughs bubbling from her throat and infectious enough to erupt some from you too. You giggle, bumping your hips with her as your heels dig into the wet ground. 

“You totally fucked that shit-eating, smug smirk off her hideous face. I loved when you brought your fist down on her throat!” She squeals. “You are a true savage my friend!” She pats your back with pride. 

And it was true. You’d always been a troublemaker. A true rebel at heart. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to be or act like a proper lady, you just...couldn’t. It wasn’t your nature to abide by the rules, much less the ones are written down for women, no matter how hard you tried. 

When you and your single mother moved to Birmingham a few weeks ago, you were hoping for a fresh start from the gossiping small town you’d originated from. Spewed lies of the nature of your father’s death had been the main reason behind the move, but alongside it was your behavior. Your mom had it stuck in her head that you were out of control. The fighting, the rioting, the snarky remarks to anyone who attempted to be nice...you always managed to find a way to get in trouble. 

So when you’d gotten here and met someone who understood your madness, or at least supported it, Y/b/f, you were thrilled. It was no surprise that you’d already gotten into a fight with someone within just a few weeks. But the girl deserved it. 

You’d been enjoying your day at the bullring with your friend when suddenly, the girl hurled some disgusting, misguided comment at you as you walked past then began giggling with her friends. It was the most offensive thing anyone had ever said to you, so after getting over your initial shock at her mere audacity, you clench your fists and turn back around, running full force at her and tackling her the ground. 

She let’s out a loud yelp, attempting to fight off your iron-grip on her hair, all the while screaming even more prejudiced comments against “your kind” (whatever that meant). People quickly gathered around as you both fought, with your fury easily overpowering her weak attempts to defend herself. 

So long story short, she probably wouldn’t be eating dinner that day from all the dirt she had filling up her stomach.

Walking slowly, suddenly, you get a brilliant idea. Smirking, you turn to your friend and wiggle your brows. “Wanna go to the Garrison to celebrate my victory?” 

Your friend’s joyful face immediately falls. “W-what?” 

It was no secret the Garrison was the spot where the infamous Shelby clan often went for a drink or two. In fact, they owned it. The kings of Small Heath, the gangster leaders of the terribly dangerous Peaky Blinders, the scariest gang of them all. 

Y/b/f had warned you about them, advising you to stay far away from them and the Garrison. To be honest, you couldn’t really see what the big deal with them was. They were rarely around you.

But you’d also been curious about them the moment you got here, so it wasn’t really a matter of whether you’d see them or not, but when. 

She shakes her head furiously. “No. W-we can’t.”

You roll your eyes at her, walking closer to the famous pub, heart racing. “Says who?” 

She gulps audibly, gripping your arm tightly in order to halt your progressive movements to the business. “I do.”

You scoff at her, looking evenly into her eyes. “Would you calm down? It’s not that big a deal. I just want a drink.”

She shakes her head insistingly. “What if one of them takes a liking to you and then-“

You cut her off abruptly. “Y/b/f, no one’s gonna take a liking to me.” You gesture to yourself. “I literally look like I just rolled around in the fucking dirt willingly.” You tug her as she stumbles along hesitatingly. “Plus, even if one of them did, what makes it think I’d ever let them touch me?”

She releases a shuddering breath. “You don’t get much of a choice in the matter.”

“We’ll see.”

*

The Garrison was more beautiful than you could’ve ever imagined this place to be. Gold was the color that stuck out the most to you amongst the wooden, dark background and flailing drunks.

They were boisterous as they chattered and laughed, clashing their cups and chugging their designated alcoholic beverages down like it was water.

You smile brightly, immediately going for the bar.

The bartender, an older man, eyes you with quirked brows, the fact that he suspected you a newcomer clear as day to you.

You ignore his questioning gaze and sit on a stool, your friend following suit with a nervous glance around.

“Dark rum for me and my friend please.” You smile politely at the man.

He shakes his head at himself but nods at you, turning around to retrieve the glasses. He places them both in front of you with a light slam. You feel y/b/f jump slightly at the noise and scoff at her jumpiness.

As he pours the amber liquid into the glass, her hand suddenly grips your arm tightly, fingernails digging into your skin urgently.

You frown, looking up at her. “Jesus fuck Y/b/f! What-“ your eyes follow her trail of view and you immediately stop talking.

Men, tall and handsome and sporting flat caps, and expensive fabrics for their coats stand near the doorway of the pub, surveying it slightly.

They emitted an intense aura of dominance and people in the pub immediately quieted down once made aware of their presence.

It was eerily silent.

You turn to your friend with raised brows, whispering under your breath. “And who the bloody hell are they?”

She looks frightful. “The Shelby brothers.”

You snort at the breathiness of her voice, turning back to face them confidently. These were the Shelby’s? The so-called kings of Birmingham? The ones to be feared? They didn’t scare you all that much.

They looked menacing as hell, you weren’t gonna lie. Probably were too. But...you liked it. Something about the swagger in their step ignited a big fire in your belly. Excitement, exhilaration.

As they walk further in, you notice the one on the left with a toothpick in his mouth. He was clearly the youngest out of the three, what with his youthful handsome face. He was absolutely gorgeous with those plump pink lips and high cheeks bones, a trait seemingly running in the family. Even though you couldn’t see his eyes due to the shadow cast over them by the flat cap, you were convinced they were breath-taking.

Suddenly, almost as if he felt you looking, his gaze snaps to yours, head tilting up and dimmed light hitting his striking features, as your eyes clash. Your breath hitches and your diaphragm doesn’t expand. They were even more breathtaking than you’d ever suspected.

They were the color of a clear blue sky. Of a vast, beautiful glistening ocean. One you were more than willing to drown in.

The toothpick swirled around in his mouth as his eyes flashed with confusion then surprise then curiosity at you.

You snap back to reality and blush, looking away from him. Your heart felt like it was about to fall out of your chest with how fast it was beating, and for the first time, your hands get clammy and a shaking breath leaves you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts and pick up the dark rum, downing it with a throw back of your head and clicking of your tongue at the bitter aftertaste.

“You go,” you motion to your friend, you purses her lips in hesitation, eyes still set behind you. 

You can feel their presence next to you as the chatter revives in the pub and they slide onto the bar but you try to ignore them. 

“Oh for fuck’s-“ you sigh in exasperation, throwing your hands up and twirling around on your heels.

They were facing the bar until they hear your little outburst and now their eyes are set on you.

You smirk a little and swat your friend’s hand on your elbow attempting to convince you to turn away. “Are you going to kill us?”

“ ‘At the bloody fook?” The eldest mutters at you and you raise a brow.

“You heard me. Are you going to kill us for drinking here?” You lean casually against the bar, voice challenging.

The middle one, but seemingly the leader, steps in, raised brows. He speaks in a teasing manner, but with a cautious tongue. They’re all clearly equal parts amused and cautious at your tone with them. 

“That wouldn’t be good for business would it, miss?” His voice is soft and elegant and it makes you a little disappointed. 

Where was the rugged edge? The rasp of a criminal?

You smirk at them unblushingly. “No, it would not Mr. Shelby.”

Then you turn to Y/b/f. “See? Now drink the fucking rum or I’ll do it for you.”

She gives you a ‘did you really just fucking do that?’ look, and you just shrug. So she nervously rolls her eyes and drinks the entire thing in one gulp.

“What’s your name if you don’t mind me asking love?” The voice, this time, is deep but youthful and definitely has the criminal rasp. It’s Toothpick boy.

You turn to face him again, brows raised. “It does bother me actually.”

He raises a shocked brow at you. “You aren’t from ‘round here are you?”

“Why would you say that?” You thumb your chin, leaning into him.

He smirks and your heart leaps into your throat. “I’m sure I would’ve remembered if you were.”

You’re shocked at his shameless flirting but conceal it nicely. “I suppose so.” You shrug nonchalantly.

He motions to your bedraggled appearance. “What happened to you then?”

You grin innocently. “A dog-faced bitch looked at me wrong so I had to teach her a lesson.”

He chuckles and the sound makes you feel warm. Then he gives you a sultry look. “You’re a feisty one, eh?”

You eye him up and down with indifference, your unimpressed gaze landing on his crotch area. “Probably more feisty than you can handle, big boy. So don’t get any ideas.”

His brothers muffle snickers behind him. He forces himself to scoff out a laugh, clearly taken aback by your brazen response.

You don’t give him the time to respond, tugging a few quid from your purse and slamming it down on the counter. You loop your arm through Y/b/f’s and smile up at the Shelby’s. 

“Let’s go Y/b/f.” Then you nod at them in acknowledgment and make your way to the exit. 

Toothpick boy calls after you. “The name’s John by the way love!” 

You don’t stop on his account, calling over your shoulder. “I didn’t ask, love!” 

His brother’s snickers and the eldest’s approving “I like her” is the last thing you hear before stepping back out to the cold Small Heath air. 

***

Hey guys!! My first Peaky Blinders Imagine and it’s sort of short, but I like it short and sweet! 

I hope you enjoyed, lovelies. 

Please, please leave feedback. Messages, asks, replies, I see them all!! 

Tell me if you wanna be tagged in any shape or form. Now that Peaky Blinders is a fandom I’m more than happy to write, you can ask to be tagged in that too. 

A Special Thanks To: 

@sherlockedtash88

@jessikared97

@lilypalmer1987

@mogaruke - My MAGNIFICENT forevers.

[carryonmylovelies]

#13, PITCH

Rating: T

Tags: Soccer/Football, Outsider POV, Simon Snow, Baz Pitch, My OC Michael Torres, Fluff, Humor

Word count: 4685

Summary: Michael Torres loves football. His favorite team is Watford F.C. and his favorite player is a clever, speedy center defender. He meets a weird, curly-haired Watford fan at a Sunday match and it gets super mental from there.

Read on AO3

AN: This is the first time I've written anything since a lot of stuff in my life happened and I am just so happy to be posting again!! :D I wrote this after going to my favorite soccer team's game and just focused on making it fun. Alsooooo hAPPY BIRTHDAY BAZ!!!!

I'm dedicating it to my BEST friend Theo @bazypitchandsimonsnow because she encouraged me and gave me so much confidence and affirmation about my writing and stuff in my life and I just love her so much and literally it's all on her for being such an inspiration. Love you <3

Michael Torres loved football. More specifically, he loved Watford F.C., the Premier League football team of Hertfordshire, England. He loved everything about them. They were the Hornets, the Golden Boys, standing 8th in the league but quickly gathering speed as they swallowed up wins left and right. They were a team full of young, enthusiastic men with a certain insatiable hunger for victory and they were only getting better. Michael had been watching them play for as long as he could remember; recognizing their striking black and yellow and red colors before he even recognized his own name. Match days were considered to be religious events. Season tickets were a necessity. He owned at least three different jerseys in their classic black and yellow stripes, two different jerseys in their away colors of forest green, and various jerseys with the numbers and last names of all his favorite players. He was obsessed, utterly in love with his home football team of Watford.

At four o’clock today Watford would be playing against Manchester City, the number 1 rated team in the League. It was going to be one hell of a match.

                                                        ***

“DROP BACK, ROLDAN. LOOK UP AND SEE CARSON, COME ON! HE’S OPEN, HE’S OPEN . . . NO! NO! YOU HAVE NUMBER 23 UP YOUR ARSE, LOOK LEFT AND SEE . . . WAIT! YES! BRILLIANT RECOVERY! NOW TAKE IT, TAKE IT, UP THE SIDELINES, YES YES! CROSS TO HENDERSON AND . . . NOOOOOO!” Michael yelled, sumping back into his blue stadium chair as he miserably watched Manchester’s star midfielder sweep in and steal the ball right from under Watford’s rookie right forward, Ben Roldan, dribbling for a moment before rearing back and sending the ball flying back towards Watford’s half of the field.

Michael sighed and took a sip from the soda he had bought before the match had started. All around him, a sea of people were waving yellow and black and red flags frantically, the Watford badge as well as the Manchester badge rippling in the late afternoon wind. People were shouting and cheering at the top of their lungs and the sun shone brightly on the field, stark white lines of paint marking the green grass and aligning perfectly with the two large goals on either end of the field. Popcorn was spilled all over the cement ground and fans were munching on pretzels and nachos. Kids were giggling with their faces sticky and pink from the large cones of candy floss they were shoving into their mouths. There had to be at least twenty-thousand people filling the slightly uncomfortable stadium seats, maybe more, and there was a thrumming, tangible sort of energy hanging in the air that everyone appeared to be feeling.

It was about thirty minutes into the first half and Manchester was up 2 to 1, but Watford wasn’t far behind. They had been pushing the ball into Manchester’s half and taking more shots on goal, and Watford’s fans could feel the determination and perseverance rolling off of their players in waves. It was a strong match so far and Watford had been mostly attacking--that made sense since they had such an unstoppable team of forwards, but unfortunately Manchester wasn’t one to stay on the defense for very long.

Manchester’s up-and-coming forward, Number 42, was now streaking down the middle of the field, weaving through Watford’s midfielders and almost getting close enough for a scoring shot when a flash of black and yellow sprinted towards the attacking forward and neatly pulled away the ball in one smooth motion. The crowd of Watford fans were up on their feet in an instant screaming and cheering with all their might--Michael being one of them--as Watford’s wicked center defender, Basil Pitch, took two long strides up the sidelines and then delivered a devastating kick to the ball. It sailed over the heads of Manchester’s forwards and midfielders and completed its arc right above Jordy Benson, Watford’s left forward. Benson jumped up and trapped the ball with his chest, letting it roll to his feet and settle for a quarter of second before tapping the ball in front of him and taking off towards Manchester’s goal.

The crowd absolutely exploded as Benson lined up for the shot and then slammed the ball in the direction of the goal, everyone cheering and shouting as loudly as they could. Manchester’s goalie had adopted a wide stance and was shuffling back and forth as the ball came barreling towards him, and then made a spectacular dive a second later. The ball hit the goalie’s stomach and the goalie instantly curled around it, falling to the ground having successfully blocked the shot. Watford’s fans all groaned in disappointment but commented to one another that it had been an excellent save, even though Benson’s shot didn’t make it in.

Michael sat back down as the Manchester goalie threw the ball to his closest teammate and the back and forth between Manchester defenders and Watford forwards resumed, the ball being quickly passed and bounced from player to player.

Michael wasn’t happy about the missed shot, sure, but mostly he was still reeling from how skillfully Pitch had recovered the ball, at how Pitch had basically handed the ball to Benson in order for the shot to be made. It was unreal.

Michael looked down proudly at the black and yellow jersey he was wearing, feeling confident in the name and number that was on his back in white, block letters. ‘PITCH’ was curved across Michael’s shoulder blades and a large ‘13’ sat directly underneath it. He had bought the jersey after the first game of the season, after Pitch had made so many saves and recoveries for his team that Michael didn’t even think the ball or any of the opposing team’s players got anywhere near Watford’s goal.

They were about halfway through the season and Pitch had been continuously defending the everloving fuck out of Watford’s goal, catching the attention of not only the public and die hard football fans, but the other teams and players in the league as well. He was a force to be bloody reckoned with.

A burst of noise from the crowd around him and movement on the field took Michael back to his feet as he watched Pitch sprinting up the field, his long legs pumping furiously as he darted in and out of Manchester’s forwards, the ball dancing between his black cleats and a Manchester midfielder practically on his arse. The midfielder shoved himself up against Pitch’s shoulder, driving him towards the sidelines, but Pitch resisted, somehow managing to keep his speed and position despite the extra force working against him. The midfielder tried again and again to throw Pitch off but nothing was making him budge.

Michael cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “STAY ON HIM, PITCH. DON’T LET UP ON THE WANKER!”

The fans around him were shouting out similar comments and Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the two of them.

The midfielder seemed to be getting frustrated, and once again he reared back and slammed himself into Pitch. Or tried to, at least. At the very last minute, Pitch slid the ball behind him and gracefully stepped backwards, the midfielder missing him completely and falling roughly to the ground at Pitch’s feet. The crowd roared in approval, Michael pumping his fist in the air when suddenly he heard the shrill tweet of a whistle being blown, and anger rushed through him. A side referee was holding up the small, red and yellow checkered flag towards the sky, indicating a free kick.

The crowd exploded into yells and jeers.

“OI, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT, REF? WHAT’S THE FUCKING CALL?”

“NO! NO! WHAT A BLOODY TERRIBLE CALL. PITCH DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH THE GIT HE JUST STEPPED BACK! THE GIT WAS PUSHING!”

“YOU ABSOLUTE DUMBARSE WHAT’S THE GODDAMN CALL? THAT WASN’T A BLOODY FOUL.”

A second later the announcer explained the call.

“Due to tripping and unnecessary roughness from number 13, a free kick will be awarded to Manchester.”

“BOOOOO,” Michael yelled, his face furrowed in frustration. “THAT WASN’T BLOODY FUCKING TRIPPING! ‘UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS’ MY ARSE, PITCH WASN’T EVEN--”

But Michael was cut off by a much louder, more aggressive shout.

“OI, REF, GET OFF YOUR BLOODY KNEES AND STOP BLOWING THE MATCH! THAT WASN’T A FOUL AND YOU FUCKING KNOW IT!”

Michael snorted and looked to his left at the seat next to him, noticing a bloke around his age yelling at the field, his face bright red. The bloke looked over and Michael nodded back in agreement.

“The ref IS blowing the bloody match! Pitch didn’t even touch the dumbfuck, let alone TRIP him!” Michael exclaimed, shaking his head as he glanced back at the field, watching Manchester set up for their free kick.

“Christ, I know!” The bloke responded, throwing up his hands and groaning. “I swear to shit, it’s like these refs are TRYING to make the worst possible calls they can. They’ve been at it all season. It’s fucking mental out there.”

Michael nodded again and both of them looked out at the field in disgust as the free kick landed the ball right in front of Manchester’s star midfielder.

About two minutes later, another shrill whistle blow sounded, this time signaling the end of the first half. The players all exited the field through their respective corners and Michael and the bloke sat down next to him. The bloke then turned to Michael and extended his hand.

“Hey mate, I’m Simon. Nice to meet you.”

Michael clasped Simon’s hand and shook it. “Same here. I’m Michael.”

Simon smiled warmly at him and then turned his head distractedly at the sound of a woman’s voice shouting about the snacks and drinks she was selling from the tray she carried, and he quickly hailed her over and bought a large bag of kettle corn, a pretzel, and a bottle of soda.

Michael looked at him as he began to eat. Simon had a mess of curls on top of his head, loads of freckles and moles dotted all over his face and neck, and plain blue eyes. He was shoving handfuls of popcorn into his mouth at a fantastic rate and seemed quite unbothered by the many kernels that had escaped his grasp and were now gathering in his lap. But what really drew Michael’s attention was the jacket Simon was wearing. It was a black zip-up athletic jacket, the words “The Watford Hornets” written on the back in yellow lettering, and the red and yellow Watford badge on the front in the corner. Michael had seen the jacket being worn before, but only by the players, and usually during the colder months when the players needed something to cover up with before matches. Michael wondered where Simon had got it from. Maybe the team shop had started selling them and he just didn’t know about it yet? He doubted it; Michael knew everything the shop sold since he owned most of it himself.

“Hey, uh, Simon, where’d you get that coat, mate? Team shop?”

Simon looked down at the jacket and smiled, his cheeks turning slightly red as his eyes glittered.

“It’s my boyfriend’s. He gave it to me to wear for the match today,” Simon said fondly, rubbing his thumb over the sleeve.

“Oh nice,” Michael responded, noting that Simon still hadn’t answered his question as to where the jacket came from and was about to ask him again when Simon abruptly got up. He was clutching his phone with a huge grin on his face and then practically sprinted down the cement aisle, his hand flying over the metal railing. Michael watched as he stumbled over the last four steps and simply jumped straight to the ground. He then melted into the crowd of people who were getting up to go to the bathroom and to get food before the second half started.

Huh.

Michael didn’t really know what someone could possibly do for less than fifteen minutes during the halftime of a football match that would be exciting enough to literally fall down the stairs for but hey, more power to the bloke.

Michael already had his drink and he wasn’t really hungry so he was content to just sitting in his seat and watching other fans mill about. The goal posts were casting long shadows down the field as the sun began to slip from the sky, and the huge lights along the edges of the stadium clicked on, flooding the stands and the field with brightness as everything outside darkened.

When there were only about four minutes left until the second half, the players made their way back onto the field, stretching and getting set up in their positions, only now they were on the opposite side of the field they had started the match on. Michael briefly scanned Watford’s half and noticed that the center defender spot was strangely empty. A second later, Pitch could be seen jogging out from the sidelines and into position, his shoulder-length inky black hair flying around loosely for a moment before he seemed to realize it wasn’t tied in his usual low ponytail. Weird, Michael thought, as Pitch quickly tied his hair back up and began to stretch.

And even weirder still, Simon collapsed into the stadium seat next to Michael’s a minute later, completely out of breath, his face and neck a startling shade of scarlet. Michael couldn’t really tell if Simon’s curls had gotten neater or more messed up since the last time he had seen them, but they definitely looked different.

“Alright, mate?” Michael asked, raising his eyebrows at Simon’s completely disheveled state.

Simon looked at him in surprise, almost as if he had forgotten Michael was there at all. “Oh, er, yeah I’m fine. Just wanted to make sure I was back in time for the start of the match, is all.”

“Ah, well, not to worry. You made it with two minutes to spare.”

Simon nodded at him happily and then sank lower in his seat, rubbing his hands on his face as he exhaled loudly, his breaths quickly turning into low laughs. What a weird bloke.

Michael leaned forward to grab his drink from the cup holder in front of him when Simon gasped excitedly, smiling at him when he sat back up.

“Your jersey! Are you a Pitch fan?”

Michael looked at Simon as if he had just asked Michael if he liked breathing air. Was he a Pitch fan. The more appropriate question would be to ask who wasn’t a Pitch fan.

“Of course I am. He’s only the most brilliant defender of all the F.C.’s in England and the U.K.!”

Simon looked pleasantly amused. “Oh yeah?”

“Uh, yeah! He’s in the best season of his entire career and has one of the strongest defense records in League history! He plays every match like it’s his last and he never backs down from an opponent. He’s agile, ruthless, and shit, he’s fucking fast. What, are you a Pitch fan?”

Simon looked at him and promptly burst out laughing but Michael didn’t see what was so funny. When he calmed down, his huge grin had shrunk to a small smile in the corner of his mouth. Sort of  . . . smirk-ish.

“Me, a Pitch fan? You could say that. He’s alright, I guess. Seems like a bit of a prick to me.”

Simon then turned his head to stare at the field with a soft expression on his face.

Michael spluttered, “A . . . a prick? Isn’t a bit rude of you to call him a prick? I mean, you don’t even know him.”

Simon laughed again. “I dunno; I think it’s the hair. Awfully pretentious, all black and silky and shit. And don’t even talk to me about that bloody ponytail he always puts it in. Makes him look like a git if you ask me.”

Michael didn’t know quite how to respond to that.

“And would you look at that face? Like he’s ten seconds away from biting you or cursing you out in front of your mum? That’s the face of a prick right there.”

Michael looked at Simon, dumbfounded, but Simon just kept on smiling and gazing out at the field as if his comments were completely meaningless. Coming out of his mouth the insults sounded mostly truthful, but that whole effect was kind of shattered when Simon looked like he was about to rest his hand against his cheek and sigh dreamily to himself. Michael thought that Simon was possibly a bit bonkers. Nice, of course, but still bonkers.

Just then a whistle was blown and Michael looked at the field in time to see Roldan start the kick-off. The ball was directly passed to Benson who in turn sent it spiraling towards Watford’s right midfielder, Terrance Kelly. Kelly quickly leaped up and slammed his forehead against the ball, sending it flying all the way back to Watford’s defensive line. Pitch quickly stepped up and settled the ball instantly with one of his thighs, peeled around a straggling Manchester forward, and then sped away up the sideline until he had a clear shot to one of his teammates.

For the next twenty minutes, Michael and Simon and all of the other Watford fans watched eagerly as forwards Roldan and Benson made multiple shots on Manchester’s goal, the crowd screaming their bloody heads off once one of the shots finally made it into the goal.

Everyone cheered and yelled as Pitch made another few spectacular recoveries and blocks, slick as an oil spill, and even though the bloke obviously seemed to have mixed feelings about the brilliant defender, Simon was always, always, the one cheering the loudest.

As the end of the second half drew nearer, another weird thing happened. One of the bigger blokes of Manchester’s forwards was charging through the defensive line on the way to Watford’s goal, Pitch sprinted towards him, prepared to smoothly slide the ball away from the forward and get it back to up his attacking teammates. However, when Pitch was in the process of stealing the ball, the forward shifted into a lower position and dug his shoulder into Pitch’s chest, shoving him back and causing him to fall to the ground at an odd angle.

Simon was the first one to jump to his feet, worry and concern etched into his twisted expression. His fists were clenched and his eyes were locked onto the spot where Pitch was lying on the green field. After another moment, Pitch visibly sat up and grabbed the hand of a nearby teammate, quickly standing and then brushing the grass off of his black shorts and football socks. Then, once everyone had shifted back into position, Pitch gave a brief thumbs up towards Michael’s side of the crowd, and Simon exhaled and sat back down.

Seriously, Michael just did not get Simon. At all. But at least Pitch was alright. Michael had to admit, it could have been a pretty nasty fall. Watford was incredibly lucky that their best defender wasn’t actually injured.

***

The match was two minutes from ending, Manchester and Watford tied 2 to 2, and Benson had made another shot on goal and missed, the ball hitting the crossbar and bouncing back into the chaos of defenders and forwards. The crowd was losing their goddamn minds as the ball flew from player to player, people screaming to clear it out of the penalty box, to make the shot, to block the ball, to pass it out of bounds. Everyone seemed to think that the command they shouted at the field was the one that should be followed.

But no one expected the ball to go rogue.

No one expected the ball to be kicked out of the cluster of players scrambling to make a play. And certainly no one expected a clever, speedy defender to take two steps, leap into the air, and slam his head into the spinning, spiraling ball.

Everyone watched in complete shock and surprise, Michael in utter joy, as the ball made its fantastic arc over the defenders of Manchester and the forwards of Watford, and then brushed over the Manchester’s goalie’s outstretched hands, the goalie’s fingers just a centimeter away. And then the ball punched deep into the net of the goal as the stadium erupted into total pandemonium.

Michael’s throat felt raw from screaming and his face felt as if it was about to split in two as he smiled.

It was insane. It was incredible. It was bloody fucking mental.

Basil Pitch, number 13, center defender, scored a winning goal in the last thirty seconds of the match against the number 1 rated team in the Premier League, with his fucking head.

It was a sight for the gods.

Michael felt as if history was being written right in front of his eyes. And he had been right there to see it.

Michael turned to Simon, a feeling of euphoria in his veins, to see Simon looking as if he was about to cry. Of course, his smile was so big Michael was afraid it was going to consume his whole face, but his blue eyes were wet, and his cheeks were crimson.

Michael watched Simon’s lips move, unable to hear what he was saying due to the deafening volume of the Watford fans around them, and then Simon threw himself out into the cement aisle, clutching onto the railing as he half-fell half-sprinted down the stairs, his curls bouncing wildly.

“Alright, bye!” Michael called after Simon, waving as though his best mate was leaving. He was just so happy . . .

Simon whipped right back around, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Oh, uh, wait! Wait! I, uh, I know we don’t know each other very well yet, but, uh, you’re really nice! And cool! And, uh, I have to go like, right now otherwise I’m going to die but, uh, I want to properly say goodbye! And you can meet my boyfriend! You would like him! Meet me down on the first level of the stadium, by the elevators! See you! ” Simon yelled, speaking so quickly Michael could barely understand him. And when Michael finally processed what Simon had said so he could politely decline, Simon was long gone. Fuck.

Michael sat back down in his slightly uncomfortable stadium chair and exhaled loudly, laughing shakily as he held his head in his hands. This had to be the best, weirdest, most fucking mental Watford F.C. match he had ever attended in his entire life. It felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. And now, after this huge, godly win, he was supposed to go meet some random stranger’s boyfriend? Fucking hell.

Then again, Michael figured he might as well go because how could things get any better or weirder than they already were? Plus, Michael could ask Simon’s boyfriend where he got that Watford athletic jacket! He really did want one of those jackets . . .

Michael resolutely decided to stay behind an extra twenty minutes. He waited until the crowds had mostly dispersed from the stands since there was always a flood of people trying to leave the stadium after matches ended. Michael got a refill on his soda, drank it, and browsed the team shop. The jacket definitely wasn’t in there. Now he was really curious as to where the jacket came from. He glanced at his phone and figured he had given Simon about twenty minutes.

Michael took the elevator down to the first level of the stadium and stepped out, looking around for Simon and his boyfriend. There was a coffee shop a few feet away and another couple places to get snacks, but no sign of the weird, curly haired bloke and his boyfriend.

Michael was about to get back into the elevator and go home, figuring Simon had just forgotten in his excitement, but then he heard a low sound coming from around the corner near the elevators, and stepped around to see what was there.

Oh fuck no.

Michael could tell it was Simon because Simon’s back was turned to him, and Michael recognized the jacket and the hair. But Simon wasn’t alone. There was one pale arm wrapped around Simon’s waist and one around his neck. Michael could see that two long legs were between Simon’s, and the sounds Michael had heard were . . . moans.

Michael cringed and averted his eyes to the ground, not wanting to disturb or invade their private moment more than he already had. He started to walk back around the corner, but something caught his eye. A pair of sleek, black cleats, attached to the legs between Simon’s.Cleats. Michael couldn’t help himself, he looked up farther and saw black football socks, shin guards, and a pair of black shorts. Michael looked to the side and spied a flash of black and yellow. The jacket, the comments, the weird looks on Simon's face during the match; they all made sense now to him now.

Simon’s boyfriend was a Watford football player.

Michael gasped loudly and then instantly cursed himself as Simon and his boyfriend quickly turned around, embarrassed at being caught and--

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Oh motherfucking bloody hell.

Simon gave Michael a small smile, blush high on his cheeks.

“Oh, hey! Hey, Michael. Glad you could, uh, make it. This is my boyfrien--”

“Basil Pitch,” Michael choked out, his face flushed.

Simon’s boyfriend wasn’t just a Watford football player he was . . . he was Basil Pitch. Number 13. Pitch. The brilliant center defender of Watford F.C.

So . . . yeah. Basil Pitch was in front of him. Still in his uniform. His hair falling out of his ponytail and framing his face. His arm tightly wrapped around Simon’s waist.

The air was out of Michael’s lungs. Oh look, his stomach was on the floor. Just normal, regular things.

Pitch laughed coolly.

Michael stared, his eyes most likely obnoxiously wide, as Basil Pitch stepped up to him and offered Michael his hand.

“Well, you obviously already know me. But I haven’t had the pleasure. Your name is Michael?”

“Yes,” Michael squeaked as he put his shaking hand into Pitch’s and shook it. His hand was smooth and a little cold. It was definitely the best thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life.

Pitch smirked. “Nice to meet you, Michael. Thank you for keeping an eye on this bloody prat while I was busy scoring goals.”

Simon rounded on Pitch and pretended to be angry, kissing his cheek viciously as he growled. “Oh shut the fuck up, Baz, you pretentious arsehole. Michael was being cool and you don’t have to be a git every time I make a new friend.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

Michael then cleared his throat because he was a little terrified of the wicked way Pitch was looking at Simon and also of the way that Simon was moving his hands up Pitch’s chest . . . yeah he definitely needed to leave.

“So, uh I’m, uh, just gonna go . . .”

“Oh, sorry, Michael!” Simon exclaimed, quickly taking his hands off of Pitch and opting to hold his hand instead. “Uh, sometimes we forget--” he elbowed Pitch in the side and Pitch snapped his teeth at Simon “--where we are and we get a little carried away. So we’re gonna have to cut this a little short. But do you wanna come to our flat for dinner sometime? We can make it up to you!”

Michael blanched, “Oh, that’s okay, I--”

“Here!” Simon dug into his pocket, grabbed his phone, tapped it a few times, and then thrust it at Michael. “Put your number in.”

Michael took the phone and then gave it back a minute later. He did not remember actually typing in his number but he must have because Simon smiled at him, Pitch smirked, and they both waved goodbye, their arms around each other as they walked away.

And then Michael fainted.

(Just an fyi, Watford F.C. is an actual team in the Premier League and I could not pass up the opportunity of making Baz play for a team called Watford, I mean come on. So he's not playing for the school, he's playing for the Premier League team. All of the other players mentioned are either names I made up or names I pulled from other soccer players but then changed either the first or the last name)