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johnnys-coors · 3 years

Note

Could you do one we’re tommy has a crush on the reader and so Johnny helps tommy by giving the reader 10 leaders (1 a day) and he like saying in the letter like how much they like the reader and some stuff abt them so facts etc. so when the last lettter came he tells the reader to meet him at the beach and soooo he standing there and stuff soooo then tommy asks the read out to like a diner and they end up going to a diner just of them and then they end up dating

Letters Made of Hand

Castles Made of Sand -Jimi Hendrix

Characters: Tommy, Johnny, and Y/N

Contains: fluff, kissing, and feelings

Y/N speeds up her walking, she is going to be late to Geometry. Passing by a row of lockers, she narrows her eyes to see '047D'. She rushes to her gray locker, hurriedly calculating her combination. “Ah, shit!” The lock has stopped moving, it's jammed. A few passerby's stares are felt on Y/N's back. The frustrated teenager’s cheeks grow red from the sudden attention. She glances at the clock right above a classroom next to her. Y/N has two minutes.

A raspy voice asks, "Do you need help?" Y/N whips her head to the right in surprise. Fluffy platinum hair reflects the fluorescent school lights hanging from above. The corners of his light blue eyes crinkle in a laugh, as Johnny finds Y/N’s distress hilarious. “Oh, shut up.” Y/N scoffs, frustrated with combination of her lock and the clock quickly running her out of time.

“Say less.” Johnny ushers Y/N out of the way and pulls down on the stuck lock. The shiny metal unlatches with a snap. The boy grins, proud of his accomplishment. “Wow, you’re better than any janitor!” Y/N faux swoons, receiving a snort from her friend. She faces the locker and swings open its thin metal door. A white piece of paper floats down onto the beige tiling. Muttering a ‘What the..’, Y/N leans down to grab the note. Johnny notices this occurrence, becoming intrigued. “Is it a secret admirer?”

Opening the folded material, the letter is a page long. Y/N wouldn’t have enough time to read it now. She folds up the paper while grabbing her math supplies. Shoving two Anatomy books into her unorganized shelf, she slams her locker shut. “I gotta get to class, I’ll let you know what it’s about,” Johnny goes to protest, stating she has plenty of time. “See ya!” Y/N shouts over her shoulder, running to her Geometry class, leaving the tall boy behind.

As soon as Y/N is inside the math class’ doorway, the bell rings. Sighing in relief, Y/N made it! The teacher looks over in disapproval, always expecting her students to be early and ready to learn. Ignoring the glare, Y/N bounces over to her seat, getting a few laughs from her classmates. Elated, and also flattered from a potential love interest, she giggles. Dutch, an aggressive blonde, elbows his desk neighbor. His bushy eyebrows furrow as he tries to keep his voice down. “Don’t tell me Johnny gave you my stash.”

Jimmy grabs a hold of the broken lock at Y/N’s locker. “What’s this?” His tanned hands cradle the metal as he's kneeled on the ground. “Let’s just say I saved the day, Jim,” Johnny gloats, puffing out his chest. A familiar cocky smirk plays on the boy’s face while everyone rolls their eyes. Y/N lightly shoves the teenager, barely budging from his heroic stance. Bobby and Tommy smile playfully at their group of friends. “Let’s get some lunch.”

Cobra Kai saunters into the loud cafeteria. The typical cliques are in their usual spots. The Cheerleaders and Jocks in the center, the Goths in a corner near a large bulletin, the Nerds by the lunch line, and Cobra Kai next to the water fountains. Now don’t get the group wrong, they’re still studs even if they don’t mingle with the Jocks. Tommy just had to get one swing at the football team’s quarterback.

Johnny leads them to the lunch line, reaching forward to snatch a plastic tray for himself. Y/N grabs one along with a shiny spoon and fork. The smell of pizza meets Y/N’s nose. Her stomach grumbles, a hunger rippling through her. “Pizza or salad?” The lunch man grumbles, he'd rather be doing anything else than serving food to rude high schoolers. “Uh, pizza, please.” Y/N requests, waiting for the oven-hot rectangular flatbread to slide onto her tray. And it does, nearly staining the fabric of her white shirt.

Moving her tray to the end of the line, Y/N takes a cup of mandarin oranges and sets it down on her tray. She starts to walk to her seat while her friends pass by her on both sides. The white and gray tiles stick to her shoes as God knows what's been on the floor. Placing down her food, she opens her water bottle she snagged from her locker. The Cobras talk among themselves, laughing about a prank they pulled. Y/N twists her left wrist to open the blue bottle cap. She leans back and begins to take a sip. Cool water hits her parched mouth.

"Y/N, why don't you show us what you found in your locker today?" Johnny questions, more demanding than suggestive. She nearly chokes on her water in excitement. Placing the plastic cap back on, she sets the bottle back down onto the red table. "Sure thing." Y/N reaches her index and middle fingers into her front jean pocket. Her eyes flick up to watch her friend's reactions.

Johnny's eyes glow in anticipation, seemingly more blue then before. Bobby nods her on, his long wispy hair framing his olive complexion. Jimmy leans on Dutch, who could care less, while a small smile is in the making. Tommy fixates on his food, sawing off his pizza with a metal knife. The utensil shines as it reflects the school’s overhead lights. He seems off, really off. Squinting, Y/N makes out a slight hue of pink on the loudmouth's cheeks. He's blushing?

"Are you gonna let us see?" Dutch quips, impatient as ever. Finally pulling out the folded paper, it crinkles as Y/N smoothes it out with her palm. Clearing her throat, she begins to read the letter aloud. "'Dear Y/N, I hope I don't come across as a stalker when I write this. Here goes nothing: You may be surprised when you figure out the person behind this handwriting, maybe even shocked. But let me just say that you are the only person that makes me feel like doing a roundhouse kick to the moon and back'," Tommy laughs, saying how bad ass the scenario sounds. This earns a shove from Bobby to quiet him down.

Y/N continues, "'Yes, I'm that thrilled about you. I guess your smile adds to the feeling. No, I think it's your laugh. I remember when we were at the same showing for a movie and hearing your giggle. What I would do to hear it again! Signing off, Hendrix.'" Silence carries through the group, letting the love letter sink into their minds. Bobby breaks the quietness. "What do they mean by 'Hendrix'?" His forehead creases in thought. "I think it's code." Jimmy pipes, the only Cobra with a decent GPA.

"Well, Jimi Hendrix was a rock artist." Tommy suggests, after being quiet for so long. "Right, but who listens to him anymore? I only have cassettes of Boston and Motley Crue." Johnny's hand comes up to comb through his floppy hair. His mouth full of pizza, Dutch grumbles, "MJ is all the rage now." He imitates Michael Jackson, singing an off key 'Billie Jean'. "Okay, I think we get it," Y/N laughs, as an idea pops into her head. "Does anyone have the last name 'Hendrix' in our school?"

In the library for study hall, Jimmy and Bobby help Y/N flip through yearbooks. A stack of them lay off to the right of the wooden table's edge, about to crash to ground. Her eyes scan the names of people, as her eyes become tired from staring. She closes the book's black cover from 1982, giving up. "I found him!" Jimmy exclaims, as Bobby and Y/N crane their necks to see. The librarian hushes the teenagers, adjusting her glasses that sat on her nose. The fuzzy black and white picture showed an attractive Matthew Hendrix. The glossy page reflected dark hair and a white smile.

"I know this kid! He's by my locker." Y/N pieces together, the puzzle falling into place. Bobby glances up at her yearbook in her hands. "Is he in our grade?" He asks. The teenager doesn't want a guy older than the Cobras, he'll just mess around with them. "No Hendrix is in our grade, he does football." At the mention of the ill-fated sport, Jimmy quickly inquires, "Wait, it's not the guy Tommy punched, right?" Y/N shook her head in confusion. Everyone was either too drunk or high to remember who was in the party's fight.

The next day's events were rather quite interesting. Y/N got another letter from this 'Hendrix'. She opened the note hurriedly. It would be embarrassing for her if any of her friends found out. This second paper gave more details about how much they liked Y/N, but they also gave a reference she picked up on. It mentioned going to a summer camp in '83. Y/N went with the Cobra Kais, but other guys tagged along too.

So far, none of her friends had waltzed up to her, pressing more about the topic. Dutch definitely wouldn't, he scoffs at the slightest mention of romance. It's a wonder that he even dated, let alone lost his virginity. Johnny and Tommy have been far too quiet about these occurrences. Jimmy and Bobby have been the only ones willing to help Y/N find more about this secret lover.

The note only fueled a desire for Y/N to ask Matthew if he was writing her letters. She waits, leaning on her locker, awaiting the moment the said boy would roll around. The beginning of the school hours always dragged slow, as if in mud. Y/N hopes this event would bring her some newfound excitement. The first bell rang, signaling to students they had five minutes till class. A breeze blew on her shoulders as a tall figure slowed down their pace. Matthew slung a dark bag over his right bicep, shoving it into his locker.

"Hey, Matthew, is it?" Y/N's voice inquires, raising in pitch with giddiness. The teenager’s brown hazel eyes sweep over her figure, deciding if he should pick up the conversation. With a light sigh, Matthew nods his head. “Yeah, whatcha want?” Y/N holds up the notes that were slipped into her locker from the past two days. “Have you been writing these to me?” She extends the papers for Matthew to take. A look of curiosity takes over the boy as he accepts the letters. His eyes move back and forth as he scanned the writings.

“I didn’t write these,” Y/N’s heart sank as this encounter did not go as planned. “But the handwriting looks familiar.” Matthew swears he saw this specific printing before, maybe written on his car in red spray paint? Reliving the memory, the red warning scribbled out a ‘NO MERCY’ on his beloved Dodge Turbo’s side. The faraway look in Matthew’s eyes causes Y/N to wave her hand in front of his line of vision. Coming back to his senses, Matthew shakes his head in disbelief.

“Here are your papers.” Matthew presses the letters back to Y/N. She's positive that she nibbled onto the bait of this fishhook. She goes to ask him more questions, but he slammed his locker abruptly. Grumbling something about getting payback, Matthew heads down the hallway, turning the corner. He deserts Y/N, who's left with more questions than answers.

For the next few days, each note gave more and more hints about the writer. So far, with the help of Jimmy and Bobby, she figured out that they like soccer and enjoy running on the beach. It’s not a grand discovery, but Jimmy assured her that every clue counted. Besides, the final note would be delivered today. Y/N is thrilled, she hopes the anonymous lover would reveal who they are.

The Cobra Kai boys have been drifting in and out the letter drama, scrapping up details here and there. She walks into the lunch line by herself, as she chooses a salad today. Y/N decides to walk alone, she's packed with a lot of tests and doesn't have time to wait for the others. “Heya, Y/N.” Johnny greets, changing out his cassette tape in his Walkman. Tommy’s bruised hand covers one of the cassettes nearest to him, its taped title unable to be seen.

“What’re you doing?” Y/N asks, as the boy seems to be moving the tape closer to himself. Caught in the act, Tommy stops moving the cassette. He lifts his head to meet his friend’s eyes. A nasty shiner around his right eye stands out against his smooth skin. The boy mentioned he fell down a flight of stairs at a party and tried to catch himself. Hence his purple knuckles.

“Oh, I was just helping Johnny change out his Walkman.” Tommy comes up with, flipping the cassette so it was standing upright, the tape side away from Y/N. Her narrowed eyes dart between Johnny, who fakes a shit eating smile, and Tommy, who doesn't dare move until Y/N lets go of the subject. She sits down, letting the topic dissipate on its own. Her brain's tired enough as is.

“Do you have the final note?” Bobby leans in, his long hair tickling Y/N’s cheek as he questions her. Y/N reaches into her trapper keeper, laying the letter between her and Bobby, reading silently. ‘Meet me at the beach after school, around eight. Bring your swimsuit!’ She almost jumped out of her seat at the butterflies overtaking her stomach. Bobby pats the back of Y/N, lightly laughing. “Well, there you have it. You’ll meet them after all!”

The purr of the Firebird rumbles Y/N’s passenger side seat. The smell of the seawater fills her nose with her window cracked open. Johnny’s bright headlights gives way that they're traveling down the dark road. The whistle of the wind and the thumping of REO Speedwagon hum her ears. It's surprising that she didn’t bribe Johnny to take her, he usually would grumble about it for a while. This time he acted almost glad to take Y/N.

Johnny pulls the car forward and parks it in the beach’s parking lot. She scans her surroundings ahead of her through the glass. The silhouette of a figure is down in the sand, facing the waves. “I think that’s my person. Thanks, Johnny.” Y/N unbuckles her seatbelt, ready to open the door and greet her writer. A tan arm swung out in front of her, holding a piece of paper. This stops her from continuing her motions. “What’s this?” Grabbing the note, she opens it.

The infamous handwriting is there but another one is visible. A more hurried, scratchy one. ‘You weren’t expecting another letter? Calm your tits, it’s just a note from your letter carrier: Make sure kick ass when you meet ‘Hendrix’. He’s really an amazing dude.’ Johnny laughs, slapping his large hands together in amusement. Y/N mouth drops, the charade coming to a close in front of her eyes.

“Wait, so you were the one dropping off the letters in my locker?” Y/N asked, her eyes shining in amusement. Johnny nods frantically, his hair reflecting the moonlight coming in on the dashboard. “Hey, it wasn’t hard to put superglue on the lock. It was pretty sick!” Laughing, she opens the car door, leaving the paper on her seat. “You jerk!” Y/N slams the door shut, leaving an emphasis on her words.

The grainy white sand slows her walking as she approaches the figure. “Hello?” She calls, anticipating rising. Everything has came to this moment, it better be worth it. Brunette hair gently moves in the breeze, as goosebumps rise on her arms. No answer is given. The person’s ears are covered by a certain black foam, connected with wire. Sighing, she nears even closer.

As if expecting the visitor, or listening intensely, an index finger presses pause on their Walkman. Turning their head, Y/N’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth in surprise. A set of brown eyes watch her reaction while they remove their Walkman, setting it down on their blue towel. A smile forms the longer the person watches Y/N. “It’s me.” The voice was bubbly and unapologetically loud.

“Tommy? Oh my god.” Y/N’s face pales as she sets herself down next to the writer. The male leans over to the left and makes a show of taking out his cassette tape. ‘Jimi Hendrix- Electric Ladyland’ is written on the brown Scotch tape. “I’m ‘Hendrix’, Y/N.” She blushes, her face turning a shade of pink. “I figured that out by now, doofus.” Tommy quietly laughs, turning towards her. Silence commences.

Y/N’s heartbeat bangs loudly against her ribcage as she leans in. She pauses, just short of kissing him. Y/N wants to make sure he is okay with going further. Fortunately, hesitation is not in Tommy’s vocabulary. Her eyes close once she feels his lips on her own. His warm hand cusps her face, gently stroking his thumb on her cheek. His abs contract as he rests his back on his towel, his left arm propping up his head.

She lays to left of him, her face creating contact with his. Her hair falls over to the side, moving slightly with the ocean wind. Tommy’s hand rests on the small of Y/N’s back, as the warmth of his body pulls her in further. Running her hands through his hair, she gently pulls. A small groan is released from Tommy throat, rumbling Y/N’s chest. An innocent gesture but not so innocent reaction.

Tommy smiles warmly when the kisses end, fireworks going off in his stomach. Y/N pulls herself up and sits facing the black waves, turning shy with the shared intimate moment. “Come on, let’s go for a swim.” Tommy proposes, rising to his feet and pulling off his gray sweatshirt. His toned stomach pales in moonlight, his crucifix necklace dangling down over his chest. His orange swim trunks are loosely draped over his prominent hip bones.

“Like what you see?” Tommy teases, flexing his biceps. “As if, loverboy.” Y/N retorts with faux annoyance. She grips the bottom hem of her black top as she reveals her swimsuit, shedding her pants. It’s now Tommy’s turn to gawk. He stands like a little kid, with his hands relaxed at his side, his jaw slack. Y/N takes this as an opportunity to rush into the waves, splashing Tommy with the lukewarm water.

“Hey! Come here!” Y/N giggles as he rushes over to lift her up off the ground. He spins her around once, laughing. Her eyes widen in thrill as he lifts her up even higher, getting ready to toss her into the water. Her legs kick in excitement as she grips onto his shoulders. “Ah, Tommy!” She giggles, not wanting him to let go of her. Her eyes lock with his own once again.

Her laughter fades as they gaze at each other. Tommy’s adam apple bobs when he swallows thickly. He’s nervous. She feels herself being let down by the taller. Y/N stands now confused by the change in mood. “Y/N,” Tommy calls, more declarative than interrogative. “Can you be mine?” The water around her ankles feel colder than before.

She nods, gradually getting faster with her confidence. “Yes, yes, yes,” Wrapping her hands around Tommy’s waist she pulls him in for a quick peck. “A thousand times yes.” She turns to exit the water and put her clothes back on. Her boyfriend follows, now noticing the Firebird that’s been there for over an hour. “Are you kidding me? Johnny’s here?” He whines, falling to his knees, his fists pounding the soft sand.

Y/N giggles, amused by his dramatic ways. “Hey, let’s get some fries downtown? Johnny can take us.” Tommy gets up off the ground, grabbing his towel and Walkman. “Fine, it’s a deal. Race you to the car!”

#fanfic #tommy karate kid #johnny lawrence #cobra kai

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thetomorrowshow · 4 years

Text

Slower Than Words Ch. 20

First - Previous - Next

Been a busy week! I’ll let you know if I need to slow down updates! So how about we visit Virgil, see what’s up with him?

cw: a n g s t, panic attack

Virgil couldn't move. Roman had helped him into bed, then sat in the room for a while, trying to talk to him. When Virgil didn't respond, he eventually left, stating that he would be back later.

His world was crashing down around him.

Could he believe that just yesterday, he'd smiled? He'd laughed? Now it was all background noise, mindless buzzing that felt totally inconsequential. There was only one thing that mattered now. Patton.

Therapy had been rough, and Virgil had expected it to be. What he hadn't expected was to go over every meaningful interaction he had with Patton. The doctor had said she was “doing some tests”, so Virgil struggled to keep himself together as he talked about the one person he missed most in the world.

Then, she'd had the audacity—she'd dared to—

Virgil took a deep breath, blood boiling as he remembered that it was she who encouraged these breathing exercises. What if he didn't want to calm down? He deserved to feel, remember, Patton needed him to—

Virgil's legs started quaking, but he paid it no mind. He could not be wrong, admitting he was wrong would be abandoning Patton, he couldn't do that, he wasn't dead, he wasn't gone, he'd always been there and always would.

His breathing quickened, coming in short, shallow breaths. His entire body was shaking, and Virgil nearly puked when he realized he could smell rubbing alcohol. He hadn't had a flashback all week, he'd been doing so well!

As if summoned, there were gentle fingers on his wrist. Calm, the fingers traced. It's okay. I'm here.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. “I—I knew it, you're here, you're here, I knew it—”

V breathe slow. Safe.

Virgil got his breathing under control after a dozen rounds of exercises. His legs were still quivering, but he knew where he was. He was in his room, in Roman's house, and he was going to be okay, and Patton—

Virgil choked.

His own hand gripped his wrist. His own hand was tracing soothing words.

“She was right,” Virgil whispered. His mind frantically grasped at straws, trying to explain what had just happened, as Virgil felt an overwhelming amount of despair.

“Virgil, you talk a lot about Patton. In every instance you told me about, however, you never hear him. You can't see him. Based on your time alone at the beginning of your imprisonment, it seems unlikely that they would suddenly decide to move you into a room with another person.”

Virgil's body had been completely out of energy, lax and unable to move, but now he was stiff as a board, locked in place. It couldn't be. It couldn't.

“We haven't been able to find out what that book was, based on your description of it.”

No. No no no no no.

“And I've seen you trace words onto yourself, in times when you need comfort. An interesting coping habit, one that might appear when a person is locked in a room with no outside stimulation.”

Virgil sobbed, full on weeping as his body couldn't move. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.

And that was exactly the problem, wasn't it?

“Virgil, I think Patton may have been a hallucination that your brain fabricated in order to keep you comfort during the year that you were alone. I may be wrong, but everything you've told me about Patton points to it. Virgil, can you be absolutely certain that Patton was real?”

He'd said yes, he'd said that there was no other option. He'd stormed out of the office five minutes later. He'd refused to talk to Roman in the car. He'd gone straight to his room and curled up on top of his blankets.

Patton had to be real, didn't he? He couldn't have made up a person so complex, so loving, so wonderful. And, more realistically, he couldn't have created something so solid it had washed his clothes on days he felt too ill. Unless he'd imagined it. Anything was possible if it came from his head, wasn't it?

One part of him was screaming, begging him to not abandon his best friend. The other part of him was mourning the loss of Patton. Virgil wasn't sure what to do, torn this way. He had to be real. He was real—but was he? Where was the evidence?

The world was crumbling. Virgil choked on his tears, crying for Patton, crying for himself, crying for the loss he'd just suffered. Patton wasn't real, Patton had to be real, Patton couldn't be real.

Roman knocked on the door, asking cautiously if Virgil wanted to come down for dinner. Virgil pretended to not hear him, feigned sleep when Roman opened the door to look in. He buried his eyes in his pillow as he heard the door quietly shut, then Roman's footsteps retreating. He was alone, isolated, and the one person he'd truly loved had probably never even existed.

What was Virgil supposed to do?

“Dude, what does it say?”

A long silence. Virgil groaned. Apparently he'd gotten an email as well as a letter, but Roman had insisted on reading it to him. Screen-readers were 'too impersonal' now. It wasn't like he was going to get his information any other way.

“Virgil, I . . . I'm sorry.”

Virgil's heart dropped. Roman sounded lost for words, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. There was no way whatever the letter said was good news.

“You . . . you got in!”

In a shot of adrenaline, Virgil smacked him. Probably on the arm.

“Ow! That was my face, you heathen!”

Oops.

“Roman! Don't—why—” Virgil could barely speak. He'd gotten in? He was certain he wouldn't get in the first time, let alone twice . He got in!

“It's my job, as your adopted older brother!” Roman said, the false hurt completely gone from his tone. “I have to bully you a bit! You should've seen the look on your face, it was priceless!”

Virgil frowned, his heart still racing. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it a bit. “I'm . . . older than you?”

“Doesn't matter! I am, by proxy, older!”

Virgil snorted. “That makes no sense, dude.”

“Doesn't have to!” Roman proclaimed. Virgil could practically see him doing some dramatic arm thing. “I'm the older brother, and therefore, I don't have to make sense!”

Virgil tilted his head back in an approximation of rolling his eyes. According to Roman, it looked pretty creepy when he actually rolled his eyes, and it stung a little. Still, he would probably roll his eyes once he was around people who weren't Roman's parents.

He was really going back.

He sniffed, his nose burning. It had been so, so long. Had the campus changed? Would he be in a different dorm? Would he and Roman still share, since they were in different grades now?

He knew everything about their accessibility and whatever, about how they would accommodate disabled people. The school had actually reached out to him, informing him that he could finish his degree no problem, they had four or five visually impaired students already and could easily make it possible for him to continue his education. Virgil had been in contact with various foundations in order to work things out with his university, and he'd gotten a few scholarships—not to mention, the handful of scholarships he'd already had had gladly reinstated themselves. In fact, Virgil had pretty much already known that he'd be going back. There'd been very little room to doubt, as his therapist had told him several times.

This was real, though. Right there, in Roman's hands, was proof. He was allowed back, and would see teachers and classmates he hadn't seen in over a year. He was starting spring semester, which was still a few months away—Roman, despite his protests, had also put off starting his junior year until spring semester.

“Virge? Are . . . you okay?”

Virgil sniffed again, wiping his cheek to find a few tears there. “Yeah, I'm fine,” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “I just . . . didn't think this would ever happen, y'know?”

Roman also laughed, albeit much more nervously. “With the way admissions was basically begging you to come back? Of course it happened!”

Neither of them acknowledged what Virgil really meant.

“So, packing?” Roman said, after several seconds of silence. “I know it's a while away, but is there anything specific you want to bring?”

With a pang, Virgil thought back to his hand-stitched hoodie. Hopefully it was bringing Patton as much comfort as it had always brought him. He'd had it for years, made it in Home Ec in high school. Until recently, he'd never been without it. It was bittersweet, in a way. Sure, it was gone, but it was with Patton. Like . . . like a piece of his heart would always be with Patton.

Virgil shook himself. That's stupid. And cheesy, he told himself. Grow up. Move on. He doesn't exist.

There was an ASL club on campus, one that Virgil planned on becoming a part of. Roman wanted to as well, making up something about having always wanted to learn sign, but Virgil knew it was just protectiveness. Virgil was pretty sure Roman had been about to rearrange his entire schedule so that they could have the same classes, despite the fact that Roman was a year ahead and in a different program of study. After a long evening of Virgil sitting in his room anxiously while Roman talked to his parents in the living room downstairs, Roman had come to the conclusion that it was best for him to continue with his intended major. Virgil was relieved—he was a grown adult, after all. He didn't really want someone trailing after him everywhere, insisting on helping him with every little thing.

Did he?

“Am I ready for this?” he wondered aloud. Roman gripped his shoulder tightly.

“I think so.” The words were soft, but no less powerful than Roman's usual loud tone. “You're so strong, Virgil. You're the strongest person I know.”

Virgil couldn't help but cringe. He knew someone much stronger. Whether that person was real or not was up for debate.

His most recent therapy sessions had involved a lot of tears, but Virgil had agreed to acknowledge that Patton might not exist. In turn, the doctor agreed to not make a formal assessment on Patton for the time being. It was still devastating, of course. It was still as if his entire world was falling apart. But Virgil was finding it easier to smile, more natural to joke with Roman.

He was healing.

Did he want to heal?

Yes, of course Virgil wanted to heal. He wanted to move on. He wanted to lead a normal life, without hurt and flashbacks and hallucinations.

But not without Patton.

There was a fork in the road approaching, Virgil was sure of it. He was going to have to choose between waiting for, hoping for Patton, and moving on. He wasn't sure what would happen when he reached that point.

But it scared him that he would have to make that decision alone.

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404 @broken-pencils @thewhimsicallibrarytech @doomllily @hereissananxiousmess @judyismydog @arodynamic-enby @at-that-one-nerd @therapysides

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cauliflowercounty · 4 years

Text

Meet Me in the Middle Pt. I (Fred Weasley x fem!Reader)

House: Ilvermorny, your choice

Blood Status: You Choose

Warning: A swear :)

A/N: You’re from the US in this fic!

I/H = Ilvermorny house

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“Settle down, students!” Professor McGonagall calls out to the group of 7th years in front of her. She glares over at the twins and Lee who are busy sticking their noses up and imitating her. Once they notice her intense glare, they quiet down, trying to stifle their laughter, still giddy from the start of school energy and being reunited after a long summer apart.

“This year,” McGonagall begins “we’re initiating a new program in partnership with Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the United States.”

A chorus of murmurs floods through the group.

“For those interested, we are starting a pen friends program. Because of the success of last year in fostering international relationships with the Triwizard tournament, we thought it would be beneficial for both the student body here at Hogwarts and Ilvermorny’s to participate in this new program,” McGonagall explains to the group. All of the seventh years start to whisper to each other excitedly. Many of them comment on how this hadn’t been a possibility before or how they wonder what the wizarding world is like across the pond.

“You’ll receive one pen friend and if you sign up, I expect you to represent Hogwarts well, and remember this is a commitment. Don’t send the person one letter and then never again or there will be consequences,” McGonagall warns everyone. Despite her severe words, people grin with excitement. Fred Weasley thinks about it to himself as all his classmates clamor with excitement. He’d like to have a pen friend from the U.S., but he’s busy wondering if he’ll have the money to send them letters. He and George hadn’t actually sold many of their products yet and he only had just enough money to send letters to his parents back home and the occasional Honeydukes sweet or Zonko’s product. “Postage to the US must cost a lot since owls can’t go that far,” Fred thinks to himself. Maybe giving up the occasional Hogsmeade indulgence would be worth it.

“Cedric would have loved this,” one Hufflepuff near Fred murmurs and everyone falls silent, knowing what the Hufflepuff just said is absolutely true. Everyone in this year definitely felt Cedric’s absence in their year, but in this moment, the air felt heavy with guilt. McGonagall nods in agreement and sets out a paper for sign ups, adding postage will be paid for by Hogwarts and Ilvermorny. Hogwarts students will also write the first letter. Fred smiles in relief. He won’t have to spend all his savings.

“Oi, Freddie,” George nudges him. “Are you going to sign up?”

Fred nods and rushes up to the paper that his classmates are crowding around. He takes out one of his quills and scratches his signature onto the parchment with a flourish. Returning to his best friends, Lee looks surprised.

“I didn’t take you for a pen friend sort of guy, mate,” lee comments.

“What can I say, I’m spontaneous,” Fred replies, sure of himself this was the right choice. Leaving the room with George and Lee, Fred heads to his dorm room to start writing his first letter.

When he arrives in his room, he gets out a piece of parchment and sets up a small workspace on his desk. Just as he sits down, he stops and starts fiddling with his quill. After a few seconds of hesitation, Fred decided to suck it up and start writing.

Hello,

I’m Fred Weasley. I apologise if this letter is a little awkward. It’s my first time ever writing to someone I don’t know at all. I’m in 7th year and I’m a Gryffindor, which values courage and bravery, if you don’t know.

I have a twin brother. His name is George. We’re like the school pranksters. We currently are developing a line of sweets that make you sick so you can get out of class and other products that people would want like little objects that go off to cause a diversion, We’re also thinking about fireworks, but our main specialty is sweets. It all shows promise.

Georgie and I have never been academics, we’re more pranksters at heart if I’m honest. We’re quite good at charms and enchantments, though. I’m rubbish at potions, though. I hate to be boring, but what’s your favorite subject? I can’t think of anything other than that to ask you, but maybe in a future letter, we can talk about more interesting topics other than school.

Hope to hear from you,

Fred Weasley

Satisfied with his work, Fred folds his letter up and seals it tightly with a wax seal. The next day, he turns it in to McGonagall, who informs him it will be sent within the week. Walking away from McGonagall, Fred starts wondering who his pen friend is.

As the following Tuesday rolls around, an unfamiliar owl swoops into the 7th year Gryffindor boys dorms. Attached to its leg is a neatly closed, pristine envelope with “Fred Weasley” written in unfamiliar handwriting. It hoots loudly at Fred, who scrambles off his bed, knocking a few prototype sweets onto the floor he was just working on with George.

“Oi! Watch it, Fred!” George protests, but Fed’s already at the window, trying to pry the letter off the owl’s leg. As Fred gets a better look at the letter, he finds the front has been stamped with a MACUSA red stamp reading “INTERNATIONAL” complete with an eagle beside it. Excited, Fred rips open the letter and sits down on his bed, ignoring George who’s trying to get his attention back on the products. Once he’s comfortable, Fred opens up the letter and starts to read.

Hello, Fred Weasley.

I’m y/n. There’s no reason to be sorry that your letter is a bit awkward. Letters like this are out of my comfort zone as well. If it makes you feel any better, your letter felt perfectly natural.

I’m a 6th year in I/H. It’s honestly the best house of all of them. Thunderbird is for adventurers, Pukwudgie is for healers, Wampus is for warriors, and Horned Serpent is for scholars. Fun Fact: Ilvermorny was actually founded by a descendant of Salazar Slytherin and a No-Maj!

You and your brother must be quite the dynamic duo. Starting a business is no easy feat, but it sounds amazingly interesting. I can’t believe you two were the first to think of sweets that make you sick to get out of class, but I’m glad you two got to the idea first. Please keep me posted on how your other products are coming along! They all sound amazing!

I also like charms and enchantments. My Charms teacher is really awesome. I honestly can’t decide what my favorite subject is. All of them have their ups and downs.

What’s it like at Hogwarts? I hear it’s a castle, but what’s the inside like?

- y/n y/l/n

George looks over at his brother and notices how widely he’s grinning. George notices the “international” stamp on the envelope and realizes what it is and now he’s no longer mad at Fred for knocking the prototypes on the floor as Fred scrambles to grab some parchment to write back.

A two and a half months later, you and Fred have exchanged many letters; you’ve exchanges so many you’ve both forgotten what round you’re on. A week ago, Fred sent along some of his products after you told him about the two Wampus bullies in your year, James and Martin, who enjoy tormenting you about your looks, smarts, and everything else under the sun. The package included a box of sparklers and then some sickness-inducing sweets. Alongside the box of charmed sweets, he also sent a box of real chocolates and a note.

The red box with the “W” has the charmed sweets in it! DO NOT EAT UNLESS YOU WANT TO BREAK OUT IN BOILS! The other box has some of my mom’s English toffee for you to try.

Giggling a little from his warning note, you wrote back and thanked him profusely for the gifts and promptly used the sickness sweets on both Wampus lugs, who ran off to the infirmary with large puss-filled growths protruding from their face in embarrassment. When your dorm mates asked who the real chocolates were from, you feel your heartbeat in your chest as a light blush flushes over your cheeks, thinking of Fred.

Getting out of Potions, you take a walk outside to study as an owl swoops down. You take the letter, recognizing Fred’s handwriting.

Y/n,

I’m glad the sweets worked. The two of them absolutely deserved it and now we know the boils can last for over 48 hours. That’s valuable information for Georgie and me.

Listen, I don’t want to overstep, but I was wondering if I could know what you look like? We’ve been mailing each other for such a long time and It’s been on my mind. I usually have a face I can put to a name. I’ve enclosed a picture of me in this letter and If you’re comfortable, I was wondering if you’d send one back? No pressure.

F.W.

P.S. The canary creams are a hit!

You look behind the letter and pull out the enclosed picture. You see a tall pale boy with flaming ginger hair. He’s smirking along with someone who looks exactly like him in the background messing with a familiar orange and purple Weasley box. In the picture, Fred has circled the twin in the foreground and labeled it “Fred” and the one in the background “my less handsome brother, George.” You let out a little chuckle. This is exactly what you expected from Fred.

A week and a half have passed since Fred sent the letter with the picture in it. With each passing day, Fred worries he’s driven you off with being too forward. He’s considering writing a letter to apologize and beg things can go back to the way it was. he misses writing to you and having to enchant the parchment so it looks scrambles so Umbridge doesn’t read his mail to you about the D.A. and then getting back mail you’ve charmed to look like doodles in a notebook. It was like your own code that you’d both have to undo to read.

He missed hearing about ilvermorny and your classes. He longed for the day he could hear about the plan you’d set up with Fred’s help for revenge on James and Martin where you’d charm fireworks to go off and chase them around the Ilvermorny grounds until they admitted they were assholes.

George and Lee assured him that he had nothing to worry about, that you probably got busy with school work and will write back soon. Lee also suggested your letter might have gotten lost in the mail, but that thought only made Fred worry. Maybe you had sent a message long ago and you weren’t getting a response because he hadn’t gotten one yet, and maybe he shouldn’t send a letter now because it might pop up once he sends his own letter and he’ll look like an idiot. he can only hope a letter from you is on its way now.

As Fred begins to descend into another pit of worry the next day, an owl comes to land at his side. Fred grabs the letter with fervor, nearly knocking the poor owl off its feet in excitement. The owl hoots angrily in protest at Fred’s sudden movement and flies away after pouting and ruffling its feathers. He rips the envelope open, almost damaging the letter itself. Taking out his wand, he rushes to a bathroom so no member of the inquisitorial squad or Umbridge herself can see him take the charm off the paper that currently has a drawing of a sloth on it.

Dear Freddie,

I’m sorry for not getting back to you in the last week or so. I had a midterm and I didn’t want to let you down by only sending you a scrap of paper saying I had a test. I hope it went well.

Thanks for sharing that picture with me. You and your brother are very cute together. I didn’t expect your hair to be so bright, but then again, I’m not around many people with red hair. I’ve also sent you a picture of me. It was taken during Care of Magical Creatures. The niffler unit was my favorite. They’re like magical platypuses!

I hope it’s what you expected? I don’t know what to say (haha).

Wow! The Canary Creams are working finally? That’s awesome! Did feathers get everywhere? Who was the poor test subject?

I’m glad everything is working out, Freddie.

- Y/n

Fred smiles down at the paper from within the stall. You’ve always been supportive of the business. You were almost as excited about it as he and George were. He looks down at the picture you’ve sent along with your letter and his heart skips a little bit.

You’re smiling at the camera with a niffler in your arms. As the picture moves, you laugh as the niffler squirms and tries to reach for the shiny watch on your wrist. As he observes the picture more, he sees there’s a warm twinkling in your eye. you look so happy. Returning to his dorm room, Fred opens his trunk and tucks the photograph into the corner of his trunk next to some logo designs and a family picture with a pair of horns and a monocle drawn on Percy. He smiles. That’s where that picture will stay.

Time has passed, yet you and Fred have kept in touch. Fred’s now living above the shop in Diagon Alley with George after their grand escape from Hogwarts, which you supported him through one hundred percent despite never ever meeting.

Throughout the months, you’ve both been mailing and you’ve helped him develop new products, acting as a remote filter and outside perspective for the twins, which you enjoyed the process of.

All the while Fred has supported you through your last year at Ilvermorny since you’re a year younger than he is. Even though he didn’t finish school doesn’t mean he can’t support and help you at all.

Through your letters, you’ve started calling him “your special Freddie,” making Fred’s heart swoop and swoon as he imagines what your voice sounds like saying it to him. Time goes on and he’s falling, but Fred doesn’t resist it. You’ve always been there for him and he knows he’ll be there for you through think and thin. As he realizes he’s in love, he starts to worry that you won’t return his feelings, but even if you don’t he still wants you in his life. You make him happy. It’s as simple as that.

After getting up one morning, Fred heads down to the shop to do inventory downstairs. He notices that it’s darker outside today, even more so today than usual. Both he and Georgie have noticed things have been darkening lately with Voldemort and his followers running around Britain, but today is especially dark.

Fred hears a knock at the door of the shop. The shop was closed today and most of the regulars knew that this wasn’t a time they’d be open. Cautiously, Fred draws his wand and approaches the door, careful to not step into view in case it wasn’t a welcomed guest. Fred peeks around the corner and notices it’s his father. Wand still drawn, he cautiously approaches the door.

“Which twin said ‘honestly woman, you call yourself our mother?’ at the station before my third year?” Fred asks through the glass at the man he thinks is his father, knowing his dad wants to abide by Ministry guidance about identification.

“Fred did,” Mr. Weasley answers but notices how Fred’s face sinks a bit at his response. “You did. Sorry, Fred.”

Fred cautiously lets him in, not putting his wand away,

“Fred, Dumbledore is dead,” Mr. Weasley explains. “Snape was the one who carried it out.”

“That tr-” Fred starts, but Mr. Weasley holds his hand up.

“I know, Fred. I just wanted to come by and tell you before you get it from the Prophet. I also wanted to tell you... We’re not safe anymore. The ministry has most likely been infiltrated or will be infiltrated in the next few days. Keep your guard up. With Dumbledore gone, this fight just got much more difficult,” Arthur explains, sighing deeply and rubbing his face. “I trust you’ll tell George?”

Fred nods as his dad says goodbye and gives him a “see you soon” before apparating away. Fred locks the door and puts down the shutters with his wand. He rushes up the stairs and scribbles on a piece of parchment his last letter to you before the war, explaining what’s happening, that the mail is probably going to be tracked and opened, that things are getting dangerous. He insists that you shouldn’t write back even if it’s tempting and that he’ll write to you once the war is over. Fred considers signing it “Love, Fred” because this might be the last time he ever writes to you, but doesn’t; he just writes:

See you on the other side of the war, y/n. Stay safe.

Yours truly, Fred Weasley

-----

Read Part 2 Here!

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins #Harry Potter

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

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LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 1, 2021

Heather Cox Richardson

August 1, 2021 (Sunday)

Last Sunday, educator and civil rights leader Dr. Robert Parris Moses died at 86.

Born in New York City in 1935, the son of a homemaker and a janitor, Moses was working on a PhD at Harvard when his parents’ health brought him back to New York City. There, he began to teach math in 1958.

In 1960, images of Black Americans in the South picketing for their rights “hit me powerfully, in the soul as well as the brain,” he later said. He moved to Mississippi and began to work with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC, pronounced “snick”). In 1961, he began to direct SNCC’s Mississippi Project to promote voter registration in Mississippi, where, although about 40% of the state’s population was Black, most Black Americans had been frozen out of the polls through poll taxes, subjective literacy tests, and violence. In his quest to get people registered to vote, Moses endured attacks from thugs wielding knives, white supremacists wielding guns, and law enforcement officers wielding power. He earned a reputation for being quiet and calm in times that were anything but.

By 1964, Moses was one of the key leaders in the effort to register Black voters in Mississippi. In April, working with Fannie Lou Hamer and Ella Baker, he helped to found the integrated Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party to challenge Mississippi’s all-white Democratic Party.

That summer, Moses led the Freedom Summer Project to bring together college students from northern schools to work together with Black people from Mississippi to educate and register Black voters. On June 21, just as the project was getting underway, Ku Klux Klan members working with local law enforcement officers murdered three organizers outside Philadelphia, Mississippi: James Chaney, from Mississippi, and Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner from New York. The white supremacists buried the bodies in an earthen dam that was under construction. When the men disappeared, Moses told the other organizers that no one would blame them for going home. His quiet leadership inspired most of them to stay.

On August 4, investigators found the bodies of the three missing men. The Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party met on August 6 and decided to challenge the Mississippi Democratic Party to represent the state at the Democratic National Convention. And yet, when the Democratic National Convention met, the Democratic National Committee leaders and President Lyndon B. Johnson chose to recognize the all-white Democratic Party rather than the integrated ticket of the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party.

At the end of 1964, Moses resigned from his leadership position in Mississippi, worried that his role had become "too strong, too central, so that people who did not need to, began to lean on me, to use me as a crutch." Key to Moses’s leadership was that he did not want to be out front; he wanted to empower others to take control of their own lives.

Civil rights historian Taylor Branch told reporter Julia Cass in a story Mother Jones published in 2002: “Moses pioneered an alternative style of leadership from the princely church leader that [the Reverend Martin Luther] King [Jr.] epitomized…. He was the thoughtful, self-effacing loner. He is really the father of grassroots organizing—not the Moses summoning his people on the mountaintop as King did, but, ironically, the anti-Moses, going door-to-door, listening to people, letting them lead.”

Moses was disillusioned when the Mississippi Democratic Freedom Party did not win the right to represent the state in the Democratic National Convention. For all the work that individual sharecroppers and hairdressers and housewives had done in Mississippi, national leaders had let them down. “You cannot trust the system,” he said in 1965. “I will have nothing to do with the political system any longer.”

Moses turned to protesting the Vietnam War. He and his wife, Janet, moved to Tanzania when he was drafted despite being five years over the cutoff age. After 8 years in Africa, the Moses family moved back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where Moses resumed his doctoral work in the philosophy of mathematics.

Back in America, Moses turned his philosophy of empowerment to the schools, advancing the idea that mathematical literacy is central to the ability of young people to participate in the twenty-first-century economy. In the 1980s, he launched The Algebra Project to give young Americans access to higher mathematics. “I believe that the absence of math literacy in urban and rural communities throughout this country is an issue as urgent as the lack of registered Black voters in Mississippi was in 1961,” he wrote. “In the 1960s, we opened up political access…. The most important social problem affecting people of color today is economic access, and this depends crucially on math and science literacy, because the American economy is now based on knowledge and technology, not labor.”

Moses’s focus on empowerment and self-determination was very much in keeping with the original concept of American democracy.

And yet, his efforts, along with those of the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party, to turn to national politicians to cement gains at the grass roots were not in vain. In 1965, Congress passed and Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, protecting the rights of Black Americans to vote, focusing on states with historical voter suppression.

Just fifteen years later, in 1980, Republican presidential candidate Ronald Reagan spoke at Philadelphia, Mississippi, where he defended state’s rights, and the unwinding of the civil rights advances of the post–World War II years began.

Now, in 2021, we seem to be headed back to the one-party society Moses fought. In response to record voter turnout in the 2020 election, 18 states have passed 30 new laws that make it harder to vote. At the same time, Republican-dominated legislatures are gathering into their own hands the power to override the voters.

In Louisiana on Friday, Republican House Speaker Clay Schexnayder removed three Democrats and one unaffiliated member from committee leadership positions in retaliation for their unwillingness to override the Democratic governor’s veto of a bill banning transgender girls from participating in school sports. They will be replaced by Republicans.

In Georgia, legislators have begun the process of transferring control of the elections in Fulton County, one of the most reliably Democratic counties in the nation, from county officials to Republican state officials.

Public schools are also under attack, with Republicans threatening to cut funding to schools that require masks to stop the spread of coronavirus or that teach “divisive concepts” that make students uncomfortable, usually topics that involve race.

Republican lawmakers have proposed attaching funding to students rather than to schools, enabling parents to use tax dollars to enroll their children in private schools. This sounds like a revival of the all-white “segregation academies” that sprang up in the South after the Supreme Court required desegregation of public schools. Those academies, funded with public money, were so successful that, according to Professor Noliwe Rooks, an Americanist who specializes in issues of race and education and who chairs the Africana Studies department at Brown University, in 1974, 3,500 academies in the South enrolled 750,000 white children. As white students left the public schools, funds available to educate the many Black and few white children left behind fell drastically.

Unequal educational options were hallmarks of the one-party state systems Moses worked to undermine. When he explained The Algebra Project, Moses called the historically limited educational opportunities for Black children in America “sharecropper schooling.” “[Y]ou went through it, but your options were you were going to chop and pick cotton or do domestic work….”

In 1965, Congress and the president finally recognized that all the organizing in the world couldn’t overcome the apparatus of a rigged system. They used the power of the federal government to turn the work of individuals like Bob Moses, scholar and visionary, organizer and teacher, into the law of the land.

But watching the turbulence in American life last year, Moses warned that the nation “can lurch backward as quickly as it can lurch forward.”

—-

Notes:

https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2002/05/moses-factor/

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/25/us/bob-moses-dead.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/17/us/george-floyd-protests.html

https://www.brennancenter.org/our-work/research-reports/voting-laws-roundup-july-2021

https://www.politico.com/news/2020/07/08/trump-schools-reopening-federal-funding-352311

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/28/opinion/cindy-hyde-smith-mike-espy-senate-mississippi.html

https://apnews.com/article/louisiana-8eaa96bcc646a118a70b95a06994c2d3

https://www.ajc.com/politics/capitol-recap-georgia-moves-closer-to-takeover-of-fulton-elections/O2ZVJZ3NKRD7HP5QHTSBIXUQ34/

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#political #biography #Civil Rights #history #Heather Cox Richardson #Letters From An American #corrupt GOP #criminal GOP

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hawkbucks · 4 years

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Through The Years (a.k.a the fic I’m surprised I finished) Wordcount: 11014 Relationships: Natasha & Tony, Natasha/Pepper, Tony/Bucky A/N: C*v*l W*r simply does not exist. Originally posted to my original blog. Inspired by an anon who I hope can see this again someday.

Barely beta’d and beta’d barely. Please let me know of any typos. Summary: Tony brings home Natasha one day, proclaiming her to be his new sister.

Natasha takes this all in stride.

Tony is 8 and Natasha is 12 when Tony brings Natasha home for the first time.

“Mamma!” he brightly exclaims as soon as Maria opens the door, holding up one of his hands that is intertwined with one of Natasha’s. “This is Natasha! She helped me while I was walkin’ home from school today.” Before Maria can say anything, Tony is already rushing past her, dragging his newfound friend into the living room with him. He leads her to the rather lavish, cream-colored couch that’s bigger than necessary and tells her to sit down, letting go of her hand.

“Some’a the kids at school were followin’ me and sayin’ bad things to me,” Tony starts to explain as he takes off his patent leather shoes, remembering what his mother said about tracking dirt into the house. “But Natasha made ‘em go away. Then she said she’d keep walkin’ with me so that I’d get home all safe. She was really awesome!”

Natasha’s pale cheeks flush, almost as if she’s embarrassed about the praise Tony is singing about her. She quietly takes off her own battered and beaten shoes, a neon blue bandaid sitting right above her left ankle. With her wild red hair and skinny arms, it’s hard to think of her as someone who would be able to shoo away a group of rowdy 8-year-olds.

Tony finally joins her on the couch, sighing as he sinks into the cushions. “Mamma, I think Natasha should be my sister,” he says with a decisive nod. “I like her. She can have the room nex’ to mine and everything!”

Maria’s head still feels like it’s spinning from Tony’s explanation of what happened, so she settles for a smile as she walks over after locking the door. “It is good that Natasha helped you, ‘Tonio.” She rests a caring hand on Tony’s cheek, and he leans into it with childish affection. “I have no doubt that she would make a good sister–” she glances at Natasha, whose flush seems to have gotten even deeper– “but she probably has a family of her own, bambino. You bringing her here… what if her parents are worried?” she gently scolds.

Tony’s eyebrows furrow as guilt spreads across his features. “Oh.” That’s all he says.

Before Maria can offer any soothing words, Natasha speaks up. It’s so soft that Maria has to strain her ears to hear her: “I don’t have any parents.” Both Maria and Tony turn to look at her, but she keeps her gaze on a spot on the carpet a few inches to the right of the coffee table in front of her. “No family. Well, I live with an aunt, but…” Natasha bites her bottom lip. “She’s not very nice.”

Maria’s heart clenches at how raw the girl looks like right now. Her eyes hold a deep sadness that she is far too young to be harboring.

Tony doesn’t even think before he wraps his arms around Natasha’s shoulders, a soft distressed noise leaving his throat. He continues to hug her until Natasha pushes him away, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

And yet, Maria notices, the smile does not reach her eyes.

(Howard snorts, gesturing vaguely with a crystal tumbler in his hand. “Another child? Anthony is already a handful, and you want to bring in another child?”

Maria’s jaw sets, eyes alight with a determined flame. “I am not asking that we adopt her, Howard–not yet. I am asking that we at least give her a place to stay.” She shakes her head, thinking back to the scene on the couch earlier. “I would not feel comfortable sending her back to her aunt. She almost cried, Howard. At the very least, she should be able to sleep without being scared!”

It isn’t until Howard looks at her, eyebrows raised, that Maria realizes how passionate she sounded. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Just know that she is your responsibility.”)

Tony is 10 and Natasha is 14 when the papers go through and Natasha goes from being a Romanoff to a Stark. It’s kept quiet from the press, thanks to Howard’s exorbitant amounts of money.

Maria hugs her, warm and motherly. Tony excitedly latches onto her side, talking her ear off about all the cool things they can do now that they’re brother and sister. Hell, even Howard begrudgingly says something about how she does seem like a nice girl.

All of that, of course, makes it harder for Natasha to tell them the truth: she’s a spy. And an assassin. Or at least she was. She blurts it out the second they step foot back into the house. It’s better they know now, she thinks, instead of years down the line. She would never do anything to hurt them–never–but they deserve to know. If it results in her being kicked out, well… the past 2 years have been the best of her life.

Maria, at first, is horrified. She immediately ushers Tony away while he’s still too shocked to protest (To protect him, Natasha realizes, from her. Just in case). Natasha braces herself, ready for Maria to yell and scream at her, but all she does is sigh heavily, eyes turning downcast. “You are so young,” she says, sounding pained, “and you do all that?”

Natasha inhales, eyes flickering between Maria and Howard. “I used to. The organization–the place I worked for, I ran away.” She waits for any interjection, any sign that she’s not welcome in the house anymore–not welcome around Tony–but none comes. So she continues. “I guess they never caught up. I lied by omission, I guess. Doesn’t make it any better, but I figured I should tell you guys now.” More silence. “And, just so you know, I wouldn’t have hurt any of you.”

Surprisingly, it’s Howard that speaks up next. “Why don’t you work for S.H.I.E.L.D?” he offers.

“Howard!” Maria gasps, scandalized. “She just got out of that life and you–and you want to put her back in it? And she’s so young–”

“S.H.I.E.L.D is a hell of a lot safer a bet than whatever hack job organization she was running with originally! They must not be that good if they can lose a child,” he shoots back. “Protection–we can protect her there. She can help this country, atone for her past!”

Maria’s face is openly appalled. “She is 14–”

“I’ll do it,” Natasha interjects, jaw set in determination when Maria and Howard–mom and dad, she corrects–look at her. “I’m proficient in over 7 different styles of martial arts, along with receiving specialized marksman training. My entire life, I grew up immersed in the arts of espionage.” She squares her shoulders, like she senses a challenge. “I can do it.”

(“You’re an assassin. Does that mean you’ve killed people, Nat?” Tony asks, innocently enough, as he scribbles down measurements and observations about a weapon he’s taken apart to study.

An ugly sound tears itself from Natasha’s throat, somewhere between a snarl and a growl. “Don’t ask that question, Tony.”

Tony flinches. “Sorry. Sorry, I won’t–sorry.” He bites his bottom lip, worrying the already fragile skin there.)

Tony is 14 and Natasha is 18 when Tony gets accepted to M.I.T.

Natasha insists on accompanying him under the alias of “Natalie Rushman.” They fudge her papers, place her in classes that’s she’s never going to have to attend, and put her up in an apartment off campus. Howard asks about what’s going to happen should they need her at S.H.I.E.L.D. She says they should be fine, but if it’s truly an emergency, then they can call.

She hangs out around Tony, saying that she’s his old tutor who was positively ecstatic when she found out that Tony would be attending the same college that she does and decided to take him under her wing the second he stepped on campus.

Tony resists at first, saying that it feels too much like she’s babysitting him. “I’m not 8 anymore, Nat,” he grumbles as he spins around in one of the spinny-chairs he has in his dorm. “You don’t need to protect me everywhere I go.”

Then a few days later, because the universe likes laughing at him, a bigger, older student tries to pick a fight with him. They taunt him, saying that he only got into M.I.T because of daddy’s name and daddy’s money. He can barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears; all of the shit he’s been through, all of his hard work, and there are still people out there who only see him as Howard’s brat, Howard’s son who relies on dad to do everything for him.

He turns around to shout something back, something even more inciting, but Natasha’s already there–and she has the bully on their knees, twisting their arm around their back. “That’s not very nice,” he hears Natasha whisper, venom dripping from every word. “I know you were trying to invoke him. Trying to get him to swing at you so you have an excuse. That’s pathetic.” She lets them go and they fall face-first onto the ground, a puff of dirt billowing up. Some students stop to watch. A couple have their phones out.

“Go,” she says coldly, stepping over their body. “Don’t let me see you around him again.”

Tony whistles as they get up and scurry away, not daring to look back. “I take back what I said,” he says, shoving both of his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I guess it’s good to have you around.”

She gets him into a headlock and ruffles his hair.

Tony is still 14 and Natasha is still 18 when she meets Rhodey, Tony’s roommate and future best-friend-for-life for the first time.

He’s nice, she determines when Rhodey greets her with a genuine smile and a firm handshake. “I’m glad there’s someone else looking out for Tony. It feels like a full-time job sometimes,” she says, placing a hand on Tony’s shoulder.

Tony shrugs her hand off, pouting petulantly. “I’m not that bad.”

Rhodey laughs again. “Tones, you wrote an angrily-worded letter to a teacher after you said they, and I quote, ‘explained thermonuclear dynamics like a drunk orangutan.’”

“Because they did!”

Tony is 15 and Natasha is 19 when they decide to tell Rhodey the truth.

“It’s only fair that you know, man.” Tony continues fiddling with his seat, making himself go up and down and up and down. “You’re gonna have to sign some NDAs and stuff, but yeah. Technically Natalie is my sister. And she’s the best spy in the business.” There’s a hint of pride in that last sentence.

Rhodey’s eyes narrow as he looks from Natasha to Tony and back to Natasha again. “This feels like an elaborate practical joke,” he mutters. He further scrutinizes them, but apparently finds no evidence to support his thoughts. “So, Tones, with all of this…” he looks at Natasha, “is Natalie even your real name?”

Natasha simply smiles.

Tony is 17 and Natasha is 21 when Tony graduates M.I.T with a degree in electrical engineering.

She takes a jet straight after finishing a mission in Germany. Sure, she’s a tad bit sleep-deprived and she has some bruises on her ribs, but like hell is she going to miss Tony’s graduation.

“Good job.” Natasha takes off his cap and ruffles his hair once again. “I’m proud of you.” Howard and Maria have already given Tony their congratulations; she can still see Maria’s lipstick stains on Tony’s cheek. No matter how much he scrubs, they wouldn’t come off.

Tony beams up at her with so much pride and admiration in his face that it feels like she’s the one that’s graduating. “I should thank you, you know. Um, you really… you really helped me.” When Rhodey wasn’t available, it was Natasha who helped him deal with the stress of his entirely-too-large workload. It was Natasha who listened to him list off his insecurities–his fear of never being good enough–and helped him work through them. It was Natasha who guided him with a firm, yet gentle hand. “I’m… I’m glad that you stayed with us.”

Natasha smiles. “I’m glad that I stayed.”

Tony hugs her (not seeing her wince) before running off to join his friends.

Tony is 20 and Natasha is 24 when their parents die.

Tony freezes when they’re told the news. She can almost hear the gears in his brain turning, trying desperately to comprehend what he’s just been told. Then, he runs to his room like a scolded child, slamming the door behind him and rattling the pictures hanging on the walls.

Natasha’s shoulders deflate. Maria and Howard might have not been her biological parents, but they were there. They took care of her–spoiled her, in her opinion. Any normal child living a normal life probably would’ve never worried about getting enough to eat or having enough clean clothes to wear, but Natasha is far from normal. All of the things they gave her were precious.

(Okay, maybe it was more Maria than Howard, but at least Howard gave her a place in S.H.I.E.L.D and never really complained.)

She gives herself 10 minutes before she goes after Tony. As she approaches, soft sobs slip out from underneath his door (which still has the T-O-N-Y stickers in red and gold they stuck up there on his 11th birthday), and it makes her heart squeeze. It seems… wrong for Tony to cry. He’s usually so full of life that it just… it’s wrong.

She gently knocks on the door thrice. Tony doesn’t respond, but she opens it anyway.

The room is pitch black, save for the moonlight filtering in through the window. Her eyes land on Tony’s trembling form, curled up on tightly on his bed that he looks more like a blob than an actual living person. “Not now, Nat,” he croaks, sniffling.

Natasha sighs, walking into his room and sitting down on the edge of his bed.

He shies away.

It hurts, but she tries not to let it show. “Tony, I’m not going to let you sit there and wallow–”

“Don’t pretend,” he cuts her off.

She swallows. “Don’t pretend?”

“Don’t pretend like you’re not affected!” he snaps, looking up at her with puffy, bloodshot eyes. “They were your parents too, Nat. My mom was your mom too.”

Natasha feels the wall she doesn’t even know she put up crack. She doesn’t–she didn’t–she can’t cry. That’s weak. (A small voice at the back of her head–Maria’s voice–tells her that it’s okay to cry. It’s natural. She shouldn’t hold it in.) But Tony’s words bounce and bounce and bounce around in her mind.

She watches as Tony rubs at his right eye with the heel of his palm.

“I’m not pretending,” she says, voice cracking at the end. She feels a tear slip out. “I’m not pretending.”

(The funeral service, to put it nicely, sucked. No one really knew who Natasha was, just that she seemed to be a friend of Tony’s. No one consoled her. No one told her that “Howard and Maria should be proud that they raised such a fine child.” Everyone focused on Tony. Everyone only knew Tony. She doesn’t resent him for that. She’s not jealous. But it would’ve been nice to hear someone–anyone–tell her that everything’ll be alright in the end.

She gives the paparazzi deadly glares as she escorts Tony away from the service, hiding his face with her black jacket. “Vultures, all of them,” she hisses.

Underneath the jacket, Tony chuckles.)

Tony is 21 and Natasha is 25 when Tony becomes the CEO of Stark Industries, taking over Obadiah, an old family friend that Natasha never particularly liked.

“I don’t know,” Tony says, scrubbing the side of his face with his hand. “I’m not sure if this’ll work.” He stares down at the prototype of a missile system he’s working on. Jericho, he calls it.

“The weapon or the demonstration?” she asks from her spot curled up on a couch he has sitting down in the SI lab, scrolling down some webpage that claims to have the juiciest gossip on the most relevant celebrities of today. It’s her guilty pleasure; sue her.

“Both,” Tony admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s always been charming, he’s always known how to play to a crowd, but this would be his first major sale since… since the accident. It’d be his first major sale as the CEO. He needs to prove himself. Needs to show everyone that he’s more than just Howard Stark’s son. He’ll be the one to bring about world peace.

He can’t see it, but he just knows that Natasha is rolling her eyes. “It’ll be fine, Antoshka. You’re a smart man.”

He preens. Just a little.

“Plus, Rhodey’ll be there, right? It’ll be impossible for you to make a fool of yourself then.”

He pouts. Just a little.

Tony is still 21 and Natasha is still 25 when they meet Virginia “call me Pepper” Potts, a potential candidate to be Tony’s personal assistant.

“You should hire her,” Natasha says breathlessly after Pepper leaves her interview. She watches as the other’s perfectly styled ponytail swings side to side. “Her previous experience is much more extensive than the other candidates, plus her references had nothing but good things to say about her. She seems like the kind of professional, put-together person that you desp–”

“You think she’s pretty~” Tony lilts, giving her a shit-eating grin. He barely manages to get out of range when she swipes at him and laughs. “Don’t worry, I was already planning on hiring her anyway. She does seem like–what were you going to say–’the kind of professional, put-together person that I desperately need’?”

Natasha scoffs, kicking at his shin.

“I smell an office romance!” he giggles.

She kicks at him some more.

(Natasha does end up asking her out, but makes it clear that Pepper doesn’t have to accept if she doesn’t want to.

Pepper accepts, thankfully, and their first date is spent at eating at a deli and feeding the ducks at Central Park.

As Pepper laughs, Natasha thinks she’s never seen anyone more beautiful.)

Tony is 22 and Natasha is 26 when the Jericho demonstration does not go fine.

Rhodey calls her in a panic, saying that they lost Tony in Afghanistan after being attacked.

Her blood runs cold, heart plummeting to her stomach. She’s already lost Maria and Howard. If she loses Tony too, then… she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Her tentative relationship with Pepper is put on hold as she commandeers one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s jets and makes her way to Afghanistan as quickly as she can. Pepper, of course, has questions. Many of them, in fact. Such as: what is S.H.I.E.L.D and why does she seem to have so much pull in there? What is she hoping to achieve in Afghanistan that the U.S. Army can’t? Who is Tony to her?

Natasha promises to answer all of her questions when she comes back.

“It’s my fault,” Rhodey mumbles in the humvee on their way to the base, wiping tiredly at his eyes. “I left him alone. If I was with him–”

“You would have gotten killed,” Natasha says sympathetically, placing a comforting hand on Rhodey’s knee, “and that wouldn’t help him at all.” His guilt rolls off of him in waves, and she can tell that it’s eating him alive. She knows how that feels like.

Rhodey shakes his head and sighs for what seems like the nth time today. “Let’s just hope we find him.”

“That’s all we can hope.” She tries not to think about what might be happening to Tony. If his kidnappers were ballsy enough–powerful enough–to get to him past an armed escort, then there’s no telling what they’re capable of doing to him.

Tony’s not a trained spy. He doesn’t have the pain tolerance built up through years of harsh training. And he’s–he’s so stubborn, so firm in his stances that Natasha thinks nothing short of death would get him to cooperate.

She tries not to think about them finding a limp, breathless body.

(“They keep telling me to give up,” Rhodey whispers to her when they’re alone, an edge of frustration to his voice. “They keep telling me that he’s dead. That it’s a waste of resources–a waste of my time. But he’s not dead. I can–I can feel it, you know?”

Natasha nods solemnly. “I know.”

For both of their sakes, she hopes that he’s right.)

Tony is still 22 and Natasha is still 26 when they find Tony wandering the desert, 3 months later.

It’s Rhodey that spots him first, doing a double-take when he sees a figure frantically waving their arms in the sand down below.

“Tony?! Oh my god, that’s Tony!” he yells so loudly that Natasha is sure that they didn’t need the headsets to hear him all the way in the cockpit. “Land! Land right now!” He looks like he’s seconds away from jumping out of the helicopter himself, the vein in his neck bulging.

They land quick, the helicopter’s blades roaring above their head. She doesn’t even have time to unbuckle her seatbelt before Rhodey’s already jumping out, running with a couple of other soldiers towards… towards Tony.

By the time she’s out, Rhodey and Tony are embracing like a father and his child, Tony’s arms around Rhodey’s neck. Rhodey holds Tony tightly, bringing him close like he’s afraid Tony’s gonna fly away if he lets go.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she hears him sob. It breaks her heart. “It’s my–it’s my–”

“No, Tones, no.” Rhodey pulls away from Tony, cupping the man’s face in his gloved hands. A bolt of shock jolts through Natasha’s body when she takes in how skinny his face is. “S’not your fault. None of this–none of what happened–is your fault.”

Tony closes his eyes and shakes his head, not believing a word of what Rhodey says. Natasha takes that time to kneel down next to the duo. “Hey, Tony,” she says softly.

Tony’s eyes fly open. “Nat?” His voice sounds downright pitiful as he stares at her with disbelieving wide eyes. “You’re… here, am I hallucinating?”

Rhodey manages to laugh, although it’s more to lighten the mood than to express amusement. “No. She’s really here. Stole a S.H.I.E.L.D jet and everything.”

“Commandeered a jet, Colonel Rhodes,” she amends.

Rhodey grins. “She stole it.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, looking at the both of them in a dazed confusion, mouth slightly agape. “So–so… this has nothing to do with how I haven’t had anything to drink for the last few days?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

A split second later, she finds herself with an armful of Tony. He’s shaking so badly that Natasha is afraid he’s gonna turn himself into the sand that surrounds them. Rhodey is stroking Tony’s neck, whispering comforting words as Tony continues to shiver.

Part of Natasha hopes that the people who did this to him are still alive.

She wants to kill them herself.

Tony is still 22 and Natasha is still 26 when Tony tells her about the arc reactor and the shrapnel. About Yinsen. About him being Iron Man.

“I shouldn’t be alive,” he says, sounding far too fragile than she’s comfortable with. If she takes a step closer, he looks he might break. “Unless it was for a reason. I’m not crazy, Nat. I just finally know what I have to do, and in my heart… I know it’s right.”

Natasha swallows. Her little brother–god, that’s weird–is out there, barely old enough to drink, risking his life on a daily basis to try and make up for the things he did before, all the weapons and the bloodshed and… and it reminds her of her.

She has yet to see if that’s a good thing.

(They also decide to tell Pepper and Harold “Happy” Hogan, Tony’s sort-of bodyguard, the truth about their relationship.

“Oh. So, I’m dating your sister,” Pepper says calmly, but Natasha knows that she’s exploding inside with even more questions. Happy looks at Pepper weirdly, like he can’t believe that peppy, sprightly Pepper is dating brooding, silent Natasha. Natasha can’t say she blames him.

“Okay. That’s… okay. I’ll be good to her, Tony.” Pepper smiles reassuringly, but Natasha can tell it’s more like she’s reassuring herself than her brother. It’s not everyday that you find out that your girlfriend also happens to be the adopted sister of your boss who could probably buy your entire life with a snap of his fingers.

Yeah. She can see how that might be strange.

“You better be!” Tony exclaims with no real heat behind it. He likes Pepper too much to actually threaten her.)

Tony is still 22 and Natasha is still 26 when they find out Obadiah Stane was behind Tony’s kidnapping and subsequent torture.

Natasha wasn’t there when Pepper pushed the button that fried Obadiah, but god she wishes that she was.

(Tony reveals who he is shortly after.

“Is he always like this?” Coulson exasperatedly asks Natasha. The reporters are busy yelling and screaming and shouting, nearly trampling each other in an attempt to get closer to Tony. Tony looks over at the two of them and actually smiles, that idiot.

Natasha smirks. “You have no idea.”)

Tony is 23 and Natasha is 27 when Tony starts dying from palladium poisoning.

He doesn’t tell anyone. Only J.A.R.V.I.S knows. Rhodey… Rhodey kind of knows. The only thing he’s aware of is that the palladium burns quick, it burns ugly, and it leaves a stupid-looking futuristic crossword puzzle crawling up his neck.

Tony goes on a bender. Starts drinking heavily even though he would barely touch a wine cooler when he was younger (thanks to Natasha). He shows up to board meetings sloshed and his signatures are barely legible.

(He locks himself in his lab and sobs, clawing at his chest and cursing the ironic powers that be for bestowing upon him an object that simultaneously saves and kills him.)

He makes Pepper C.E.O when she comes down to his lab to confront him about his recent behavior. Immediately, she asks if he’s okay. She places a cool palm on Tony’s forehead. “You’re scaring me, Tony,” she chokes out. They haven’t been working together for that long, but she sees Tony as the little brother she’s never had. “The way you’re acting… it’s like you’re dying.”

Tony scoffs, swatting away Pepper’s hand. “M’not, don’t worry. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.” Now would be a good test of the acting skills Natasha taught him when they were younger. “Just… I don’t think I can handle the stress of running SI and, you know, doing the other thing at the same time.”

Pepper nods stiffly. She doesn’t fully believe him, he can tell, but she also doesn’t want to push the matter further. She steps back, giving Tony space. “C.E.O?” she sniffs, the corner of her mouth curling up in partial amusement.

“Yes!” he enthusiastically shouts, sounding relieved. “Ms. C.E.O, I think we need to celebrate!” He waves a hand, and DUM-E comes rolling in, chirping happily while carrying a platter of sliced meats and cheeses. U follows close behind with a bucket filled to the brim with ice, a bottle of expensive champagne, and 2 crystal wine glasses.

(People start to speculate as to why Tony would step down as C.E.O of SI when they’re just starting to build their stocks up again. Pepper, poor Pepper, is just pretty enough that they start saying she’s Tony’s illicit lover who’s taking advantage of his loneliness to take over Stark Industries.

“As if!” Tony throws the paper into the trash, hands clapping together the second it lands. “I don’t see how people can believe this bullshit!”

Pepper snickers, daintily covering her laughter with a hand. “I know! You’re not even my type.”

Natasha strolls over, pressing a kiss to Pepper’s temple. “We all know you prefer redheads.” She sits herself down in Pepper’s lap, tucking her head under Pepper’s chin.

Tony groans, turning his entire body away from the affectionate couple. “My god, get a room!”)

He lets Rhodey take the Iron Man armor. He wasn’t even drunk; all he had in that flask was a bunch of apple juice, but acting drunk was cathartic in a way.

He hears the pain in Rhodey’s voice when Rhodey tells him that he doesn’t need to do this.

All he remembers after that is a bright flash, Rhodey taking off, and then darkness. He doesn’t know how long he lies in the rubble that used to be his living room, but he does know that he’d fucked up.

(“You’re dying,” Natasha hisses, slamming both of her hands down on his desk. Despite the sting in her words, her eyes are soft, if a bit calculating. “Does anyone else know?”

Tony doesn’t even flinch, eyes looking around the room–looking at anything but her. He expected this kind of reaction. “No,” he grits out. “Only me. And J.A.R.V.I.S. And now you. How did you know?” He swore J.A.R.V.I.S to secrecy and made sure to leave nothing lying about that could even suggest that he’s ill.

“We know the symptoms of palladium poisoning, Antoshka,” Natasha says, gently now.

Tony tilts his head. “We?”

At that moment, the door slides open. A rather severe-looking African-American man walks in, a patch over his left eye. “You’re not an easy man to get an audience with, Stark.”

Tony’s face flashes with betrayal, and Natasha would feel bad for being the one who put it there if she didn’t think that Tony needed this. “I told you, I don’t want to join your super-secret boy band,” he mumbles, sinking in his seat.

Fury grins.)

He synthesizes a new element, thanks to Howard (and somewhat thanks to the pain-in-the-ass Nick Fury).

It feels good. His blood no longer feels like acid and he can breathe, damn it.

He’s never felt better.

(“Natasha was the one who recommended you, you know,” Fury says, tapping his fingers on the metal desk melodically.

Tony thinks back to Natasha calling S.H.I.E.L.D a “circus run by monkeys–except that monkeys would probably do better!” and snorts.

Fury picks up a pen and twirls it slowly, never taking his eye off of Tony. “She sees something in you, Stark. I don’t know what it is, but she sees something.” He places the pen down with a click. “Don’t disappoint her.”)

Tony is 24 and Natasha is 28 when the Avengers are assembled.

Natasha can’t say that she’s fond of the way Steve talks to Tony like he’s not deserving of his title, but she tries to keep her cool. The last thing she needs is for them to bombard her with questions as to why she’s so defensive of Tony.

But, just to let the others know that Tony is under her protection, she lets them see the way she brushes his bangs from his eyes, the way she allows him to sprawl over her on the couch, and the way she generally lets him get away with things that she would flay other people alive for.

(“You think she likes Stark?” Steve grunts, leaning his hip against a table in some lab that S.H.I.E.L.D set them up in and crossing his arms. Things could get complicated if she does, and they really don’t need anything else to add to the volatile stew that is their team chemistry.

Bruce clicks his tongue and makes a show of stepping away from Steve. “Sorry, but I’m not about to get involved in that kind of speculation,” he says, although his tone doesn’t make him seem actually apologetic. He rubs his hands together. “But, um, speculation about that blue-glowy thingy? I’m all up for that.”)

Their confusion amuses her. Yes, she know all about the theories they have about her and Tony’s relationship. (She tries not to retch every time she hears one.) They need to tell the others soon.

But for now, she supposes she can have some fun in confusing them even more. When Pepper visits, she makes sure to up her usual affectionate gestures whenever they’re in eyesight of one of the Avengers. Back hugs, kisses on the cheek and temple, and whispers of sweet nothings in Pepper’s ear.

(“Perhaps they are all in a relationship together,” Thor offers, shrugging his shoulders. “It is not an uncommon practice on Asgard, as long as all parties consent. I have seen relationships that consist of more than 2 people.”

Steve stares at the table. Bruce continues to tap at some hologram. “Speculation,” Bruce sighs out.)

Tony is still 24 and Natasha is still 28 when Tony does something stupidly heroic–emphasis on stupid–and flies a nuke into a wormhole.

The right side of her head is matted with blood and sweat, and the left corner of her mouth stings like nothing else. Her head continues to pound as she throws the scepter to the ground. Everything fucking hurts.

But none of that pain compares to watching as Tony falls out of that wormhole, body limp.

(She’s just glad he was able to fall out before it closed, because if he got stuck up there, she’d have to live knowing that she’s the reason.)

Thor swings by, carrying her down to the ground, but her eyes stay glued on Tony. She knows she’s gripping onto Thor’s bicep a bit too hard, her nails digging into his skin, but he’s a god. He can take it.

Banner, thankfully, doesn’t seem inclined to let Tony turn into a red-and-gold splat on the pavement as he catches Tony’s falling body before it hits the ground. She rubs at her forehead, stress building up in the back of her head.

She, Thor, and Steve run over and kneel near his body. Thor rips off Tony’s mask, revealing his pale face, both of his eyes closed. Quietly, she gasps, sitting down on the backs of her legs, eyes raking up and down his body. She takes in the damage done to his suit and prays that Tony’s just unconscious instead of… instead of something else.

Steve leans over Tony’s chest, trying to hear a heartbeat or the sound of breathing or anything that would say Tony’s alive.

Tony doesn’t open his eyes.

Before Natasha–or Steve, if the way he’s staring intently at Tony’s mouth is anything to go by–can start on CPR, Banner roars and Tony is jolted awake with a gasp.

“Alright, hey!” Tony says weakly after being informed of their victory. “Good job guys. And Nat!” He does a pathetic attempt at a finger gun, barely able to lift his hand more than a few inches off the ground.

Natasha snorts. She’d hit him on the forehead if she wasn’t afraid of some underlying injury.

He struggles to swallow, smacking his lips before talking. “You ever try shawarma? There’s a shawarma joint about 2 blocks from here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Steve smile. Maybe they’ll get along after all.

Tony is still 24 and Natasha is still 28 when Tony is thought dead after an attack on his Malibu mansion–an attack that Natasha knew was going to come, but couldn’t do anything about.

“He could still be alive,” she says as a statement rather than a bid to placate, wrapping her arm around Pepper’s waist as they stare out of a window in some hotel room that Pepper booked. She’s seen Tony get up and dust himself off after a near-death incident one too many times for her to be comfortable with, but it gives her hope that he’s survived. It’s gonna take more than a few missiles and half of his mansion to take down Tony.

Pepper wipes at the corner of her eyes. “I’m going back to the mansion in the morning–or what–what was the mansion. I’ll see if… if there’s anything we can save.” Her sniffles die down, and she leans into Natasha’s hold.

(Then Pepper tells her about the message Tony left her. He’s alive.

That’s all Natasha needs to know.)

Tony is still 24 and Natasha is still 28 when Pepper is kidnapped, injected with Extremis, is subsequently removed of any trace of Extremis, and Tony gets the shrapnel removed.

Tony dusts off DUM-E and U and Butterfingers, cooing something about how they’re okay, how dad’s here. “I’m still Iron Man, you know!” Tony says to the both of them, twirling around in his seat before fitting a DUNCE cap on DUM-E.

“You’re a child, is what you are,” Pepper teases. She bites her bottom lip afterward to keep herself from bursting into another round of tears. It’s been an emotional sort of week.

Natasha kisses her cheek, returning her girlfriend’s grateful smile. “I agree with Pepper.” She tucks a stray lock of Pepper’s hair behind her ear.

“Unfair!” Tony protests, bursting their reality bubble. “She’s your girlfriend, of course you’re always gonna agree with her!”

Tony is 26 and Natasha is 30 when Natasha finds out the truth of how their parents died.

Steve gulps. “I don’t think we should tell Tony about this,” he whispers to Natasha, hand on her forearm. They’re so close to finding Bucky–so goddamn close–and this revelation certainly throws a wrench into their plans. “If he finds out, he would never–”

Natasha swallows down a ball of fury. “Tell him,” she says sharply, looking at him with as much fire as she can muster. He blinks, grip loosening. “You need to tell him. You think his reaction right now will be bad?–” she shakes her head, glare never leaving his face– “It will pale in comparison to his reaction if you keep hiding this from him and he has to find out himself.” She thinks back to her own painful confession she made back when she was younger, the kind of confession that can break families. She’s just grateful it didn’t break hers.

Steve purses his lips. “Why can’t you tell him then?” He holds out the flip phone and waggles it insistently.

She pushes it to the side, unwilling to let Steve run away from this. If she was able to make that confession when she was 14, he can do it now. “It’s not my best friend that did this. I’m not the one using Tony’s money to fund this chase. Tell him, Rogers.” She jabs at his chest with a finger, ignoring the way he winces. “Or I’ll make you.”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly on the last one. He flips open the phone with just enough force to not break it in half and dials a number. “Tony?” he says into the receiver, eyes flickering to Natasha, “We need to talk. In person.”

A satisfied smile works its way onto her face.

(The smile drops when Steve turns his back. She clutches at her chest, a burning in there she hasn’t felt since that cold December night.

It wasn’t actually James, she tells herself, he was brainwashed. It wasn’t actually him.

She breathes in shakily. It wasn’t him.)

Tony is still 26 and Natasha is still 30 when Tony finds out the truth of how their parents died.

His eyes turn into steel and his walls build themselves back up. “Fuck off, Rogers,” he snarls, words turning into knives trying to find a chink in Steve’s armor. He starts to walk off, but he’s stopped when Steve grabs his wrist. As much as he struggles, he’s no match for Steve’s enhanced strength. “Let go.” His eyes flash dangerously and the bracelet on his other wrist beeps, ready to call the Iron Man armor.

“Tony, he was brainwashed–used by HYDRA,” Steve desperately says, staring Tony in the eyes in hopes that those words would sway Tony’s feelings.

“He killed my mom–” Tony’s voice cracks on the last word.

Steve shakes Tony’s wrist, tugging him closer. “It wasn’t him. He was being used as a weapon. Tony, please,” he pleads.

Tony blinks wetly. “Does Natasha know?” he asks quietly.

Steve nods, confused. “She–she does. Why?”

Something blazes in Tony’s eyes. “She told you to tell me, didn’t she?” His tone is borderline accusatory. “Would you have told me if she didn’t ask you to?” he asks, searching Steve’s eyes. He wants his answer to be yes. He wants to know that his trust in Steve wasn’t misplaced, because honestly? This is… this is a fucking mess.

Steve stays silent.

He lets Tony’s wrist slip out of his hand as Tony walks away.

(“He told you,” Natasha bluntly says as she enters Tony’s lab, J.A.R.V.I.S turning down the Metallica blasting from the speakers.

Tony throws a screwdriver across the room, probably breaking something that costs more than what most people make in a month. “I wish he didn’t. Could’ve–could’ve just left me in blissful ignorance.” He angrily runs a hand through his hair, curling into himself.

Natasha walks over, picking up a screwdriver for herself. “You would’ve wanted to know, Tony. Don’t lie to yourself.” Like Tony, she throws it. Except this time, it embeds itself into the wall, startling Tony. “Steve was right. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you defend him?!” Tony explodes, standing up from his stool so quickly it knocks over.

“Because I’m not being a child, Tony!” Natasha snaps back, heart squeezing when Tony flinches and steps back, nearly tripping over the stool. “I told you–Steve’s been telling you–it wasn’t James. I know you’re angry. I was angry. But, Tony… you can’t blame him for this.”

He looks away, jaw clenching. “Just go.”

“Antoshka–”

“Go!”)

Tony is 27 and Natasha is 31 when Steve brings Bucky home.

She finds herself getting quite close to the ex-assassin. She helps him adjust to the modern era, whether that means accompanying him whenever he ventures outside or simply making a list of his basic needs. Sometimes they spar; it’s nice to be able to test her skills against someone on the same level.

(Tony is still awkward around the other man. Outside of regular arm maintenance sessions, the most Bucky gets from him is stilted smiles and jokes that fall flat. It’s enough to make even her cringe.)

“How… how can I get Tony to be more comfortable around me?” Bucky asks quietly, swirling a glass of orange juice as the both of them stand in the communal kitchen.

Natasha raises an eyebrow as she looks at him. Where in the world did that question come from? “You just have to give him time.”

However, that seems like the wrong answer as a gentle crease forms between his brows. “Give him time? After what I did to him, I don’t think all the time in the world could help.” He lets out a breathy laugh, sounding near hysterical at the thought of Tony disliking him.

She has to bite her tongue to prevent herself from saying that she warmed up to Bucky just fine even after what he did. “Why do you seem care so much?” she asks, genuinely curious. “You’ve never tried to talk to him before.”

Bucky shuffles on his feet, flushing just slightly. “He’s kind,” he starts, “an’ generous. From what I’ve seen, he’s… he’s a real hero.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, already sufficiently embarrassed. “He doesn’t deserve to be scared in his own house.” Vulnerability shines through his voice.

Natasha thinks there’s more to it than just that, but she leaves it be. “He’ll come around.”

Tony is still 27 and Natasha is still 31 when Tony starts coming around. (Natasha’s refuses to take credit for it.)

It starts as Tony actively trying to converse with Bucky more, seeming determined to talk to him for longer than 10 seconds. His smiles become less and less forced, and his jokes actually get a laugh now. Hell, sometimes he even brings Bucky coffee in the mornings (though it’s obvious that Tony himself hasn’t slept yet).

Routine arm maintenance used to take 10 minutes; Bucky could go down to the lab and come back up before the commercial breaks for Cake Boss are over, but now? It drags on for hours as they talk and talk and talk about anything and everything they can think of. Bucky always comes back up with a lovesick look on his face (and Clint and Sam razz him about it any chance they get).

Tony even starts to invite Bucky to the Lord of the Rings and Star Wars marathons he hosts for a local community center near weekly; in fact, he starts calling himself Bucky’s official teacher on the pop culture of the 21st century. It’s not unusual to walk in on Tony excitedly explaining the plot of Stargate Atlantis or giving a basic rundown on the accuracies and inaccuracies used in shows like Star Trek to Bucky.

And Bucky listens to all of it, a smitten smile on his face.

Their shoulders and elbows touch whenever they sit together on the couch. They trade whispers and shy smiles like they’re the only people in the room. Bucky looks at Tony like he hangs the sun, while Tony looks at Bucky like he’s the moon and stars all wrapped up in one person.

It’s so obvious to everyone but them.

(“Do you think Buck’ll ever make a move?” Steve whispers to Natasha, sounding like a tired older brother as he glances at Bucky and Tony get close to each other on the couch and start their oft-talked about Mythbusters session. “Hell, do you think either of them’ll make a move?”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth curls up. “I doubt it.” She knows the both of them. They’d rather do a little dance around each other until the day they die than confront the other about their feelings.

Steve’s eyes hood, unamused. “Yeah. I doubt it too.”)

Tony is still 27 and Natasha is still 31 when Bucky tells Natasha how he feels (as if she didn’t already know the second Bucky threw those heart-eyes in Tony’s direction).

“He’s gorgeous, Natasha,” Bucky groans during one of their yoga sessions. He blows a strand of hair out of his face, grumbling something about ponytails and their uselessness.

Natasha hums, lowering her pelvis down to the ground, switching to the cobra pose. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

Bucky follows her lead. Something in his back pops, and he hopes it’s a good kind of pop and not the you-messed-something-up-bad pop. “He has–he has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” Natasha glances at him, expression unreadable, and he stiffens. “I mean, uh…” He thinks back to what the other Avengers have whispered about Natasha and Tony and frowns. “…You don’t–”

“I don’t have a crush on Tony, no,” Natasha says, irritated. God, they really need to tell the others soon. She loves Tony, she really does, but not like that. Ew. “You’re good for him, though.”

Bucky nods, his hair bun wagging up and down. He didn’t even know that he was searching for Natasha’s approval, but he feels so much better now that he has it. “Thanks. I’m… I’m hoping that I can make him happy.”

(Then he clears his throat. “So, I guess you wouldn’t mind if I said that he had a nice butt?” he tries to joke, but Natasha can tell he’s being serious.

A significantly more taxing, intense regime pops up in her mind. Totally a coincidence, she swears.)

Tony is still 27 and Natasha is still 31 when they decide to tell the Avengers the truth.

Pepper is there for moral support, holding Natasha’s hand and whispering encouragements into her ear.

“Oh, man,” Clint mumbles, fiddling with an arrow he retrieved from his quiver. “So, those rumors… oh man, that’s bad.” He refuses to look either Tony or Natasha in the eye, instead settling for staring at his scuffed boots.

Tony snorts. “Yeah. It is. We’ve been meaning to tell you guys, it’s just that we keep forgetting. Y’know, ‘cause we’re idiots–” Natasha gives him the stink eye– “uh, actually, I’m the idiot. I’m the only idiot.”

“It makes sense,” Bruce says, twiddling his thumbs. “You two are too close to be just friends, but you two are obviously not like that. Yeah, I see it.”

Tony beams at Bruce. “I always knew you were the smart one, Brucie!”

Bucky, meanwhile, seems to be having a breakdown in the corner of the room. Steve is trying futilely to calm him down. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he cringes, face scrunching up.

“Said what?” Steve tilts his head to the side.

“I told… I told Natasha I thought Tony had a nice butt,” Bucky admits, head hanging low.

But he must’ve said that louder than he thought because everyone turns around to look at him. Bruce manages to look sympathetic, but Clint and Sam are wheezing and slapping their knees. Thor looks like he might die of embarrassment along with Bucky–a side-effect of being empathetic, Bucky supposes.

“You think I have a nice butt?” Tony blurts out, cheeks turning a rosy red.

Before Bucky can reply, Natasha stands up. He gulps and all but leaps out of his seat. “I’m gonna go–” he breathes out, sounding terrified– “I’m gonna go!” Steve can only watch as Bucky bolts out of the room, hair frazzled and his jacket slipping off of one of his shoulders.

Natasha cackles as she sits back down.

Tony is 29 and Natasha is 33 when some aliens land on earth demanding the Infinity Stones.

Despite Bucky and Natasha’s protests, Tony hops on one of their spaceships.

And doesn’t come back down.

Tony is still 29 and Natasha is still 33 when she witnesses everyone around her turning to ash.

She wonders how she’s going to tell Tony about Sam. About Bucky. She chokes on her grief.

Looking up at the sky, she hopes that Tony was spared–she hopes that he’s alive.

When Steve tries to talk to her, all that comes out is a sob.

Her tears hit the forest floor.

Tony is still 29 and Natasha is still 33 when he finally makes his way back down to Earth after near a goddamn month of being missing.

Rhodey and Pepper rush to his side. Thin, is the first thing that pops into her mind, far too thin. The next thing is how much good a heaping plateful of Maria’s risotto would do him. She shakes her head at that thought and jogs over to join the trio.

(”Nat,” Tony croaks, sagging into her side as she takes Steve’s place. “Nat.” He looks up at her through thin eyelashes, his cheeks sunken, with a sickly grey undertone to his skin. “You’re okay.”

“I am okay,” she whispers, frowning as she wraps one of her hands around Tony’s wrists. Definitely too thin.)

Tony is still 29 and Natasha is still 33 when all of them start to look for a way to reverse the snap.

Natasha watches as Tony slaves over some blueprint, hooked up to an IV drip. Trying to get him to eat, drink, or rest is near impossible short of shoving the food and water down his throat or sedating him. He squints at the holographic screen in front of him before yelling, frustrated, and swiping it all away.

She gets up and walks over to him as he curls up into a ball in his wheelchair. “Let Bruce take a crack at it.”

“It’s outside his area of expertise,” he mumbles, form shivering slightly.

“I know. But you at least get a break.”

(”Are you… really doing okay, Nat?” Tony asks around his mouthful of peanut butter sandwich. It was less of a struggle to get Tony to eat this time around, but Natasha suspects it largely might have been out of pity.

She pauses with her glass of water halfway to her mouth. “Am I fine?” she ponders. All those people. Gone. The family that she’s built up. Gone. She could’ve done more. Something. Anything to spare them all from the pain of losing a loved one–a spouse, child, sibling.

She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and recomposes herself. “Yes.”)

Tony is 32 and Natasha is 36 when they take a small stroll down to the convenience store that’s only being kept open due to its diligent owner and the fact that Tony drops a couple hundred bucks in there every time they go.

“Can I ask you something?” Tony picks up a Snickers bar and turns it over, checking under the flap for the expiration date. Even with half the world gone, they’re still pretty careful with stocking non-expired products, but Tony doesn’t particularly feel like gambling today.

Natasha hums, throwing every variety of Lays into her shopping basket.

“When are you gonna propose to Pep already?” He lets the question rush out before ducking behind the shelves. He’s learned to never underestimate the force at which Natasha can throw things, not even when it comes to cellophane bags that are more air than actual product.

“Tony!” she growls, going on her tiptoes to look over the aisles and find the tell-tale tousle of Tony’s hair. She finds him cowering next to the Sour Patch Kids and launches a well-aimed bag of barbecue flavored chips at his head.

“Just propose!” he whoops, laughing as the bag bounces off of his head and tumbles down onto the floor.

She joins in on his happiness, and in the back of her mind she realizes how much she misses this. How much she misses being normal. Or as normal as someone like her can get, anyway.

(”We should get married,” Natasha casually says as she and Pepper lounge on the couch, watching old, old videos on YouTube.

Startled, Pepper jolts upright, looking at Natasha with wide eyes and her mouth agape. “Are you– are you being serious?” She looks like she’s torn between kissing Natasha senseless or yelling at her because what kind of proposal is that.

“Not right now, of course, because I know you would want to invite everybody…” she trails off, the ‘everybody who was dusted’ lingering in the air. “But we should, at a point.”

“Do I at least get a ring?” Pepper ribs.

Natasha shows off a kiwi-flavored Ring Pop. “Brand new. In its wrapper, even.”)

Tony is 34 and Natasha is 38 when Tony bursts into her and Pepper’s room in the middle of the night, eyes wide and bright off of the high of a brand new discovery.

“You won’t believe this!” he exclaims as he excitedly jumps into their bed like he’s 10 again and trying to wake Natasha up on Christmas morning. “You won’t– I can barely believe it!”

Pepper grunts, displeased, while Natasha’s eyes flutter open. She’s known Tony long enough to know that he won’t stop babbling unless someone sits down and listens to him. “What?” Her voice is rough from sleep, and she can barely see past the blur in her eyes, but that doesn’t stop Tony from tugging her up into a sitting position.

“You remember Scott?” He’s breathless, giddy. “His entire time travel thing?”

She nods slowly. “Yes. You called it bullshit.”

“Except that it isn’t!” He points, index finger trembling, towards the wide open door, a pale blue light washing over the doorframe. “I think… I think I figured it out.”

Natasha scrambles out of bed so quickly that she nearly knocks Tony off and pulls on one of Pepper’s jackets that’s hanging over a chair. “Show me,” she says, voice stained with hope.

Tony smiles.

(”Antoshka,” she breathes out, fondness seeping through in every syllable of the endearment. “This is amazing.” Her eyes roam every inch of the blueprint, hungrily soaking up every single detail from the notes written in tiny font to the side of the screen to the giant, green text proclaiming the success rate to be 99.9%.

He engulfs her in a sudden hug, and, as soon as it happens, it’s over, his hands resting on the sides of her biceps. “We can bring them back!” His eyes shine, and she too begins to feel a prickling behind her eyes.

“We can bring them back,” she repeats, grinning proudly.)

Tony is still 34 and Natasha is still 38 when they get the time machine up and running, having spent countless hours engrossed in heavy lifting and wire connecting.

They have a plan. 3 teams. 6 stones. 1 chance.

“Come back safe.” Pepper presses a gentle kiss on Natasha’s cheek, tucking a lock of red-blond hair behind her ear. “Bring them back. We’re going to have a summer wedding.”

“I fully expect to be the best man!” Tony pipes up from where he’s talking with Steve and Rhodey, looking at the both of them with a hint of wistfulness in his eyes.

Pepper smiles at him, biting her bottom lip like she always does. “We wouldn’t have anyone else.”

Natasha draws her in for another kiss.

(”Vormir, right?” Clint twirls his sword.

Natasha nods. “That’s where we find the soul stone. Rhodey and Nebula will take care of the power stone.”

If Nebula’s jaw clenches at the mention of Vormir, of 2 of her teammates going there, not fully knowing the price that is to be paid, no one notices.)

Tony is still 34 and Natasha is still 38 when Natasha and Clint land on Vormir and are faced with an agonizing choice.

They argue for what feels like hours, trying to justify why it should be them and not the other, until they stand together, forehead to forehead in one last comforting gesture.

Then, Clint flips her onto her back, knocking the wind out of her. “Tell my family I love them,” he says, ready to start running towards the cliff.

Natasha turns the tables, bringing him down harder and faster. “Tell them yourself.” She sprints, braid whipping in the wind.

It’s a scuffle, a full-on brawl as they try to beat the other to the edge, to be the one who gives their life for the salvation of the universe. Clint gets close, so, so close. He can taste the ice in the air, the snow, the iron that’ll fill his mouth once his head makes contact with the ground. He jumps.

Natasha tackles him, slaps the other end of her grappling hook on Clint’s waist and comes to an abrupt stop as Clint holds onto her wrist in a death grip, keeping the both of them suspended in the air, braced against the cliffside. “Damn you,” he chokes out, pulse racing. He reaches out towards her with his free hand, but the stress on his hip is too much, too painful, he retracts it, holding back onto the wire of the grappling hook.

She looks behind her, at the ground below. “Let me go,” she says. There’s no fear in her eyes, and that scares Clint shitless. She looks reassuring, accepting, expecting.

“No.” He grimaces, the strain of keeping both himself and Natasha from plummeting starting to take its toll. He’ll hold onto her all day if he has to. Some of the others will come. They’ll find another way. There has to be another way. “Please, no.”

She nods softly, understandingly. “It’s okay.” He can barely hear her over the blood rushing in his ears, but her words just serve for him to tighten his grip more.

Before he can react, she kicks off of the cliffside, tearing her wrist from Clint’s grasp.

He’s forced to watch as she falls.

(The wind rushes around her, cold and biting. Her heart threatens to leap out of her chest. Clint becomes nothing more than a speck in her vision.

She spreads her arms, thoughts racing at a million miles per hour in her head. No goodbyes, no apologies. People like her don’t get happy endings. She was foolish for thinking that she might have been the exception.

She hopes that Pepper will forgive her. She hopes that Tony will forgive her. She hopes.

In her last second, she thinks only of her family.

And she smiles.)

Tony is still 34 and Natasha is– Natasha is… when they come back.

Tony’s the first one to notice. “Where’s Nat?” He tilts his head to the side in question. Could she be running late? A bit odd, but given how experimental this entire process is, it’s not entirely implausible.

But Clint looks at him with so sorrow and grief and apology in his eyes, his jaw wound shut so tightly that Tony’s almost afraid he might turn his teeth into dust. He thinks he knows what might have happened. He hopes to god that he’s wrong. “Clint?” he ventures again, “where’s Natasha?”

Clint looks away, his adam’s apple bobbing and throat clicking as he swallows.

That’s all Tony needs. His hands start to tremble and terrible, hiccuping sobs start to pour out of his throat as his eyes glue themselves onto the ground. His knees buckle, and he would’ve fallen onto the ground had it not been for Steve’s steadying hands.

After all they’ve been through.

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

(Pepper shoves her face into the crook of his neck, bawling her eyes out as she hugs him fiercely, like he might disappear too. Her snot and tears get all over the fabric, but instead of being disgusted, he rubs her back soothingly, his own tears rolling down his cheeks. He can’t help but to think that it should’ve been him instead.

As he holds Pepper in his arms, he wonders, briefly, if this was how Natasha felt whenever she’d comfort him after a bad dream or when Howard was a bit too harsh. “We’re gonna be okay,” he croons.

It doesn’t really hit him until he’s staring out over a lake with the other Avengers that Natasha is well and truly gone. She’s not gonna tease him anymore. She’s not gonna be the one to listen to his incessant ramblings when no one else will. She’s not gonna make him her signature borscht or spends hours with him eating pepperoni pizza and watching trashy reality TV.

He’s known her for all of his life.

When she died, a piece of him did too.)

Tony is still 34 and Natasha is dead and gone, and she’s never coming back when Thanos comes into the future with his dumb golden armor after Bruce snapped his fingers using the gauntlet Tony built in his basement–take a goddamn seat, Thanos.

Everyone comes back.

(Except Natasha.)

Everyone helps.

(Except Natasha.)

Everyone is relieved to see each other again.

(Except Natasha.)

He fights, just a touch too much on the side of recklessness, blasting and carving and flying his way through swaths of Outriders. He falls. He gets bent, dented, bruised, and scraped, but he finds his way. He even manages to give Bucky a relieved kiss when they cross paths.

Carol is close to the time-machine-van when Thanos issues his orders to blow everything up. He braces himself as he lands on his stomach.

The Gauntlet tumbles and tumbles and Thanos reaches for it, but he tackles him, effectively buying them some precious few seconds before being punched back out. He glances at the good, ol’ Doctor Strange out of the corner of his eye while Thor and Carol are busy doing what they do.

Strange holds up one scarred finger, and Tony knows exactly what he’s supposed to do.

He rushes at Thanos and fumbles with the Gauntlet. He’s pushed away, flat on his ass as Thanos smirks, relishing in his victory over the weak Terrans. “I am inevitable,” he taunts.

Snap.

Nothing.

Tony holds up his right hand, the Infinity Stones taking hold in his makeshift gauntlet as their power courses through his body. 1 chance. “And I–” he takes a rattling breath– “am Iron Man.”

He snaps his fingers.

Tony is still 34 and Natasha is waiting on the other side for him as he sits against the metal carcass of a ship.

Rhodey has tears free falling down his face as he places an armored hand over Tony’s left cheek, and Tony would laugh, tease his platypus about being so emotional over him if he wasn’t in so much fucking pain. His entire right side is burnt so badly it’s numb, and the nerves that haven’t fully died yet are giving off yeah, we’re hurt super goddamn badly signals.

He can’t even talk.

Bucky and Pepper rush over, and Jesus Christ, Bucky basically slides on his knees for the last couple of feet. “He’ll be fine,” Bucky says, although it’s more of a statement than a question. Figures that Tony would fall in love with the one person who’s more stubborn than he is.

Pepper shakes her head and reaches out to grab Bucky’s metal hand with her own. She doesn’t say anything, just reaches out to rub at Tony’s shoulder.

“He’ll be fine,” Bucky insists.

Tony starts to slip, slip, and slip, his breaths becoming more ragged and his chest becoming tighter. His vision starts to fade, and he feels… peaceful. Like all of this weight has been lifted off of his shoulders.

“He’s at rest,” Pepper whispers.

The last thing he registers is Bucky’s chapped lips pressing against his forehead.

Tony was 34 and Natasha was 38 when they saved the world.

Somewhere, they meet again.

#WHOAAA Y'ALL REMEMBER THIS.#I took Civil War and slammed that sh*t into a blender lol.#NOT IN MY HAPPY FIC >:(#I combined the original post and the Endgame add-on so it's a bit easier to read.#11K WORDS WHAT THE HELL POSSESSED ME ON THAT DAY.

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs “Teenagers.”

Hello everyone, sorry for vanishing for a few days, but now I am back and ready to write.

I would ask for any prompts or ideas you guys have for stories. Sometimes I go through times where I can't think of any ideas, and this is one of those times. Your help is appreciated

Somewhere between Mars and the asteroid belt

The Delta-5 passenger transport had fallen out of warp rather violently. Granted, with a delta class warp engine she could only make jumps inside the solar system, but at any range, coming out of a warp unexpectedly is violent.

The brightly painted yellow of the passenger ship was a streak in the darkness for a single moment before the emergency engines kicked in and pulled her to an abrupt halt. Inside, the ship was filled with startled screams and cries of pain, from the twenty person class of Martian students on a return trip from the asteroid belt.

Not all schools have the funding for their own spaceship, mind you, but as one of the most prestigious boarding schools on the solar system, there were some perks. However, violent whiplash wasn’t appearing to be one of those perks, and in the commotion, no one noticed as a lone student silently slipped back to their seat, handily concealing a shiny silver object in the pocket of her pants.

A distress signal followed the sudden loss of warp, and it was almost an hour that the students sat there before a call of awe came out from the back of the ship, and all the students piled together to see out the cramped side windows at the massive military warship bearing down on them from above. She was massive, almost the size of two football fields from end but reaching skyward. It’s rear engines glowed with blue power as it gently slid next to them despite it’s cumbersome bulk.

A single line of white lettering could just be seen at the spine of the ship reading

U.N.S.S Harbinger.

***

Krill and Sunny accompanied Commander Vir from the bridge, arriving in the docking bay just as the small, yellow passenger transport was pulled in from the airlock and gently dropped onto the deck. Once secured, the doors were opened.

As Krill and Sunny stood next to the commander, they couldn’t help but notice his uncharacteristic lack of good humor.. In the light of the docking bay his arms were crossed, his mouth had been pulled into a deep brown, and his single eye was narrowed with distrust at the little yellow ship.

The doors were opened, and the students came spilling out. Krill didn’t have much experience with this sort of human…. Teenagers. Physically, they had smoother faces, and the males and appeared skinnier with reduced muscle tone, but other than that, he wasn’t likely to be able to tell the difference.

“Look at them.” The Commander muttered under his breath, “Little Vultures.”

Krill and Sunny exchanged a confused look, and rill ventured a question, “I’m sorry Commander, but I…. don’t follow.”

The Commander’s expression remained dark, “Behold my inhuman friends, the worst kind of human, the bane of earth, the very incarnation of Evil itself. They have the magic ability to pinpoint whatever insecurities you have and used it in psychological warfare against you.”

Krill and Sunny turned to watch the humans. Some huddled together in small groups, others standing alone shoulders hunched looking down at the floor, and still others gazing around the docking bay in wonderous amazement

“Sure…. Commander…… Evil.” Sunny said watching two of the humans hug each other, in a clear attempt to find comfort, “I’m shaking.”

The commander glowered at her, and then turned on his heel to march towards the line of humans.

Sunny chirped an approximation of a laugh, “Wait, hold on commander, my knees are weak, I can’t keep up.”

He continued to ignore her as he marched up to the line of students. Of course, with the clanking of his mechanical leg, they noticed him coming long before he made it, and as they strolled up, Krill couldn't help but notice as a group of them broke out into a fit of giggling as they watched the commander approach, a fact that was not lost one the man, not that the students would have been able to tell.

However, Sunny and Krill knew him well enough to see the stiffening of his back , and the slight redness at the base of his neck, “Alright, the lot of you, quiet down.” His voice was loud enough, and commanding enough to get partial attention, but even as they looked at him, there was still ore snickering, giggling, and students checking their personal devices. A couple of them continued to whisper quietly in the back of the group. Of course quietly actually meant one grade below a normal voice.

Sunny was able to pick out the word “eyepatch.” from the conversation.

The Commander’s frown grew deeper, and he turned to Sunny.

She was happy to oblige the request, quickly clearing her throat, and then releasing a screeching battle cry that made the walls and floors rattle.

That got their attention.

“About time you all shut the hell up.” He growled. Sunny shifted uncomfortably not entirely sure what had gotten into the commander.

Krill watched the students, and quickly became aware that many of them only had one default setting, and that was the continuous rolling of their eyes, often accompanied with a deep sigh.

“Now, I find it very unfortunate that your ship broke down, mostly because now I have to babysit you, which I would rather not do. But here we are, and there are a few ground rules you need to follow.”

More eye rolling, which was not lost on the captain.

He turned his eye on one of the worst offenders, “Go on, roll your eyes again, see what happens.” The stare the commander gave him could have coagulated blood, and the student looked away as his classmates snickered, “That a bunch of disrespectful bullshit, and they don’t pay me to tolerate it. If you want to be a little shit while I explain life-saving rules to you, than I won’t feel bad when you wander somewhere you shouldn't and radiation causes all your skin to deglove. Yes, that is exactly what it sounds like….. am …. I ... clear?”

The group of them nodded rather slowly, and Krill noticed a couple of eyes twitch. A couple others looked back and forth between each other exchanging looks.

“I am Commander Vir, and this is the UNSS Harbinger, this is my weapons specialist Sunny, and my chief medical officer Krill. I am in charge of the ship, and while you are on board, you will follow my orders just like any member of my crew. I will not tolerate shenanigans, whining, complaining, arguing, and any other accompanying bullshit that you may be likely to bring aboard my ship.”

He turned his head in another wide circle making eye contact with each and every one of them.

As his eyes passed over a group of the students, Krill watched them burst into another fit of giggling turning to look at each other.

The single eye snapped around to glower at them, “Something Funny!” He demanded

The girl in question went bright red and then stammered out a, “N… no.”

More giggling erupted from somewhere in the back.

The commander didn’t look pleased. A rope that was already beginning to fray snapped, “Alright, that’s it, the brig, the lot of you.”

A gasp rose up from the students, and the teacher as she protested.

The commander turned, “If you cannot take the rules seriously than you go exactly where you belong. The brig. You may leave when we reach Mars.”

Sunny and Krill exchanged a glance as the commander stormed off.

“Changeling, brain injury, or mind control.” Sunny wondered

Krill shrugged, “Search me.

No one noticed a form slipping away quietly as the rest of the students were shepherds away.

***

Sunny and krill sat quietly in the darkness of the bridge watching their friend, as he leaned against the upper platform railing glowering out at the field of stars, and the small red dot that was Mars.

He had been like this all evening sullen and silent withdrawn into himself.

Sunny noticed the figure in the doorway before krill, and quietly stood not recognizing the figure.

“I thought I sent you all to the brig.” The commander said, his voice echoed eerily in the darkness. As far as either of them had seen, the commander hadn't turned to look, so there was no way he could have known who was at the door. The figure paused, and then deciding against running stepped into the room.

It was one of the teenagers.

She was somewhat muscular for her size with short dark hair colored half purple. She had a squarish jaw and long legs despite being well over half a foot shorter than the commander.

She did not appear bothered that she had been caught.

Wandering inwards, she paused next to the captain’s chair, and then in a shocking breach of decorum, she took a seat throwing her legs over one of the arms.

Krill was pretty sure “teenagers” had no sense of personal safety.

Commander Vir turned slowly to face her frowning eyes narrowed.

She locked eyes with him blowing a large pink bubble which popped loudly in the intervening silence.

“Get out of my chair.”

Another bubble, “Why.”

“Because if you don’t I'm going to rip off your arm and beat you with it.” To her credit, she withstood his gaze for longer than your average person might half before finally signing and sliding form the seat and onto the floor. The commander watched her go, as she crossed the ten feet to the navigators chair and made herself comfortable there.

It was the Commander’s turn for a deep sigh.

Krill and Sunny watched in fascination. Like watching a puppy chew on the tail of a wolf.

The commander glowered at her, and she glowered back.

He looked about to say something but was cut off as the student opened her mouth, “Why do you hate teenagers so much?”

That caught the commander off guard, and whatever he had been planning to say died on his lips.

“I mean I saw you once or twice on the TV, and you usually aren't this much of an asshole, so you must hate teenagers.”

silence .

“Where you bullied in school. Because I-”

He cut her off, “You think you’re edgy don’t you.” It was her turn to be cut off, “Let me guess edgy teenager with some sort of tragic backstory. Maybe mommy is dead, maybe daddy is mean perhaps they are both fine, but they don’t pay attention to you, and so you act out, pretend like you don’t care about anything try to look edgy so you can be different because no one understands you or something, right.”

“Don’t pretend-”

“Don’t pretend to know you, want to know something kid- I WAS you, and let me give you a little secret.” He leaned in, “You aren’t special, your problems aren't personal. You are exactly like every other kid in there who thinks no one understands them and their problems are special and that the world is unfair, well guess what your problems aren't special, of course the world is unfair, but it’s unfair to everyone. So quit the edgy bullshit because it doesn’t make you cool it makes you an asshole.”

She remained quiet. Krill and Sunny looked on in fascination. Some of the wind seemed to have been taken out of her sails, but she remained quiet, “My turn?” She asked

“Go ahead, I would like to hear it.”

“You aren’t special either, lots of people were bullied as kids difference is not all of us grow up to be successful. So you don’t even have anything to be mad about.”

He took a seat in the captain’s chair to look at her, “I’m under no illusion that I’m special. I am also under no illusion that I try to be different, just like you. Difference is, I can admit what I’m doing. I’m just like everyone else, a normal guy who got lucky and am now in a place to do something good for once. As for the difference between you and I, I NEVER ruined public property to get what I want. What did you do cut the power outlet to the fusion cables.”

She was quiet.

“It’s either tell me or face jail time, you’re call.”

She sighed and leaned her head back on the seat, “I just….. Wanted to see your ship, ok.” There was silence in the room, “Yeah, I get it was stupid, but my life isn’t likely to go anywhere, but i saw my chance and I took it to at least SEE my dream, and maybe get lucky enough to meet you, but low and behold, I get aboard the ship, and my hero turns out to be a masive Dick, so i guess we both lose.”

There was silence.

Turning to look at Sunny Krill found an expression of shock on her face eyes wide mouth slightly open. She hadn’t gotten up from her seat.

His voice had softened, and Krill watched as the look of anger melted from his face replaced with some mix of shame, “I….. what makes you think your life is going nowhere.”

She kicked her feet, “I’m not exactly good at the whole school thing.”

The commander shrugged, “So what, join the UNSC, and then you can see space all you want, that’s what I did.”

She shook her head, “No can do chief, I’m sick, they wouldn’t take me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Maybe they won’t let you join the marines, but a support position is fine. As far as medical equipment, we practically live in a flying hospital, so whatever you need could be done for you on a ship.” He got up from his chair and stopped to stand next to her staring out at the darkness. With a sigh, his shoulders slumped, “You’re right, I’m sorry. I had a bad time in school and I’m taking it out on you and the others…. It’s not very adult of me…. Or very professional for that matter.”

She waved a hand, “Its ok most of them belong in the brig anyway.”

He gave a dry chuckle, “Even so, I should probably go apologize.”

“Wow, not every day I meet an adult who can admit when they’re wrong.”

Commander Vir turned towards the door, “Yeah, if you’re going to join kid, you need to get rid of that hatred for authority complex. Most of us are just doing our jobs and occasionally…. We actually care.”

I wouldn’t go as far as the commander and say that teenagers are the incarnation of evil, but I would, perhaps, suggest that they are the incarnation of the devil’s advocate. They have questions queries and demands that are designed to challenge older humans. If the exchange is met correctly, both will learn something. The younger will gain knowledge from the older, and the older might just understand their own reasoning better than they had before, or even identify issues with their own logic.

If the exchange goes wrong there will only be anger and enmity between the two parties. Young humans need a lot of direction, but they also need the ability to choose their own path. It is an older human’s duty to impart the knowledge allowing the younger human to make the best decisions, without trying to control them.

However, Despite the philosophy, I think there is some argument that can be made for the devil incarnate….

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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rogueariadne · 3 years

Text

To Have A Villain’s Quirk

ELEVEN: SAFETY

Song: Young Folks - The Wind and The Wave

Reporters clamored around the entrance to UA, pushing almost every student that came in to answer questions. While a lot of the reporters were caught up with the other students, Kaida used that to her advantage, slipping through the crowd with her head down. She practically ran past everyone to get inside. She hated the press with a fiery passion. They did nothing but put words in people's mouths, and twist the truth. And she could see by the look on their teachers face, that Mr. Aizawa felt the same. He practically shooed the reporters away as he walked inside, Kaida in front of him as they walked. She was trying to make sure they didn't catch too many of her classmates. Finally up in the classroom, Kaida hummed to herself as she watched the students find their seats, with Aizawa soon entering the room. He was probably out talking to the principle.

"Decent work on yesterday's combat training, you guys. I saw the video feeds and went over each of your team's results. Bakugo. You're talented. So don't sulk like a child about your loss, okay?" She could hear the boy in question simply huff in response. "And Midoriya. I see the only way you won the match was by messing up your arm again. Work harder. And don't give me the excuse that you don't have control over your quirk. That line's already getting old. You can't keep breaking your body while training here. But your Quirk will be really useful if you can get a handle on it." Kaida was sure that that was the first time that he had actually really complimented the boy. "So, show a little urgency, huh?"

"And Hiyama." Kaida flinched as she hesitantly rose her eyes to those of her teachers, instantly regretting it. "Not only did you attack a student, you skipped out on combat training. Something that would really be useful for you. While I get that you were trying to protect Midoriya, it wasn't your place and was completely unnecessary. That being said, I want at least a four page essay explaining why you did what you did on my desk tomorrow, and a proper apology to Bakugo and All Might for disrupting class." She bowed her head, nodding quickly.

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Let's get down to business. Our first task will decide your future." Kaida held her breath. She was lucky she didn't get detention, but another task to determine if they're still worthy to be here? "You all need to pick a class representative." Oh, good. Just normal school stuff! Kirishima immediately started trying to get people to pick him, followed by Kaminari and the purple haired girl, Jiro. Aoyama also joined, Mina right after, even little grape boy. She was surprised that Bakugo wanted it as bad as he did.

"Silence, everyone, please!" Iida bellowed, shutting everyone down. "The class representative's duty is to lead others. That's not something just anyone can do. You must first have the trust of every student in the classroom. Therefore, the most logical way to fill this position is democratically. We will hold an election to choose our leader!"

"It's pretty obvious you want us to vote for you." Kaida simply rolled her eyes. Isn't it obvious who should be the representative though? Iida really knows what he's doing, she didn't understand why it should be up for debate. Of course, everyone's arguments were true in statement, saying that most people would vote for themselves.

"Most people will. But that means whoever does receive multiple votes must truly be the most suitable person for the job. It's the best way, right, sir?" He looked over to Aizawa, who was zipping himself up into his sleeping bag.

"Do what you want, just decide before my nap's over." Some teacher.

Soon the election results were in. And Midoriya and Yaoyorozu were at the top. Midoriya with three votes, and Yaoyorozu with two. There was a lot of surprise coming from the green haired boy and the angry blond. Sure, Kaida thought that Iida would be a good fit, but that didn't mean she couldn't just vote for herself. She knew she wouldn't get it anyways. Although, it looked like Iida was pretty upset over the results. They pulled the two top students to the class, Aizawa waking from his nap just to give the results they already knew. Poor Midoriya was shaking away.

"Alright, the class rep is Midoriya, and our deputy is Yaoyorozu."

"R-really? Uh. It's not a mistake?" She was sure Izuku was going to explode from nervousness, and everyone was looking at him in confusion. Yaoyorozu just seemed a little annoyed. Everyone started to get behind the idea though. Except the boy who suggested the voting system. Kaida rested her cheek against her hand, watching the exchange. Soon, it was lunch time, and Kirishima and Kaminari stopped by Kaida's desk with their usual grins.

"Hey, Kai, wanna join us for lunch?" Denki asked, both boys stuffing their hands in their pockets as they waited for the girl to respond. Mina peeked her head around their figures with a smile.

"Hey, guys! Mind if I join?" The pinkette joined the trio, standing beside them with her hands on her hips. Kai's eyes widened a bit as she looked between them before a smile started to form on her face. Friends. Standing up, the smile only grew as she nodded her head.

"Sure, let's all go together!" Mina grabbed Kaida's arm, squeezing her close to her as she pulled her out of the room, the boys quickly following with shouts of protest. Hiyama's face exploded into a dark red at Mina's forwardness, looking to the blond for help. Both of the boys just watched with small chuckles coming out, Denki just shook his head, basically telling her she was on her own. She let the girl drag her along, Kaminari and Kirishima walking on either side of them, listening to the conversation they were having. She tried to keep up, giving small inputs, but mostly laughing at their behaviors. She loved how friendly and accepting they were of her, going as far as asking her to join them for lunch.

Lunch was spent getting to know each other mostly, but finding out that Kirishima and Mina already knew each other from Middle School. Kaida was hesitant to open up but mostly mentioned a little of her family, and how she went to school with Bakugo and Izuku. It started getting more into their hobbies and the things they liked and disliked. It was weird for her. The only other person she told this stuff to was Izuku, but it looked like they were gaining different friend groups, but still being friends since they were in the same class. It was honestly kinda nice having different friends, in her opinion. It showed just how dependent they had become on one another. While Kaida and Denki were watching Mina and Eijiro talk excitedly about something, the two throwing in their two cents every now and again, an alarm bell started ringing. It sent everyone on edge, jumping in surprise.

"Wh-what's going on?!" Ashido shouted, Hiyama quickly jumping up, along with Kirishima. A robotic announcement came over the intercom, causing the four to exchange worried looks.

"Warning. Level Three security breach. All students please evacuate the building in an orderly fashion." They gasped, looking around as all of the students started to take off into the halls. Everyone was yelling and screaming in fear, trying to escape the building, while Kaida quickly activated her quirk, wrapping her tails around the other three's waists.

"Kaida, what are you doing?" Kaminari asked, raising his hands a bit as they stared at her back. The tails had caused her undershirt to come untucked, letting them loose as she moved away from everyone, raising her friends out of the way. They would get trampled at this rate. She quickly led them around the people, using an extra tail to hold onto the rafters away from everyone. It was the only way they wouldn't get trampled. So, when the crowd was mostly gone, she lowered them back down to the ground, dropping herself next to them. "Whoa, thanks Kai!"

"That could've been a disaster."

"Look outside, there has to be something everyone's not seeing." She said, the four of them running to the windows.

"It's just the press!" Mina called out, hands pressed against the glass.

"Really, that's it?"

After the fuss was all over, and they all returned to class, Yaoyorozu stood up, Midoriya following her to the front of the class. Midoriya was back to being a mess over being class rep, but she gave him a quick smile and a nod. He glanced at her after he was done stuttering, taking a small breath. "First, there's something that I wanna say. I've thought a lot about this. And I think Tenya Iida should be our class rep! He was able to capture everyone's attention and get us in line. So, I believe that he should be the one leading our class from now on!" Kaida looked down as she smiled. Iida was going to get the position anyways, they should've known.

"Yeah, you know what? If Midoriya vouches for him, I'm good. Plus he was a big help. He totally manned up and took charge, right?" Kirishima chimed in, Kaminari nodding his head in agreement.

"Yup! Oh! Did you notice he looked like the dude on the emergency exit signs when he was on the wall earlier?" That comment caused the four friends to giggle before Aizawa called it a waste of time. It shut them right up.

"I don't care who the rep is, just hurry up."

"If Midoriya is nominating me for this job... then I humbly accept. I pledge to carry out the duties of class rep to the best of my abilities!" Iida stood up, proudly proclaiming. Kirishima gave him a thumbs up.

"Sounds good, Emergency Exit!" Cue the giggles, with Kaminari joining in. "Emergency Exit Iida! Don't let us down, man!"

It was an ordinary night when she got home, spending a lot of missed time with her family now that they were all back together. Kaida did spend most of the night writing out her essay for Aizawa and writing proper apology letters to All Might and Bakugo. She was nervous to give her letter to Katsuki. Why? Because she was sure he was just going to rip it up in front of her and tell her to get lost. She was prepared for it. Nearly midnight, she as finally finished with the papers, putting them neatly in her folders in her bag. Hardly getting any rest that night, she felt like a zombie in the morning, fueling up on flesh and coffee before she was off to school. She held her folder in her hands, ready to hand the papers in. She had entered the school grounds when she saw him, slouched over and grumpy as usual. She took a deep breath before she sped up her walking. "Katsu! Wait up!" He merely grunted as he slowed down, turning a little. He saw the folder and rolled his eyes.

"If you have that stupid apology letter, don't bother. S'not like you meant it. Just throw it out." He said, starting to walk again. She huffed and ran to stand in front of him, making him growl. "Get out of my way, Red."

"Please, you don't have to read it. Just accept it so I can tell Aizawa I gave it to you. That's all I'm asking." She bowed a little as she held out the paper to him. He scoffed, snatching the paper from her, gripping it tightly in his balled fist.

"Tch, fine, whatever." She let herself finally breathe as he walked away from her, her smiling a little. One target down, two more to go.

Entering the classroom, she quickly laid her essay on Aizawa's podium, taking her seat as the day commenced. She could see him nod in satisfaction as he skimmed over it. He set it aside as classes began. When training rolled around, everyone seemed pretty pumped up about it. "Today's training will be a little different. You'll have three instructors. Me, All Might, and another faculty member will be keeping tabs on you."

"Sir! What kinda training is this?" Sero called out, everyone looking to Aizawa for answers. He held out a card.

"Rescue. You'll be dealing with natural disasters, shipwrecks, stuff like that." He explained.

"Disasters, huh? Sounds like we're in for a big workout." Kaminari said, Ashido joining in happily. Kirishima seemed pretty excited about it, and some other students joined in.

"Guys, I'm not finished yet." That shut everyone up for the time being. "What you wear in the exercise is up to you. I know you're excited about costumes... but keep in mind that you haven't gotten used to them yet, and they might limit your abilities. This special training's at an off-campus facility, so we'll be taking a bus to get there. That's all. Start getting ready." Immediately, everyone was up, Kaida was first to grab her case, waiting for Mina so they could walk together to the changing room. They talked, well, Mina talked, Kaida mostly listened, while they got dressed, some of the other girls joining in with how they were going to be doing the rescue training. Soon, they were all gathering outside while they waited for the bus. It wasn't long before Iida was calling them to gather around.

"Using your student numbers, form two neat lines so we can load the bus efficiently." He shouted, blowing a whistle as he went. Kaida couldn't help but giggle a little bit, Mina laughing along with her. No way anyone was going to do that. They wanted to sit together. Besides, when they boarded, it had a more open layout than they were expecting. Mina promptly called Iida out on needed to chill as they rode along. Kaida ended up seated in between Mina and Kaminari. The mustard blond took that chance to get to know her more. She didn't try to give him too much to work with, and it ended with him calling her a mystery and shooting her a wink. It made her roll her eyes, but her face was slightly pink as she looked away from him, Mina taking her attention now. Of course, the back and forth between the rest of the class and Bakugo caught her attention, causing her to laugh at Kaminari's comment.

"Y'know, we basically just met you. So, it's kinda telling that we all know your personality is flaming crap mixed with garbage." He shrugged, and it sent Kaida into a small fit of giggles as Bakugo yelled.

"You're gonna regret the day you applied to this school, you loser...! And stop fucking laughing, Red! I'll kill both of you!" She only stuck out her tongue to anger him more, giggling with Ashido as she joined in, the two teasing him.

"Hey, hey, we're here. Stop messing around." Aizawa said, standing from his seat. There was a chorus of 'yes sir's as things quieted down a little, everyone looking out the windows to look at the dome like building. As they left the bus, the rescue hero, Thirteen was waiting for them. Thirteen was an amazing hero, and just seeing them in person made her almost as giddy as Midoriya. They were one of her favorite heroes! Entering the dome, she was in awe. It was amazing! There were so many areas to simulate rescue operations, to train in environments you're not used to. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she looked around, a big grin forming on her face.

"A shipwreck. A landslide. A fire. A windstorm. Et cetera-- I created this training facility to prepare you to deal with different types of disasters. I call it the Unforeseen Simulation Joint. But, you can call it, USJ!"

"Hey, shouldn't All Might be here already? Lemme guess, he booked an interview instead." A smartass comment came from Aizawa, questioning All Might's whereabouts. Thirteen closed in and said something but she couldn't hear them. She was too busy in awe. Aizawa turned back around to face the group. "The clock's ticking. We should get started."

"Excellent! Before we begin, let me just say one thing. Well, maybe two things. Possibly three, four, or five..- Listen carefully. I'm sure you're aware that I have a powerful Quirk. It's called Black Hole. I can use it to suck up anything and turn it into dust." They explained. Midoriya quickly chimed in as Uraraka bounced beside him.

"Yeah, you've used Black Hole to save people from all kinds of disasters before, haven't you?"

"That's true, but my Quirk could also be very easily used to kill." Kaida flinched as it reminded herself of her own quirk. "Some of you also have powers that can be dangerous." She felt as though Thirteen was looking right at her. Of course, all of the faculty members knew about the drawbacks of Hiyama's quirk. "In our superhuman society, all Quirks are certified and stringently regulated, so we often overlook how unsafe they can actually be. Please don't forget that if you lose focus or make the wrong move, your powers can be deadly. Even if you're trying to do something virtuous like rescue someone." The girl put her head down. "Thanks to Aizawa;s fitness tests, you have a solid idea of your Quirk's potential. And because of All Might's combat training, you likely experienced how dangerous your powers can be when used against other people. Carry those lessons over to this class. Today, you're going to learn how to use your Quirks to save people's lives. You won't be using your powers to attack enemies or each other, only to help. After all, that's what being a hero is all about. Ensuring the safety of others. That's all I have to say. Thank you so much for listening." As they finished talking, they bowed, the class erupting into a cheer for them. Kaida even clapped a little bit.

"Right. Now that that's over..." Aizawa started, before electricity started to crackle through the buildings lights, the fountain in the middle of the dome sputtering before it looked like it started a type of swirling motion. A purple vortex was taking over in front of it, Kaida stepping forward as Aizawa began to turn around, realizing that something just wasn't right. The purple vortex erupted across the ground, and they could see a hand starting to reach out of it.

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coppicefics · 3 years

Photo

Masked Omens: Week Four

[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads ‘Masked Omens’.

Image 2 - A page from the Opinion section of the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 16th January, 2021. Full image description and transcript below the cut. End ID.]

Read the fic here!

(Falling records template from Pixeden)

The Capital Herald, Saturday 16th January 2021 Opinion, page 20

Main Story: TOFFLEY GATE: FIFTEEN YEARS ON, IT’S NO HOME Where is the affordable housing that was promised? And why can’t local people get access to it? The Toffley Gate development once seemed like that most elusive of rarities; a politician's campaign promise made real. When Lawrence Richmond, a distinguished barrister, was elected as MP for Toffley South in 2005, it was partly on the strength of his pledge to build a brand new block of affordable accommodation for the people of Toffley. In fact, if you ask most local voters why the future Transport Secretary won his seat, they'll point in the direction of Toffley Gate. The development, it was claimed, would create jobs in the area, boost property values, and allow more buyers and renters on low incomes to invest wisely in their future. Fifteen years on, how are those claims holding up? Well, the development did indeed bring in construction jobs, as well as long-term positions in the shops and services on Toffley Gate's street level. As construction continued, however, some concerns were raised – even as early as February of 2006, seven months before the grand opening – that changes to the specification meant almost all the flats in the towering buildings would be described as luxury apartments, rather than affordable housing. But as long as they were still rented out at low rates, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. When the development's 312 flats were put on the market, however, 276 of them were priced at luxury rates. The remaining thirty-six were a single block of small studio apartments, suitable for a single occupant or two, a far cry from the family homes Richmond had promised to provide. Protests followed, in 2009 and 2010, but it was too late. Now, fifteen years on, only 194 Toffley Gate units are occupied. The rest remain empty and useless, far beyond the means of most local residents and workers. The Capital Herald popped into the local coffee shop to canvas opinions. “Oh, they're lovely, aren't they?” said Gladys Jones, retired, who'd stopped in with her grandson, Chris, a student. “I'd love one of those balconies, but not on my pension.” And Chris? “They're going for what, two or three grand a month? I could work for years and never save up enough to live there.” What would he like to see done with the place? “Drop the prices, maybe set them up as student accommodation, the uni's always oversubscribed. Or just... make sure normal people can afford them, you know?” “I put my name on the waiting list for the cheap flats when the place opened, when I was about twenty-five,” Jenny Tyler, a teacher, told me. I asked her what changed her mind. “No, I'm still on the list. Fifteen years, I'm still on the list.” Has she considered applying for one of the more expensive unused units? “No. On a teacher's pay? No, in fact, I'm moving back in with my dad. It's cheaper to commute in from Tadfield than to keep paying rent in Toffley.” And what of those behind the counter? Of the three employees on shift, two had joined the waiting list for the affordable housing at Toffley Gate. All three agreed that they'd love to live in one of the fancier units, if it were possible. One, Tom, has a second job as a cleaner on the development. “I have to clean all the luxury homes, even the empty ones,” he said. “And there are a lot of empty ones. Even the ones where you can tell someone's moved in, there's hardly any sign of life. It almost seems like an investment property type thing, but I don't know how they can be making money without sub-letting it.” When approached for comment, Lawrence Richmond – an Eton graduate who lives in a large historic house with his wife and son – argued that he is not responsible for market rates, nor for setting the level of affordable housing provision within the development. Why, then, did he make such grandiose promises during his election campaign in 2005? And why, sixteen years on and after several protests, is he still in office? If Richmond is as keen on affordable housing as he claimed to be in 2005 – as he has continued to claim, during the run-up to every local election since then – there must be something he can do, in his capacity as Toffley's MP, to encourage the building's owners, Selectan Homes Plc, to lower rents and allow lower-income families to access the many unoccupied units in the building. Surely it would be a win-win situation; Selectan would reap the rewards of a fully-let building, existing Toffley Gate residents would benefit from an invigorated community, and local people could live in the area where they actually worked. The businesses established at the base of the Toffley Gate tower blocks would have as many customers as they could want. In short, Lawrence Richmond, what are you waiting for? TINA MOON

[Image Description: A colour photograph of a gleaming block of flats. End ID] [Caption] Toffley Gate gleams in the sunshine. But are its units overpriced? (Photo: Daniel Brubaker on Unsplash)

Right hand column: OLD TUNES ARE BEST How wonderful to hear some music from the good old days on ITV’s The Masked Singer. When I sat down to watch it - under duress, I’ll admit, and largely to keep my wife and daughters happy - I expected nothing but noise of the variety that makes up the modern singles chart. Imagine my surprise and delight, then, when several of the songs reminded me of the heady days of my youth. Some, of course, were older still, overshooting the perfect era of my teenage years to land in the tragically uncool Jazz Age, but for the most part over the last few weeks I have been able to sing along with abandon, embarrassing my daughters no end and infuriating my wife, who is desperately trying to ascertain the identities of all of the disguised celebrities inside the ludicrous costumes. I doubt we’ve ever heard any of those voices before, given that the really big names in entertainment no doubt have better things to do than make such fools of themselves on a Saturday night, so I won’t be participating in the silly guessing game. Instead, I’m picking my favourites based on the songs they sang in the first few weeks. Snake is my favourite, by virtue of singing a Whitesnake song in the first live show, and it was a good enough performance that I will, for now, dismiss last week’s show as merely a momentary lapse in skill and judgement. Bonfire got everyone in my house smiling with ‘Disco Inferno’, and it’s rare that my children and I agree on anything, so they have to be the house favourite. Axolotl chose wisely in channelling Kermit the Frog, a universally beloved entertainer, and Pony’s tribute to America with ‘Horse With No Name’ was very enjoyable, too. So, I don’t know who Snake is but I’m rooting for them anyway, it seems. Who knows what tonight will bring? READER’S LETTER FROM DEREK METTE

Coupon, bottom third of page: [Image Description: Graphic of two falling record sleeves, with corresponding vinyl records also falling beside them. The first album sleeve shows two silhouettes of a face, looking towards each other in the style of the face/vase optical illusion, and is labelled “talking about it - Anathema”. The second shows a closeup of hands holding a book, and is labelled “Anathema - Narrative Devices”. At the bottom of the graphic are track listings. “Talking About It: Talking About it, Here I Go, Talking in Circles, The Magic Word, Seventh Sense, Pour My Heart Out, Nobody’s Fault, For A Spell, Living In The Past, Parting Words. Narrative Devices: Narrative Devices, Stab In The Dark, Look Before You Leap, Out Of The Crowd, Daisy Chains, I Hate To Leave, Ashes, Eagle Eyes, End of Days, Parting Ways.” End ID.] EXCLUSIVE DISCOUNT FOR CAPITAL HERALD READERS Exclusive to the Capital Herald, this voucher entitles you to 50% off the listed price of Anathema's first album, Talking About It, when you buy her new album, Narrative Devices. Featuring hit singles 'Daisy Chains' and 'End of Days', Narrative Devices has been described as 'a breath of fresh air for folk music' and 'a powerful meditation on the stories we tell ourselves every day'. 'Talking About It' contains the gorgeous ballad 'For A Spell', which has already sold over half a million units as a single in the two years since its release. Don't miss out on this amazing deal! Just take this coupon to your nearest participating retailer, or enter code CAP50 when ordering online. [Image Description: A barcode marked ‘FOR RETAILER USE’, from barcode.tec-it.com, and a QR code, from qr-code-generator.com. End ID.] Voucher expires 12AM 23/01/21. At participating retailers only. While stocks last. Not valid outside of fanfiction. For full terms and conditions, see page 28.

#masked omens #mo week four #good omens fic #very much fake news #masked singer au #mine

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voidcat · 4 years

Text

of Pamphlets & Bass Guitars

– The Impromptu Debate

Word Count: 1.2k

I’ll add my actual Author’s Notes at the end to clear things up & not spoil the chapter.

Pamphlets (ch3) | chapter 4 | chapter 5 (coming soon)

ao3 – masterlist

Your eyes trail on the each face in the room. The group of boys first, they all look so smug and sure of themselves. You want to punch those expressions off their faces. Then the teachers and the vice principal, each with a face that says “I can’t believe I’m wasting my time here.”. Its still a wonder to you why some people choose a career involving the young and education when they clearly dislike it.

Eyes going through the room, examining one by one, avoiding the not-so-kind gazed of girls who only increase in minutes. With dread, your eyes find Oikawa’s at last.

Maybe a minute of staring and you sign in defeat. “Okay, go on. Tell me how you got that scar, you brave war hero.”

“So you see, it was around lunch break when I walked into those assholes with a scheme as low as themselves. Usually when a girl alone walked by, one of them drops something or pretends to walk into them, make something that will cause the girl to bend or pick something up from the ground. And the rest just enjoy- what did they call it again?... ‘The show’.” He says the last part with finger quotes.

“And what? You watched the pull this crap all break?”

“No, no! I came at them the moment I first saw it. I learnt the full story from one of them, during a poorly attempted comeback. And as you can see-“ hand showing his bruise again “-it ended in a fight.”

You just give him an unconvinced look. Just how stupid does he think you are, thinking you’d fall for such a badly written story…

“Look, believe me or not, it’s what happened. Hell! Ask Iwa-Chan, anyone knows he hates lying, he saw it happen too.”

“Oikawa, he is your best friend.”

“A best friend who never shows that to me obviously. He wouldn’t lie even if his life was on the line.” He has a point, you can’t help but think. Iwaizumi was known for always following the rules, despite being friends with that seaweed-for-brains.

“Whatever, I’ll mention this if I can find an opening for it. We need proof or a witness though and I don’t see Iwaizumi-san anywhere.”

“I’ll get him if needed, don’t ya worry your pretty head about it!- Ouch!” Maybe Not your strongest hit but a hit on the arm is enough to shut him up. From the way he keeps [ovalamak] his arm, it’s clear your message is received.

After a not so long wait, you begin speaking without addressing anyone in the room. If they want an unofficial debate, that’s what you will give them. No respect to those who don’t respect or care for others.

“I can begin my speech with years long of patriarchy and how it shaped and affected society. But it’d be too long and we’d all be dead before it could ever be finished. I can mention the long going cases of abuse, harassment, rape and murder. How it’s always the victim blamed when it’s convenient yet how everyone goes silent when the said victim is found in a “modest” set of clothing or make up. But this, is however, is a very grim topic and can affect some of us here badly. Honestly, it is quite unbelievable how we have to defend why we want more open clothing options. The other side are only here because they like to watch girls with long legs walk, they like to peep at our skirts, bother and harass us then go and say how it is not their fault since the skirts are too short. If I really have to present a recent harassment case like this, I have Oikawa Tooru as a witness and some girls who were direct targets. I’ve noticed how some of our teachers like to think we exaggerate the things we have to endure almost on a daily basis. Give the option of skirts and pants for everyone, equally. So the next time it happens, because it will happen, as sad as it sounds, we will have proof that we were never exaggerating in the first place.” By the time you’re done talking, you notice you’re out of breath.

Watching the teachers whisper among themselves and ‘the opposite side’ texting on their phones as if they’re here for nothing, you can sense Oikawa vibrating with energy and enthusiasm. “Good job cap.” He whispers your way. You just nod in response and turn to look at the girls here. Some of them have an incomprehensible expression on their faces. You can guess the why of it.

Half an hour of whispering and arguing, you get an answer as close to a yes. Everyone starts leaving one by one as you wait for the crowd to dispense. For some reason, so does Oikawa.

As you two walk outside, he crosses his arms behind his head, giving you a side glance. “So what do you say… Would you like to come watch me practice?” And as expected, he finishes with a wink.

“I’d rather get shipped to Antarctica.” With that, you walk away without sparring a glance.

“Hello Iwaizumi-san.” He looks surprised to see you. Makes sense, you suppose. You don’t recall a time you came to Seiji’s classroom to talk to someone that wasn’t him.

“Oh, hello. Did you need something?”

“In a matter of fact, yes. Yesterday when you were talking to Oikawa… Why did you act like that and sighed after seeing me?” He avoids your gaze at the question then sighs as if a long and tiring day at work has just come to an end.

“Nothing serious, really. Shittykawa here has developed a new, what I’m hoping to be another, short-lived obsession. This time on that anonymous writer.” He looks at you once before continuing. “Except, it has gotten worse in the past week. At first it was finding out the person behind it. Crazy theories and all. And now, for some reason, he is convinced that person is you. Naturally, when I saw him yesterday, I thought it was another attempt of his ‘undercover’ operations.”

You don’t breath out a single word during the entire time. You can feel your palms starting to sweat. Just how exactly did he get so close to it? Was that what yesterday was all about? How long have his undercover research or whatever been going? How much does he know? With a rushed ‘thank you’ to Iwaizumi and you walk out of the classroom.

Is that worry you’re feeling? Fear?

Why would you? What could he have against you to use?

You consider going to Seiji, discuss it with him, have a plan or a set of actions to follow. As you start walking, you’re stopped by a hand on your shoulder.

“There she is! The man of the hour! How are you today you feral beast? Oikawa told us how you lashed out at ‘em yesterday, givin’ a taste of your poison…”

You don’t respond. You don’t even hear Makki talk.

Eyes glued to a spot ahead of you, almost hidden by the shadows. And there stands Oikawa Tooru, staring at you with a look you can only call ‘hostile’.

A/N: Hello! I think the “debate” or whatever you want to call it in this chapter may sound unconvincing to some people so I wanted to clear some things up.

I hope this doesn’t sound braggy but I was attending a high school that was in the top 5 in the country for years and most of our interactions with the administration went like this. Bureaucracy almost never worked, you could file in a report or a letter of complaint about an issue but it’d usually go unnoticed. (We legit protested the principal of that year one morning, it made the news and pissed of the bigots in the country ahahah.)

Also there was a harassment case one year, this happened among underclassmen (9th graders, I was a senior) and we didn’t hear of it until it was too late to do something. What happened was worse than what I wrote here but yea there was a fight involved too lol. So yeah,, my point is things like that happen. The teachers usually don’t give a shit about the students and some students look after one another to cover up their messes. I wanted the reader’s opening speech to be something better but with the recent news in the country, I feel emotionally and mentally exhausted, sorry.

I hope this wasn’t so long and thank you if you read til the end. Feel free to send in asks, worries, talk about your day in the ask box etc etc. I’m always open to ranting & talking.

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margoshansons · 5 years

Text

The Killing Kind (6/?)

Part Six: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05

Summary: Being a superhero is hard, especially when your Dad is making up threats to satisfy his own ego.

Warnings: Action, panic attacks, slight angst, slight manipulation

Notes: These chapters are making me so happy! I’m so proud of these past two parts and I love the story I’m forming in my head. Also, heads up, this one is LOOONG.

“Listen, you need to get out of here” The plaid-clad figure urged, ignoring her question.

(Y/N) shook her head, “Peter, I know it’s you”

He kept looking over his shoulder, the familiar gesture cementing her theory in her head. “You need to get out of here.”

“No” (Y/N) protested, “I can help. I--I can lead it away”

Spiderman shook his head, “No, you need to get out of here. The green guy told me to lead it away, but you need to leave now”

Before she could protest further, another wave hit the two of them, washing the jester’s mask away as he climbed up the wall, swinging between the collapsing buildings.

(Y/N) followed him, running through the streets, not caring about the people she was potentially bulldozing. As she ran over a bridge,(Y/N) felt herself collide with a wall of muscle, and she looked up to see Brad staring at the newly formed monster.

“(Y/N)!” Mr. Harrington called, “thank goodness you’re alive, we need--” She pushed passed her worried teacher, following the trail of webs and giant spectacle her father and Peter were creating in their wake. She hurried to a stop in front of the piazza, the belltower beginning to collapse.

(Y/N) gasped at the sight of a brown head of hair atop the tower, arms stretched in an obvious attempt to web the tower to safety.

Her yellow sneakers skidded to a stop behind the tower, her father ‘battling’ the monster behind her. Closing her eyes, she dug into her gut, tendrils connecting in midair. She brought her hands in a circular motion, the energy creating a clocklike image in the air before her. Green swirled with blue to create a bright teal color, (Y/N) screaming as she launched the sigil onto the clock tower, the energy keeping the tower in place long enough for the illusion to dissipate.

A wave crashed over her once more, knocking her out of concentration.

Her shoulder burned as it collided with the ground, her hands throwing out one last ditch effort to hold the tower up, the energy curling around the debris before her. She heard cheering behind her and let go, the illusion gone. Quentin’s eyes were hidden behind that ridiculous helmet of his, but she knew what expression lay behind the smoke.

Pride.

Not in her. Not in Spiderman. Pride in himself.

He was finally getting everything he wanted.

It almost looked like he was getting ready to approach his soaking daughter, wishing to help her up, but (Y/N) bit her lip, watching as he sped into the sky.

Same as always.

***

“Buzzfeed is saying…”

She tuned Flash Thompson’s rant out as MJ brought her another ice pack. (Y/N) brought the ice to her head, nursing the concussion Hydro man had given her. Her teachers whispered about witches, her friends whispered about aliens, while (Y/N) stewed in the true knowledge of what had really happened.

“Hey” Peter interjected, standing next to the moldy staircase the two girls were sitting on. “Are you...is everything okay?”

She didn’t respond, her eyes still wide upon discovering the fact that Peter was, in fact, Spiderman, even if he denied it. The mannerisms were too similar, their voices identical.

“(Y/N)?” Peter asked, concern lacing his voice.

She sighed, throwing herself out of her reverie, “Yeah, I’m fine. I mean my head hurts like a mother, but other than that.”

Peter nodded, obviously a little bit pleased to see the best friend of his crush was okay. The three of them turned toward the TV, which was recounting the events of the day.

“...L’uomo de Mysterio e donna de Energia…”

Brad’s voice overpowered the television at that statement, “I think his name is Mysterio.”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, “That means man of mystery in Italian dumbass” she went back to paying attention to the news, ignoring the chuckle from Peter. They were hailing her dad as a hero, just as he had planned.

“What I want to know is who was with him” Betty Brandt called from Ned’s side. “That girl just appeared and suddenly she’s able to hold up one of the biggest structures in the city with her hands?”

“Maybe they’re related!” Ned interjected excitedly, “It would make sense, they have similar abilities”

Unable to handle any more talk of how heroic her father was, she wrapped the blanket around her once more, fatigue finally settling into her bones. She stood up, retreating into her room. (Y/N) curled into her bed, staring at the wall in front of her, the events of the day replaying over and over in her head.

Her dad had really gone through with it. He was killing innocents as he had planned all along. His words looped over and over in her head like a dead vine.

“This power needs the right person to wield it. No matter the consequences.”

He’d said the same thing after the incident, the same thing as he exploited her for his experiments. No matter the consequences.

Nothing was going to stand in his way. Not even his own blood.

(Y/N) wiped a tear at the awful memory, caught off guard when her phone began to buzz. May’s name lit up the dark room and she swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“(Y/N), thank goodness you’re alright” May’s soothing voice rambled over the phone, “I was so worried something had happened to you, especially after Peter told me about your concussion.”

(Y/N)’s eyebrows creased at the news of Peter informing his Aunt about her condition, “I’m fine, May, really I am. It sounds a lot worse than it is.”

“Is everything okay? You sound distressed,”

For the first time since knowing the woman, (Y/N) cursed May’s emotional sixth sense.

She swallowed down her nerves, considering the ramifications of letting May know about her Dad. There was a good chance he had tapped her phone, listening into the conversation right now. But he couldn’t reach May while he was overseas, she knew that in order for the illusions to work he needed to be on location. So maybe it was safe for a bit.

“It’s my dad” (Y/N) confessed, her heartbeat spiking into her throat, “He’s followed me here”

“Hey, hey” May continued, “relax, everything is going to be fine. Your dad can’t harm you. Not unless he wants European CPS breathing down his neck.”

(Y/N) slowed her hyperventilating, saltwater burning on her mouth. “Are you sure?”

May sighed before reassuring her, “Listen, you’re eighteen, so legally you are emancipated from your Dad, and even before that you filed an emancipation letter that the shelter and your lawyer signed, so it’s illegal for him to do anything that goes against what you specifically filed in that letter.”

(Y/N) sighed in relief.

“That includes hurting you.” May finished.

“Thanks, May,” She replied, sniffling.

“Anytime sweetie” May responded, “Let me know if you need anything okay? I’m always here to talk to, and take care of your head, please? For my sake.”

(Y/N) chuckled at the woman’s worried tone, “I will, I promise.”

“Alright, see you in two weeks” May hung up the phone after (Y/N) reciprocated the farewell. The student stared at the open window of her hotel room, MJ’s empty bed giving her an option that she hadn’t considered in a long time. (Y/N) gathered up her courage and stepped outside onto the small balcony, gazing up to the roof. She looked to her watch, the faded leather device betraying how late it actually was. Without any hesitation she began to grasp hold of the balcony above her, climbing her way up the building like it was the scaffolding she was used to. By the time she made it to the roof, she could see all of Venice, and she noticed she wasn’t alone in her idea.

“Hey stranger” (Y/N) offered, sitting next to him.

Peter jumped at the voice, relaxing when he saw who it was, “Oh, hey (Y/N), I-uh didn’t see you there.”

“Is everything okay?” (Y/N) echoed his sentiments back at him, watching his face for any sign of his secret identity. She was at least eighty percent sure he was the person she thought he was, but here he looked like a scared kid.

Peter sighed, “Not really. I mean, we just barely escaped a water monster and my Aunt is freaking out and I have no one I can talk to about what I’m feeling, especially after Mr. Stark--”

“Hey, hey” (Y/N) comforted, taking his hands in hers, carelessly brushing the top of his palm. “Everything’s going to be okay. Mr. Stark would be proud of you. I don’t think he’d have given you what he did if he wasn’t.”

Peter sighed, eyes slightly wide at the implication, “I told you, I’m not--I’m not Spiderman,”

“Who said anything about Spiderman?” (Y/N) asked, catching Peter in the confession.

He chuckled at the small bit of manipulation, “How did you, um how did you figure it out?”

She pushed another curl behind her ear, “You’re really bad at keeping secrets.” was all she said, instead of admitting that she’s been watching him since he got the internship. And even closer after MJ told her what happened in DC.

“I guess” Peter chuckled, staring out at the city before turning toward her. “How did you get up there today? On the roof?”

(Y/N)’s smile dropped at the question, unsure if she should tell him about the part of her she’s hated since she was a little girl. Unsure if she should admit that the only reason she’s so powerful is because her dad forced her into a life she didn’t want.

Her body seemed to go against her better instincts, and her brain supposed that Peter deserved some truth of the situation after getting identity exposed like this.

“I have something I want to show you” (Y/N) admitted, taking her hands out of Peter’s. His brow crinkled in confusion at the cryptic statement, but he crossed his arms, ready to see what she wanted to show him.

She opened her palm, allowing the energy to dance across her fingertips, illuminating the dark rooftop.

Peter’s eyes went wide at the display, hands reaching up to his face in awe. “You--You have, You’re like--You’re like Scarlet Witch, but like with blue powers, you’re the Blue Witch!” He exclaimed, rambling excitedly.

(Y/N) sighed in relief at his reaction, unsure when she began to worry about what Peter thought of her. “Well, I hope I have a cooler name than that” She chuckled.

Peter’s eyes lit up like they did when he solved a difficult equation, “Mysterio said they called you Hourglass back on his earth, apparently, you had some sort of connection to time. He thought it was you on the streets today, but he wasn’t sure.”

(Y/N) extinguished the energy at that statement. “Wait, you talked to Mysterio?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded excitedly, “He told me how relieved he was to see you alive in this universe, since you, you know, died in the last one.”

She shook her head in disbelief, “Wait, this universe?” “Yeah, there’s a multiverse, that’s where Mysterio came from.” Peter explained, “Or I guess I should call him Beck. He said that Hourglass and him were related back on his earth, I think they were brother and sister.”

Peter stopped as he realized the words that were coming out of his mouth, “Maybe your father is this universe’s Quentin Beck, that’s why he seemed so shook when he saw you.”

(Y/N) bit her lip as he got dangerously close to the truth. So that was the story he was going with. An interdimensional being sent here to chase down whatever had attacked them that day.

“Peter, you need to calm down” (Y/N) grasped his hand once again drawing his attention back on her.

“Why?” Peter asked, “This is amazing news. Not only do I have Mysterio to talk to about superhero stuff, but I have you as well. Now we can take down those elementals together!”

(Y/N) was speechless at his proposal. Whatever Quentin had said had already warped Peter’s mind.

“Peter, listen to me,” (Y/N) gripped his hands, a serious expression crossing her face. “You can’t trust him. You can’t.”

“Why not?” Peter asked, his smile dimming.

(Y/N) sighed, ready to admit the whole sob story. If it was what it took to make Peter listen, then it was necessary. She just hoped he would forgive her.

“Because he--Mysterio, he’s...”

But all it took was one look in Peter’s eyes. Those big brown orbs were reaching so far for hope, she saw something that she had lost so long ago.

He was finally happy to have people who understood him. And she wouldn’t take that away from her.

“You just can’t.” She lied instead, chest twisting, “You just have to trust me on this okay?”

Peter nodded, his gaze drawing itself back to the lit up city, hand still intertwined with her own.

Thank you for this positive feedback! I’m still trying to figure out how to write Y/N’s powers, but I hope this is good enough for now. If you have any ideas let me know!

MASTERLIST.

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If you want to be added or removed let me know!

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker imagines #peter parker x you #spiderman ffh #beck!reader #the killing kind

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newstfionline · 4 years

Text

Headlines

Reopening brings more coronavirus cases (NYT) The warning that echoed ominously for weeks is becoming a reality: Once states begin to reopen, a surge in coronavirus cases will follow. Thousands of Americans have been sickened by the virus in new outbreaks, particularly in the Sun Belt and the West. As of Friday, coronavirus cases were climbing in 22 states amid reopenings. Arizona, Texas and Florida are reporting their highest case numbers yet. California and Washington have reopened in a more incremental way, but have still seen an uptick in cases.

Coronavirus survival comes with a $1.1 million, 181-page price tag (Seattle Times) Remember Michael Flor, the longest-hospitalized COVID-19 patient who, when he unexpectedly did not die, was jokingly dubbed “the miracle child?” Now they can also call him the million-dollar baby. Flor, 70, who came so close to death in the spring that a night-shift nurse held a phone to his ear while his wife and kids said their final goodbyes, is recovering nicely these days at his home in West Seattle. But he says his heart almost failed a second time when he got the bill from his health care odyssey the other day. The total tab for his bout with the coronavirus: $1.1 million. $1,122,501.04, to be exact. All in one bill that’s more like a book because it runs to 181 pages. The bill is technically an explanation of charges, and because Flor has insurance including Medicare, he won’t have to pay the vast majority of it. But for now it’s got him and his family and friends marveling at the extreme expense, and bizarre economics, of American health care.

Protests focus on over-policing. But under-policing is also deadly. (Washington Post) By the time he was 18, Jay had already been shot twice. And he’d learned a lesson about how to keep himself safe in his high-crime New York neighborhood: He was always armed. Jay (a pseudonym we gave him to protect his identity) had little faith that the police would ever bring his assailants to justice—or that they could protect him from future attacks. “I just [know] where [my enemies] live and . . . the gang, I know that they be over there. . . . I gotta carry it in bad places.” As the protests sparked by George Floyd’s death at the hands of officers in Minneapolis have continued, fervent calls to “defund the police”—or even abolish departments altogether—have quickly risen to the top of some reformers’ wish lists. This push seems aimed at addressing the dangers of over-policing: not just obvious abuses like Floyd’s death but also heavy-handed law enforcement responses in communities of color to minor offenses, such as loitering, drinking in public or panhandling. But a great deal of scholarship has demonstrated that under-policing also leaves residents feeling perpetually underserved and unsafe. Residents of distressed urban neighborhoods have complained about ineffective policing for centuries, including officers’ rudeness, slow response times and lack of empathy for crime victims. Some residents of high-crime neighborhoods have long concluded that police are either incapable of keeping them safe or unwilling to do so—and a small subset of repeat offenders, like Jay and others we spoke to, have discarded the criminal justice system entirely as a viable mechanism for settling trivial disputes with enemies, opting instead to literally take matters into their own hands. The result is that many black and brown communities now suffer from the worst of all worlds: over-aggressive police behavior in frequent encounters with residents, coupled with the inability of law enforcement to effectively protect public safety. But defunding police departments would address only one side of this problem. And the real, and significant, dangers of under-policing would just get worse in the neighborhoods that most need the police to improve—not disappear.

Tourists dip their toes in water as top Mexican beach getaway reopens (Reuters) Foreign visitors have begun to trickle back to the white sands and warm waters of Mexico’s Caribbean coast as its popular beaches gradually reopen to tourism with new sanitary measures in place to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. “I’ve been stuck in New York City in my apartment for three months, so I decided that on the beach somewhere open was probably a good call,” said web designer Sam Leon, 31, after arriving Saturday at the airport of famed resort town Cancun. Others were similarly undeterred, even as Mexico reported record infection levels in recent days and in certain areas is at the peak of the pandemic.

Bolivian schoolteacher gives virtual classes as superhero (AP) Sometimes, Jorge Manolo Villarroel is Spiderman. Sometimes, he’s the Flash, or the Green Lantern. But he’s always a teacher—one who lives out his childhood dreams by dressing up as superheroes for the locked-down students who attend his virtual classes. His classes have become so popular that siblings fight for the laptop screen to learn from this costumed teacher. They, in turn, often offer him tech help. At 33, Villarroel speaks with the passion of a child. His modest room is filled with the masks and costumes of his characters, along with images of Christ, several Roman Catholic saints, revolutionary Che Guevara and his parents. Villarroel, who lives in a poorer neighborhood of the Bolivian capital, teaches art at the San Ignacio Catholic School in a wealthier area. His students range from 9 to 14 years old.

Yankee go home: What does moving troops out of Germany mean? (AP) After more than a year of thinly-veiled threats to start pulling U.S. troops out of Germany unless Berlin increases its defense spending, President Donald Trump appears to be proceeding with a hardball approach, planning to cut the U.S. military contingent by more than 25%. About 34,500 American troops are stationed in Germany—50,000 including civilian Department of Defense employees—and the plan Trump reportedly signed off on last week envisions reducing active-duty personnel to 25,000 by September, with further cuts possible. But as details of the still-unannounced plan trickle out, there’s growing concerns it will do more to harm the U.S.’s own global military readiness and the NATO alliance than punish Germany. The decision was not discussed with Germany or other NATO members, and Congress was not officially informed—prompting a letter from 22 Republican members of the House Armed Services Committee urging a rethink.

Delhi to use 500 railway coaches as hospital facilities to fight coronavirus (Reuters) India’s federal government said on Sunday it will provide New Delhi’s city authorities with 500 railway coaches that will be equipped to care for coronavirus patients, after a surge in the number of cases led to a shortage of hospital beds.

China reports 57 new cases, highest daily number in 2 months (AP) China on Sunday reported its highest daily total of new coronavirus cases in two months after the capital’s biggest wholesale food market was shut down following a resurgence in local infections. The Xinfadi market on Beijing’s southeastern side was closed Saturday and neighboring residential compounds locked down after more than 50 people in the capital tested positive for the coronavirus. They were the first confirmed cases in 50 days in the city of 20 million people. Authorities locked down 11 residential communities near the Xinfadi market. Police installed white fencing to seal off a road leading to a cluster of apartment buildings.

Kim Jong Un’s sister threatens S. Korea with military action (AP) The powerful sister of North Korean leader Kim Jong Un threatened military action against South Korea as she bashed Seoul on Saturday over declining bilateral relations and its inability to stop activists from floating anti-Pyongyang leaflets across the border. Describing South Korea as an “enemy,” Kim Yo Jong repeated an earlier threat she had made by saying Seoul will soon witness the collapse of a “useless” inter-Korean liaison office in the border town of Kaesong. Kim, who is first vice department director of the ruling Workers’ Party’s Central Committee, said she would leave it to North Korea’s military leaders to carry out the next step of retaliation against the South. Kim’s harsh rhetoric demonstrates her elevated status in North Korea’s leadership. Already seen as the most powerful woman in the country and her brother’s closest confidant, state media recently confirmed that she is now in charge of relations with South Korea.

Thai entrepreneur connects Michelin bistros to those in need (AP) Natalie Bin Narkprasart’s business was in Paris. But she was locked down by COVID-19 restrictions and stuck in Thailand. Her heart was in Thailand, too—and it ached for her compatriots who were suffering in the pandemic. So she recruited a network of volunteers, including Michelin-starred chefs, to help those in her homeland whose already modest incomes were shattered by the pandemic restrictions. Her group, COVID Thailand Aid, says it has reached more than 30,000 people in more than 100 locations with care packages and freshly cooked food.

Kids around the world are out of school. Millions of girls might not go back. (Washington Post) She was 13 when the Ebola virus struck her country, shuttering schools across Sierra Leone. The closures lasted nine months, but Mari Kalokoh could not return to the classroom for years. Global shutdowns have pushed approximately 1.5 billion students out of school since March, according to the United Nations Children’s Fund, including 111 million girls in the world’s least developed countries. The disruptions are projected to end or seriously delay the education of 10 million secondary-school age girls. Parents in more traditionally conservative nations tend to prioritize the education of their sons, experts say. In West and Central Africa, 73 percent of boys older than 15 can read, compared with 60 percent of girls in the same age group. So when families lose income, they’re more likely to stretch the budget on schooling for boys, said Laila Gad, UNICEF’s representative in Liberia, a former Ebola hotspot. Remote learning, she added, is especially burdensome for girls, who are frequently expected to shoulder more cooking, cleaning and babysitting.

Pope appeals for end to Libyan civil war (Reuters) Pope Francis appealed on Sunday for both sides in the Libyan civil war to seek peace, urging the international community to facilitate talks and protect refugees and migrants he said were victims of cruelty. In an impassioned plea during his noon address in St. Peter’s Square, Francis said he was pained by the situation in Libya, which has had no stable central authority since dictator Muammar Gaddafi was overthrown by NATO-backed rebels in 2011. For more than five years Libya has had rival parliaments and governments in the east and the west, with streets often controlled by armed groups and sporadic fighting.

#headlines #news

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schrijverr · 4 years

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Professor Elric?

After The Promised Day Edward is sent on a miliary mission to Hogwarts where he will teach Alchemy to his students. He is told not to interfere with their business, but he has a hard time not getting involved with this weird Voldy prick.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

Chapter 6 out of 10.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Umbitch was really getting on Edwards nerves. She had been on his trail like a bloodhound ever since he’d shown up. She wanted to know what the limitations of Alchemy where, what he knew about Amestris, if he knew You-know-who and how he taught. She had been aching to get inside his classroom, but so far he had managed to keep her out. It seemed like his luck had ran out, he knew he shouldn’t have told those fifth years he was a muggle, ever since that she had been unrelenting and now the day had come.

“Good morning class, as you can see we have a guest. Why she insists on coming I don’t know, but she is here to disrupt so expect this lesson to be a bit different that usual.” He began.

He nodded at Umbridge before turning back to his students and saying: “We have been studying Alchemic arrays for some time now. This will be the last theoretical lesson before we move on to doing Alchemy in the classroom. When I call on you, you will come forward and draw the array I tell you on this table. I will show it to the class and we’ll collectively decide if it is correct, if it is I will use it to transmute some of the materials I have here.”

“Hermione, could you please draw an array to transmute the rust of this iron dagger?” he asked.

The girl drew the perfect circle, which he knew she would. She was very smart, liked to study and just generally knew her stuff. Once the class had also determined it was the correct transmutation-circle he preformed transmutation. He didn’t do it often, so there were still a few gasps when the rusted iron dagger came out in perfect shape.

“Okay, next. Neville, could you draw an array to change this heap of chalk into some crayons for the board?” he said.

While the boy was drawing he looked at Umbridge, she was writing on her notepad while mouthing words to herself. It seemed harmless, but he had heard the stories, once she was comfortable in your classroom she would attack you with questions. He didn’t have more time to think about it, because Neville was done drawing.

He showed the array to the class and asked: “Draco, what do you think of Neville's array?”

Draco studied the array, he was like Hermione in academics although he was more of a prick about knowing things, though it was a close call. He had pulled a few stunts in his time in Edwards classroom, but he had also soon realized that without his friends here it was pretty useless to pit everyone against him, so he had quickly learned to shut up and he has been even pleasant after. After he’d studied it for a moment he said: “I can’t find a fault.”

“And you would be correct with that. This array is perfect, well done Neville and Draco.” he said, he was proud of Neville, the boy seemed to struggle a bit and he had made a mistake in the array last lesson, which is why he had asked the boy about it now.

Before he could transmute Umbridge cleared her throat, he shot her an unimpressed look, which she completely ignored. She asked: “Aren’t you going to give point to their houses for their job well done?”

He pretended to think about it then he said: “Are you asking me to take part in a house culture you created to pit students against each other and base their initial judgments upon which causes discrimination on yet another factor within this school and prevents friendships, because honestly I don’t feel the need to. They get praise when they do well and they learn, that is the reward in my classroom. I read the contract, nowhere does it state that I am required to give or take housepoints. Now, can I go on with my lesson or are you planning on interrupting even longer?”

Umbridge stayed quiet and Edward took that as a sign that she wouldn’t interrupt for now and went on. He did the transmutation and put the crayons by the board, he had been running low. Then he said: “Hannah, could you draw a basic array.”

They went through two more arrays before Umbridge felt the need to interrupt again. He had needed something from the table in the corner and he had walked over there to grab it. She said: “I’m curious, Mister Elric. Why don’t you use accio?”

“You are not curious, you just want to point out that I am a muggle.” he said with a sigh, “I honestly don’t see the need for you to dance around these things, just ask ‘hey, heard you were a muggle, is that true?’ so much easier and faster.”

She was taken aback by this, but quickly recovered sadly enough. She said: “I don’t see the need for your rudeness, Mister Elric. As a teacher of a magical subject it is quite concerning that you aren’t a wizard yourself. Are you even fit to teach?”

“There are a few things I want to address about that statement. Firstly, I don’t like you, so that will be Colonel Elric to you, secondly, Alchemy is science not magic, I will not be swayed on that point and thirdly, I am capable of doing what I teach, which is more than I can say for you, so I don’t understand the cause for your concern.” Edward told her.

“Colonel Elric, I will not be addressed like that.” she spat.

Edward shrugged: “My classroom, my rules. You don’t want to be addressed like you address me then there is the door. Have a good day.”

“You cannot kick me out, I am the High Inquisitor.” she said offended.

“I know, if it’s any help I call my commanding officer General Bastard, so it’s nothing personal. Or you could think it is, I never really got along with him.” this of course was a lie, he and Roy had become pretty good friends and it was now some kind of friendly nickname, but she didn’t need to know that.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she could gather her bearings, then she said: “I will not be kicked out, Colonel, but I do have a few more questions. How did you become a Colonel at, what was your age again?”

Edward rolled his eyes, ugh, this again, he was getting tired and he just wanted to get her out of his clssroom.

“Seventeen.” he replied, “And the whole story is a bit long, so I’ll give you the bullet points. I had to provide for me and my brother, so I became a State Alchemist at twelve. The State can be pretty dumb, they were convinced no child could pass their test and therefore an age restriction wasn’t necessary. I passed, being a State-Alchemist gives you a rank as Major. Are you following me so far? Good. I went on missions and discovered a conspiracy then last year we held a coup and overthrew the corrupt government. The then General Grunman came into power, he was the boss of my boss in the east. Everyone who helped with the coup got a big promotion. So, I am indeed a Colonel at seventeen.”

Everybody was quiet, they had expected a lot, but not this. Umbridge looked quite pale, which honestly, was to be expected, she herself was a government official and she was standing in front of a boy who had helped to overthrow his government at sixteen.

When she had recovered enough she immediately went in for emotional trauma: “Why did you have to provide for you brother at twelve.”

A dark look passed over his face, but he decided what the hell I’m in this hellhole now, might as well make her uncomfortable with my Tragic PastTM. So he said: “Well, it’s not really twelve, bit earlier really. Our dad is out of the picture, my mom died when I was five, but Grandma Pinako took us in. She’s the grandmother of our friend Winry, but her kids are dead too and she has a shop to run, so she didn’t really have the time or money for three kids. After that we lived with our teacher for a while, but she once she was done teaching us we had to leave. You might have had the luxury of a support system, but don’t assume everyone had.”

It was again quiet in the class. Edward wasn’t a private person per say, you could conclude that after the amount of times he had told people, strangers and friends alike, about his human transmutation back home, but he wasn’t someone who shared a lot without reason or prompting, especially not with his classes. He had learned and these people didn’t know him at all, he was a blank slate. He rather fill it with how awesome he was instead of how sad of a life he had lived.

“Well, was that all? Because you just wasted fifteen minutes of my class. In those fifteen minutes my students could have become a little smarter, broadened your tiny magic minds a bit more, but you just prevented that. Congratulations, you fail as a teacher.” he said.

Umbridge didn’t stay quiet, she protested: “‘Magic minds’ ,as you like to call them, aren’t small. You are generalizing.”

He raised one eyebrow and mustered his best unimpressed look as he said: “I find that hard to believe and I could argue that based on how you think I am incapable because of my age and non-magic background or I could generalize even more and ask you, if you look at the entire wizarding world, can you tell me how much it would collapse if magic were to suddenly disappear?”

Then he turned back to the board and wrote down CDR under each other before turning back to the class and asking: “Now, who can tell me what these letters stand for and why they are important?”

They were dismissed and an unhappy Umbridge walked out of the classroom. Hermione was the last one left and she made her way over to Mister Elrics desk. She bit her lip and said: “I know you don’t like to talk after you’ve dismissed us, but aren’t you worried about losing your job?”

He stopped rummaging in his back to give her a smile. “I’m sorry if I worried you there, but Umbridge is an annoying shit who loves power a bit too much. I know her type, but I also know her limitations. She can try to sack me, but I’ve been send over here to make a bridge between our countries, the Ministry doesn’t want to see me go and besides that, I don’t need this job, it might surprise you, but being a Colonel in a military state pays pretty good. I am planning to donate the money I earn here to some kind of charity and to give it some to friends who need it more than me.”

“Oh, now I feel kind of stupid.” Hermione said with a blush.

“Never feel stupid, you probably hear this a lot, but you are very smart. Alchemy is very hard and so far you are picking it up faster than I hoped. You’re going to see me around, but I do want to give you a bit of wisdom. Don’t doubt yourself and never dumb yourself down, you are picking up Alchemy, do not forget it. You are a wizard and from what I see and hear there is a war coming up, use what you learn, because wizards don’t know what to do when they’re faced with muggle solutions.” Mister Elric looked at her intently.

She nodded that she had understood and said: “When you’re giving wisdom like that it’s hard to remember that you’re just seventeen. My friend has two brothers who are your age, but have half the maturity.”

He laughed and thought, thanks it’s the trauma, but he said: “Yeah, I get that pretty often. Hey, you wouldn’t know a good wizard charity, would you?”

“Well, I am the founder of S.P.E.W., it’s for the freedom of house-elves, you should read about them, it’s horrible how wizards treat them.” Hermione said, “but if you think it’s dumb you could donate to St. Mungo’s, it’s the hospital, they could always use some money.”

“S.P.E.W., I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.” and he smiled at her again, then he said: “It’s getting late you’re going to have to run of you want to be in time for you next lesson.”

She paled a bit and cursed as she bid her goodbye and ran out of the classroom. She had so much to tell Ron and Harry at their next DA meeting.

#RR writing #edward elric #bamf edward elric #alchemy teacher edward elric #Professor Elric #colonel Elric #hermoine granger #draco malfoy #neville longbottom #dolores umbridge #dumbledore's army #Harry Potter #fullmetal alchimist brotherhood and harry potter crossover #harry potter au #fma brotherhood #FMA AU #Professor Elric?#Professor Elric? Chapter 6 #SPEW

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eabhaalynn · 5 years

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An Open Letter to the 31 Signatories of the Recall Petition - 18/10/19

Dear MLA

I am writing to articulate my concern and disdain upon hearing that you signed a recall petition calling for the NI Assembly at Stormont to sit this Monday October 21st, especially given the timing of this petition.

This week, we reached one thousand days since we’ve had a functioning assembly. That has been one thousand days of our political decisions being made – not by you, our elected representatives – but by unelected civil servants.

I have come of age in a period of - to put it lightly - political discourse. I am eighteen. When the assembly last sat, I was fifteen. In the time that has elapsed I have gained ten GCSEs three A-levels with an extra AS and got into my dream degree at a brilliant University in England. It was when we reached a year, and then eventually eighteen months without an Assembly, while I continued my studies at excellent schools under excellent teachers in Northern Ireland and watched those schools suffer under your lack of direction and leadership, I decided I could not remain in Northern Ireland any longer than I needed to. I am officially a part of the great ‘brain drain’ of rural Ireland, and I am going to be a great doctor someday in England.

This hurts me. Because I am so proud to be Northern Irish, and I am so proud of my Irish heritage, and I am even prouder again of the place the people of Northern Ireland have made for themselves in the twenty-one years since the Good Friday Agreement. In a deeply divided Society, I have grown up with friends from any and all political and religious persuasion, with all sorts of views on the very issues that have finally brought you back to work. But I could not have stayed in a nation that places the breaching declared human rights from women, pregnant people and the LGBT community, at a higher importance than such vital public services as the NHS and education.

The NHS is something I care very passionately about. I have worked within it, I have spoken to patients and families about waiting lists that are completely unsustainable and unfair on patients and doctors alike, that are out of our control but certainly not out of yours. I have shadowed doctors, nurses and social workers across disciplines in the NHS, who have been working above and beyond their workloads while you looked on doing nothing. I have even been a patient in the NHS at both a Primary and Secondary Care level and experienced the dedication of these health professionals to their work in a time where the service crumbled around them due to you, your party and your assembly’s ineptitude.

While I gathered all of this work and life experience, while I grew up, while you have been taking an all too conveniently timed furlough from work, and before I fled your shambolic elected office at home, I even managed to change schools. After studying at a rural, Catholic non grammar school for five years, I made the jump to St Louis Grammar in Ballymena. This allowed me to pursue my career in medicine in a way I simply would not have been able to if I had stayed at my previous school. Luckily, I thrived at St Louis, and proudly identify as a St Louis alum, but the fact I had to do this is a disgrace. My school was not sufficiently funded to offer the courses I needed at A-Level. It certainly has the calibre of teachers and students; it gets people into medicine almost every year. But it could not have provided me with the subjects I needed to achieve the future which has become my present. This is not the school’s problem. This is a funding problem. The school, like most other schools across the country, is suffering because it is being inadequately supported by the very executive and assembly that was founded to enable it to thrive. But that doesn’t bother you enough to have you sign a recall petition, now, does it? It is now a full two years since I left that school. Its retention rates are going down, along with its budget. Teachers and their students are suffering. Living, born, children are suffering. But to me, the concerned constituent, it appears the plight of children doesn’t bother you after they’ve left the womb?

As I mentioned previously, I moved to St Louis Grammar, where I thrived. St Louis enabled me to sit A-Level politics where I was taught about the functioning of the assembly, which, in my lower sixth, had ‘only’ been down for nine months. Politics informed me on the issues which mattered to me, and those which have mattered to you and your party, and how deeply different they are.

I was raised in a very nationalist area. I was raised Catholic, though I acknowledge my faith is now lapsed. My entire background is catholic and nationalist, and I am as culturally Irish as it gets. Sectarianism was never an issue for me. I never defined people by what church they went to, or what Nationality they said they were. Northern Irish is British, it’s Irish, it’s both. That is a messy but beautiful thing to me, no one else has a country as demographically exciting as we do. This is why I am so disgusted at the blatant sectarianism informing your actions over the last three years, encompassing the lead up to and the collapse of the institutions, and the rhetoric that has been used about Nationalist politicians and their supporters in the time since. Evidently, I care deeply about politics. But I don’t feel represented by any of you! I know from my a-level that representation is one of your main jobs, the only one of the three functions of your role as an MLA that should continue in the absence of the legislature – don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect you to legislate and scrutinise too, that’d be holding my expectations too high.

St Louis also taught me the power of sectarianism that remains in Northern Ireland today. Ballymena remains a dominantly Protestant town, and St Louis’ is the only Catholic grammar there. This almost trebled my Protestant friends, but also reminded me that not everyone was raised in as anti-sectarian manner as I was. While I went for after class coffees with my friends from other schools in the town, indicating other denominations, we would get sneered at. When I went to study in the central library, in the dominantly unionist side of town, I would be met with sectarian abuse, with everything from ‘educated fucking fenian scum’ to having middle aged men spit on me, simply for wearing my school uniform.

You breed this culture, and you have bred this culture for the last three years, by refusing to speak to your political opponents. Once again, your constituents are suffering. Public relations are suffering, hate crime is on an exponential growth curve and you have done nothing but exacerbate these problems for the entire length of time I have been on the electoral register, and even longer again. You, your whole party, the whole assembly (yes, both sides) should be ashamed.

So why did this not push you back to power sharing? Why were ordinary civilians giving and receiving abuse to each other not enough to encourage you to get back into work? How, in your own conscious, is it acceptable for adults to verbally abuse children for their perceived religion in Northern Ireland in 2018-19?

What it did take to get you back to work was the thought of women and the LGBT+ community gaining rights in line with the rest of the United Kingdom which you hold so dear.

I have detailed in this letter how much Northern Ireland has suffered at the hands of your ineptitude and the institutional sectarianism over the last three years. This doesn’t even begin to describe how much the women of Northern Ireland who have had to travel to access what is, essentially, healthcare, have suffered as a consequence of the law here and of the culture of fear you are perpetuating.

I hope you never know what it is like to experience a crisis pregnancy. I hope you are never raped. I hope you are never a victim of incest. I hope these things never happen to me either. But the fact remains, these things happen. They happen every day to women all over Northern Ireland, and they happen to our sisters in Britain and in the Republic of Ireland too. I just rest easier at night knowing that in the most awful of circumstances, I now live under a jurisdiction that values my bodily autonomy.

There is a reasoned argument against abortion, and I do understand, if disagree, with it. But what I cannot understand is how you place removing this right from the women you were elected to serve at a higher priority than educating their children once they are born or providing those who take care of them with the resources they so desperately need.

This letter doesn’t even begin to detail the plight Northern Ireland’s LGBT+ youth. This is because I have no first-hand experience of this myself, but I have watched friends’ mental health suffer consistently, at the hands of an Executive that fundamentally sees them as inferior. How can we keep letting our children grow up in a society like this? How can you claim to be a Christian while allowing those who you’re supposed to represent to suffer the worst mental health epidemic in Northern Irelands history? How can you speak so horribly of the young people that should be your country’s future, simply for how they identify or who they love?

You do not represent me. Your actions this week have only further confirmed this. You are failing at not only your legislative and scrutiny roles, but now – officially – you are failing at your representative role too.

Yours Sincerely,

Eabha Lynn

#northernireland #ni #stormont #politics #feminism

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amarauder · 5 years

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1.1 hermione granger’s society of love; a how to guide

sincerely, the blue and silver gryffindor

a princess of magic novel

draco malfoy x reader

6TH YEAR; WINTER BREAK;

After several hours of more searching, Y/N was forced to admit defeat after the sun began to set over Diagon Alley and Gloria started to complain about her growling stomach. Y/N had brought her friend Gloria along to get some extra supplies before the term started at Hogwarts when they had ran into a rather disgruntled looking McGongall.

"Ms.L/N! Oh, what a wonderful surprise!" Y/N shared a look with Gloria, it was a rather odd sight to see, as most Head of Houses usually weren't delighted to run into a student from another House, "Can I speak with you for a moment? Only a minute or two, you'll be free to return to Ms.Hanks very soon."

Y/N nodded and broke away from her friend, following her Transfiguration teacher out of the crowd. Once they reached the opening between Weasley Wizard Wheezes and Knockturn Alley, Mcgonagall started to talk, "Ms.L/N I have some exciting news for you. Hogwarts is bringing back a class called Herb Potioneering 101. Basically, it's an extracurricular class that gives you a broader sense of potioneering."

"Oh, professor, I barely passed Potions last year. I don't think an extra class on top of all my new NEWT classes is a good idea."

Professor McGonagall did not look impressed at all, but Y/N couldn't tell if it was from her interruption or what she had been saying earlier. Her perked eyebrows said it all, she had one furrowed and the other hiked up so high it almost disappeared behind her hairline. "Ms.L/N I will have you know that it will be very helpful with your career choice." Y/N was startled. She wanted to work with Madame Pamplemousse in Paris and maybe one day open up her own shop of incredible edibles.

Y/N's jaw clenched as she looked away from the Professor's harsh glare, "I don't think I have the grades, Professor."

"Well, if you certainly don't think so, then I will give you a day to think about it. Write back to Hogwarts within a day." Professor McGonagall handed Y/N a letter, "But just so you know Ms.L/N, it is not wise to turn down an opportunity that you are fortunate to be given, especially when you haven't tried it yet." The Professor walked back into the crowd again, leaving Y/N alone with the shock from her words and an envelope holding three very interesting pieces of paper.

♔♕

Forlean Fortescue's Hot Chocolate Shop was as busy as it usually was during the holidays. [a/n; yes, i know Forlean Fortescue owns a ice cream shop, but I have a headcanon that he turns it into a hot chocolate shop during the winter because no one wants ice cream when it's freezing.] Fortunately, Y/N had beaten the crowd of shoppers and got there just in time. She really didn't want to be waiting outside in the cold, it was already bad with Gloria blabbering on about the Malfoy idiot and the trio following him into Knockturn Alley.

"I just don't understand how it happened, Y/N! They just dissapeared! Harry looked mad, do you think Malfoy and Harry will get in a fight just like last year?" Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes, during a quidditch game, in the third year, Gloria had fallen off of her broom from a nasty bludger one of the Weasley Twins had shot at her and Harry had saved her from 'falling to her death', as Gloria liked to call it. Ever since, she had developed a rather idolistic crush on the boy and wouldn't stop talking about him.

"Probably," Y/N mused and sipped on her Hot Chocolate. Y/N took a sneaky glance at the letter that was sat next to her hot chocolate, it was rather fat meaning there were more than one piece of parchment inside. She badly wanted to open it, but didn't know if it was meant to be opened in front of other people. Afterall, Profressor Mcgonagall only pulled Y/N aside, she would have also brought Gloria if she was invited to contribute in the class.

"What's wrong now?"

"Hmm?" Y/N asked, she realized she had forgotten to nod at certain times during Gloria's rant.

"I asked you what was wrong. You started to daydream again. Did your parents forget to send the Head Chef a check again?"

This time Y/N let herself roll her eyes, "No, and I told you not to call him that."

Gloria shrugged and pocketed some of her money she had forgotten to put back inside her money pouch, "Well, that is his job isn't?"

She had to keep her cool, it wasn't fair to Gloria if she snapped at her. It was just got rather frustrating to be around her 24/7, but Y/N guessed that she would get annoyed with anyone's company everyday for the past 6 months. Maybe that was why Hogwarts gave Christmas Breaks, to let their students get away from school work, teachers, and peers for a few weeks. Too bad, Y/N had nailed all in one day.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

Gloria's eyes suddenly lit up and she started to freeze. Her eyes had widened to the size of the moon and she started to shake violently like an earthquake was happening but only under Gloria's seat. "Y/N, Y/N, it's them! It's the Golden Trio!"

Y/N's eyes widened at Gloria's sudden hyper mood, "Gloria, Gloria, calm down, just act cool, okay?"

Gloria nodded so quickly Y/N was scared she was going to hurt her neck, "Quick! Talk about something!"

Y/N looked around nervously, she hated how this stupid situation was now spiking up her anxiety. She didn't need this today and she certainly didn't come to Diagon Alley to stress over the Boy who Lived. "Um," Y/N's eyes picked up the sight of a sign at the front of the store, "They are giving out free Hot Chocolate on Christmas."

"Something interesting!"

"That is interesting," at the sight of Gloria's glare, Y/N stopped, "I'll tell you what McGonagall said." Thankfully, that seemed to catch Gloria's attention. "She asked me to enroll in this class. It's basically an extra potions class. I don't know if I want too though. You know how rubbish I am at Potions-"

"Hah!" Y/N raised her fist in the air triumphantly, "I told you I would turn you British!"

Y/N had been opening up her letter when Gloria had surprised her which unfortunately led to a paper cut, "Merlin's Blue Balls!" Y/N cursed, placing her pointer finger in her mouth. Judging by Gloria's facial expression, it seemed Gloria wanted to shout that out just as much as Y/N did. Her facial coloring was a bright fuchsia and was turnt up into such a weird wrinkly expression she looked immensely like a grape.

"Gloria, what is...oh, hello." Y/N smiled at the trio standing a few inches from them.

"Hello, Y/N." Hermione smiled warmly at the girl, they had been potions partners in fourth year. Y/N was surprised she had remembered her name, "It's Gloria, right?"

The girl nodded still all wrinkly but thankfully, her coloring had changed to a nice bright red, giving her the look of a tomato that had been out in the sun too long. Good thing Gloria liked vegetables otherwise Y/N didn't think she would have liked being compared to them.

Harry looked a bit concerned by Gloria's state but Ron looked more annoyed if anything. Y/N must have shown some sort of displeasure of Ron's being because Hermione elbowed him harshly in the stomach causing him to belch and whine at her.

She, however, ignored him and choose to sit down next to Y/N. She pulled down Ron into the booth next to her who grumbled under his breath. "How have you been, Y/N? It feels like I haven't talked to you in forever."

"Umm, yes, it has been too long." Y/N was confused. Sure, her and Hermione had gotten along quite well during the fourth year and Y/N would even go as far as to call them school friends, but she only would have said that in the fourth year. Now, her and Hermione had grown apart as they weren't forced to talk to each other every time they had potions.

"Hermione," Ron interrupted whatever Hermione was going to say next, "She obviously is confused as to why we are here. Why don't you just do all of us a favor and cut to the chase."

Hermione and Gloria made a sound of protest. It seemed the trio hadn't expected her to say anything and had all turned to her making her turn the last color on the rainbow again. Y/N reached over and patted her knee for reassurance. Gloria grabbed it tightly and forced a tight smile at everyone.

"Fine, Ronald. I was walking over to the line and couldn't help but notice the letter you had. It's the same as mine, you see?" Hermione pulled out the same letter out of her coat pocket, the only difference was hers was open and it wasn't as plump. "I was wondering if you knew anymore information about it. My meeting with McGonagall was cut short." Hermione sent a glare towards Harry who raised his hands in surrender. "Anyway, all I know is that it's an extra Potions class and that only a certain amount of people were picked to be in it."

"Oh, so, it is only a few people." At that comment, Hermione looked disheartened. "Sorry, Hermione, I haven't even opened up the letter yet. I'm probably the wrong person to ask about this."

"It's alright. Do you know who else will be in the class?" When Y/N shook her head, Hermione sighed and nodded. She nudged Ron to let him know to start getting out of the booth, "Well, thank you anyways, Y/N. I'll see you when the term starts, ya?"

Y/N bid goodbye to them, and was about to open her letter when Gloria harshly begged Y/N to bring them back. She said she wanted, no, needed more time with him.

"Hey! Hermione! Why don't you open the letter with me? Maybe mine will have something yours doesn't."

Hermione grinned and turned to the other two boys, "Do you mind if we join you two at your table? Ron wants to get Hot Chocolate real quickly."

Y/N felt herself nodding and turning over to Gloria once they left, "Well, Cassanova, I think by this rate you'll have Harry tied around your finger by Christmas."

Gloria snorted and shoved a laughing Y/N, "Shut up!"

♔♕

The line was pretty long, which gave more time for Gloria and Y/N to plan topic started for Gloria to talk to Harry about. So far, all they had was the topic of Draco Malfoy. Y/N had suggested for her to bring up the time he had saved her. But Gloria had immediately shut it down, claiming that it would be very embarrassing if he didn't remember.

Even though, Y/N thought it would be worth to ask, she could see where Gloria was coming from.

"Hey, guys," Gloria grinned at the Gryffindors, they greeted her back with equal enthusiasm which surprised Y/N. She thought Ron would be a little less vivacious but he seemed pretty content with his Hot Chocolate.

"So, Hermione, I thought I saw Draco with one of those letters. Maybe he's in the class?" Gloria suggested.

The trio exchanged looks, all three of them looking the exact same. Y/N could tell how much time they spent together, overtime people tend to develop the same facial expressions as their friends. "I don't think that's what it was, Gloria," Harry said. Y/N cringed, wondering how Gloria would take it when he disagreed with him. But she looked delighted and Y/N wondered why. She sent Gloria a questioning look, only for her to mouth back 'he knows my name!' Y/N rolled her eyes and set her attention back to Hermione who was arguing with Ron about something.

"So, let's open the letter, shall we?" Y/N asked trying to break up Ron and Hermione's fight and Gloria and Harry's awkwardness.

The table was quiet as she opened it. First there was a letter explaining what Herb Potioneering 101 would consist of, what period it would take over, and the importance of accepting the class. Apparently, Hermione was right there were only a few spots available but Y/N still didn't know if she wanted to take it.

The Second Document was basically a supplies list. She needed the basic Potions supplies, ones she would already have due to Y/N taking NEWT Potions in her Sixth Year. But at the bottom of the list was a book. Y/N would have skinned over the title written in exquisite purple script if the name in the book hadn't caught her eye.

Madame Pamplemousse's Guide to Baking Incredible Edibles

A/N; so it looks like Madame Pamplemousse is a witch? Hmm, interesting very interesting. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I hope to update this book soon! And don't worry Draco will come and meet you very very soon. I mentioned him a bit in this chappy. But it's certainly not enough.

who's your favorite(s) lightining era hp character?

mine is probably Fred and George honestly. Those two made the series... interesting. It's so funny because I feel like no one's favorite character is Harry, I've asked so many people this question and they will be like 'Hermione! Draco! Dumbledore!' Not one Harry, poor chap.

#sincerely the blue and silver gryffindor #draco malfoy x reader #the princess of magic #a princess of magic book

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taesthetes · 6 years

Text

Double-Cross (my heart and hope to die).

Flirting is not the best strategy to fall towards when you might be arrested. It may have to be your last resort if needed, but you have not reached that point of desperation. Well, not yet at least. But god damn, he looks like he would be a good kisser.

pairing: jung hoseok x reader genre: fluff type: enemies to lovers + police au word count: 9,202 words warnings: none author’s note: i hope the fbi doesn’t come after me for my questionable google searches for research. i understand there are proper police procedures, like not letting the witness go until the full statement is taken, and that abetting crime is an offense, but for the sake of this fic, please disregard that one bit.

➵ bangtan police unit: a collab with @milknotes

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

If your mother saw you now, she would be horrified.

Dressed in all black, from your black Converse to black jeans with a hooded sweater in a matching shade, you briefly indulge in your childhood fantasy of being a ninja as you nimbly leap across the three-foot gap between the closely situated two story, flat roofed buildings. Adrenaline rushes through your veins when you make it to the other side, a smile spreading across your face as you steady yourself. The dark colored backpack you had slung over your shoulders mutes the jangled noises inside it from the metal canisters you haphazardly threw in twenty minutes ago. You immediately grab either side of your bag, silencing the noise. Luckily, there are not many people out and about this part of the city at this time of night, thus lowering the number of any witnesses to a zero.

You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes well-adjusted to the nighttime, searching for any security cameras and guards patrolling nearby that you may have missed during your daytime survey. Your search proves fruitless, and you are satisfied, walking towards the blank billboard positioned on top of the building. Clambering up the ladder after putting on gloves, you reach the ledge extending from the large white canvas and drop your bag, unzipping it immediately to pull out several spray cans.

You had spotted the empty billboard a week ago on your way back from an interview at a coffee shop called Déjà Brew, and you have been itching to cover it in brilliant colors ever since. Dozens upon dozens of sketches were made in one of your moleskin notebooks, and you finally settled on the final design. The all-nighter you are about to pull for this artwork is going to be no different than staying up studying for the midterm you had for your Forensics Litigation class eight days ago.

You have always found great pleasure in the irony of being a graduate student attending a law school while simultaneously causing quite a few violations against the legal system as your city’s Banksy-esque Andy Warhol.

Putting on a disposable facemask to block the fumes, you then pick up a canister of blue spray paint and shake it before uncapping it. Taking a deep breath, you press down on the nozzle and begin the background of your masterpiece. So the fun begins. Creating art is almost therapeutic to you, and to be more specific, graffiti is just downright satisfying. It is your equivalent of the universal middle finger salute towards the legal system and towards the degree you so dearly hate. But, as your high school art teacher once said, you need a day job—i.e. accountant or lawyer or whatever stable job there is—to fund your night job, more affectionately known as being an artist. You bet your teacher never thought you would take her words in the literal sense, yet here you are.

The sound of a car rumbling down the street is heard, and instinctively, you get down flat on your stomach. Peering over the ledge, you see a police car making its rounds. It drives into the parking lot of the McDonald’s on the corner, and you groan, wriggling around in your position. An officer leaves the parked car, entering the garishly lighted fast food restaurant, and you want to beat your fist against the metal rungs in frustration. There is no way you are going to continue your art when the police are a few buildings away. You like the thrill that comes with breaking a few laws and the possibility of getting caught, but you certainly are not stupid. Stupidity does not go well on any resume.

You observe silently as the cop rushes out of the restaurant very quickly and hops back into his car, empty handed. You wait for the car to start and move out, but it remains parked. Finally, two cops—the one from before and a new one—emerges from the car and enters the restaurant. A few minutes later, they come out with a young woman in tow. You rest your chin on your hand, propping up your head, as you look on with slight interest. They begin to question her from the looks of it, and you almost tumble over the edge in surprise when the shrill protest voicing several NO!’s is heard along with a shrill cry for “Jooks” and “Kookoo”? You steady yourself and watch as the officers finally manage to calm the girl down and get her to sit in the backseat. When the patrol car starts up and leaves the parking lot, turning the corner and going out of sight, you finally rise up from your position. Stretching your arms for a moment first, at last, you turn back to your unfinished artwork.

When the sky turns to shades of yellow and orange as the sun slowly begins to peek out amongst the skyscrapers, announcing the dawn of a new day, you finish the last curve of your signature in the far bottom left corner, using a small airbrush. The small, curled letters spelling out “Eden” shines due to the fleeting seconds of wet paint. You run your fingertips over the instantly dried letters, tracing every swoop and line with a satisfied smile before collecting your empty canisters and place them back into your backpack, shouldering the bag once more. You clamber down the ladder and deftly retrace your steps back down to ground level, pulling off the gloves and face mask and stuffing them into the front pocket of your hoodie.

Glancing behind you as you make your way back to your shared apartment, you grin as the first rays of sunlight hit the masterpiece you left behind.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“They’ve done it again.”

Lieutenant Yoongi tosses the newspaper onto his desk, his badge glinting in the light, as he rubs his temple with his forefinger tiredly. The black bold letters emblazoned across the top stand out against the gray paper, announcing the pop-up of Eden’s latest work on top of an apartment building. A large photograph of the art piece is shown below the headline. Yoongi remembers passing by that blank billboard for several months now on his way to work. It is amazing how some graffiti work can skyrocket a supposed four digit value to seven digits, according to the advertising company who sold the board this morning.

“Who?” Hoseok sits in the chair across from Yoongi’s desk, one leg crossed over the other leisurely. He picks up the discarded newspaper, scanning the front page, as Yoongi answers his question.

“The graffiti artist, Eden. They left another painting on that billboard near McDonald’s.”

“It’s pretty.” Hoseok gazes at the picture beneath the black letters. With an asymmetrical background consisting of geometric lines mirroring architect blueprints behind it in technicolor, a field of sunflowers are painted onto the board. In replacement of the roots, there are lightbulbs hanging from the stem. “It’s a nice gesture towards solar energy.”

“Graffiti is illegal. Just because it’s pretty doesn’t mean law violations can be ignored,” Yoongi reminds him, leaning back against his chair and picking up another casefile to rifle through. “I know you like their art a lot, but Eden defaced public property, and this isn’t Venice Beach.”

“It’s not like they’re painting on highway signs and important monuments though. It’s just empty walls and unimportant places. They make the place look prettier and brings up tourism and value to the building owners. That flower shop—What in Carnation? was the name, I think—was about to close, but they painted the store's outer wall and brought customers back.”

“It’s still a violation.”

“So are you saying we’re going to arrest Eden? Start a press conference and announce the search for some mystery figure whose art the people enjoy?”

“No, that’s far too much work, and we have other more pressing cases to get through,” Yoongi sighs, “Just tell the officers on night patrol to keep an eye out, you know, on places like other empty billboards, open walls, and the likes. And that McDonald’s breaks aren’t allowed. We don’t want to babysit any more drunk exes.”

“But Jungkook brought you extra doughnuts as an apology today.”

“… Tell him to keep the McDonald’s breaks to a minimum of one patrol per week.”

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Stepping out of the classroom after your last lecture in Criminology and Criminal Procedure, you say a quick goodbye to your friends before putting on your headphones and making the trek back to your apartment. Your professor assigned several case studies to read through and take notes on, and you luckily have a couple of hours to get started on them before your first shift at Déjà Brew. Passing under a familiar powder blue and white striped awning with gold trimming, you halt in your steps, debating with yourself for a few moments, before entering Sprinkles. You always study better in someplace that is not your home anyway.

The cozy interior is well lit with lights overhead that provides a soft, warm glow to the place. The décor gives off a sort of modern take on a 1950s diner atmosphere due to the black and white checkered floors and white counters with pale blue spinning stools to sit on along with several matching tables and chairs. However, your eyes are immediately drawn to the glass display cases exhibiting some of the prettiest doughnuts you have ever seen. You secretly check to make sure you are not visibly drooling.

“Hey, _______!” Jisoo greets you happily as she places three pristine sprinkled doughnuts in a pale blue box behind the counter. A young man around your age sits by the counter, and his eyes, pooling with something akin to mischief and curiosity, flicker towards your approaching figure. You study him carefully from the corner of your eye as you wave to Jisoo before slipping onto one of the empty stools, a few seats away from the man. His silver, slightly messy hair nearly reaches his eyes, effectively covering his eyebrows, and his thin, patterned tie is somewhat undone over a white dress shirt with a few buttons already undone, loosely tucked into his dress pants. He gives you a bright grin, and you flush a little, but return his gesture with a smile of your own.

“Here you go, Tae.” Jisoo hands the completed box over to the man, and an even larger smile makes his way across his face before he thanks her.

“Thank you! See you tomorrow!” He waves at her before flashing you another easygoing smile and leaving the shop.

“So what’s happening tomorrow?” You send an impish smirk towards your friend, and her cheeks turn a rosy red.

“Nothing! He just comes by to pick up doughnuts for the police station every morning.”

“But it’s the afternoon. Does he inhale doughnuts or something?” You absentmindedly say, pulling your laptop out of your bag and onto the counter along with the printed out casefiles your professor handed out at the end of the lecture. Rummaging around the bottom of your bag, you take out your highlighters and pen and place them next to your laptop, turning on the device afterwards.

“No, he likes the sprinkled ones, but his boss, Yoongi, likes old fashion glazed doughnuts, and he usually gets only that type every morning for the whole squad. So he comes back later for the sprinkled ones.” Jisoo places a sugar powdered doughnut in front of you, and you thank her, making a mental note to slip a few bills in the glass jar labelled “tips” later. She always refused to let you pay her, but you manage to sneak in some money through tips when she is not looking.

“But he could get his sprinkled doughnuts in the morning still.” A sly look creeps onto your face before you continue, “He likes you.��

“Shut up.” Her face burns scarlet as she turns away from you. “He does not.”

“Yes, he does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does.”

“No, h—Oh, hello, welcome to Sprinkles!”

Jisoo stands up straighter, smiling politely at the new group of high school aged customers, and you snicker quietly, ignoring the pointed look she directs at you. You start to focus on your work, powering through the thick stack of cases and highlighting the important pieces of information, writing notes of your own on the edges.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Two weeks later, you are absolutely exhausted from the all-nighters and long hours at the library, but midterm season is finally over. You had finished taking your last midterm three hours ago in which you were proven correct that you should have studied the Wong Sun v. United States case in greater detail. But what is done is done, and your fingers are itching to grasp another spray can and paint your newest idea for a pollution piece on the wall near Cuppo Noodles. The canisters hidden in your bag clank against each other as you weave your way around other sleep deprived students coming home from late class midterms. The sun has already set, leaving the faintest traces of light behind, and it is only a short matter of time when the night sky will cloak over the city and provide you the perfect coverage.

You drop by the convenience store, deciding to treat yourself to some ice cream, as you wait for the number of people outside and within the vicinity to thin out. After all, the less number of witnesses the better. You find a place to sit in the front of the store, slipping onto the stool and placing your purchase on the counter table in front of you. From your vantage point, you can see through the shop glass, monitoring the social activity and scoping out the wall that can just barely be seen if you strain your neck a little to the right.

Scooping out a hefty amount of Ben and Jerry’s Everything But The… straight out of the pint and onto your spoon, you almost moan out loud when the sweet dessert hits your tongue. Indulging in one of your guilty pleasures should make you feel, well, guilty, but you do not. The ice cream is well deserved after two weeks of midterms. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. When the tip of your spoon scrapes the bottom of the carton, you look longingly at the other cartons stacked neatly in the freezer, almost beckoning at you to buy another one. But temptation is fleeting in front of desire, and you desire nothing more than to paint your piece onto the bricks. Noticing the lack of activity outside the now quiet street, lit up by the lampposts, you take it as your cue to leave, throwing away the empty cardboard container and stepping out of the convenience store. Briefly stopping to drop your bag at your feet momentarily, you pull on a dark zip-up hoodie and then put on the backpack once more.

From any passerby’s point of view, you probably look very shady, but no one is in sight. The majority of the people who frequent these streets are usually students who go to the university, and around this time, especially on a Friday night after many midterms came to an end, they are all much too preoccupied with beer pong and shots at parties on Greek Row a few streets over. Aside from the cashier wearing noise cancelling headphones who is more interested in the tabloid magazine she is thumbing through than the girl who was eating ice cream alone, you do not see anyone else around. With the odds in your favor, you easily make it to the wall, ducking into the small alleyway. It was not exactly a street, but more of a small walkway with small shops lined on either side. Setting down your bag, you pull out a pair of gloves and a facemask, donning them on, before reaching into your backpack and grasping for the purple spray paint can. You uncap the canister and begin to paint, a satisfied smile making its way across your face, hidden beneath the black facemask.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

No one, especially when they are drunk, ever notices the figure dressed in dark clothing who blends quite easily into the shadows. And the six people who had passed by you at various times throughout the night were very much intoxicated. The moonlight does not provide much light and works to your advantage, creating the cloak of darkness that you effortlessly merge into. You hold a flashlight in one hand and a spray can in the other. Four hours pass by easily, and you are three quarters done with your art piece by the time the clock strikes 2 A.M. The background and overall shapes and colors of each item have taken shape, and you are almost tingling with excitement to begin your favorite part: the details. Details make the art or break it. They bring any piece to life with just an extra splash of color here or an extra dash and line there.

Rummaging around your bag for the airbrush, you suddenly hear the incoming sounds of tires screeching against the asphalt. You look up, eyes widening when you spot two cars racing down the street at an alarming rate, and your mind somehow knows what is going to happen a split second before it does.

A resounding crash! is heard before the second car stops in its place and the first car rams against a fire hydrant with a sickening thud.

Heart racing, you wonder if you should go out there and check on the people. A deafening silence fills the air for the entirety of three seconds before loud screams suddenly fill the air as the two drivers emerge from their vehicles, surprisingly unscathed and unbelievably furious.

“You fucking bitch! Look what you did to my car! You’re gonna pay for this!” The man is seething as he stalks towards the woman, who looks up from her car against the hydrant with fury radiating from her skin.

“I’ll pay for it when you pay the damn alimony and child support!” the woman screams back. “Besides, you hit my car, asshole!”

“There is no alimony! My lawyer already told you that!”

“There will be after this new lawsuit!”

Hurriedly, you scoop all your supplies back into your bag as quietly as possible, zipping it up and carefully putting it on to avoid any of the cans from clashing. All the shops nearby are already closed, and no one else is close by. Your hand finds your phone in the back pocket of your jeans, quickly pulling it out and searching for the anonymous tip number with shaky hands. You dial it, and when someone answers, your voice comes out in hushed whispers.

“Hello? Yes, I’d like to report anonymously a car accident near Atwood Avenue and Bowman Street—Yes, Bowman Street. The car crash looks bad, but it doesn’t look like anyone is hurt—Yes, I can see them. They got out of their cars, and they’re screaming at each other… I’m afraid they’re going to get violent… I’m hiding right now—Yes, okay, thank you.”

A few minutes later, the sound of sirens are heard, and the police cars slow to a stop in front of the accident. The officers and EMTs step out of the vehicles, walking towards the arguing couple. The erratic pounding of your heart slows down considerably as you breathe a sigh of relief. The man, on the other hand, seems to have opposite feelings than you about the police showing up. He immediately starts running, and with growing horror, you realize he is running towards the alleyway you are cooped up in. You press yourself against the wall, huddling in the shadows of a large planter and some folded up tables and chairs.

The man runs past you without notice, and the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching forces you to burrow into your hiding space even farther. Two police officers, one who looks like he belongs in a gym and another with rather spindly legs, rush past you. After waiting a few minutes with bated breath, you stand up from your position, cautiously making your way out of the alley.

Only to be met with another pair of officers.

Immediately, you are blinded with a bright light, and you let out a noise of surprise, hand coming up to cover your eyes.

“Taehyung! You’re not supposed to do that!” A soft voice scolds the supposed officer who made you temporarily lose your vision. The light is immediately lowered, and you try to blink away the spots to see clearly again.

“Wait… I think I know her though. Were you at Sprinkles?” The officer with the flashlight peers intently at your face, and you squint, trying to make out his features before finally making sense of the situation. You recognize that silver hair. “Jisoo didn’t tell me her boyfriend was a cop.”

The flashlight falls with a clatter to the ground as Taehyung looks startled before suppressing a grin. “She called me her boyfriend?”

You rub your eyes slightly, blinking rapidly as your vision returns to normal. “No, I just assumed. You’re not her boyfriend?”

“No, he just wants to be.” The softer voice cuts in again before he can respond. A man dressed in the same uniform as Taehyung, but of shorter stature, comes into your view. “What were you doing out here?”

“I was out for a walk, and I heard running, and my instinct kicked in.” You shrug before shifting the bag on your shoulder a bit. “Can I go now?”

“You were out for a walk this late?”

You squint slightly and are able to make out the name on his uniform. “Yes. Is that a crime, Officer Park?”

“Wearing that?” Taehyung blurts out as he stares at your all black ensemble dubiously.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was talking to the fashion police.” Taehyung flushes and gives you a sheepish smile. You cross your arms over your chest. “Can I go now, officers?”

“Not yet. What’s in your bag?” Officer Park questions.

“My belongings.” Your irritation is about to bubble to the surface. This is what you get for trying to do a good deed and reporting an accident.

“May I see?” Officer Park comes closer, his hand reaching out, before you take a few steps back.

“Do you have probable cause?”

“Do you have something to hide?”

You open your mouth to answer when Taehyung pipes up. “Nevermind that. Did you see anything when you were walking? There was an accident. Did you hear anything?”

You pause for a moment. “I heard yelling and sirens.”

“Would you come down to the station to make a witness statement?”

“No.” You start to back away again. “I really need to go home now. I have classes the next day, and I need to sleep now.”

“Ma’am, you need to come with us.” Officer Park steps forward, grabbing your arm, and your eyes narrow as your body jerks back from his grasp. You briefly glance over to the ambulance where the woman sits in the back, seething, as an EMT checks her over. She throws over a glare that sends a shiver up your spine.

“You have a witness over there.”

“But she’s also involved in the accident. We need you to come down to the station.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Jimin, wait.” Taehyung grasps Officer Park’s wrist, pulling him back, before turning towards you, pleading. “Please just come with us down to the station? The statement won’t take long. You’re not under arrest.”

You hesitate. Taehyung’s eyes are filled with sincerity, but Jimin looks like he is already ready to whip out a ticket for you with the way he stares you down. Your eyes flicker back to Taehyung, and you curse yourself for thinking of your friend at this moment. Gosh darn it, she really seems to like this Taehyung dude, you internally groan.

With a sigh, you nod, and Taehyung grins in relief before gesturing you to follow him to the car. Jimin trails behind you suspiciously, and you send him a well-pointed scowl, which causes his face to morph into one of surprise for a split second before he returns the look. You quicken your pace and hover around the car’s side with the passenger seat uncertainly as Taehyung gets into the driver’s seat, flicking on the police radio.

“So am I going to have to sit in the back?”

“No.” Jimin speaks up, leaning against the hood of the car. “We have to stay here and watch over the lady and wait for the other two officers to come back with our runaway suspect, so Taehyung is calling in for the sergeant to come pick you up.”

“Okay.”

A slightly uncomfortable silence overtakes the short lived conversation, and you pull at the loose thread on your sweater sleeve mindlessly. The sound of a car door slamming shut is heard as Taehyung comes around the front of the car and murmurs to Jimin that someone named Hoseok will be here in a few minutes. You assume he is the sergeant Jimin mentioned earlier.

Your assumption proves to be correct when a car identical to the two already here appears, and the man that steps out introduces himself to you. “I’m Sergeant Jung, but you can call me Hoseok. You’re our witness?”

“Yes… unfortunately.” You mumble the last part under your breath as Hoseok guides you to his car, opening the passenger door for you to slide in. You settle into the seat, clutching your backpack to your chest. Hoseok speaks to the two officers, and they gesture towards the alleyway, mentioning an Officer Jeon and an Officer Kim. The sergeant jogs over to the area, looking around for a bit with a flashlight, before returning with a frown. He shakes his head at something Jimin says before coming over and getting into the driver’s seat. He starts the car, and Taehyung waves at you, while Jimin still holds a look of suspicion directed towards you on his face.

“So,” Hoseok clears his throat, and you turn to look at him. “What were you doing out here this late?”

“Did the police academy teach all of you to start a conversation with that, Sarge?”

“What?” Hoseok looks taken aback, and you turn forward, focusing on the white dashed lines on the black asphalt.

“Never mind. I don’t understand why I have to come down to the station. I heard screaming and sirens. That’s all. Do you really need me to write that down on a piece of paper?”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure? Are you doubting my ears now?”

Hoseok glances over at you silently before focusing on his driving. The rest of the ride remains quiet, and you pull out your phone, replying to a few unopened text messages. In particular, you send a message to Jisoo, telling her where you were and why. A flurry of worried texts appears on your phone, asking if you are alright and if she needed to come down. You send a quick message back, assuring her that you are okay and that you will keep her updated, before Hoseok pulls up in front of the police station.

“We’re here.”

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The two of you are seated in a small room, similar to a conference room. At least you were not put in an interrogation room, you muse to yourself, settling down into the office chair. You had caught a glimpse of the stoic lieutenant in his office, and the piercing stare he gave you when he looked up made you walk closer to the sergeant in front. Said sergeant now slides a yellow paged notepad in front of you, placing a pen on top of it. Your backpack remains in your lap as you grab the writing utensil.

“Please write your name and what you saw and heard.” Hoseok states, and you give him a curt nod before printing your name on top and rapidly penning down the events that took place.

I was taking a walk around 2 A.M. when I heard a loud crash. There was screaming. The man threatened the woman, and the woman was yelling about alimony and child support. The woman said she would file a new lawsuit. I hid behind the dumpster. I was there for a few minutes before I heard sirens. I saw the man run past me and two officers followed behind him. I stayed there for a few more minutes before getting out of my hiding spot. Then, Officer Kim shined his flashlight in my face, and Officer Park interrogated me.

“There. Can I go now?” You watch cautiously as Hoseok picks up the paper and reads through what you have written. His eyebrows furrow slightly before he puts down the notepad.

“So, _______... are you sure this is it?”

“I wrote what I saw and heard, like you asked.”

There is a muffled noise near the door, and the two of you immediately look over, but hear nothing else. Wanting to resume the conversation, Hoseok hesitates before tentatively saying, “You see, we received an anonymous tip on that car accident. The officers were on the scene in less than a few minutes. The stores nearby were all closed, and you were the only one there, besides the two in the accident. So my theory is that you were the one who called.”

“That’s an interesting thought, Sarge, but you can’t hold me here for a theory. So I’ll be going now.” You move to stand up, but Hoseok stands up quickly situating himself in your line of path.

“Please. We only have the female in custody, but they’re still in pursuit of the male. You’re the only one who can provide an unbiased account of what happened.”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to leave.” You clutch your bag a little tighter to your chest, and Hoseok’s eyes flit towards the backpack.

“What’s in the bag?”

“My belongings. Officer Park already asked me this. Can you please move so I can leave?”

“May I see it?”

“No, you may not.”

“Are you hiding something?” He reaches out for your bag, and you pull back.

“This is my personal property, and you cannot search it without probable cause.”

“You’re on public property.”

“The bag has been in my possession this entire time and has not touched the floor. Are you really trying to argue that there has been some sort of property transference the moment I step on public property?”

The sergeant raises an eyebrow before pulling his hands back. “No, I’m sorry. But you were out for a walk wearing that?”

“There’s nothing illegal about taking a walk in dark clothes.” You pause. “Look, I came in here to give you a witness statement out of the good of my heart because Officer Kim asked. If you’re turning this into some sort of interrogation, then you have no grounds to hold me, and I will be leaving now.”

Hoseok sighs before motioning to the pad. “Okay. You can go now.”

He sits there lost in thought, tapping his finger against the surface. He contemplates over his next actions, carefully scrutinizing you. Hoisting your backpack over your shoulder, you walk out of the room before you hear him call out, “Do you need a ride home? It’s the least I can do for you helping us.”

You stop in your tracks. It is late after all, and walking back to your place at this time of night alone is not the safest decision. “Yes, please.”

You and Hoseok walk through the station wordlessly. You see the two officers who had run past you in the alley, locking up the man in one of the holding cells. The taller one raises an eyebrow towards Hoseok, who hand motions something towards the man with a nod. The two of you leave the building and reach his squad car, and you situate yourself into the passenger seat once more. Hoseok waits for your seatbelt to click on before pulling out of his parking space. You give him the directions to your apartment, and he punches it into the GPS.

“So are you a student?” Hoseok asks, and you stop fiddling with the small keychain hooked onto your bag.

“Yes.”

Hoseok suppresses a smile at your curt answer. “What are you studying?”

“I’m a third year law student.”

“Huh. Figures.”

You turn towards the sergeant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s something ironic about a law student moonlighting as a graffiti artist, isn’t there?” he casually states, and your blood runs cold. You freeze in your spot for a millisecond before turning towards the man. A small smirk plays on his lips as he gently taps his finger against the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the art when I went to check the alleyway. I bet if I check your bag right now, I’d find spray cans and paint matching the paint on the wall. And, I believe I do have probable cause now to check it.”

He pulls over onto the side of the street beneath one of the street lights. The yellow glow casts various shades of light onto his face. You admit you would be shamelessly admiring his side profile had you not been in this current predicament, sweating it out at the moment. Flirting is not the best strategy to fall towards when you might be arrested. It may have to be your last resort if needed, but you have not reached that point of desperation. Well, not yet at least. But god damn, he looks like he would be a good kisser. Focus on the situation, you chide yourself, stop getting distracted by the hot sergeant.

“Unfortunately for you, Sarge, spray paint is generic. Hundreds of people buy it. Hypothetically, if I had some and it matched, it would be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps. But I have enough for reasonable suspicion.”

“What if I give you a full witness statement in exchange for letting me go on this hypothetical misdemeanor?”

Hoseok stays quiet, and you can hear your heartbeat thudding erratically in your chest. If this goes on your record, it will definitely result in a blow to your career’s credibility. You swallow hard, clutching your bag even tighter to your chest, as your hands form fists, nails pressing crescent shaped marks into your palms.

“Now that’s not really a fair deal, is it?”

“I would have to do a hundred hours of community service if I am charged. You, on the other hand, without the witness statement, would be involved in a civil suit between two people who are clearly in the midst of a bad divorce. Do you really want to be tied up with days, maybe months, of court appearance and paperwork? And you know damn well how long divorce lawyers will prolong their cases until they milk both sides dry of their money.”

You can see Hoseok swallow hard when the full weight of your words hit him, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You got him: hook, line, and sinker. You have the upper hand now. You had heard the lieutenant of the Bangtan Police Unit was a hard ass, but perhaps lady luck was shining upon you because you got the sergeant instead. Hiding your smirk, you continue, “And I can sue your officers—Officer Park and Officer Kim, was it? —for harassment. I will be suing for the way Officer Park was interrogating me earlier after Officer Kim nearly blinded me when I was walking back. Officer Park roughly grabbed my arm. I’ll also be needing the footage from his body camera as evidence.”

Hoseok nearly swears out loud. Jimin had always been a good officer, but his recent break up has clouded his judgement for the past few weeks. He decides to put out his last bargaining chip. “Now, let’s not be hasty here. I’m sure we can work this out… right, Miss Eden?”

All the cards have been pulled out now. The both of you have played your last pawn, but it is your turn to move. And hearing that moniker slip through his teeth, your heart drops through your ribcage for a second time that night. “What did you call me?”

Hoseok tilts his head to the right, a half smile peeking out on his face. “Eden. Who knew the famous law-breaking artist of our city is also a good Samaritan? That’s why you called in an anonymous tip. Because you were committing a law infraction yourself.”

“I’m not Eden. I’m a very big fan of their work though.”

He chuckles, “Really? So you’re telling me that if I drop you off at your address, you’re not going to go back to that wall and paint the rest? And I won’t find the Eden signature at the bottom? I know you artists are very particular with credit.”

You stay silent, and Hoseok smiles in satisfaction. “I thought so. How about this: it’s late, and we both need sleep. You can come back in the morning and give me a full witness statement. I’ll drop any charges on vandalism, and you drop that civil suit against my officers.”

“Any charges on vandalism?”

“Yes.”

You hesitate. “Will you tell anyone?”

“No, I won’t. I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

You let out a tiny smile at the childish rhyme. “Why?”

Hoseok shrugs. “You called in the crime, while you were committing a crime, too. You were willing to get caught for the safety of others. I don’t know if that makes you a good person or an idiot. I’m still debating.”

“Hey!”

He chuckles, “Do we have a deal or not?”

“Okay, fine, deal.”

“Good. Now here’s my number. You call me if anything goes wrong, but try not to get caught, okay?”

“Wha—” You confusedly take the slip of paper he hands you, but your sentence cuts off short when you see the car is parked near a very familiar alleyway. Wide eyed, you look back at him as he shrugs before gesturing for you to go.

“I thought you might, you know, want to walk back to your place. From here. Instead.”

Scrambling, you open the door and step out, tossing the backpack over your shoulders. You step out onto the sidewalk before closing the car door. He rolls down the window, calling out, “I’ll be going back to the station now. Remember to come back in the morning. Stay safe and be careful, Miss Eden.”

You stand on the edge of the sidewalk, fingers curled around the scrap of paper, and watch as his car disappears around the corner. You smile softly to yourself before sending a quick text to Jisoo and entering the smaller alley street. Sliding the paper slip into your back pocket, you put down your backpack and pull out a white spray can.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“Sergeant, you remember that girl you picked up for the witness statement?”

Jimin stands in front of Hoseok’s desk, clutching a newspaper in his hand. Hoseok slowly looks up from the paperwork scattered across the table surface, putting down the fountain pen with a small thud against the wood. Peering up at his officer, he quickly melds his face into one of indifference.

“Yes, what about her?”

His officer drops the inked paper onto his desk. “Look at this. Eden left another art piece on the wall of the same alleyway we caught her. Do you think she’s the artist?”

Unbelievable. The newspapers already swooped around the art like vultures. It has not even been five hours since he had dropped you off there. Emblazoned across the top in black and white is a large, bold headline about another Eden artwork cropping up in the city.

“I checked that alley with a flashlight, remember? I didn’t see this there when I looked around.” He taps the picture on the front page of the newspaper. Technically, he thinks to himself, what he says is true. He only saw the partially completed image then, not the entirely finished work.

“Maybe she was going to paint, but that accident happened. Did you check her bag? Maybe she went back and painted it after giving her witness statement.” Jimin persists, and for once, Hoseok wishes Jimin is not as thorough at his job as he usually is.

“Her bag was cleared. She’s coming back here sometime soon to give her statement. I personally drove her back. She gave me her home address. She also mentioned something about you grabbing her arm.” Hoseok raises an eyebrow at his officer, who immediately bows his head in shame.

“I made a mistake. I apologize, sir.”

“I convinced her not to file a civil suit. I know you’ve been… a little preoccupied with things outside of work, but please be more careful, Park.”

“Yes, sir. I will. Thank you.”

Jimin leaves quickly afterwards, and Hoseok lets out an inaudible sigh of relief. That was a close one. He picks up the newspaper, gazing down at the picture. The wall is covered with a beautiful sunset with a beach and mountains incorporated into the image. However, when he takes a closer look, the entire painted scenery is actually made up of crushed soda cans, candy wrappers, chewed gum, banana peels, and other items easily found in landfills and recycling centers. It is interesting, he muses, a small smile on his lips, sunsets are created from air pollution, yet they’re so beautiful, and you managed to depict the same concept with the scenery created entirely of garbage. A pollution piece is found within another pollution piece.

He carefully sets aside the newspaper before he sorts through the various files, stacking them into appropriate sections. He finds the file on the car accident and flips open the manila folder, pulling out the freshly printed images of the car crash. Copies of the lawsuits that were quickly faxed over are found as well, and he sighs as he reads through the transcripts and papers before staring at the pictures once more. It would have become another he said, she said case if you were not there to witness it, which would, without a doubt, become even messier with the ongoing divorce lawsuit. He is about to take a closer look at one particular photo when—

"Wow, you look terrible."

Hoseok looks up to see Seokjin, standing in front of his desk, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he looks great. There is no surprise in that. "Thanks. I really appreciate that."

"No, it's just that—have you slept yet? Those eye bags are pretty dark."

“Hoseok, it’s eight A.M. Did you even go home at all? I thought I told you to take a day off today after that night case.” Yoongi appears at the sergeant’s desk and stares at the open casefile over Hoseok’s shoulder. “You’ve been overworking and staying overtime too much. You need a break.”

“Morning, Lieutenant. He’s just waiting for the cute witness to show up,” Taehyung says, grinning cheekily before holding out a box of Yoongi’s favorite sugary fried delicacies, “Want a doughnut?”

Yoongi quickly grabs one, but not without sending a frown towards the sergeant. “Are you seeing her? You know that’s against policy. We can’t get involved with anyone in an open case.”

“No! No, I’m not.” Hoseok hastily denies, cheeks burning. “I just told her to come by in the morning to give me her witness statement. And I thought it would be better if she spoke to the same person. For consistency, you know?”

Yoongi eyes him suspiciously before giving him a nod and starting his trek to his office. Seokjin follows behind him, prepared to give the lieutenant his weekly report. Hoseok quickly turns to Taehyung to give him the stink eye, but the mischievous, silver haired officer is nowhere to be found. The only sign of his past presence is the box of old fashion glazed doughnuts and sprinkled chocolate ones with one of each missing left on Hoseok’s desk. Sighing, he grabs one with the rainbow sprinkles and is about to take a bite when—

“Hey, Sarge.”

“_______!” Hoseok’s eyes widen before they dart around, and he is slightly flailing until his eyes spot the powder blue and white striped box. “Uh, doughnut?”

You smile before declining, “I actually had one before I came. My friend runs that shop actually. But thank you for the offer.”

“O-oh, no problem.” Hoseok gestures towards the familiar conference room. “Would you be more comfortable giving me your statement in there?”

“Sure, thanks.”

You follow behind him as he leads you towards the room, writing utensil and notepad in hand. The two of you quietly sit down, and he hands you the pen, pushing the notepad across the table surface towards you. You write down your account of the events carefully, the tip of your tongue sticking out slightly as you concentrate on scribbling down all the details you can remember.

Hoseok fidgets around in his chair, finally settling on a position before interlocking his hands and placing them on the table in front of him. He keeps his gaze on you, eyes flitting around curiously. He catches the way your hand pushes the soft flyaway tendrils of your hair behind your ear, the faintest color of marigold on the tip of your pointer finger. He smiles to himself when he sees your nose scrunches slightly for a moment as your eyes scan what you have finished writing.

“Here you go, Sarge.”

“Thank you.” He takes the notepad from you, looking over what you have written down and nodding in satisfaction. “This is really helpful. Thanks, _______.”

“No problem.” You stand up and start to leave the room, but stop. You hover in the doorway, wavering before saying at last, “Why did you let me go?”

“Hmm?” He looks up from the paper.

You repeat yourself, “You could have charged me. Why did you let me go?”

Hoseok tilts his head to the side, giving you a small grin as he rests his chin on the palm of his hand. “I decided that you’re a good person.”

“Oh.” The look of surprise that crosses over your face earns you a small chuckle from the sergeant. You stay silent for several seconds before asking the second question that has been on your mind for the past hours.

"How did you know it was Eden's work?"

His eyes twinkle before he gives you a small wink that causes your cheeks to warm up considerably. “I’m a huge fan of Eden. They’re making the city look more beautiful and raising awareness for environmental issues.”

You feel yourself flush even more as you duck your head sheepishly. You fiddle with the thin silver bracelet around your wrist for a moment before speaking up, “I have an art exhibition in a couple of weeks… Would you like to come?”

Hoseok beams, nodding his head. “I’d like that a lot.”

You give him a relieved smile before telling him the date of the unveiling and writing down your phone number. “How about we meet up at The Bean around 8 A.M. and walk over there together?”

“Sounds great.”

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Hoseok’s phone buzzes a few hours later during his lunch break. He puts down his sandwich, peering down at the device. A tiny smile spreads across his face when he sees it is from you, several text messages popping up.

[12:13] you: hey sarge

[12:13] you: there’s something I don’t get

[12:13] you: when you saw it in the alley, there was no signature

[12:13] hoseok: yes what about it?

[12:14] you: then how did you know it was eden?

[12:14] hoseok: it was a hunch

[12:15] you: pretty accurate hunch you had

[12:16] you: did you study art styles in the police academy or something

[12:16] hoseok: nope

Hoseok’s fingers hover over the keyboard. He bites his bottom lip, contemplating for a few moments, before lightly tapping out his reply and hitting send.

[12:16] hoseok: have you ever seen the old walls on the east side

[12:17] you: yeah why

[12:17] hoseok: the art there is pretty old but

[12:18] hoseok: have you seen the ones by jhope?

Immediately, he sees the three bubbles pop up, and he holds his breath, waiting for your response.

[12:18] you: are you kidding me sarge

[12:18] you: you’re jhope???

[12:18] you: the collab pieces between jhope and agust d are still legends

Hoseok’s lips curl into another smile. Secretly, pride blooms in his chest. As an angsty teenager, he quite liked the thrill and fun that came with being a tagger. Of course, he had to stop after he decided to attend the police academy with his best friend.

Another buzz from his phone brings his attention back to you.

[12:19] you: wait then who’s agust d

He grins, glancing over at Yoongi. The lieutenant raises an eyebrow at him, but Hoseok just shakes his head before writing his answer.

[12:19] hoseok: you know the lieutenant?

[12:19] you: you’re shitting me

[12:19] you: oh my god

[12:20] hoseok: impressed? ^^

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Hoseok had finally taken a day off after much badgering on Yoongi’s part. Specifically, he took the day of your art exhibition off. Donning a dark washed, blue denim jacket with a loose striped shirt tucked into his ripped black jeans, he looks like any other passerby without his usual formal ensemble. The Bean is not too far from his apartment, and the weather was good, so he decides to walk over there. He is glad that the car accident case had been smoothed over and dealt with after a few days. The other cases he still has are more in the open and shut range, so he is not really losing sleep over any particular one. And he has been texting back and forth with you more often as well. In fact, he checks his phone as it vibrates and sees one from you.

[07:58] you: sorry I’m running a few minutes late but I’ll see you soon!

He sends back a short message, assuring you that it was fine. However, when he turns the corner, he finally sees a large crowd jostling around the bustling coffee shop, phones all out and taking pictures of whatever is in front of them. Hurriedly, he makes his way over, fearing the worst before edging himself through the mass of people before finally reaching the front of the crowd. And he gasps, eyes widening in disbelief and cheeks reddening.

On the wall next to the shop, a new mural is on display. The police badge has been painstakingly painted onto the bricks in multicolor along with the silhouette of a police officer that is unmistakably him. The word “Hope” has been written over and over again in a sort of chain link, winding around the badge and silhouette. The telltale signature of Eden is found in the bottom right corner.

His phone vibrates in his hand once more, and he looks down quickly to see another message from you.

[08:03] you: so what do you think of my art exhibit, sarge?

A smile blooms on his face as the corners of his lips tilt upwards, and he swiftly taps out a response and presses send, his heart nearly thudding out of his chest.

[08:04] hoseok: it’s beautiful

[08:04] hoseok: but not as beautiful as the artist ♡

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

DELETED B99 INSPIRED SCENE:

Investigation: noise by the door Filed By: Jung Hoseok Persons of Interest: Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi Time: 02:43 A.M., during the collection of _______’s initial statement Place: Bangtan Police Precinct

“I heard Tae and Jimin caught an uncooperative witness for the car accident,” Seokjin casually says, lounging in the chair placed in front of Yoongi’s desk.

The lieutenant makes a noncommittal noise as he continues to peruse the files laid out in front of him. However, the somewhat noisy entry of two people causes him to look up. He catches your eye with a steely look, and he holds back a smile when he notices you sidle up closer to Hoseok almost instantaneously afterwards. The door clicks shut behind you and Hoseok, who had swiped a notepad and pen off his desk, and immediately, he and Jin speed walk quietly to said door.

“If the interrogation doesn’t go well, I have my guitar in the locker room. I can do the scream-and-strum strategy to make the witness crack,” Jin whispers, and Yoongi glowers and shakes his head vehemently.

“That didn’t work the first two times I let you do that. I’m not letting you try a third time.”

“Oh, c’mon, the third time’s the charm,” Seokjin whines and bangs his fist against the top of the file cabinet for emphasis. Immediately, he and Yoongi freezes at the realization of what he has done.

“Retreat,” Yoongi hisses, and the two of them make a run for it back to his office as noiselessly as possible. Jin shuts the door behind them as they huff and puff, bent over with their hands on their knees.

“Oh, man,” wheezes Seokjin as he collapses into the same chair from before. “Thank god I don’t have to take the physical again.”

Yoongi grunts in agreement. “I should probably lay off on the doughnuts.”

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