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host-club-hq · 3 years

Text

Not So Bitter Days (Honey x Fem!Reader)

pairing: honey x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k

genre: fluff! as much fluff as I could think of

notes: honey is flustered! That’s never happened before!

gif isn’t mine!

what to expect: “Wow, I’ve never seen Senpai so flustered before.” “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” *cue host club groaning at Kyoya*

Requested! Thanks for the request this was in my drafts :)

As you trudge from your classroom to the Host Club's abandoned music room, the bell signaling the end of school ringing in your ears, you notice something odd; your favorite host, moping about the club room with a cloth tied from his chin to his head, holding his adorably swollen cheek in a painful way. His pale blonde bangs hung over his adorable brown eyes, dimming the light they once brought to the club.

Of course, you're nothing but an admirer from afar. Honey is always surrounded by his multitude of guests and they're always too loud for you. From afar, you can experience his presence without having to experience the presence of his guests.

But today... his request rate seems oddly low. You've been hovering around for a few moments now, and Honey hasn't spoken to... anyone? Usa-Chan dangles loosely from his grip and his ears drag slightly on the floor as he walks, looking dejected about something. What did you miss? You don't attend the Host Club for one day and suddenly the most cheerful third-year you know no longer has his light about him.

You walk timidly up to Kyoya and he takes slight note of your presence.

"Ah, Miss (L/N), who might you be here to see today? I noticed you were absent yesterday." Kyoya acknowledges your absence as if you were required to attend each day... but you can't help but take note that he seems much more cheerful than usual.

Has he... switched bodies with Honey? That's ridiculous, you've watched enough movies to know that it only happens in movies.

Then, Kyoya smiles brightly down at you, and you're not so sure that it only happens in movies...You cock your eyebrow slightly at him, but nonetheless continue on as if nothing is out of place or unusual. The abnormal cheerful disposition that he's radiating somehow makes him even more intimidating... you shiver at the thought of him being like this forever. You much prefer your monotoned Kyoya. But, you have other concerns at the moment.

"I was wondering if Honey was free...?" Your voice trails off as your eyes follow Honey, slowly dragging himself to a sofa and then throwing himself onto it with an exaggerated sigh. Kyoya, however, catches your words as he's used to the timid voice you use and the shy demeanor you've always had.

"Why, of course he's free at the moment. May I add, you would do well to not offer him any sweets or treats. You see, he's given himself a cavity and he's forbidden to consume any treats with sugar of any kind." Kyoya explains to you with exceptional detail. You hum in acknowledgement as Kyoya leads you to an empty table, sitting with a vase of freshly picked pink roses, and you can smell them from your seat if you focus hard enough. Honey appears moments later, seemingly elated to finally have a guest that seems to not know what's going on.

"Hi, there! I don't think I've met you before, what's your name, pretty lady?" Honey giggles as he seats himself across from you, a bright smile despite his swollen cheeks. You're finally coming face to face with the host that you remember, and you're grateful for that.

Nonetheless, finally talking to him is nerve wracking... watching from afar, you never have to think about something that you could do to embarrass yourself. A pink tint dusts the apples of your cheeks as you tuck a strand of hair behind you ear and avoid direct eye contact. Although your movements are subtle, Honey seems to notice intently as his smiles slightly falters, but that's not something that you notice.

"I'm (Y/N) (L/N)." Your voice is small, but Honey smiles. He giggles and stands on his knees atop the chair to reach your height.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N)-chan!" He smiles brightly at you. You feel your lips tug up in a smile and you stare down at his hand. You slowly reach out and shake his small, outstretched hand.

"Wow, (Y/N)-chan! Your hands are really soft!" Honey pulls your hand across the table and causes you to lurch forward with a surprised yelp, gripping onto the table with a newfound strength, your knuckles turning white. You watch as Honey traces your fingers with his own and places his palm against yours, sparks flying when-

His face flushes a bright red and lets you go immediately and you fall back into your seat as you weren't expecting him to let go of you that way. "Sorry, (Y/N)-chan..." He turns and seems to take sudden interest in the wall next to him. You don't think you've ever seen him flustered before. Something must be terribly wrong for his behavior to be displayed as such.

"Um... it's alright, I don't mind." you take a moment to glance at your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly; are your hands really that soft?

There's a long beat of silence and you hear a hushed whisper, "Senpai." You turn to where you heard the whisper, finding Tamaki and the twins crouched behind a sofa nearly on the opposite side the room, observing you. They gasp and duck out of sight, but it's already too late, you've seen them. You turn back to Honey, who hasn't seemed to notice their observing, so you definitively decide to say nothing about it.

"If you want to, you can have some cake, (Y/N)-chan... I can't have any, but that shouldn't mean that you can't." Honey drags his fingers in different designs across the clean, polished table top with a prominent frown. Your eyebrows raise as you watch him glance between you and his finger, a typical sign for wanting to get a reaction from someone.

"It's okay, Honey-Senpai... I won't eat cake if you can't." Your voice is soft and comforting as you reach across the table and place your hand over his, effectively resulting in his hand stilling and his eyes boring down into your connected hands.

Rather than his usual remarks, Honey says nothing. He only glances from where your hands are connected and then back up to your eyes. You can't help but become captivated by his wide, innocent eyes, glistening in the filtered light from the large window next to your table as if he's unable to move his eyes from yours. There's something there that you've never felt before, some sort of connection you feel by just being in his presence.

"Wow, I've never seen Senpai so flustered... isn't that the girl that usually watches him?" Hikaru whispers to Tamaki quietly from their eavesdropping positions on the sofa. Tamaki grumbles,"It doesn't make any sense."

"It's not that bizarre." Haruhi speaks from beside them, standing in full sight of you and Honey as she peers down at Tamaki and the twins' ridiculous antics.

"Maybe... he really likes her." Haruhi watches Honey interact with you, and it's safe to say that in all the time she's know him, she, too, has never seen him act like this in front of anyone, not even their prettiest guests- and you are, most definitely, one of those.

"Could just be the cavity." Kaoru shrugs next to Hikaru, who nods. Tamaki sighs and his mischievous expression is replaced with a solemn one. "No, I know that look." The Host Club turn one by one at his assertion, most in confusion, some in agreement.

"Honey-Senpai doesn't look like he's in pain... he looks like he's in love." a small grin tugs at Tamaki's lips at the familiarity of the feeling of being love-sick. Everyone turns to observe Honey, and indeed, he stares at you with the upmost admiration that anyone's seen from him. The two of you aren't talking, but you don't have to be. The comfortable silence is there- and comfortable silence is rare with Honey.

"I can practically see the hearts floating above his head." Haruhi chuckles from where she stands. Mori hums a monotoned, "Yeah" from where he stands, but this resonance has a bit more of a solemn tone to his voice than usual.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Kyoya sighs. The Host Club groans, expecting nothing less from him.

"Every day that she's not here, Honey is asking where she is. He might've not known her name, but he knows she's always here." Kyoya scribbles in his notebook as he speaks and the club glances at him briefly.

"Why are we not surprised that you know that?" Tamaki glares in Kyoya's direction.

"I am a little bit surprised that Honey-Senpai could get so flustered around someone." Hikaru mumbles as he diverts his attention back to you and Honey, both love struck.

As Honey stares at you, he feels a grin tug at his lips despite the pain it might cause his swollen cheeks. "(Y/N)-chan? Will you come back tomorrow? I want to see you again!" Honey's cheerful disposition has returned and couldn't be more so. You smile for that.

"Of course, I will. Hopefully next time, we can share some cake." Your disposition, as a result of being in Honey's presence, has improved significantly and you can feel yourself becoming more confident with each passing minute.

"Thank you for seeing me, (Y/N)-chan!" Honey waves enthusiastically as you make your exit, turning over your shoulder to give a small wave before you disappear through the doorway.

Mori materializes at Honey's side, though Honey isn't phased in the least. Mori hums to gain Honey's attention, but it does little to distract him from staring off to where you disappeared.

"Like her?" Mori inquires simply. Honey hums. "Mm. Just a lil, bit. Promise." He puts his chin to rest on his hands, and it wouldn't take an expert to observe him and conclude the puppy-love expression gracing his features.

In fact, he couldn't promise that it was just a 'lil bit.’ Mori smiles for that.

thank you for the request! i had this written in my drafts for a while now and i’m glad to have it out here. check my masterlist for more like this and feel free to request anything you want!

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cellsshapedlikestars · 3 years

Note

If you are accepting prompts--how about Sansa and Jon being on opposite sides of a political contest? Prime Minister Rhaegar Targaryen is forced to call a referendum for Northern independence, as demanded by the Northern Nationalists party. He is campaigning in the North for a United Westeros, taking his second wife Lyanna Stark and their son Jon along, toshow how hollow all talk if Northern independence is. However, this means that Jon keeps running into his Stark cousins, particularly Sansa Stark, who accompanies her parents to every debate and campaign rally...

I've been sitting on this for a while (and yes, I do see all the anon prompts, I promise!) and I've sort of been writing this on and off since I got it. The thing is, I have no point of reference for these politics, I'm assuming you wanted something like the Scottish independence movement, which I have almost no knowledge of as I am a dumb American who can barely handle American politics without spiraling into anxiety and depression. So, I've sort of talked around the specifics and hopefully I haven't gotten anything too crazy wrong.

Also, you mention his Stark cousins, but... well, I cannot do modern incest. I can handle them being cousins in olden times where it was acceptable & common (I can't even handle the sibling incest aspect in any time period), but I was writing this modern and that's a hard nope for me. I know it's a fairly predominant part of this fandom and if it's your thing, absolutely have at it! There is no kink shaming in this house. It's just not for me and I couldn't write it, sorry!

Also, as usual, this turned out longer than I intended since these are supposed to be drabbles mostly. But 'drabbles' for me always end up like 2k words

Jon sits in the window seat of the jet, headphones on and turned up. Somewhere behind him, he knows his parents are sitting, likely talking strategy. He knows dad wants him to join in, but Jon's in no mood to talk politics. It's what got him in this situation to begin with.

That stupid reporter. Jon's stupid response.

Jon! How do you feel about Northern Independence?

I say let them.

It's what he believes, honestly – if the North wants independence, why not? The rest of the SK treats them like shit anyway, why not let them break off, like Dorne did? It's not a naming issue – they're still called the Seven Kingdoms despite losing Dorne decades ago, so what if they're technically only six now? Jon knows it's about more than that – it's economics and politics and... well, pride. The SK can't lose another piece of their kingdom – nevermind that piece has been conquered and beaten down multiple times over hundreds of years. Northern Independence isn't a new concept – it's just been met with military resistance every time and stamped out. But they aren't in the middle ages anymore.

For a moment he turns his head to look behind him – to see mom with her head bowed in conversation with dad and something ugly twists in Jon's stomach.

He knows dad only married mom because she got pregnant – because his political career was just taking off and a mistress and bastard would have ruined him. And mom, she'd been so young, she's convinced herself he married her for love. Jon swears that mom used to be different. She used to argue with Rhaegar all the time about politics, he even remembers her bringing up Northern Independence when Jon was just a kid. But over the years she's had to play the perfect wife for him and somewhere along the way it just... stuck. Mom isn't his mom anymore. No, mom is what Rhaegar's political advisors want her to be.

So even though Jon had wanted to protest this trip, there's also a part of him desperately clinging to the hope that when they get North, mom will snap out of it. When she's home, maybe she'll be his mom again.

Especially since the leader of the opposition is an old friend of hers.

Ned Stark.

Dad doesn't react to much, he's a politician to his core, so seeing him get riled anytime Ned Stark is on TV is notable. In fact, there's a rebellious part of Jon that already likes Ned Stark simply for the fact that dad hates him so much. There's more to like than just that, Jon knows – Ned Stark seems like one of those politicians that's doing the job because they want to make a difference. They're rare, nowadays, but Jon's been surrounded by politicians his whole life and he can spot the do-gooders from a mile away.

He thinks it's partly why dad hates it – Ned Stark doesn't use the same underhanded tactics Rhaegar's used to, and from everything Jon's heard, there's nothing to use against Ned. The only skeleton dad's advisors had ever found tucked away in Ned Stark's closet had been that his wife, Catelyn, had originally dated his older brother Brandon, who died in a car accident. They'd begun dating and married shortly after - a minor scandal that hadn't gained any traction, considering they've been married for over twenty years with five children.

Dad was hoping to get somewhere with the youngest daughter, Arya, who always seemed more wild than the rest of her siblings (except maybe the youngest, Rickon). The problem is that she's never done anything really wrong and the North loves her. The oldest son Robb is as perfect a son as any politician could hope for and Jon sometimes wonders if dad would rather have Robb than Jon.

The other two sons are still fairly young and going after them would only make dad look like the bad guy. Then there's Sansa.

Jon remembers her from growing up – not that he'd ever met her, but they're both kids of prominent politicians and he's seen her in photos since she was old enough to walk. A proper lady, he remembers even the southern press naming her. Perfect, just like her older brother.

A hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his thoughts and he turns to see mom, who motions at him to take off his headphones.

“We're landing in a half hour and your father would like to go over your role,” she tells him with a perfect, bland smile. (She hasn't been his mother for a very long time.)

“I know my role,” he says and he can't help the bitter tone to his voice. “Stay quite, don't talk to the press. Pretty easy to remember.”

“And yet you still managed to nearly undermine my entire campaign with one flippant remark,” dad's voice calls over from his seat, low and smooth, though Jon absolutely hears the annoyance underneath it.

“Oh, he's just a child,” mom says, trying to play the peacekeeper like she always does.

“He's twenty, he's hardly a child,” dad starts, but Jon doesn't listen to the rest. He pulls his headphones back over his ears and looks back out the window and tries to pretend he's anywhere else.

…

By the time they reach Winterfell Castle, Jon is in a bad mood.

Not that he hadn't been before, but he's not allowed his headphones in the limo and so he'd had to listen to dad talk nonstop about his two favorite topics: Jon's failure as a son and how much he hates Ned Stark. And the way mom doesn't even try to defend Ned Stark like she used to infuriates Jon even more.

Jon hates his tuxedo and he hates that they barely had any time between landing and having to get ready for this dinner and he hates that he's going to have to smile and shake hands with a bunch of people who hate him on principle, simply for who his father is. For what his father represents.

When he does step out of the limo, he ignores every photographer and reporter that shouts his name, eager to get any sort of scandal out of him.

He doesn't blame them for this, he's given them enough over the years – not just his apparent support of Northern Independence, but everything else he's done to gain his notoriety. His reputation as a heartbreaker and a playboy that's mostly over-exaggerated, that time he punched a teacher (though to be fair, Thorne deserved it)... Teenage rebellion, they'd written it off as, but he's no longer a teenager and he knows he should grow up and stop doing things to piss off his father at some point.

(His favorite one had been sleeping with that investigative journalist when he was seventeen. She'd been older than him by a good few years and he'd known she was using him to write an article, but he was using her just as much to infuriate his father. His only true regret is that Ygritte's article hadn't done any real lasting damage to Rhaegar's reputation.)

Inside, there aren't any reporters but there are politicians everywhere and that's worse. He does the bare minimum to not cause an issue – he shakes hands and says hello, though he refuses to smile while doing it. They already hate him for being Rhaegar Targaryen's son. They already hate him for being Northern-traitor Lyanna Snow's son.

He keeps an eye on mom to see how she's doing and his heart twists painfully in his chest when he sees her. She has a bright smile on her face and anyone who didn't know her would think she's fine, but Jon can see how pale she is under her makeup. This is the first time she's been back in the North since she married dad and he has a sudden, sharp pang of hatred for Rhaegar – for getting her pregnant, for marrying her, for never letting her go back. For turning her into this.

He can tell the moment Ned Stark enters the room because mom freezes. And sure enough, there he is – beautiful wife at his side, the three adult children with him. Robb, Sansa, Arya. Jon's eyes scan over them – Robb with his perfect hair and smile, an easy way about him that's always come through even on camera. Sansa standing poised and almost too beautiful to believe – Jon's only ever seen her on film and somehow she's even more unreal in person. Arya, who by all accounts hates politics as much as Jon does, stands firmly by her family and Jon gets the sense she only hates the system, not her dad. Not like Jon.

As Jon scans the room, he can see other families here that he recognizes – the Greyjoys, including Robb Stark's best friend Theon. The Manderlys, the Karstarks, the Ryswells, the Boltons, the Mormonts. More families than Jon cares to remember.

There's a sense of someone behind him and he turns just enough to see that dad has come up to stand next to him. For a moment, dad just stands there before turning his head ever so slightly and bringing his mouth close to Jon's ear and he says so low Jon can barely even hear it - “if you do anything to embarrass me tonight, there will be consequences. If you do anything that makes it seem like you support this pathetic independence movement, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”

Jon feels blind rage that winds so hot in his chest it makes him shake and his vision narrow. He has to close his eyes and take a deep breath before he can answer, and he grits out, “of course.” Dad nods and moves away, putting on his best politician smile as he goes to greet Howland Reed.

Mom shoots him a concerned look, but Jon ignores her. He can feel it building in him – that rebelliousness the press likes to talk about so much. He wants to hurt Rhaegar. For everything – for his mother, for all the people dad's stepped on and hurt. He wants to embarrass him, consequences be damned.

Just as he's thinking this, his eyes catch on copper hair and bright blue eyes.

Sansa Stark.

Darling of the press. Perfect Northern princess.

It takes root in his mind, against his better judgment. What would make Rhaegar more furious than an affair between his son and the daughter of Ned Stark?

Jon can't imagine Sansa would be amenable to the suggestion, not like Ygritte had been – there is no mutually beneficial agreement here. She would never agree to do something that might embarrass her father (and once again, Jon is reminded of the, pun intended, stark difference between his relationship with his father and the Stark children's relationship with Ned. Jon has never even met them in person and he knows this).

So he can't approach her with any sort of offer or plan. No, he'd have to pretend it was real.

He's going to have to seduce Sansa Stark.

#jonsa #prompt fic #ask #oooh boy do i know nothing of politics #and political families #do not @ me #is this boring?#probably #jonsa fic

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in-tua-deep · 3 years

Note

au where five found out about vanya's powers in the apocalypse? Like maybe he found Reggie's book or he saw the eyes of vanya's corpse?

oh man like. that would be interesting to be sure, if Five managed to find Reginald’s book in the apocalypse

(He doesn’t read it at first, not for a few months after he finds it. He opened to the page that detailed Reginald’s experiments with how long Deigo could hold his breath in clinical unfeeling words and has to put it away while he breathed - not too deeply though, he didn’t want to breathe in more ash than necessary)

But he eventually does. He sits Dolores up and rages and vents to her, cursing Reginald’s name with every new sordid detail, every new terrible sin he now knows to hurl at Reginald’s feet. He reads no great loss under his section and he’s too dehydrated to weep but something breaks inside his chest nevertheless

(He’d never thought that dad loved them, not really. He might have hoped, back when he was little but he knew better now. He was thirteen, old enough to know better. But he’d at least thought that dad found them useful.

Five had tried to hard, trained so much, been so adaptable. Even then he was no great loss.)

Five finds out from Reginald’s book about Ben’s death. Cold words that describe the way his brother died. Reginald seemed to care more about Ben’s death than Five’s presumed death, but that could be becuase Ben’s power was always bigger than Five’s. More violent. More efficient. Of course Ben was a greater loss, Five’s power wasn’t even inherently useful for fighting.

(Klaus’s power wasn’t useful for fighting either. Reading Dad’s dismissive words calling Klaus a failure makes him bristle. Reading about Reginald locking Klaus away in the mausoleum for days make Five want to hurl the book against the wall.)

Finding out about Vanya is - it’s weird. Vanya was always so ordinary. He loved her of course, for fucks sake he was the only one who cared to interact with her half the time. He loves all of his siblings but he has no illusions about how casually cruel they could be to one another.

But he reads about her powers and clenches his fists and wonders what Reginald would have done if Five had stayed, if Five had kept on his path of rebellion. Would Reginald have drugged him, too?

(Reginald had the power to take their powers away. Five wonders what Klaus thought when he found out, if he had cursed and sworn and raged at the man who watched his son suffer and turn to drugs to deal with seeing things no child should ever see. Reginald had the power to help, and he tortured Klaus instead.)

Because - of course Five assumes that they know. He reads Vanya’s books as well when he comes across it, tucking it into his wagon. He wonders when the truth came out, because the rage that drips from those pages is very real. Vanya doesn’t mention her powers in the book of course, but she would have been what, in her 20s when she wrote it?

Vanya said in her book that she left home at 18, which means she’s had years to get the drugs out of her system and discover what their father had taken from her. Did she think that they knew? That they had kept it from her? Is that why the pages of her book drip with bone deep hurt, making Five’s fingers shake with the ache of them

(Or it could be the hunger, a now constant companion)

Five keeps both books close, even though he wants to vandilize Reginald’s book half the time. It’s strange to see the insight on them and their powers from the perspective of a scientist, odd to see the written results of the torture they went though

(He almost rips the page on the effects of electricity on his warping powers out on principle, but he just ends up curled around Dolores as he trembles involuntarily at the memories)

Five has so few belongings when he is recruited to the Commission, or at least has very few personal ones. He leaves Dolores behind in the apocalypse with a heavy heart but she’s too big to take with him. Too big to hide.

(Five always learned to only take what you can hide, because what you can’t hide will always be used against you.)

He tucks Reginald’s notebook in the waistband on his pants, the hard edges against his back a constant almost reassuring pressure. Vanya’s book gets pushed into one of his deep pockets. The glass eye gets shoved into his sock the same way he used to hide scavenged bills and quarters he would then place beneath the floorboards of his room

(He wonders absently if his money stash was ever found, but it doesn’t really matter now does it?)

He goes through the Commission with the knowledge that he has a bomb hidden away. As much as he keeps the notebook around out of a sense of sentiment he knows he doesn’t want it to fall into the hands of the commission, doesn’t want them to have this dissection of his powers on hand

(he has so little of his siblings left, just the bitter words of Reginald and Vanya both - the irony is that no matter how much Vanya extolled being excluded she had constantly been by Reginald’s side to write down observations, listening to his words, by his side more than any of them. sometimes he reads Vanya’s vicious words and hears the echo of their father in them. It makes sense. He still hates it, just a little bit)

He writes his equations into Vanya’s book instead of Reginald’s. He doesn’t like to read the red book, only opens it to look at the photos included so that he won’t forget what his siblings look like, tries to ignore the words that detail exactly how much force it takes to pop Luther’s bones out of his oh-so-durable joints

He solves them one day, or at least comes close. Closer than he ever had before, and he figures why not? Time for another little experiment. Who knows? Maybe he’ll add this one to dad’s book.

He pushes, and pushes, and then he falls and he’s in a courtyard he hasn’t seen in decades staring at people he hasn’t spoken to in just as long. He looks at them all with wide eyes

(He looks at Allison and hears his father’s clipped tone stating how Allison in improving at overriding survival instincts, he looks at Luther and hears Vanya’s childish voice accusing him of caring more about being a hero than anything else in his life, including his family, he looks at Klaus and sees a face covered in ash and blood with unseeing eyes)

He looks down at himself and sees smaller hands with smoother skin, absent of the burn marks from the variety of fires he’d set in the apocalypse, absent of the crooked knuckles from when he’d crushed two fingers in some rubble trying to get to a can of food, absent of the cracked and brittle nails from malnutrition and food issues

“Shit.” He says, with feeling.

He can feels the press of the glass eye against his leg, the solid weight of Vanya’s book in his pocket, the edges of Reginald’s notebook digging into his skin as he hauls himself off the ground and into a standing position.

They have a family meeting in the kitchen.

Sort of. Five flits about, snagging bread and peanut butter and marshmallow fluff from the cupboard to make himself a sandwich, trying to avoid looking too desperately eager. He hasn’t had his favorite food in so long that the anticipation is actually insane.

“What’s the date?” Five asks, and learns that he doesn’t actually have all that long until the end of the world. But hey, it’s doable. Probably. Unless the reason the world ended was like, political nuclear war or something? But there would probably be survivors of that somewhere, so it was more likely something bigger scale.

(It has to be something he can stop, or this was all for nothing. He refuses to believe he doesn’t have a chance.)

“Cool, so like, the world is ending.” Five says, because why the fuck not? He has all his siblings in one room (except Ben, he has failed Ben, will always have failed Ben because he’s a coward who couldn’t return to a time when Reginald Hargreeves was alive) and he has Reginald and Vanya’s words pressed into his brain, “We have eight-ish days to fix that.”

“Five, what the hell are you talking about?” Luther demands.

Five waves his hand, “Dad sucked, I time-travelled, the end is nigh. I figured even you could grasp that.”

(His eyes ghost over Luther, skittering about the room. He can’t look at Luther’s body without remembering the cruel diagrams pain stakingly inked into the book as Reginald grumbled about failed experiments.)

“You went to the future?” Diego says, voice full of doubt that make his voice harsh. It’s so much deeper than when Five left, no more of the cracks of puberty.

“No shit.” Five says, and he’s so tired. “I was in that hellscape for forty-five years.”

“Forty-five years?” Diego squawks, as though he’s personally offended.

“That would make you... fifty-eight?” Luther’s voice also has doubt in it, and Five can’t really blame him looking at his squishy little barely teenage body.

“Dad was right,” Five manages to get out without gritting his teeth, “Time travel is a crapshoot and sometimes your body does fun and wacky things on you, blah blah blah trees and acorns.”

“Prove you’re from the future!” Klaus demands, eyes bright as he leans across the table, “What’re the lotto numbers, baby brother?”

“I think they’re ‘fuck you the world had already ended by the time I ended up stuck there,’ Klaus.” Five says, mock thoughtfully before tearing off a chunk of his sandwich.

It tastes like ash and peanut butter. Only Five’s genuine trauma regarding food waste and the fact that most things tasted like ash in the apocalypse have him still chewing his food and swallowing.

“Rude.” Klaus says, making a ‘blat’ noise in disappointment.

“Dad’s rich as fuck, wasn’t him kicking the bucket essentially like winning the lottery?” Five points out, and this time it is Luther squawking at him in disapproval.

“Don’t talk about Dad like that!” He demands, and Five has some more uncharitable thoughts about the way Luther’s arms flex just a little unnaturally underneath that big trenchcoat.

“I like this version of Five better.” Klaus declares, looking like Christmas has come early.

“Dad was murdered and you guys don’t even care.” Luther spits out, looking very offended.

“You were murdered and I care very much about that.” Five retaliates, and the entire kitchen goes quiet.

“Can you elaborate a little, Five?” Allison says, ever the diplomat.

(That’s a lie. Allison started more fights than Diego, probably. She just got caught way less often.)

“Well. I mean, I dunno if murdered is the right word considering everyone was dead. You might have just been collateral damage, who knows? Does murder imply intent?”

“Everyone was dead?” Vanya says, voice very quiet.

Five shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again. He doesn’t like thinking about it. “Yeah, but that’s not going to happen this time.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Luther mutters, and Five valiantly tries to ignore him.

“Five, are you - are you sure you’re alright?” Vanya’s voice wobbles and she looks like she wants to reach out and hold him or something ridiculous like that. She looks at him with big sad brown eyes, “Dad did say that time travel could... mess with you a little.”

Allison nods and oh, Five does not have time for this bullshit.

“I have proof.” He says, and he reaches back and pulls out Reginald’s red notebook and slams it onto the table.

“Is that Dad’s - ” Luther cuts himself off, looking at the notebook with wide eyes.

It is very clearly beaten up to hell and back. Ash has stained the edges of the pages grey and there may or may not be a gouge across the front from a near miss with a bullet while working at the commission. It is a book that has clearly been through hell.

Five also dig’s Vanya’s equally beaten up book from his pocket to dump on the table as well, equally stained with ash and barely held together after being read over and over again for decades, including being used as a notebook in the final years.

(Vanya lets out a little gasp, hand flying up to her mouth with the knowledge that at least one of her siblings read her book. Certainly not the one she thought it would be.)

Five reaches into his sock to pull out the glass eye triumphantly, setting it down on his small stack of treasures.

“What the fuck?” Diego is the one to ask.

“If I time travelled from that day in 2002 to right now, how the fuck would I have Vanya’s book?” Five says triumphantly, “It came out in 2015.”

“Why do you have an eye?” Allison sounds slightly horrified.

“It’s the key to figuring out who caused the apocalypse.” Five says, turning it over in his hands, “It’s gotta have something to do with it at least.”

“Why does he have Dad’s notebook?” Luther demands, sounding equally outraged.

“Found it.” Five shrugs, like the little scavenger he is.

(Emphasis on little. His suit still almost fits, and reading the numbers in Reginald’s notebook versus seeing how fucking tall all his siblings got in person is frankly unfair.)

“Oh my god, okay.” Allison says, throwing her hands up in the air like they’re all nuisances. It’s a familiar Allison look, and Five actually feels a little soothed by the memory. “So the world is ending, Five is back from the dead, and our only clue is a goddamn eye?”

“I was never dead.” Five points out, “But basically, yeah.”

“I don’t have time for this, I have to get back to my daughter.” Allison says, shaking her head.

“I mean if you want Claire to live I would think stopping the apocalypse would kind of be a priority.”

This draw Allison to a halt from where she’d been gathering herself to leave, “You... know her name?”

Five makes the executive decision to not mention the torn out magazine cover featuring his sister and niece that is pressed between some of the pages in Reginald’s journal. “I’d like to meet her one day.”

Just like that, Allison has been won over.

“Do you think it has something to do with whoever murdered Dad?” Luther asks seriously, even if the question makes Diego groan like this is an argument they have had before.

“Who knows?” Five shrugs, “But if we’re splitting into investigation teams, I call Vanya.”

Vanya startles from where she has been sitting quietly, “Me?” She asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Five nods, “I mean, with Ben gone you’re probably the team’s heaviest hitter.”

“What?” Several voices ring out in confusion.

Five blinks, a little confused himself. Unless - “Wait, did you never train your powers?”

“Five,” Vanya says slowly, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dim child, “I don’t have powers.”

This was - this was unexpected. Why did he not think of this explanation? It’s just - he has now known about Vanya’s powers for like way longer than he hasn’t. It’s almost second nature to think of Vanya as having powers by now. And she doesn’t know.

“Oh boy.” He says, picking up Reginald’s notebook, “This debriefing may take a bit longer than I first thought. Oh, and at some point we should probably cut the tracker out of my arm as well.”

“The what out of your what?”

Yeah the day doesn’t really get much better from there.

#the red book au #five finds reggie's journal in the apocalypse #and so he is very familiar with his sister's powers!! isn't that fun #he's also like 50% more spiteful because actually Fuck Reginald Hargreeves #he is the president of the Dad Sucks Club #because he has the notebook he's been essentially planning his apocalypse game plan for years #with the power of strategy and knowing his siblings powers inside out #or at least to the extent reggie understood them #so he's much more MISSION REPORT when he gets to 2019 #time to debrief the squad on what the fuck is up #five lets the cat out of the bag so early lmao #fuck u leonard #five: haha yeah i want vanya on my team so i can see her sick ass powers in action #the family: her WHAT #five: *surprised pikachu face*#five has spent so long in the apocalypse with dolores who knows what he is thinking #that he struggles with the concept that people don't know what he knows sometimes #me pointing at vanya's book and reginald's notebook: there are both traumatizing to read #Anonymous #long post #far tua long

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acourtofsnakes · 3 years

Text

Loving You Is A Losing Game - Chapter 1 || Javier Peña x F! Reader

Gif by: @norcula

Summary: Javier Peña is a lot of things. He would even admit he’s a liar, easily. But how far is he willing to go in this latest deceit, if it means taking down Escobar? Will he lose what he’s been so desperately searching for his life?

Warnings: Angst, angst, aaannnngst, (‘not so much in this chapter but overall) lies, swearing, drug references, murder references (it’s the Narcos world people), mentions of prostitutes(not derogatory)

AN: Thank you @damntonystarkandhissmile for the request, I loved it as you know, and had to turn it into a mini series 😌My first Javi fic 👀 Sorry for any mistakes, I wrote this on my phone and it’s super late, but I wanted to get it out to you. I’ll fix it up in the morning 🥰

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Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Many kids would tell you that their parents don’t like them.

That they don’t get on. They’re mean. Weird.

Usually, it’s because their parents won’t let them go out and get drunk, or that they won’t buy them that really expensive sweater that they’ll just lose or rip.

You were one of those kids.

Except in your case… Your father really didn’t get on with you. Or love you.

Hell, you weren’t sure if he even liked you.

And that was the truth. It was fact.

Not because he didn’t give you what you wanted but because that was the way it’d always been.

Even through childhood, you knew he didn’t care for you more than he felt he had to.

You didn’t shout at each other, you just… simply didn’t get on. There was no love there, at all.

And again, it really wasn’t because he wouldn’t buy you something, or he tried to tell you who to date.

No, it was because he worked for Pablo fucking Escobar.

The biggest drug kingpin in Medellin.

Your father was one of Escobar’s closest men, not quite a sicario, but certainly more than a lackey.

He knew all the comings and goings of the drugs, knew who was who and who was trusted - or not.

He was in Escobar’s inner circle, and he was proud of that.

Didn’t care about the drugs that ruined people’s lives, the workers dying to make their precious cocaine - or the murders that the kingpin’s men so willingly committed.

One might think it odd that a man like that had a child, but it hadn’t exactly been his choice.

The little information you had gleaned had informed you that your mother was a prostitute, a girl working in one of the many pleasure houses in Medellin in order to make her money. And to find safety, because even though those houses were full of men with dark intentions for women… It was a home. A sanctuary compared to what she’d previously lived in. Or rather, escaped from.

But things between them were based on lies anyway.

He never told your mother what he was, who he had devoted his life to.

And so, when you were born and your mother regrettably couldn’t care for you anymore, she dropped you at your fathers’ doorstep.

It broke her heart to lose you, but she truly beloved it was the safest place. She’d tried everything she could to keep her beloved daughter close but... After one too many close calls, she couldn’t risk your life anymore.

And she thought your father would be the true sanctuary she never got to have.

How wrong she was.

Your father took you in, albeit reluctantly. Maybe there was a scrap of decency in him after all.

Or maybe he just thought you’d be useful.

As you grew up, you always knew he wasn’t… ‘good’.

Whether it was the late hours working; the shady visitors or the room you were forbidden to go in that smelt funny - it was with an instinct far beyond your age that you knew a relationship with him was a lost cause.

And that was okay.

You kept your head down, studied hard at the school he dumped you in and… You flourished, to be honest.

Excelled at your classes, settled into your own personality and made a handful of really good friends.

It was as if you saw everything your father was, the sick darkness, the corruption, the disgusting loyalty to a monster like Escobar… and you simple decided to be the opposite.

You were kindhearted, loyal to the end and the most helpful person anyone around you knew.

No matter the time or place, you were always there for someone. Whatever they needed, you would be right there waiting with open arms and whatever they required.

You wanted to put sunshine into the world, spread happiness and joy as if you could erase the stain from the dark men who tried to ruin it.

Sometimes, this kindness and rose-tinted look on the world did get you… not so much into trouble, but it opened you up to pain.

Some people tended to take advantage of your warm heart, using it their own ill wishes to get what they wanted.

It wasn’t your fault, you just always believed in the best of people (aside from Escobar, your father and the others of course) and assumed that those asking you for help were genuine.

There wasn’t a bad bone in your body, and whilst people respected and adored that about you… There will still those you were learning to be wary of. But you believed the world had good in it, you just had to find it. A fight you would gladly take up.

Of course, somewhere like Medellin was a battle in itself.

In fact, all of Columbia was a battle.

You could have moved out, moved on and forgotten all about it, but something kept you here, drawn to this place.

It was dark, gritty and sometimes people wound up dead only a few blocks down from your home but despite that, this was still a beautiful place.

With the lush green growth, the ever-burning sunshine and the flurry of people coming in and out… It was beautiful.

Everything was here for you.

Family, friends…

And Javi.

Ah, Javier Peña. Your boyfriend.

Even now, you got a thrill from saying that.

A DEA agent with all the tolerance and frustration of a wet cat. He was snarky and sarcastic, with what seemed like a permanent scowl etched onto his ruggedly handsome face.

He had a bitter way of looking at the world sometimes, but he was hell-bent on fixing it. Much like you.

He was amazing at his job, forever going above and beyond to rid Columbia of its weeds and poison.

At first glance, he was your complete opposite.

And he was, in a way.

But you always said you were two sides of the same coin.

You were his light, and he was the storm that weathered your brightness before you burnt out.

You had met by accident really.

You and your friends had decided to go out for the night, to your favourite bar further in town.

The drinks flowed easily, the music was constantly beating and the atmosphere always perfect.

The staff got on well with your group, and more often than not, you were passed free drinks and food from them.

You were at the bar that night, when the door had opened and in walked two men.

Ordinarily, you would have done a quick glance over, and then gone back to your conversation.

But this time was different.

The man you saw first was tall, sandy blonde hair and an easy expression on his face.

The other man behind him however… You couldn’t look away.

Messy brown hair that appeared to have been styled previously but now fell over his forehead in tumbling loose curls - perhaps from running his hands through it in frustration?

Impossibly rich brown eyes that you could see even from here, darker than his hair, darker than the liquid in the glass he ordered from the bar and deeper than your favourite chocolate cake.

He walked with that predatory grace that showed he knew where he was and who was around him at all times.

This was man that knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.

But not in the same way as your father… No, this man… He was different.

And you were intrigued.

You turned back to your friends, waiting for a break in the conversation respectfully before chiming in, “Hey, who are those two guys that just walked in? I’ve never seen them in here before.”

One of your friends, Serena - a girl with flowing inky hair and caramel-coloured skin - looked over at the men and a wicked smile crossed her lips, “Oh, you mean those two? That’s Steve and Javier.” She nodded her head first to the blonde, and then the dark haired man. “They work for the DEA, they pulled us in for an investigation once.” She said this lower, because you never know who may be listening.

Your eyes widened, looking between the bar and your friend again sharply, disbelief colouring your tone, “They pulled you in? What did you do??” Blinking rapidly, you tried to imagine a situation in which your friends would be called in by the drugs authority.

Serena snorted, waving her hand dismissively, “Oh, c’mon, nothing like that. You always assume the worse.”

Saying nothing, you merely raised an eyebrow.

Your friends were the wild ones in the group.

You tended to be the one to make sure they were all okay, and everyone got home safe.

Even when you were drunk, you were still the carer.

And more often than not, it had been your quick thinking and easy smile that had gotten you all of out of some potentially sticky situations.

She looked at your expression with narrowed eyes, then conceded, “Fine. You’ve got me there.” She fiddled with the straw in her cocktail, condensation dripping down the side of the glass from the hot Colombian air. “We were in another bar, further away and it was known to occasionally host the odd… Unsavoury member or two.” She looked at you through her eyelashes, letting you know what she meant by ‘unsavoury.’

Instantly, your palms grew a little slick and your neck prickled. And it wasn’t from the heat.

Serena knew about your father. She was the only one who did, who you trusted enough to tell one night when you were flat out drunk, too intoxicated to care, and it had all come out. You had to tell someone, anyone.

But you always had this reaction when anyone talked about Escobar, drugs or his men.

No one else knew who your father was, but it didn’t mean that someone couldn’t work it out.

You had done your best to try and avoid any association, but with the scurrying rats spying in this city, who knows where the information would end up? Which authorities were already watching your every move, waiting to use you?

Serena was carrying on with her story, so you tuned back in, “They came in one day we weren’t there, looking for information and I guess someone had told the boys we were in there a lot. They took us to their headquarters and asked us if we knew anything or had seen something.”

Leaning forward, you sucked a deep mouthful of your own drink, but the ice had long since melted. It was more to give yourself a few moments to soothe your reaction, to calm your racing heart.

You looked back at her, swallowing the cool liquid, “And? Did you manage to help?”

Serena shrugged one shoulder, the strap of her dress slipping down, and she left it there, no doubt to draw the attention of the many men and women ogling her - She would have her pick of who. And if she didn’t want them, she’d leave them pining after her whilst she strutted from the room on those gorgeous legs, curves swaying and hair gleaming.

“I’m not sure. We told them what we could but… The guys that go there to do those sorts of shady things, they hide it well, obviously.”

A noncommittal noise left your throat and you looked over yet again, immediately drawn to the darker of the two.

Only to find him already watching you.

Those umber eyes were trained on you, pinning you to the seat and making you feel as though you were being stripped bare.

Like he could peer straight into your soul and see simply everything there.

His tongue darted out, chasing a drop of alcohol leftover on his lower lip and the movement set a deep fire in the pits of your belly, burning hotter than the Colombian heat.

A man with a tongue like that knew how to use it.

Oh my god, were you seriously lusting after a stranger, a DEA agent to be precise?

Heat danced along your neck and cheeks, making you curse under your breath.

The darker man, the man creeping through your soul was standing sideways at the bar, the stance causing his pale blue shirt to pull tight at the arms, setting a gorgeous contrast against his honey-tanned skin.

He didn’t take his eyes off you, lips murmuring as he spoke to his friend, who had his back to you.

His expression was unreadable, apart from a faintly intrigued twitch to his otherwise impenetrable demeanour. He had you trapped, heat crushing your skin as he still pinned you with that predatory gaze, like he couldn’t decide whether to chase you, leave you there or devour you whole.

Before the stare got any more intense, before you were sliding from your seat and gliding over to him, you were pulled back into your conversation.

Over the span of the next two hours, you felt his heavy gaze more than five times, felt it’s weight on your skin like a brand and it left you unsettled - but in a good way.

It been a long time since anyone had set a blaze within you, sent that feeling of butterflies soaring through your chest and belly.

It had been a long time since someone had undressed you with their eyes.

You had looked up at one point in a lull of conversation, only to find that they were gone. Just like that, vanished.

Disappointment had shot through you like a spear of cold ice, because for the last forty-five minutes, you had been working up the courage to… To do something.

Maybe a wink or… To hold his gaze for longer than five seconds.

Would you ever see them again?

It was likely if they were DEA, but he probably wouldn’t remember you. A man like that?

Absolutely not.

And you hadn’t seen him.

Not for a week.

Not until you were walking down the street one afternoon, lost in your own thoughts that were certainly not of agents with dark hair and even darker eyes.

And then suddenly, with all the cliché in the world, you had walked into something firm, warm and definitely human.

“Watch it, cariño.” A low, rough voice. Raspy yet somehow smooth, like it had honey poured over it. And the tone… Nothing biting or sharp in there at all.

It was… Something else, but definitely not vicious.

Already anticipating who it would be, your head snapped up, breath stilling in your throat.

There he was.

Standing taller than you, head cocked slightly and those dark, dark eyes watching you with thinly veiled curiosity… And a deeper gleam.

Again, like he was watching something he wanted to eat. Slowly.

You’d let him.

Your cheeks flushed just a little at that repeated unbidden thought and you swallowed, throat bobbing, “Sorry, I was distracted. Did I hurt you?”

He chuckled, and gods above, the sound was again like warm honey sliding over your bones, caressing you and making you dissolve, “Not at all. I just wouldn’t want you bumping into someone less forgiving - or friendly. You never know who you might meet on these streets.” He watched the movement of your throat, rubbing his forefinger and thumb over the moustache in a movement that was oddly enticing.

He flicked his eyes back up to yours, but not before gazing at your mouth with that peculiar fire, like a flame underwater.

Oh, you knew a lot of unfriendly people.

Tilting your head the other way to his, you smiled angelically at him, “Well, I’ll thank my lucky stars that I ran into someone just like you.”

He hummed softly, narrowing his eyes slightly at you in thought, “Do those stars allow me to take you for a drink? Or would that be… Inappropriate?”

Fuck, the way his deep baritone purred over the last word… It was as if he was running his tongue along your hot skin, tasting you.

Heat coiling low in your belly, you threw your eyes up to the sky in mock thought, as if listening and then dropped them back to those umber pools, “I think I can manage. I don’t even know your name though.”

A faint grin tugged his lips, “Javier Peña.” He held out a large, tanned hand.

The name whispered through you like a siren call as you told him your own name, sliding your hand into his.

Javier repeated it, making it sound like a caress as his hand enclosed yours.

A shudder ran through you, bringing forth even more images that weren’t appropriate for such a first meeting. “Lead the way, Javier. I warn you though, make one wrong move and I’ll throw you to the wolves.” You mimicked his previous purr, knowing it was at odds with your appearance.

Javier looked back at you, something appreciative and glittering in his eyes as he laughed again, “Oh, I don’t doubt it, cariño.”

And that was that.

You had gone back to a local bar for drinks, losing yourself in the time and the rough, yet velvety personality of this man.

He didn’t really say much about himself, but he had a way of asking you things no one ever really had before. Asking you things that you’d never thought about.

Like what would you be doing if things were different?

What’s a dream you had in childhood there no one else knows?

If you could take on the life of a book character, who would it be, and why?

He was wholly different to anyone you’d had before, and you wanted to learn everything about him.

You had spent so long on the topic of you, and know you wanted to learn about him.

Even though he skirted around a few questions, you lapped the information up and stored it.

He did tell you about why he stayed in Columbia, why he chose to be in the DEA - but you still didn’t glean much.

That was okay though because what he didn’t say, he made up for in the looks he gave you.

The slight smile that tilted up the corners of his lips, made his eyes twinkle and his entire face light from within.

The intense, burning gaze, head cocked to the side and two fingers rubbing along the edge of his moustache again - his large hand capturing your attention for longer than you’d care to admit.

And then that had been history.

A few more ‘dates’, a few more slow starts and working out of boundaries and… then he was your boyfriend.

Your friends had warned you when you told them.

Warned that he had a darkness, the same as all the agents had working in a corrupt country.

And they also warned you that… He had a bit of a history with the same types of girls your mother had been.

Had an affinity for them, using them for information and getting them out of the country - and not without a heavy, fast fling too.

But… you didn’t care. You saw the broken man within, saw the determined agent wanting to make his country whole and free of the rot.

And to be honest, you didn’t see much of the supposed womaniser he was. Not that you didn’t believe them - but he was (perhaps uncharacteristically) soft with you, warm.

He was a good man, working through his troubles and finding solace in you.

For once, something good and strong had come into your life, and nothing could take it from you.

Right?

~~~

Javier Peña was going to go to Hell.

Not that he didn’t know this already, but with what he was up to lately… He almost certainly had a first-class ticket and express boarding now.

That thought had been going round and round his head for the past couple of weeks.

Lately, it had been getting to him.

He couldn’t really say why either, it just did.

Any time, any moment of the day.

Even now, as he tidied up after the dinner you’d cooked together.

It was killing him.

The lies turned to ash in his mouth, leaving behind an acrid taste of shame.

The sweet smiles you shot him were like daggers to the heart and the soft, twinkling laugh only he could bring from you sounding like a taunt.

“Liar, liar, liar, liar.” It would hiss, following him from the room.

He tried to tell himself he was simply doing a job, doing what he was asked but he was lying to himself then.

He’s done plenty of things that anyone would be ashamed of, all in the name of trying to do good. And of course, they made him feel bad, but… Not like this.

Not this sickening twist of his gut, or the guilt that lay heavy and stopped him from sleeping - even more than usual, that is.

He’d started drinking and smoking more too, burning through his alcohol and cigarettes at a pace you of course picked up on.

When you asked him, concern and worry in those enchanting eyes, he’d merely shrugged it off to stress of the job.

It wasn’t exactly an untruth but damn, it felt like one.

Especially when you cupped his cheek with such tender care, kissing him softly and coaxing him to bed - where you showed him just how skilled you were at relaxing him, taking his mind off ‘work.’

Fuck express boarding. He was getting a personal escort to the pits beyond.

A shrill ringing caught his attention, breaking him from his spiralling thoughts and he turned around, momentarily confused.

The phone.

It was ringing.

He should answer that.

Javi stared at it, then went over and answered like a normal person, “Hello?”

A slightly grumpy, slightly suspicious normal person, but hey. Points for trying.

“Hey, Javi.” It was Steve. “Sorry for the late call,”

Lately, there were no ‘out of hours’.

Some days, the boys wondered if they would be better off just living at the office.

He was already itching for a cigarette.

Javier eyed the packet of cigarettes on the counter, “Nah, it’s alright. What’s up?”

A sigh came through the slight static of the line, “Look man, I know you can’t rush it but… Have you got anything from her yet? Anything at all we can use? Carrillo and the others aren’t gonna give us much longer and we need to nail these fuckers.”

Ah, there it was.

The call back to reality.

Javi’s eyes moved from the cigarettes to the bottle of bourbon he’d abandoned earlier on, “No, nothing yet. No more than what I told you the other day… I can’t push it too much. It’ll bet too obvious.”

Leather creaked and Javi knew Steve would be leaning back on his couch, rubbing his forehead. already smoking.

“I thought as much. She’s the best lead we have, you can’t fuck it up.” He sighed again, more of a groan, “I just wish we could storm right in there and haul them all in.”

Javier was already stalking across the kitchen, snatching up the alcohol and decanting it into a glass before Steve had finished his sentence, “Yeah, I know, I’m with you. Boss says we need something concrete to go on. Which is bull. I’m working as hard as I can, but she’ll get suspicious otherwise. It’s a sore subject.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Let me know if you find anything, okay? Maybe use some of that charm on her. I know it can’t be your happy attitude that gets all those women to fall into bed tell you their darkest secrets.” Steve snickered, a smirk evident in his voice.

Javi bared his teeth at his glass, “Fuck off. You’re just jealous you actually have to work for it.”

He hung up, cutting off Steve’s retort before he even got two words out.

The thought of seducing you into bed to get information… No.

They were getting impatient.

There was only so much he could do to hold them off. He needed to get his head straight.

He needed to figure out what to do.

He needed -

“Hey, everything okay?”

He needed you not to be standing there.

How much had you heard?

Had you been there the whole time?

Fuck, he hadn’t even heard your footsteps come back from the bathroom.

You weren’t looking at him, so you didn’t see the brief flash in his eyes, the chink in the demeanour as he struggled for a believable answer, “Oh, yeah, bebé. It was just Steve. They’re struggling to get citizenship for Olivia in America in case they go home so I said I’d ask someone I know about it.”

Not entirely a lie. Just… not the truth either.

Steve was struggling, and Javi was looking into it.

That’s just not what the phone call was about.

But he could hardly tell you that.

Because then they’d lose the only lead they had.

“That sucks... If they need help, I can ask the girls? See if they know anyone?” You pulled a thoughtful face as you leant against the side, “You’ll probably have more luck than me, but I know Luciana had a similar problem with her son…” You swirled your drink around your glass thoughtfully, working how to solve this next problem.

Javi swallowed, rubbing his eyes as he ran the water to wash up the dishes.

Maybe this would have been easier if you were… less caring. Less good.

“Yeah sure, cariño. They’d appreciate any help they can get at the minute.”

The opportunity was there, might as well go for it.

“Steve is really stressed at the minute. Trying to juggle the shit with Olivia, keeping his marriage floating and then the dead ends we keep hitting with Escobar.” He huffed, shaking his head and turning the water off, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he yells at Carrillo in the next day or so.”

Javi felt you looked over at the back of his head, practically hearing your face of concern, “It’s that bad again? You’re really getting nowhere?”

He knew that hated to hear when your boys were stressed out. Javi was pretty much sleepless most nights, but there was just you with him.

For Steve to be juggling a marriage, a baby and his job all at the same time, in a city that still didn’t fully welcome ‘gringos’. It killed you. You had said many times before how your heart went out to him. How you wished you could help.

You already are, baby.

He nodded, concentrating on the water. It was easier this way. “Mmhm… We just keep hitting dead end after dead end. People are losing their lives and Escobar and his band of freaks are spreading like poison.” The bitterness in his words wasn’t made up.

He hated the man.

Hated him and his band of psychos and everything they did and stood for.

The day they were all behind bars - or six feet under - would be the day he would finally rest properly.

Even if he had no idea what he would do with his life when he was free of Escobar.

Although, on reflection, the job would never be done. There were still more cartels and drug lords to take down.

You were still talking behind him, the worry and frustration clear in your voice as he turned the water off, “I just… I wish there was some way I could help. It kills me to see you all so stressed like this. It’s not fair.”

Javi swallowed, his throat working as he shook his head dismissively, abandoning the dishes and coming over to you instead, “Nah, don’t worry about it, baby. It’s no different to what normally happens. Usually, he just yells at me for not telling him something or for smoking too much, he had an argument with our superiors and then he’s fine.”

He leant against the counter, stretching his legs out and reaching forward to gently pull you into the space between his legs.

“Don’t worry about it, really.” He kissed your cheek tenderly before placing a cigarette between his lips. “How was your day?”

He threw his lighter back on the side after igniting the end, breathing in a lungful of the poisonously addictive smoke.

You slid your arms around his shoulders, curving into his body and you tilted your head back as you groaned at the ceiling, “Long. I had some mail still going to my father’s house, so I had to go and pick it up.”

Javi heard the way the words, ‘my father’ twisted in your mouth, your lips curling slightly in disgust as you call the man the words he wouldn’t ever deserve.

Anger seared through him, like the smoke he heaved into his lungs every day.

Another man that deserved a fate in the dark.

“How was it? Did he say anything to you?”

He stroked down the side of your face, trailing his fingers down your neck and he slid his hand across the back, cradling your head.

Your eyelashes fluttered as he cupped your head, taking the weight for you, “He was prattling on about some meeting. Mumbling that he could tell this person and that person, find something out.” You huffed, “I didn’t really listen.”

Javier’s interest peaked, and he hoped you wouldn’t feel the sudden thump his heart had taken. “A meeting? Did he say what the meeting was about?” He kept his voice soft, even.

Made sure the lungful of smoke curled from his lips in a smooth motion, rather than a jagged breath.

You shook your head no, eyes closing again, and you rested your forehead against his jaw, “Nope. Even if he did, it was all just white noise.”

Damn.

Disappointment spread thick through his veins.

Yet with it, came relief.

Because if you had no new information… He wouldn’t have to call it in.

Javier pressed little butterfly kisses to your hairline, rubbing his fingers into the back of your neck, “You don’t have to see him again for a while now, baby. Don’t think of him… don’t give him that satisfaction.” He murmured the words, rubbing your lower back and keeping you arched against his body.

He liked this.

No, he adored this.

The way you turned utterly boneless in his touch and sank against his body like it was your haven.

A non-committal noise left your throat, and you merely snuggled closer, your fingers pushing into the hair at the back of his head just the way he liked.

Goosebumps danced down his spine, warming his bones and he let his eyes close.

He’d still have to go to work tomorrow.

Be called into the office and asked again if he’d found anything out.

If you had given up your father.

How much more time Javier needed.

He would deal with the guilt, the shame, the anger that they were making him do this - and the disgust at himself for actually doing it.

But for now… He could stand here in the kitchen with you, the crappy tv in the background with your head against his jaw and the scent of your shampoo wafting around him.

For now, he could just pretend.

#request #Javier Peña x reader #Javier peña fan fic #Javier Peña #narcos #narcos imagine #Pedro pascal #Pedro pascal x reader #Pedro pascal imagine #Loving You Is A Losing Game series

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 3 years

Text

Fangs//i bet you're real sweet with her

Request: You my friend are the queeen 👑 of songfics. Any chance you would want to write a fic for the song Bitter by Fletcher? With any of my boys Malachai/Reggie/Fangs/Pea you can choose 😘

hey! brit! @wayward-river this is for you, my love! enjoy! also, this is the last request i have! i did it!! well done me!! requests will be open soon, so keep your eyes peeled!

The world may have moved on and evolved, but when you’re stuck in Riverdale, it feels like you’re still in the same unknown decade, no matter how long you stay for.

Four years after graduation, you’re still waiting tables at Pop’s, despite the rest of your friends moving on. The only people left behind is you, Toni, Sweet Pea and Fangs. But what was once known the four musketeers, now has a huge divide between them.

You still talk to Toni, but she talks more with Fangs. You and Fangs don’t talk to each other anymore due to a very messy ending of an almost six year relationship. Sweet Pea and Fangs only really talk to each other when they have to. Sweet Pea’s pissed because of what Fangs did to you, despite you telling him that you don’t want to be the reason they fall out, but he still sticks by your side. And Fangs is pissed at him for taking your side.

Toni and Sweet Pea are still close but not as much as they used to be. The only plus side is the fact that you and Sweet Pea are closer than before, but that comes at a cost, because he’s stuck in between the messiest breakup in Riverdale history, and there’s nothing he can really do except sit and listen to you complain.

Not that he minds though, as long as you keep giving him secret staff discount on his food, he’s fine listening to you mope about Fangs.

“I just-” You sigh, your head dropping to rest on the table. The clock ticks above you and you can feel some of the other waitresses glaring at you, as they will time to move quicker so they can have their own breaks. “Do you know when you’re on the outside of an inside joke? And everyone else knows it but you have no idea what they’re talking about and it makes you feel really lonely.”

“Lime.” He chuckles and you stare at him confused. “Sorry, you weren’t there.”

“That doesn’t help Sweet Pea.” You slump in the stool and stare out of the coffee machine.

In the reflection you see a group of teenagers sat at the far end of the diner and you’re taken back to when that used to be you. You and the rest of the serpents would sit for hours, just talking and eating. Now those days are far gone, the only time you would ever be in the same place as Fangs would be to fight him.

“Hey. Sorry to interrupt.” An older woman invades your thoughts and casts a shadow over you. You pull your gaze away from the shiny metal and stare up at her. “I really wanted Coke but you guys only seem to have Pepsi.”

“I’m on my break sorry.” You force a smile. The rehearsed customer service voice coming out naturally. “But I’m sure one of my colleagues would be more than happy to help.” You add and point to the various members of staff trying to look busy. You glare at the newest member, Emma, who has the coldest eyes and fakest smile you have ever seen. She’s been a pain in your ass since she got here, and she hasn’t stopped since. You’re just hoping the new girl starting today is going to be a lot nicer.

“Ughhh.” You groan and lean your head on the counter again. “I just remembered I’m training a new girl today.”

“I thought you’d just done that.”

“I have.” You grumble and look up at him. “But because I’m the most experienced member of staff, apparently it’s also my job to make sure they don’t put tea in the coffee machine and to keep the condiments separate.” You add and fiddle with the salt packet lying in front of you.

“Well, I’m gonna be here for a little bit longer. I don’t start till three, so I can keep you company.”

“Thanks.” You smile. “Where are you going today?”

“Just to Greendale and back.”

“Come round when you finish...we can drink what will be left of the night away.”

“Deal.” He smiles and grabs your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Sweet Pea’s phone lights up beside you and you peer over his arm to see who it is.

“Don’t bother.” You say when he reaches for it. “It’s just your mom.” You add when he looks at you confused and his face soon falls.

“Oh.” He grumbles. “I told her to leave me alone.”

“I’m sure she’ll get the message soon.” You try your best to sound convincing. But you’ve been repeating that sentence for seven years and she still doesn’t seem to get it. No matter how many times Sweet Pea tells her that he’s better off without her.

For a while you thought it had worked. Nobody had heard from her in almost 6 months, but then she popped back up and ruined the progress that Sweet Pea had been making of having a stable life.

“And if not. I’ll make sure she does.” You add making him snort a laugh. A soft smile twitches at your own lips as you watch him laugh and then shove a few fries in his mouth. Your hand reaches out to steal some but he catches it and shoves you away making you pout. “Hey! Technically I paid for those. The least you can do is share.”

“What?” He asks through a mouthful of food and you pull a face. “I can’t hear you over the chewing.” He adds and shoves the rest of them in his mouth.

“You’re disgusting.” You shake you head making him laugh loudly. For a good minute, everything feels normal. It feels like you’re just sat with your friend and praying for time to slow down so you don’t have to go back to work.

But eventually time does catch up with you, and as soon as the clock strikes quarter past you have to haul yourself back up, grab your rag and get on. The song on the jukebox flips and you’re suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia.

The opening notes float through the air, and all of sudden you can see you and Fangs dancing right in front of you.

3am in December during a snowstorm. The worst Riverdale had seen for years and the two of you were hiding in the warmth of Pop’s until it went away. You were the only ones in and so Fangs decided to make the most out of the empty diner, and the two of you danced stupidity around the entire place, much to the amusement of the very bored and very tired workers.

Tears spring to your eyes and you let out a shaky breath before fiddling with your fingers.

“Y/n?” Sweet Pea asks. “You okay?” You nod and Sweet Pea stares back at you. Your shiny eyes and wobbly lip really doesn’t help your case of ‘i’m over it!’, but for now he decides to leave it. In the three months since you broke up, you’ve already cried more times than he can count, and that’s just at work. He doesn’t want to see you cry again. If he had his way, you’d never cry again. Not ever.

“I’m fine. I know you think I’m stupid but it’s just how I feel.” You shrug and his expression softens. He grabs your hand, stopping you from walking away and you look at your intwined fingers.

“I have never once thought you were stupid.” He says seriously and you swallow thickly. “Well, apart from the time I dared you to steal FP’s bike and you actually did it.” He adds, the atmosphere being too serious for the two of you.

“I never got caught though.” You point your pen at him, a smile curling the corners of your lips and Sweet Pea smiles back at you.

“It was still stupid.” He replies and you roll your eyes.

“Hey, Pea?” You ask. “Do you know if Fangs is with anybody. I just, I can’t shake the feeling that somebody else is in my shoes right now. You know, doing all of the stuff we used to do.”

“I don’t think so.” He shrugs and you nod slowly.

“Good.” You nod and hold your head higher. “I’m the best he’s ever going to have anyway.” You add making him chuckle.

“Very true.” He laughs. “Y/n? Do you think you might be-I dunno, maybe just a bit bi-”

“I’m not bitter.” You defend and he sends you a look.

“Sure you’re not.” He sips his coffee. “You are dressed in yellow though. And what fruit is yellow?”

“A le-”

“A lemon!” He interrupts, a stupid grin taking over his expression as waits for you to answer.

“Okay.” You nod and grab your notepad from the table. “I’m walking away now. There you go Emma, you can sneak out the back to text a man that is definitely not your husband.

“Oh, hi.” Someone taps your shoulder as you’re walking away making you quickly spin around. The girls almost walks into you and a string of apologies fall from her mouth as she quickly looks around to make sure no one saw.

Her brown hair stops at her waist and curls a little bit near the end. Her bright blue eyes sparkle under the florescent lighting, and her pink lips curl into a nervous smile as she looks around. You glance at Sweet Pea and roll your eyes when you see him not so subtly checking her out.

“Can I help?” You ask and she quickly looks back at you, a bright red blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Yes. Hi, sorry. I’m Olivia. I start today.” She says and sticks her hand out in front of you. You shake it and send a glare to Sweet Pea who is still checking her out and he rolls his eyes at you before scrolling through his phone.

“Lovely to meet you Olivia.” You smile. “Follow me and I’ll show you the ropes.”

“I would so not mind seeing either of you with ropes.” Sweet Pea mumbles and you grit your teeth.

“Would you excuse me for just a second?” She nods, eyes wide as she watches you slap Sweet Pea over the head with the rag. He jumps and yelps from the sudden attack before rubbing his head and scowling at you. “Okay, where were we?” You ask, a smile returning to her lips as she just stares at you in disbelief. “It’s fine. We’re friends.” You shrug and walk her to the counter.

“It doesn’t make it okay!” Sweet Pea shouts.

“Do you want your bill yet...your full one?” You add and he slumps back in his seat, his arms crossed in defeat.

“Okay, so do you have any waitressing experience?”

“Yes!” She smiles. “I used to work in a diner like this one back in New York.” She says and your eyes widen at the mention of New York.

“Oh, so you’re an out of towner?” You ask while showing her around. “This is the kitchen. Basically you get an order, you clip it on there and then the food will come through here. The only time we ever really need to go into the kitchen is if there is a mistake or it’s your turn to put the bins out. There’s a rota in the office but I’ll show you that later.”

“Got it.” She nods. “Yeah. I moved here a few months ago. I’ve been trying to find a job since I moved but there’s only so much you can do in a small town.” She explains and you nod knowingly.

“Why would you ever leave New York for Riverdale. Did you get lost or something?” You tease and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I came here just as a little break to get away from the city, and then I met a guy and I haven’t been back.” She says and your eyes widen.

“You stayed for a boy?” You ask in disbelief and she nods, with an embarrassed smile. “Wow.” You add. “This is the main eating area as you can see. We all have our sections, again, the rota, but you’ll be paired with me for today so you won’t need to know where you are until your next shift. And be warned, if you see him-” You point at Sweet Pea and he waves in return. “Ignore everything he says.” You finish and his face falls.

“I’m gonna stop keeping you company if you’re not careful.” He huffs and you roll your eyes.

“How else are you going to spend your free time if not here?” He shrugs and spins around the chair. When you had more friends, you used to need a booth to fit all of you in and even then you had to steal chairs from other tables. Now Sweet Pea just sits on the stools by the till so he can chat to you.

Sometimes when it’s late and you’re nearing the end of a long shift, you’re sure you can see the ghosts of past versions of yourselves sat in the corner booth. Their laugher filling the air and reminding you of a happier time.

“You guys are a cute couple.” Olivia coos and you and Sweet Pea stare at each other in disgust.

“We are not a couple.” You say quickly and distance yourself away from him.

“You would be lucky to be called my girlfriend.” He says and making you laugh.

“Yeah, I’m really missing out.” You reply. “We’re not a couple.” You repeat, looking at Olivia this time and she nods while trying to suppress a smile.

“Got it. Not a couple.”

“Anyway, tell us about this man that seemingly turned your world upside down.”

“He’s amazing!” She starts and you suddenly start to regret asking. This is definitely not going to help the ever growing feeling that you’re going to be alone forever. “He recently got a new job as a truck driver. At the minute he’s just doing to make some money, but it’s not what he wants to do. And he got a new little flat with his friend and it’s great. He’s an amazing cook...like the best. And he’s so handsome. Sometimes I look at him and I seriously wonder if he was crafted by God himself. He is that good, he has made me believe in God.”

“...wow.” You choke a little.

“Yeah...wow.” Sweet Pea adds and the two of you share an impressed look. She chuckles shyly and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

“He sounds sweet.” You smile and a blush creeps up her neck as she fiddles with her apron. “Who is he? Maybe I know him.”

“Fangs. Fangs Fogarty.” She replies and your jaw drops. The cup in your hand wobbles and you scramble to catch it before it smashes on the floor. Olivia quickly moves forward to help you, but you stand up before she has the chance and she’s left awkwardly standing just a bit too close to you.

Sweet Pea coughs and coffee dribbles down his chin, making both of you look at him and he forces a smile until Olivia is called away. You and Sweet Pea stare at each other for a few seconds, your eyes wide and jaws slack and then you both start an incoherent flow of words as you try and figure out what the hell is going on.

“I thought you said Fangs wasn’t seeing anyone!” You start and slap him over the head with your rag again. He ducks and catches it, but his face crinkles when he comes in to contact with the soggy fabric and he quickly drops it.

“He said he wasn’t!” He argues. “I asked him the other day if he was seeing anyone and he said no. It’s not my fault he lied.” He adds and you huff at him, crossing your arms while staring at the door.

From your peripheral, you watch him roll his eyes and sigh before mumbling a quiet sorry.

“It’s fine.” You sigh. “It’s not your fault.” The two of you watch her make her wander around the restaurant and talking to a few of the other servers, the smile never leaving her lips and a scowl slowly makes its way onto your own. “If I were her I would start packing my bags already because we all know Fangs does not do commitment. It doesn’t matter if its two months or six years, one day he will just up and leave, turning your whole life upside down because he’s a selfish di-”

“Okayyyy.” He says and grabs your arm pulling you over the counter. “Y/n, listen to me.” He grabs your cheeks. “You have got to pull yourself together. One. you are much hotter than her. Seriously, I only checked her out once and that was when she first got here. But I check you out literally every time you walk into a room.”

“Than-”

“Two. Now that it’s official that Fangs has moved on, it means that you can too and you don’t look like the bad person because he did it first. So Friday night, you’re going to get dressed up and then we’re gonna go to Greendale and go to that club, Brightstars and then you’re gonna get bu-”

“You don’t need to finish that sentence.” You reply and he nods proudly before letting go. You drop back onto the floor and smooth your uniform out.

It’s fine, you got this. You can be the bigger person and you can put any petty differences aside for an easy working environment. Fangs has already ruined enough of your life, he doesn’t need to ruin this to.

Apparently he does though, because not two seconds after you’ve had that life-altering thought, does he walk through the doors of Pop’s. The bell rings to announce his presence and everyone turns to look at him.

Sweet Pea buries his head in a menu, despite having already eaten. You frantically look around the place to try and find somewhere to hide, but instead you just watch as Olivia’s face lights up as she greets her boyfriend. The two of them kiss, his hands grip her waist and there is far too much tongue involved to be doing it in public.

Before you can stop yourself, a disgusted expression has already settled on your face and when Olivia turns around to introduce you to him, you try your best to smile through it.

“Do you guys know each other?” She asks while leading him over to the counter. Sweet Pea shuffles further away and grabs another menu to cover his face. You mumble a few curse words at him and vow than the next break you’re not just going to hit him with the rag, you’re going to choke him with it before you muster the politest smile you possibly can.

“Yeah. We went to school together!” You say before Fangs can say anything. He looks at you surprised and you narrow your eyes at him before looking back at Olivia. “We all did. Didn’t we Pea.” You add and snatch the menu’s from him.

He sits up straighter, forcing an awkward smile before nodding slowly.

“Yeah, we-er. We used to hang out.” He adds and Olivia looks at Fangs surprised.

“You never mentioned a Y/n and a-”

“Sweet Pea.” He says and you grab the empty plate and glass from in front of him.

“Wait, is it because they’re friends with that crazy ex you told me about?” She wonders and you freeze. You raise an eyebrow at him and he gulps. “Fangs used to date this girl and they were together for a really long time, but then he broke up with her because well, I guess he just wanted other things. She was crying and begging him to stay and it was a whole mess. Funny story we met when he was throwing away all her old furniture. I asked him what the smoke was about and he told me he was just burning some bad memories.” She laughs and the glass breaks under your grip. The noise causes you all to jump and suddenly it’s all too much.

Tears spring to your eyes and you quickly dump the apron on the counter.

“I’m gonna go clean this, can you cover for me Pea?” You ask and he stands, his face full of concern as he watches you disappear out the back.

Olivia grabs a dustpan and brush and starts cleaning up while Fangs just stares at the floor. Guilt burrows further into his chest as he stares at the broken glass and his new girlfriend cleaning it up.

“I didn’t mean to upset her.” She says. “Where they friends or something?” She asks and Sweet Pea shrugs.

“Yeah, something like that.” He sends Fangs a glare.

“I’ll go see if she’s okay.” He says suddenly and Sweet Pea’s glare only worsens.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” He asks.

“Nope.” He takes a deep breath before following you through the kitchen and into the office. The door swings open and you sigh, too busy trying to pick glass from your hand to look up at it.

“I’m fine Sweet Pea. Could you just pass me the first aid box?”

“Here.” Fangs says and you quickly look up, your eyes widen at the dark haired boy standing in front of you. They soon darken once you snatch the box from him and place it on the desk.

“What do you want Fangs?”

“I’m sorry.” He kneels in front of you, forcing you to look at him. The already small office feels suddenly a lot smaller once you look into his eyes and suddenly you feel like you can’t breathe.

“For what? For breaking my heart, betraying my trust or for telling your new girlfriend, which you found after just a month, that I’m somehow the bad guy in this story?”

“Ye-”

“You know what Fangs.” You stand and slam the box on the table. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about you or your new life or how sorry you are. I don’t give a fuck.” You shout and back him into a corner.

His eyes drop to your lips and your breath hitches under his stare. Was he really thinking about kissing you after everything? But even worse, were you really thinking about letting him? His hands grip your hips, pulling you even closer to him and your lips ghost over his own.

“Do you think about me when you kiss her?” You whisper in his ear and he nods slowly. “Do you think she can taste me when you kiss her?” You add and his eyes flutter closed. The grip on your hips tighten and he leans in, but the door swings open and he quickly jumps away from you.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Olivia apologises awkwardly. “Are you guys okay?”

“Just arguing.” You reply and force a smile. “We’re good now though aren’t we Fangs?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Just fine.”

“Come on Olivia. Tell your boyfriend to get out because we have work to do.” You say and smile at the two of them. They share a look and a short kiss before Fangs disappears back through the kitchen.

You follow closely and watch from the kitchen door as he looks back one last time before leaving. Olivia forces a tight lipped smile at you before busying herself with cleaning some of the booths down.

“Sweet Pea?” You ask and he hums in reply. “You’re right...I am bitter.”

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

I think the reason why I abhor the Inner Circle now has nothing to do with Nesta, but the way that they have no consequences for their actions, regardless of Nesta.

I can admit that Nesta has flaws, but Nesta has suffered the consequences immensely, whether she deserved all of them or not, because she was painted as a “bad” character that “belonged to Hewn City” that was “a waste of life,” that was “embarrassing,” who needed to straighten her attitude, because she was ruining relationships or not gaining them by being mean or verbally aggressive or pushing people away, regardless of the trauma she had. At some points it was a healing arc, at some points it seemed more like a retribution, which largely depended on what other characters were present. Like that was her accountability. Eris, because he’s treated as a “villainous”/ morally grey character, has consequences. Because no one trusts him even when he actually does okay. Because he suffers in silence. Because people hate on him and that he has no one. Tamlin, even has consequences, because again he’s alone. He’s bitter, he’s having an emotionally hard time. He doesn’t have a court anymore. All things that he may or may not have caused himself, but he was painted as the bad guy and so he suffers like the bad guy. Lucien, who didn’t really do anything, but like once in ACOMAF, suffers consequences, because he’s not welcome for a time being anywhere, and now he’s sort of roaming. Jurian, has consequences, because well... everything that happened to him, which you know personally is not really deserved because you know human slavery. So all of them, have or had consequences for their own actions. Other characters, namely the IC, thought of them badly at some point or still do, and they were ostracized in such a way that they paid or are paying essentially for their “crimes.”

Which to me is perfectly fine, IF, the people who are “good” but did “bad” things also have to suffer consequences. Even narratively, like feeling bad... showing remorse... feeling guilty... other people yelling at them... making them understand the other POV... cosmic punishment... something awful happening to them because they did this... other people not thinking well of them. Anything!

BUT THEY DON’T. And this is where the imbalance is very noticeable, and unfortunately to me makes the IC look really bad, even in the narrative’s pursuit of pushing this idea that they’re very good.

Which you know might be a POV thing (or SJM’s favoritism but I digress), but Rhys for example is a trash ruler. He may not be bad to Feyre. He may be caring to some people. He may want to put his family first. He may care about the little city he lives in, but on a regular basis he wants to burn Hewn City down. Why he still has that city? Idfk. Why everyone in that city is painted to be a bad person? I don’t know either. He may have outlawed clipping, but on a regular basis there’s still a shit ton of crimes against females. He has a city and a temple full of proof, and the explanation for that is that well... there are consequences. But what are they? And also, why are there not more infrastructures to stop this? Like I understand that the Illyrians are a traditional people, but is that the excuse we’re going with? Which of course, he’s only one person, this is not his fault, but now he’s literally trying to have a whole ass country sign a peace treaty for what reason? Is there a reason he’s not focusing on the problems of his OWN court like they don’t exist? His own inner circle have so many problems, and what is happening with them? Why the hell did he make that promise to die with Feyre, but also why didn’t he tell anyone about it just in case. Because he’s literally the ruler of a court. Let’s not forget that instead of being just a strong-willed High Lord who’s just and fair and who’s trying to do what’s right by his people, he’s still putting on an act. Why? He’s the most powerful person, they say ALL THE TIME. He clearly is not. Let’s not forget that he has done so much crime, and what really were his consequences? Like if Nesta can’t be excused by her trauma, Rhys CANNOT be excused by his trauma, except Rhysand’s actions were in the range of murder and Nesta’s was being mean lol. So I think it’s hilarious that to the IC at least he’s fucking fantastic. Like okay.

Amren, as another example, basically works in the same way as Nesta. Where she is harsh, but people put up with it. But again, Nesta is looked at very harshly, and Amren is not??? Even when she’s sort of a tyrant and she’s a... little bit of a colonizer and she doesn’t really give people respect. And she’s shown to be a bit of a... do as I say type of person by any means necessary even deceit and manipulation which is not frowned upon even with “friends.” What are her consequences? Even in Nesta’s POV she takes a knee. Does that make sense?

Going even into just inter group dynamics, Mor for example, is not very... should I say? Honest. I hate to villainize her like the whole thing is her fault, because it’s obviously not. But... she literally is playing with a man’s feelings and knows she’s playing with a man’s feelings, but she doesn’t tell him because??? Like she doesn’t even have to tell him why, but she hasn’t told Azriel she doesn’t like him? And then she also got Cassian involved... I mean, it’s Cassian’s fault for that, you know, cause she didn’t force him, but... uhh. And then, let’s not forget that Mor was awful to Nesta in ACOWAR, when Nesta was actually pretty decent to Cassian. They had many moments. She saw those moments. And Mor was not nice AT ALL. Cut the crap, of saying oh Mor was just protective of Cassian because Nesta was mean. No she wasn’t! Or you’re forgetting an entire fucking book. She may seem like that now, but that was a change of character to be honest, I don’t know where that came from, because in the beginning of that book she was an awful person, and in ACOWAR she was not a benevolent person either. But where are her consequences????? Actually she has a bit, because you know Eris points it out a lot, that she’s a liar. Nesta says she’s a hypocrite. She’s dealing with her father, she has to hide who she is to fit in the group which is sort of changing her narrative. So, I count that as some form of consequence, which is probably why I don’t hate her too much. I understand her a bit, but damn... she was not that bright and bubbly and who’s really going to call her out on that?

Sigh... Onto the next one. My love. Cassian.

I know he’s loving and very sweet. But he has his head so far up the IC’s ass, that I’m like ugh...Mostly my critique with him is that he gets to say everything he wants even when it’s horrible and down right dramatic, to a girl who already hates herself, and who he learns hates herself and if he was smarter he could have connected those dots way earlier and that she was suffering thoughts of not wanting to exist because she obviously was by her ACTIONS, and still he says the most horrible things. Sure, he offers remorse, but like... we didn’t even see him apologize. Like I hate that Nesta can say horrible things, and omg Nesta’s mean. But Cassian says horrible things, and it’s like omg Nesta what did you say? I mean that’s how the narrative was structured. Nesta said something about Rhys it wasn’t even that big, “everyone hates you.” Nesta offers some anxiety about the mating bond, “I’m shackled to you.” Like... yikes. She doesn’t want to accept his gift, “I don’t understand why your sisters love you.” Sigh... I love Cassian but damn, he literally has no consequences. No one is calling him out, no one thinks bad of him, nothing. He’s the sweet, lovable guy and nothing else. Psssh. I mean, he mostly says this only to Nesta, but Nesta isn’t going to think bad of him, which is not right. Because he sucks sometimes, and what? Nesta needs to learn to take the pain of his insults. Okay.

Elain, is not technically an IC member, and tbh I don’t know who the hell she is or what she feels, so I can’t talk about her too much. Except for the fact, that she is also not the greatest person in the world. I know that you cannot expect your sibling to hold the world for you, but as people have pointed out, Nesta was not asking her to help her with her own trauma, she was asking for time to heal, like Nesta had done for Elain. Because Nesta protected Elain’s ability to heal. And when Nesta tells her this, she just doesn’t understand and doesn’t seem to care about understanding her POV, and cries and once again Nesta is the bad guy. And then you know she offers that “you only care about what my trauma did to you.” Another lack of understanding, because Nesta is fearful of the cauldron, and her own sister doesn’t stick up for her when the IC are obviously trying to push her into something she’s saying and showing she’s not comfortable with. I don’t see how you cannot see this scene as a manipulation, when it is outright said that they would use Elain later to do that. And tbh if Elain really wanted to do something she could at any moment, no one is stopping her. I mean Nesta may put up some fight, but if Elain wants it she can have it. She’s not an uwu baby. But the scene did show that no matter what Nesta feels, once again Elain is the victim and Nesta is the one in the wrong. And then later when Nesta is trying again when she goes to solstice, which you know based on logical reasoning, would have been probably hard for her, Elain is like “Did Feyre pay you to come? Be nice.” Sigh... And still, Elain is the sweet one and Nesta is the one who deserves that. Even in her own narrative, Nesta doesn’t deserve anything. What are Elain’s consequences? I certainly hope Nesta and Elain are not close to begin with in the next books, because I honestly feel that Elain now has proven twice that she is not helpful. Just like Nesta didn’t help Feyre, Elain didn’t either, though Nesta paid for that a lot in other people’s opinions of her, which they did not hold against Elain. But now she also didn’t help Nesta. But both Feyre and Nesta have helped Elain, and they’re both now considered to have “coddled” her like what wack shit? Isn’t that just another way that they excuse Elain for not taking accountability of her own life? Is that not also making her a victim of other people? When again, if she really wanted to fight or go somewhere or do something, who would stop her? The perspective on Elain is very weird. Anyway.

I’d also say Azriel doesn’t suffer any consequences. For obvious reasons, because he seems to torture people and no one bats an eye, but also because he seems to have such a weird mindset even it’s not outright stated. Again with the whole Mor situation, how has no one told him that holding onto this crush is fucking creepy and counterintuitive to the mindset of family they’re trying to create? Like you visibly made someone obviously uncomfortable, and nothing? No one calls you out. No one thinks bad of you, even Mor, the one uncomfortable. So weird!!!

But basically what I’m trying to say, is not that I hate these characters, because they’re very interesting to read, even if the quality of writing is so-so compared to other SJM’s series. They’re not totally bad or villains but they definitely do some stuff that should probably be recognized as something wrong, because all of them are morally grey characters. Just the lack of understanding they showed Nesta should be something that is called out, the lack of understanding they don’t really show each other for those who call themselves family. No one had to be accountable in this book, except Nesta. Which is odd, I think, because there’s two POVs, and Nesta has a problem with everyone which are not entirely her fault. Because the opinions of other people, at their core, are the responsibility of the other people. They could have chosen to be more understanding, but they didn’t. They could choose to be better people, but they don’t. And I’d say that the lack of accountability that the IC have contribute to them never changing. Now, this may change with more books. But at least in this book, this idea is not promising. We got no scenes of the IC talking to Cassian or Nesta like they understood or empathized or changed their mind about anything, none that made them seem like they felt guilty or wrong. Even Rhys went into Nesta’s head and saw all of her trauma, and then still said he wanted to kill her because of a situation he, himself, created. This book was a mess. But they’re messy characters which might be because of poor plotting, but could be on purpose. Idk.

But the point I’m trying to make is that the more the idea is pushed that the IC are these good, benevolent people, who do no wrong, who are the saviors, the more I think they’re horrible people. Because all of things they do that are wrong don’t get held against them. They don’t have to pay for that crime. And if they did have to be accountable for those mistakes, for their own thoughts and actions, I would hate them a lot less. But I think this is also why I tend to like SJM’s “villains” or “asshole characters” more than her “good” characters because the assholes get to grow and the good characters just get more annoying. But it remains to be seen I guess. I certainly hope they have some more development, but not holding my breath... Just my opinion, which I don’t know if I articulated well. So... Anyway

#it is what it is #anti sjm #anti inner circle #nesta archeron #nessian #long post #anti rhysand #to be safe #all antis

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ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

Text

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter Six

ao3 - masterpost

Hey, babes! Here are our canon fixes for the week:

1. When Nesta was six, she met with a man who declared more or less immediately that she would forever be hopeless at playing an instrument or singing, but that she had a good ear for music. Bull.

2. Nesta is apparently so desperate for a friend that she gives the House life, but never really hangs out with the priestesses. Um. Okay? Sounds fake, but okay.

3. Both Gwyn and Emerie have never left their homes in Sangravah and Illyria, respectively, except for when the IC brings them to the library. Not exactly a fix, but something we will start to explore.

Enjoy!

---

Since Nesta's accomplished virtually nothing in her life, she expects her ideas of "new things" to try to be easy to come up with. But after an hour of brainstorming in bed that Thursday evening, she only has two things scribbled in the notebook Thalia gave her: Wear yellow and Learn to play the trumpet.

"Don't suppose you have a trumpet in here?" Nesta says to the House.

The House only pulls the curtains shut in answer.

"Bedtime," she agrees, shutting the notebook and placing it on her bedside table. "I think this one-per-day rule is a bit much, don't you? Especially considering these self-defense lessons. Do you think other girls will come?" Nesta doesn't always wait for an answer when talking to the House. It tends to interject as it pleases, generally by opening doors or magicking a cup of tea in front of her. "I think that Emerie girl would like to. From Illyria, I told you about her...oh, thank you," she adds, for the House has placed the novel Nesta started last night by her pillow. "Shall I read aloud, then?"

She does, until she falls asleep.

The next morning, she draws looks from the hood-less girls and slight double-takes from the veiled priestesses; no doubt courtesy of the bright yellow dress the House had pulled out of her wardrobe this morning. She ignores them, not stopping until she reaches Clotho's office. When she knocks, Thalia's voice calls for her to enter.

"Well!" Thalia says, smiling.

"I'm never wearing this color again. It washes me out." Ruins the detox and more regulated eating she's had this past month.

"I think you look lovely," she insists, and Clotho nods. "But that's certainly your prerogative. Is that the worst consequence?"

"Yes, yes," Nesta says impatiently, waving a hand. "It won't kill me to try new things. Lesson learned."

Thalia looks over at Clotho. Perhaps she can tell what the priestess looks like under her hood, or perhaps she talks to her mind-to-mind like Feyre and Rhysand do, but Nesta almost thinks they exchange a glance of some sort. Amused, perhaps?

"Can either of us help you with anything, Nesta?" Thalia asks pleasantly, and gestures for her to sit down.

"Maybe," Nesta says taking a seat. Her cheeks color slightly as she does; why is she bashful about this all of a sudden? Around Thalia and Clotho? "I...well, I've started some self-defense, you know."

"We know." They both did, had both asked her how it was going. "You're still enjoying it, aren't you?"

"I...I am-it's good for me." Enjoy is a strong word.

"You said it helps keep you focused," Thalia says. "Centered."

"Yes. It...makes me feel good." She doesn't normally struggle with her words so much, does she? Does she sound like an idiot to the two of them, or just to her own ears? No, Clotho and Thalia would never say that about her. Never even think it. It's only her who's like this, trapped in her own wretched mind, slave to something dark and horrible and become just as vile-

But no, that isn't true. It's not just her who feels that way. And that's why she's here.

"It makes me feel more in control," Nesta says finally. "Of my life and my body."

Thalia leans back, satisfied. Clotho doesn't move. Nesta wonders if they know, if they can guess at what just went on in her mind. Either way, they both wait for her to continue.

"And I thought," she says, pausing to draw breath, "that maybe some other girls might be interested. With...Cassian."

At this, Clotho does cock her head.

"We meet in the mornings. Not on Tuesdays and not over the weekend," she adds, just so they aren't sitting in silence.

After a few moments that feel ridiculously long, Thalia says, "I think that's a wonderful idea, Nesta."

For a brief, strange moment, something happens. Nesta breathes in as Thalia finishes her sentence-not in relief or any emotion in particular, just to breathe-and as she does so, something inside of her shifts. Un-constricts.

But it's gone just as soon as it arrives, and before Nesta has time to dwell upon it, one of Clotho's notes appears. For a select group of girls, perhaps.

"Yes, I think we have the same few in mind...Of course, Nesta, you're welcome to share this with all of the students, but just between Clotho and myself, I think we'll privately encourage four or five...yes, thank you for bringing this up to us, Nesta," Thalia says, finishing with another warm smile.

Don't go just yet, Nesta, please, Clotho writes as Thalia takes her leave. I wanted to ask you how you were doing.

"I'm well. Thank you."

I'm glad to hear these self-defense lessons have something to do with that...our own lectures and exercises too, I hope?

Nesta raises her head slightly as her cheeks tinge pink. "I-yes. I think so." Clotho waits, unmoving, until Nesta sighs and says, "I do like the lectures."

Wonderful. Which ones?

Nesta answers honestly, "All of them." It's...it's quite something, to learn things. Things she never knew, never imagined, from females who are so passionate about them. "And...I like the jewelery. I like working with my hands."

I'm so very happy to hear you're finding yourself here, Nesta, Clotho's pen writes out. Have you given any thought to a more permanent assignment?

"I...thought you were supposed to."

With your input, of course. We would never want you to do something you were uncomfortable with.

But Gwyn's not comfortable with Merrill, is she? "I don't know. There's not really anything wrong with any of the priestesses, I suppose." It's only when Clotho begins lightly shaking with amusement that Nesta realizes she probably shouldn't have said that. "That is...I like them." She does. Enough.

Well, I'm happy to hear that, too.

Nesta rises, rather abrupt. "I've got to sort books," she says, and doesn't wait for a proper goodbye before leaving.

---

The amount Nesta has improved after only a few short weeks of being in the library floors Cassian. Her weight gain, voluntarily asking him for self-defense lessons, her performance in said lessons, and she still manages to find time to ask if other girls can join. Not even touching upon the fact that she's said she doesn't feel so dependent on alcohol anymore.

It shows incredible strength of character, and it makes Cassian's heart swell so much that he almost doesn't care when he meets an unfamiliar, tipsy young male he realizes must be one of the rebels in Windhaven, glaring at him.

Almost.

"What are you doing outside of your camp, boy?" Boy, he says, because he is one. He's not yet participated in the Rite.

"Visiting family," the boy slurs. "Sir," he adds, mocking.

"Go home," he orders, trying to imitate Nesta when she's at her coldest.

Perhaps it works, because the boy blanches before sneering and turning away.

He has to tell Rhys they're getting more brazen. Normally Cassian wouldn't care at all what any of them say to him-or at least, say he doesn't care-but if these pricks are bringing Nesta into it, all bets are off. He's going to follow up on whoever that was and make sure he doesn't come back to this camp until this situation is under control. Until the threat on the throne, on Nesta's life, is vanquished.

Shaking himself, he pushes into Emerie's shop. "Good morning."

She looks up. "You're back. Hello," she adds.

He gives her a smile. "Who was that?"

Emerie does not return his expression. "My baby cousin, Bellius," she says, bitter. "But never mind him." Just like that, Emerie phases out of her ire and into a cool, detached expression. Just like Nesta, he thinks. Perhaps that was why they liked each other-if they liked each other. "What can I help you with?"

"Perhaps you can help me," he says. "Nesta-Lady Nesta-you met here a few weeks ago?"

"Yes," she says, careful. "I remember."

"Well," he says, unsure of how to introduce the subject. "She's...started taking some self-defense lessons. For exercise. With me."

Emerie looks unconvinced. "For exercise?"

"And she thought you might be interested in joining. And that you have some friends who might be interested, too."

Emerie's face doesn't betray anything. She studies him, and it's been about ten seconds before she says, "Did she?"

"Yes," he says, feeling only slightly like perhaps the two of them training together might not be good for him.

"Hm," she says. After another minute of her own quiet deliberation, she says, slowly, "I will attend one of these lessons...and then I will...consult with my friends."

"All right," Cassian says, thankful that it's over. "Someone will be along to pick you up Monday morning."

He doesn't dawdle too long in saying goodbye. He has a lot to cover before Monday-figure out the best way to introduce self-defense to very traumatized, potentially, females, and now he'll have Emerie, and Nesta. What kind of dynamic will that create?

But he's been a soldier his whole life. Surely he can handle a few young females.

Hopefully.

---

Nesta has taken to carrying around her notebook wherever she goes, just in case she gets an idea of some new thing she can try. A girl named Deridre approaches her and asks her what self-defense is like, and if it's at all like the meditative yoga they do with the priestess Agata, so she writes that down. She goes to one of Daphne's lectures for the first time and learns about resuscitation and scrawls the name of a method to stop choking that seems simple enough to learn. Gwyn sees her writing and says, "You know, your finger nails are shaped so nicely. How come you never paint them?" so she adds that to her list, too.

She finds, actually, that it's quite nice to carry the book around. It's nice to have an excuse to write with such a fine pen. It's been years since she has.

Her sisters visit her over the weekend at her invitation and they are thrilled by her new things.

"I could teach you to paint," Feyre suggests.

Nesta wants to reply that the idea is to attempt things that do not make her want to pitch herself off the veranda, but instead she says, "You already tried that."

"Right," she says, deflating.

"But," she says, oddly disturbed by this response, and grasping for something to say, "maybe we can...sculpt. Or something. One day."

Feyre brightens at this. "Whenever you have time," she says, happily.

"How's self-defense going, Nesta?" Elain asks, would-be casual.

Nesta rolls her eyes. "You've heard we're inviting other girls?"

"Oh, Nesta, I just think it's such a grand idea-"

"Everyone's really excited about it, honestly, they've been trying for something like this for so long-"

"And with the Illyrian girls, Cassian said-"

"We know it's not exactly a unit, but still so impressive-"

"And we hear you're doing really well!"

"Yes! Really well! Maybe I could join you one day, too," Feyre says, hopeful.

"I'd watch. Or, or maybe even try some!"

Nesta takes a sip of water. She forgets how much noise these two make, honestly. "I don't think it's as exciting as you've imagined," she says. "Sure, you can come one day. Maybe not while the other girls...I'm a bit nervous," she confesses, suddenly. "Clotho and Thalia wouldn't let if they thought it was a bad idea, but I don't know..." She looks out onto the rainy city. The House keeps the interior warm for her, but sometimes she thinks she can still feel the cold in her bones anyway. "I mean, I'm the only one who ever leaves the library, and it could go really wrong. Obviously, no one's going to force herself to do this, and they can just no, but-uh," she finishes on a stammer, as she turns back to look at her sisters.

For there are shining silver tears in Elain's eyes, and Feyre's face looks cracked.

What has she said? What horrible thing has she done?

"No, no," Feyre says hurriedly, reading her expression.

"Sorry, Nesta," Elain says, bringing her hands to wipe her eyes. "It's just...it's just so nice to see you like this...about something."

"Oh," Nesta says, eventually.

Her sisters leave in the evening, but the likeness of their faces in her mind do not. Their expressions, their...love.

Is she really so different now, she wonders all weekend. Is she so much better? She doesn't feel particularly much of anything.

If this is better, then what had she been before?

Monday morning rolls around quickly, and she is decked in the uniform the House has supplied her and finished with a light breakfast, waiting at the arena on the roof before the sun has even fully risen.

"Nervous too?" Cassian says from behind her as he neatly lands in.

"I suppose," she says, not turning around.

"How long have you been here?"

"Fifteen minutes."

He chuckles. "Maybe more nervous than I am. Well...shall we begin?"

"No one's here yet."

"So? We can start just the two of us." He shrugs out of his jacket. "Would put us at ease, at least, don't you think?"

Us, he says. Like they are the same. They get nervous by the same things and the same things calm them down and they do it all together.

"Yes," she says, clearly needing it.

The movements come easier than on Thursday. Each time she gets better, and it is, she will admit, a rare sort of feeling. To know that she is improving at something. To feel it in her blood and bones.

Cassian's instructions leave no room for worrying in her mind. When she slips out of his holds, breaks out of his grip, all she can think of are his body and hers, anticipation of his next move and victory when she gets it right, or disgruntlement when she is wrong. They move through the steps in sync, almost like the ballet she used to study, and she is so consumed with it that she does not notice until they are done that they have an audience.

Not a particularly big one. Gwyn, Deirdre, and Azriel has brought Emerie, but an audience nonetheless.

"All right," Cassian says. "So what Nesta and I just did is called the Grunge Hook." He launches through into an explanation of what it means and Nesta blinks as she realizes he must have known they all had arrived. Seen them, heard them.

Her cheeks go cold. She can never notice anything else when he's there. Certainly not as they were; touching, talking...

"So Emerie and Nesta, and, ah, Miss..."

"Gwyn," Gwyn says at the same time Deirdre says, "Deirdre."

"Right," Cassian says. "Well, you two pair up."

Emerie walks over to Nesta and they are ready faster than the other two. Nesta tenses. They have not yet been outside-perhaps this was a mistake-what will Gwyn think of her now? She won't sit next to her for lectures anymore, won't come help her put books away-

But it is only a moment, and then Gwyn turns to Cassian and says, "I guess we should have dressed differently."

"You can wear whatever you're comfortable with," he says. "And you don't have to do anything you don't want to, either."

So Deirdre keeps her hood secured on, but Gwyn shrugs her robe off entirely to reveal simple, like-colored dress. Perhaps she'd like leggings and a skirt like Nesta's, she thinks. If she decides to continue...if other girls decide to join...

Emerie's, surprisingly, not as good at the movements as Nesta is. Surprisingly because Nesta doesn't really think of herself as good at this, just better than before, and because, well, Emerie's Illyrian, and all the Illyrians Nesta knows...

"It's your wings," Azriel says, approaching. "They throw you off balance."

She droops. "So I can't. Because I'm clipped."

Nesta flinches-it's such an ugly word. But what to say?

Azriel answers before she can, his shadows clearing from his face. "Of course not," he says, patient. "Just hold yourself this way," and he shows her how to maneuver her wings.

Emerie seems as though her emotions sway easier than Nesta's, as she appears cheered up by this. "Let's try again," she says to Nesta.

And they do, but it is not like before, with Cassian. It is not as in sync, and she is not as focused. Over on the other side, under Cassian's watch, Gwyn and Deirdre are doing even worse.

When the hour is done, Deirdre hurries back down faster than she has moved throughout the whole lesson, and Gwyn shoots Nesta a small smile, and nods her head once at Azriel, before saying, "Good to see you again," and leaving. Emerie says, "Thanks for thinking of me," and perhaps sounds a bit more genuine, but she turns to ask Azriel to take her back right after, and then she is gone too.

"Brilliant," Nesta says aloud, miserable.

Cassian looks over at her, surprised. "What?"

"Are you kidding me? That was horrible."

Cassian laughs. "Are you kidding me? That was great!"

"Enough," she snaps, skin burning. "I don't need-"

"Woah," he says, raising his hands. "Woah. Seriously, Nesta, what's wrong?"

She clenches her hands into fists. "Stop mocking me."

"I'm not!" he protests, and his stupid eyes are wide and innocent and his stupid voice is confused and concerned when he says, "Come on, why are you upset?" so she has no choice but to answer.

"They hated it and they were bad."

Cassian laughs again. A real laugh this time, with his head tilting back, and the sound echoing in the mountains. Her heart lurches. She ignores it.

"They did not hate it," he says, eyes twinkling. "And they were not bad. They're novices. Not everyone's a born natural like you, with a perfectly paired partner in me," he teases, winking, almost as though good-natured.

"They couldn't get away fast enough." Deirdre didn't even take off her hood. So much for helping other females.

Cassian's grin falters. Shit. Had she said that out loud?

He moves closer to her. "Do you know how many clipped Illyrian females have agreed to come to anything remotely similar to this?"

"You know I don't," she snaps, but he doesn't rise to her bait.

"None," he says, calm. "Emerie is the first. Do you know how long Deirdre's been in here?"

"No," she says. Longer than Gwyn, but not more than that.

"Since before Amarantha took over."

Nesta winces. Over fifty years, at least, then.

"And she came...you convinced her to come."

"I didn't," she says. "Thalia-"

"She told me," he interrupts. "She told me you told her what it was like and she wanted to try it."

Nesta stills at this. "Well...what does it matter if she just tries it once?"

He laughs-again! Why does he laugh so often? "Aren't you doing that? Trying things once? Oh, no, I don't mean it in a bad way, Nes, don't look like that. I'm just saying...okay. So it's not for everyone. Maybe she tries it once and never does it again. But it's still worth a whole fucking lot that she tried. And that's because of you. And how do you know she's not going to try again, anyway? Because she left when the hour was up?"

Nesta reddens slightly.

"Fuck," he says, and this time it doesn't amuse her, his easy swearing. "I-shit. Nesta. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings."

She startles. "I-what?"

"I just mean..." He runs his fingers through his hair. "Look. You did a good thing. Whether or not they continue, you did a good thing. And I think they will, for the record. Emerie might not want to come every day, you know, she might not have time...but I think Gwyn liked it enough."

Nesta feels something inside of her flutter. "She did?"

Cassian nods. "Definitely." He looks at her for another moment, then shakes his head.

"What?" she asks, dreading the answer.

"Nothing," he says. "I just don't understand how you can't possibly be so proud of yourself. Especially today." He shrugs slightly, completely oblivious to what is happening inside of her. That feeling from Clotho's office. What is that?

But it is gone as soon as it arrives, just like last time. He says, "See you tomorrow, Nesta," and leaves. And then she does too.

---

Cassian, Nesta learns over the course of the next few weeks, is right.

Not about her, obviously. But about the females still being interested.

Gwyn's excited about it. "I didn't realize you were so good," she gushes.

Nesta huffs in amusement. "Hardly."

"Well, better than the rest of us!"

"Just a bit more practice," she says. And there is something about the lessons with Cassian...though they don't do as much together, though, anymore. Not with the others there now. She almost wishes that she had not invited everyone for each of the lessons...maybe one morning with him just to herself.

But that's-that's just absurd. He's hardly hers.

Deirdre finds her that Monday, too, and thanks her for convincing her to go. Nesta privately wonders what on earth it was she had said that worked, because the conversation barely stands out in her mind, but she tells Deirdre she's glad to hear she enjoyed it, anyway.

"I think Roslin and Ananke would like it too," she says. "Thalia told them it would be good for them, but they were too nervous. I'll try and convince them...I didn't realize how much fun it would be," she adds with a gentle laugh.

Fun?

"Oh," Nesta says. "Oh...well, good. I mean, good to hear. I hope they...join too."

And Cassian is right about Emerie as well. She does not come on Tuesday, but she does on Wednesday, and tells Nesta she thinks she can keep coming twice a week.

"And your friends?" she asks.

"They're interested," she tells her. "But I think I have to work a little harder at convincing them."

Nesta nods, not wanting to ask what they might have stopping them from coming. Whatever happened to Emerie's wings-whoever had clipped her-perhaps those females have someone like that in their lives.

It is on the second Wednesday that Emerie arrives that Nesta asks her if she'd like to stay a while longer. She'd already asked Azriel the day before if he could possibly take her back after lunch, and he'd agreed.

There was something odd about talking to Azriel, she noticed. Something about those shadows. Something about the way they-looked?-at her. Something...

But Emerie agrees, if a bit shyly, and she asks Gwyn if she'd like to take lunch with the two of them instead of in the priestesses' dining hall, and Nesta has her new thing for the day: hosting people for a meal.

They ogle everything openly, jaws dropping as the House pulls out chairs for them and food appears as Nesta requests it.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're...talking to the House?" Gwyn asks.

"Yes."

"Oh. Thank you," she adds.

"Thank you," Emerie says quickly.

The House likes them too. Nesta can tell. There's a bit more effort being made here today, she thinks, as she notes a fancy bouquet in the middle of the table and finer china than she normally uses. Nesta smiles to herself.

Nesta searches for something she can say, a safe topic that has nothing to do with self-defense, but Gwyn beats her to it. "So, how do you two know each other?" she asks.

"Nesta came to Illyria to scare some rebels who are trying to kill her," Emerie answers casually.

Gwyn jerks her head towards Nesta. "Really?"

"Not quite how I would have phrased it," Nesta says. "But true enough, I suppose."

"Why are they trying to kill you?" Gwyn says, eyes wide.

Wonderful. What a fantastic luncheon this is.

"They don't like me very much."

"They're scared of her," Emerie says. "And they want to overthrow the High Lord and High Lady." She turns to Nesta. "What do you think of that?"

Nesta raises an eyebrow as she cuts into her food. "Of killing my sister and Rhysand? Well, I've certainly thought of it myself, at times."

They both laugh. Nesta blinks. Then she smiles slightly.

"I have to assume I'm against them," she says. "But to be honest, I don't really understand any of the politics here. I'm...not very well-informed."

"Oh, neither am I," Gwyn says, shaking her head. "It's terrible. I mean, I've lived in this court all my life, and I'm so pitifully ignorant. It's ridiculous. I don't know the first thing about Illyria, like. Or even Velaris, really. And I have no excuse. I live in a library, for gods' sakes."

"I don't know of any books I'd recommend for you to learn about Illyria," Emerie says, thoughtful. "Not unless you read Illyrian, that is."

"See, I didn't even know there was an Illyrian until you just said that. Pathetic."

"Can you recommend other books?" Nesta says, latching on the chance to steer the conversation away from the history of the Night Court and into perhaps the only topic she might be able to contribute to.

"Oh, of course," Emerie says, pausing to swallow. "What do you like?"

"Romance," Nesta says, as Gwyn says, "Adventure."

"Ooh, The Knight Society. That's both. You can read that together."

Gwyn grins at Nesta. "Book club," she says. "What's it about?"

Emerie launches into a description of the book-the series, actually-and eventually, Nesta finds herself not looking for things to say, but rather just...talking. Not forced. Not desperate. Just a part of the conversation. Easy, flowing...fun, almost.

Funny, at least. Emerie is clutching her sides laughing as she describes the worst romance novel she ever read and Gwyn giggles, her hands covering her mouth, but Nesta says thoughtfully, "That's not such a horrible idea, though."

"You think-"

"No, no, the premise is atrocious, yes," she says. "But that exact scene...that has potential."

"Potential, right," Emerie says, laughing still.

"No, I mean it," she says, but she lets it go, lets the conversation drift naturally.

She is disappointed when Azriel comes to take Emerie back, but picked up by the fact that they all are. Emerie promises to make time to stay for lunch again, either Monday or Wednesday of next week.

"This was so lovely," Gwyn says to her, wistful, as they walk down to the library together. "So much nicer than in the dining hall.

"Really?" Nesta says before she can stop herself. "Well...I eat lunch every day. You can join...if you'd like."

Gwyn brightens. "I would!"

So after two weeks of lessons with other girls (Roslin and Ananke have joined, and Lorelei and Ilana, too, though the later doesn't participate so much as watch), and more random assignments from Clotho, and new things for Thalia, Nesta finally finds herself with a few hours of quiet after Friday evening's lecture has been canceled.

"Shall we read?" she says to the House.

Lights flicker in answer. Too many for the usual yes or no. This means Nesta has to follow.

"All right," she says, standing. "To the veranda?" she asks. But it's too cold out, so she hopes not.

Instead, the House leads her to a room she hasn't been in since her first stay, upon first exploration. She has had no need.

"Oh," she says at the door, softly.

The knob turns slightly, not fully opening. The House giving her the final decision.

But she doesn't want to hurt its feelings, so she opens the door.

The music room-a conservatory, it can be called-just by the sheer size of it-is grander than she remembers. She had opened the door and not even stepped inside, that first time. Just stood there, frozen, before snapping the door shut and hurrying away.

She takes a slow step in, but almost as though she is being walked by some other being, she takes another, and then another, and before she knows it, she is seated at the piano.

Ballroom grand. Enormous. Sleek and glossy and it would sound just perfect, she knows.

Lights flicker from behind. She turns and lets out a little laugh.

"Thanks," she says, shaking her head at the spotlight, "but I don't think I'm going to be learning the trumpet this evening."

The lights stop, as if the House is acquiescing.

The lights above her now flicker briefly. So will you play the piano, then?

Nesta inhales and exhales deeply. Slowly. Again. And again. The same way Cassian has her do after lessons.

There's really...there's really nothing stopping her. There's no reason not to. If she were to pick up her notebook and write down the reasons why she can't play right now, there wouldn't be any.

So why can't she do it?

She doesn't have an answer. So with another deep breath, Nesta closes her eyes and gently presses her thumb to middle C.

The sound is soft, and then that feeling, from with Thalia and Clotho, and Cassian, hits her again. But as she hits the second note, it does not fade away. It stays this time. So she plays.

#nessian #nessian fic #acosf fic #acotar fic #nesta archeron #whatever the hell am i supposed to tag this asssssss????????#anyway. i'm thrilled to be sharing this!!#cannot WAIT for next chapter also #because nesta had to go on a journey to get to her journey #because she was in such a bad place!!#but here she's like...she's been getting better but not good #and now she can start getting good you know??#so exciting #hope y'all enjoy<3 #oh and btw i don't about you but i'm turning 22 next friday when i post chapter seven #so in case you were looking for a sign to share what you think...this is it #😌#lol #but kind of for real

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lucefrs · 3 years

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tl;dr: luce thinks about how she should have never ended up at georgetown in the first place, and the domino effect it had on her life. after flunking out of gallagher, she savours the summer. her and scott break up sometime after new years. a quick onslaught of success makes her feel wary, unsure how to not take up space she doesn’t deserve after doing it so many times before. she performs her own song in the lower east side.

insp for the song she plays at the end.

BEFORE.

luce is a bright child but lacks in the area of self discipline and application. she would benefit from paying closer attention during class discussion.

she knew from a very young age that she was not smart. at least not by the metric that institutions measure by. the unlucky curse that has kept her in the stream of academia is this: luce frear is smart enough. to graduate secondary school because it’s a key that unlocks america’s golden arches. to pursue higher education when she gets the encroaching feeling that she’s going to be found out that she doesn’t actually have any family friend's as guarantors. at the time, she doesn’t know how impossible georgetown is. but finding herself in the company of a man who will pay for her to do well, with a tutor that makes the s.a.t’s boil down to a formula of memorization and deduction is a genius move. those three hours are brutal, she struggles but she struggles through it, proud that only a handful of questions were left unanswered. it’s only after she's sat for it that she realizes how impossible georgetown is with it’s fourteen percent acceptance rate.

she uses his mailing address to apply, so it’s him that greets her with a sealed envelope that makes her stomach turn as soon as she opens the door. out of the corner of her eye she sees a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice. she knows what the letter will say: her sat score’s a valiant effort, enough to get her into any state school, but by no means exceptional. bracing herself for his disappointment she pushes the folded paper towards him so she can pretend his disappointment’s directed at the words on the page and not at her. but the skin at the corner of his eyes pinches and there’s no crease between his brows and she knows something is very wrong. or very right. she’s not sure, at the time it’s all very muddled, thinking about how much she likes that there's no place for his smile to hide, and how that's going to be one of her favourite parts of getting old. his smile that runs right to the tip of his nose, bumps against her cheek when he kisses her. he’s kissing her. he’s happy. because of her. she’s made him happy. that's good. she's happy too. then he’s by the kitchen counter, shaking off the champagne from his hand that’s flows over the lip of the bottle and she’s saying things like, ‘ my sat scores were no where near the average, ’ and he counters that she shouldn’t disregard the importance of supplemental essays and she makes fun of how he talks because she always does. a girl’s got nothing but a gut to trust, and every glass of champagne’s a fuck you to it. luce never pukes from having too much to drink. she pukes in his shower. luce is not smart, but she’s smart enough not to question how she got into georgetown university.

‘ god, you’re so smart luce. we could call it the boyfriend guesses my lip gloss challenge. ’ she only hears the first part, boasting a smile that makes the apples of her cheeks swell, all rosy like. at the time gallagher had felt like a enticing romp, bound by infatuation, the glint of the dew that hung at the end of the school’s weeping willows sparkling so bright that her heart-shaped sunglasses couldn’t subdue it. luce has never waited for anything, but her first few months at gallagher felt like a gift the universe had hand-picked, oblivious of her christmas list doodled with music notes and brand names of dresses that cost seven hundred dollars, it felt like finding treasure. smart’s an understatement, genius is more apt. she lets this sentiment lead, when the offer to stay comes soaring towards at her like paper plane that falls right into the palm of her hands. it makes logical sense to stay. scott’s here.

she’ll adapt. but gallagher starts to feel worlds away, and as much as she digs her heels into the gravel, gravity starts to slip from her grasp. but how could she can complain? in outer space, anywhere she looks there’s an endless landscape of stars, bright and twinkling, beckoning her towards the nearly planet. but it makes her want to cry when she sees the blue-green dot recede into the distance.

PRESENT-ISH.

luce has her final exam tomorrow and she’s going to crush it. she’s so excited she can’t sleep. there’s no way she could fail it, unless she slept through it but that won’t happen because she has five alarms set and a scott for safe measure. she’s so excited her heart’s sprinting from her sternum to her stomach and it would be classified as nausea if she didn’t know it was just plain excitement. she winces at the brightness from her phone as she checks the time. 3:36. if she falls asleep in the next four minutes she’ll have a solid four hours, but as soon as she closes her eyes her heart runs like it’s just heard the start of the piston, and the percentage she needs to get in order to pass the class rings aloud and reverberates against her brain. forty six percent. she doesn’t even need to pass the exam in order to pass the class — she’s going to be a gallagher girl. whether she likes it or not. in the dark, her hand finds the nob of his bedside drawer, carefully sliding it open, her fingers tinkering inside to feel for whatever weed scott has, gifted joints or a prized gram for winning a dumb luck game. he always has something, even after he passes some of it on to seb. she doesn’t go far, slips out of his grasp and onto the lantern lit cobbled pavements, follows it strictly like she’s on a board in a game of snakes and ladders, stopping every time she takes a drag. she eventually falls against a bench like an abandoned rag-doll, limbs splayed every which way and falls asleep until she's woken up by the rev of a motorcycle engine set as her alarm. luce goes through the pre-test motions with due diligence, takes a shower and eats a proper meal, as though there's someone waiting to accuse her of self-sabotage. she picks up her tote that's packed from the night before and gives the test her all. it's not her fault that her focus wavered in five minute blocks, or that nerves make her feel as though there's an ongoing tussle in her tummy. she treats the residual high as something she couldn't possibly have controlled, it should've left her system by now. and she’s a hero for persevering through it. she tried her best. and in spite of it all, she still fails. thank god.

SUMMER.

she doesn’t want the summer to end. it does anyways.

INTERLUDE

she's not the type to tuck herself into the booth, but harper’s gone to the bathroom and luce has a gnarly blister on the back of her heel, and her head’s been swimming in cheap liquor all night with no reprieve. she can’t get her head above water for more than a minute before falling back under. her gaze catches a couple in the corner, slow dancing to david guetta and her lips curl into a wry smile, his lips cushioned against his neck, murmuring something she’ll never know, and then they’re laughing — maybe about the fact that they’re slow dancing to memories, or because they’re in love, everything’s funnier when you’re in love. a tiny giggle, lost to the boom of the speakers escapes her, because she’s so in love too.

i miss you. missing ur 🍆 spare nudes? 🙏🏼 ft? x

she holds down the backspace key and puts her phone away.

***

‘ i don't know how to miss you in the right way, ’ she says after a bout of silence, it makes her stomach lurch, like stepping off a ledge and finding the ground lower than expected. there’s no chance to blink back the tears, and she’s so in shock from what she’s just said that she makes no motion to cover her face from him, staring down the barrel of the webcam, like she’s on the brink of death. she’d give up the forty years of her life to get to the part where she can look back on this fondly, of a great love that once was. her child-like whimpers have her grappling for breath. ‘ it hurts. ’ she manages to sputter out, and she knows it’s hurting him too. eventually, luce will blink away the last of her tears, because she needs this picture to really believe it.

SOMETIME, SOME DAY.

she's not so much herself as she is everyone else. there are pieces of her in the crescendo of what billboard deems the song of the summer. she’s etched in the familiarity of the bass in the last song played before last call — the resonant thrum of waking up blacked out on the front lawn of an ex best friend. the producer that the lead singer can't function without. the origin story of a grammy nominated album which started on the fire escape, exiled by roaches, a guitar slung like a rifle entering the wild wild west of cicadas and greeted by an empty ashtray save for a half abandoned spliff. a story deified for late night talk shows with parrot hosts and their fake squawks. it’s all made up names in CD booklets that no one looks at anyways. it doesn’t make her an enigma, she has a wikipedia page. record labels take her out for lunch, and she goes because she likes people, even the kind who gawk at her pretty face, drooling at the dollar signs in her doe brown eyes and blonde hair. of course, they love her, a girl who orders salad but doesn’t skip dessert — a reluctance toward fame but endlessly optimistic about the future of the music industry, splits the bill and turns a handshake into a hug when they express their keen interest in working with her. there’s a twinkling note of laughter when she pulls away and says, ‘ you’ve never even heard me sing. i’m not good enough. ’ and she realizes with a twitch of bitterness that she doesn’t have to be, and things working out feels more like a curse when it isn’t deserved.

she talks but can't write unless it's in time signatures and treble clefs and if she does manage to write in a language comprised of letters ( which has only ever happened once ) she can't sing - unless it’s for boys she likes. so she poaches a voice, scrolling through the repertoire of people who have held her heart in their hands. her song is the last song of his set and it sounds like this. they smile through every note, she laughs at his falsetto in the last chorus. she plays her heart out with a vigour that leaves her palms moist, expecting that when the song ends there’ll be a silence broached by the slow clap of j.k simmons. luce lives in a movie and can feel the montage scene catch up to her. she can feel the lingering memory that never existed : a swollen belly and walls painted pink, a toddler that makes their white picket fenced garden a stomping ground, a cinematic pan across a fairy-lit paris, and night walks. when she looks over, she’ll see him, but she’s going to change the ending. her pinky hovers above the last key she played, letting the sound ring out into silence, before they’re met with fervent applause and whistles. this is the moment. luce looks into the crowd. she looks into the crowd and none of the faces are him because why would they be ? she hadn’t told anyone. the only person who knew was herself. it was hers. this moment is hers and she cradles it close, because she’s never had something of her own before. not really. but she likes the way it feels. the man who once held her heart in his hand kisses the top of her head and praises her with a plunging bow. she looks into the sea of strangers who watch her and she watches them back. this is the moment. hers alone. and she’s never felt less lonely.

#mb i will fill in the summer section one day but :3 Bt jst had 2 get this para out here twas growing mold :sob:#dunno if anybodys home bt jst want to reiterate what a pleasure its been 2 write w u all n tysm :')

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kiapet2 · 3 years

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The Heaviness We’ve Known

Patton had a lot of ideas for what he might do for his weekend by himself, but having his ex-husband’s son show up on his doorstep sure wasn’t one of them.

Pairings: Parental Moxiety, Divorced Moceit, Parental Anxceit

Word Count: 2016

Warnings: None

Crossposting this to Tumblr since there seems to be a good Sanders Sides fanfic community here.

AO3 Link

Patton had a lot of ideas for what he might do for his weekend by himself, but having his ex-husband’s son show up on his doorstep sure wasn’t one of them.

It was supposed to be a quiet night, just Patton and his empty house. It’s the twins’ week with Janus, which wouldn’t be so bad except that Logan is off at another one of his conferences. Patton knows they’re a great opportunity and all- especially considering the university usually pays for them- but do there really need to be so many?

But Patton should support his little brother’s career, so he told Logan it was fine, he’d just watch rom-coms and catch up on sleep. He’s settled in to do just that when he is interrupted by the hammering at his door.

“Hey,” Virgil says when the door opens, giving a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can I come in?”

Patton blinks. “Oh, um, of course,” he says, and Virgil barely waits for the response before he’s stalking past Patton and into the house.

It seems like every time Patton sees Virgil the boy has shot up another few inches. His hair, purple this time, is half-hidden under a hoodie pulled up against the spring night’s chill, and as Patton watches he heaves a bulging backpack off one shoulder and onto the foyer floor.

“Virgil,” Patton says, “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Janus never told me he was going to-”

“He didn’t bring me,” Virgil snaps, kicking his shoes off with more force than seems necessary. His socks are mismatched, as if put on in a hurry. “I came here myself.”

“You walked all the way here?” Patton says. “Virgil, that’s not safe.”

“I took a bus.” Virgil flops down onto the stairs. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine.”

Patton opens his mouth to argue, but a closer look at Virgil makes him hesitate. The boy is slumped against the wall, his hand rubbing up and down his arm as if trying to soothe himself. Virgil isn’t one to risk something like this for no reason- whatever happened, it must have seriously freaked him out.

Patton sinks down to the stairs next to him.

“Talk to me,” he says softly.

Virgil turns his face to the wall. “I just- I can’t stay there anymore, alright? I can’t. ”

“At home?”

Virgil nods.

Patton shifts so he’s kneeling in front of Virgil and places a hand on his knee.

“Virgil, could you look at me for a moment?”

Virgil nervously turns to face him, and Patton meets his eyes.

“I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me, alright?”

Virgil nods again, his eyes widening.

“Did your dad hurt you in any way?”

Virgil reels back in shock. “What? No!”

Patton feels his shoulders sag in relief, and he sits heavily back down on the stairs.

“Okay. That’s- that’s good.”

Virgil runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, it wasn’t anything like that. I just... we were arguing again and I couldn’t stand it anymore so I just packed up my things and- and left. And I’m not going back. I want to stay with you.”

His voice cracks at the last part, and for a moment Patton has a flash of the Virgil he first met all those years ago- a timid, gap-toothed little thing who had glared at Patton fiercely from behind his father’s leg. It had taken all of two seconds for the kiddo to lodge himself securely into Patton’s heart; the whole step-dad thing hadn’t seemed to matter, back then.

Then his marriage fell apart, and suddenly it mattered a whole heck of a lot.

“Kiddo...” Patton says, pained.

Virgil jumps to his feet. “Look, I won’t be, like, obnoxious or anything, all I really do is listen to music in my room anyways, and I know taking care of a kid is fu- is freaking expensive but I can get a job and I babysit the little terrors all the time so I can do that here and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Patton says, knees creaking as he also stands, “None of that. I’d love to have you live here. But I’m not sure Janus would approve.”

Virgil scowls. “He can go choke for all I care. I’ll never know what the hell someone like you saw in that bastard. ” He spits the last word out, eyes flashing.

“Now kiddo,” Patton admonishes, “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but there’s no need to use that kind of language. He is still your father.”

Patton knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Virgil’s face shutters closed, shoulders hunching as he draws back into his hoodie.

“Whatever Dad, if I wanted a lecture I would’ve stayed home.”

Patton holds back a flinch at the mocking title. Virgil doesn’t mean it, he reminds himself. The kiddo’s just having a hard time right now, and Patton’s the nearest target.

He forces a smile onto his face. “Well, this is a cookie situation if ever I saw one. Gimme a sec.”

Patton goes into the kitchen and grabs his cookie tin, the one Virgil used to teasingly call his “old person box”. He brings the tin into the living room along with a jug of milk and some glasses, laying everything out on the coffee table.

A slight smile pulls at the corner of Virgil’s mouth as he runs a hand over the tin. “I didn’t know you still had this”.

“Of course!” Patton says seriously. “Cookies are a vital part of any household.”

He nudges the tin closer to Virgil, giving him a wink. “Go ahead, take as many as you want. I won’t tell on you.”

Patton keeps up a steady stream of idle chatter as he and Virgil drink milk and eat more cookies than is probably healthy. Finally Virgil lays the cookie he’s nibbling down and glares at it like it’s the source of all his problems.

“You’re going to tell my dad, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.

Patton sighs. “I’ve got to, kiddo.”

He holds up a hand to forestall Virgil’s protest. “I know you’re not on good terms with him right now, but he’s still your legal guardian. Keeping you here without his okay is kidnapping, and I’d rather not lose our visits.”

Patton can see Virgil’s shoulders rising nearly to his ears, the boy retreating into himself despite all of Patton’s efforts to draw him out.

Patton smiles again in what he hopes is a comforting expression.

“I’ll just call and talk to him, alright? We’ll try to work something out.” And maybe Janus will be able to tell him what the heck is actually going on.

He reaches forward to pat Virgil’s shoulder, freezing and withdrawing when Virgil pulls away from the touch.

“Why don’t you finish your milk and cookies, alright? I’ll be quick.”

Patton carries his own glass back into the kitchen and then reluctantly pulls out his cell phone. The number isn’t in his contacts, but he still knows it by heart.

“Hello?” a familiar voice says after the first ring.

“I have something of yours,” Patton says.

Janus hums, nonchalant. “I take it Virgil arrived safely then?”

It’s been a while, but Patton still recognizes Janus emotionally deflecting when he hears it. He puts on his Dad Voice, perfected over years of dealing with the twins.

“What’s going on here, Janus?”

A sigh. “There’s been a... slight disagreement.”

Patton runs a hand down his face. “I take it he ran away? I can take him back, but first let me-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Janus says flatly.

“Please tell me you didn’t throw him out.”

“Of course not!” Janus hisses. “You of all people should know I would never.”

“Of course I do,” Patton says, “But what am I supposed to think here, Jan? Nothing about this situation looks good.”

Janus sighs again, heavier this time. “I’m aware.”

Patton waits as the line goes silent, Janus clearly thinking over his next words. Finally he says, smooth and matter-of-fact,

“Virgil has made it quite clear that I am a terrible excuse for a parent and living with you would be preferable to our current arrangement in every way.”

His voice takes on a bitter edge. “It must be comfortingly easy to idolize someone when you only see them at their best.”

Patton’s stomach drops. “Janus, I’m so sorry, I never meant to-”

“Oh, do be quiet.” Patton can almost hear Janus’ dismissive hand wave. “It’s hardly your fault he’s behaving like a naïve child.”

Patton winces at that.

“Nevertheless, while I absolutely adore Virgil’s current actions, he’s old enough to make the choice of guardians for himself. Of course, if you are unable or unwilling to provide for him I will pick him up immediately, but-”

A note of vulnerability creeps into his voice. “I think this might be what he needs, right now.”

Patton’s heart clenches.

“Of course,” he says softly. “He can stay as long as he wants.”

Janus lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

“Janus,” Patton says hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, and I know it’s not really my place, but, if you need someone to talk to...”

“That won’t be necessary,” Janus says, and it’s the sound of a wall slamming back into place. “Virgil should have an overnight bag with a change of clothes and his anxiety medication. I’ll bring over the rest of his things tomorrow.”

Patton closes his eyes against a familiar pain. “Alright. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I guess you will.”

The silence stretches between them, raw and gaping.

Then, so quiet Patton almost thinks he imagined it: “Take care of him?”

Patton smiles sadly. “With everything I have.”

“Thank you, Patton.”

The line goes dead.

Patton leans his head against the wall for a moment and lets himself breathe. He turns when he hears Virgil’s footsteps, hastily scrubbing at his eyes and putting on a bright smile.

“Looks like you’ll be living here for a bit, kiddo! You can stay in Logan’s room for now.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy about that,” Virgil quips, smiling slightly as he tries and fails to feign cool nonchalance. He looks so much like his father that Patton nearly bursts into tears again.

He winks instead. “That’s what he gets for going off sailing!”

Virgil raises one eyebrow. “Sailing?”

Patton grins. “You know, since he has that scholar-ship!”

Virgil’s smile comes out completely and he quickly covers it with one hand, only managing to make himself look more adorable in the process.

“Guess I’ll move my stuff up, then,” he says, grabbing his bag and dashing up the stairs.

“Don’t touch the chemistry sets!” Patton calls after him.

This could be good for both of them, Patton thinks, smiling as he hears Virgil rummaging above. The house has seemed so much emptier since his baby brother went and grew up on him- not that Logan hasn’t always acted like someone ten years Patton’s senior, he thinks fondly. And of course, any time he gets to spend with Virgil is a blessing.

Virgil’s footsteps are slower coming down the stairs, and they come to a halt as he reaches the bottom and nervously meets Patton’s gaze.

“So... what happens now?”

“What happens now is that I’m ordering pizza and then we’re watching a movie,” Patton says, holding up his phone. “What toppings do you want?”

Virgil’s nervous expression resolves into a smirk. “Hawaiian.”

“Heresy, from my own stepson!” Patton gasps, letting a hand fly to his breast.

Virgil snickers, and this time he doesn’t pull away when Patton closes the distance between them and draws him into a hug. He’s so much taller than Patton remembers, but despite everything he's still Patton’s little boy.

“It’s gonna be alright, kiddo,” Patton whispers. “I’m here for you.”

Virgil’s arms tighten around him.

“I know, Dad. I know.”

#sanders sides #patton sanders #ts patton #virgil sanders #ts virgil #janus sanders #ts janus #parental moxiety #moceit #parental anxceit #sanders sides fic #fanfiction #my writing

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chamomileteainabuttercup · 3 years

Text

Dincobb Week Day 3 - New Experiences (SFW)

Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!

For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one.

New Experiences

Cobb keeps on saying he’s been cold before, it gets bitter cold out in the desert at night, and Din has kept on telling him that yes, that’s cold, but it’s not ice and snow cold, and if he’s going to take him on a trip he needs Cobb to trust him about the appropriate clothing.

He does need thermals, he does need thick wool socks, he does need a heavy parka, wool cap and mittens.

“What about you?” Cobb asks. “You may be wearing thermals under your suit, but I don’t see a parka.”

“I’m used to making do without one,” says Din, “but I have higher standards for you.”

“Have ‘em for yourself too, then.”

“All right then. I will.”

“Just see that you do.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Din says, smiling inside his helmet.

“I’m the boss of everyone, they just don’t know it yet,” says Cobb with a cocky grin.

Boss or not, he’s got Din to wear a parka over his beskar, which he doesn’t altogether like to do. The shiny breastplate is for show as well as for function. A symbolic declaration of identity and values. Well, everyone can still see the helmet, and he compromised on cutting off the parka sleeves just above the elbow so his vambraces are free and functional. This is meant to be a pleasure trip, just to show Cobb a different world as a treat, but he’s still not about to go anywhere without ready access to his grappling hook, flamethrower and whistling birds. Safety first.

He lands the small ship he’s borrowed from Boba on a small, flat-topped hill overlooking a frozen lake, its edges frosted white and its heart a turquoise blue. In fact, if you’re generous with your aesthetics, the lake is sort of heart-shaped. He wonders if Cobb will notice and appreciate that. They lower the landing ramp and step outside into a brilliantly sunny day. The air out here is so cold and crisp it stings your face. Cobb actually gasps. Din gives him a few moments to walk to the bottom of the ramp, then slowly, carefully, extend one foot and put it down and feel the crunch and squish of the snow under his boot.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s weird!” says Cobb enthusiastically. He sees his own breath condensing on the air and huffs out another cloud of warm mist. Then, “Ow.” He puts his mittened hand to his ear.

“You forgot to take out your earring?” Din asks.

“I was excited to see the snow,” Cobb says sheepishly. “And I love it. You gave it to me.” It’s the beskar dart tip from a whistling bird and Cobb is almost comically proud of how it looks glinting in his earlobe.

“Well, it’s gonna get real cold and I don’t want you to get frostbite. Hold still,” Din says. He pulls off his gloves, gives them to Cobb to hold and carefully removes the already chilly earring. He pulls up one of the hook-and-loop flaps of Cobb’s parka pockets, tucks the earring firmly down inside, presses it closed, then pulls Cobb’s wool cap down to cover his ears properly. “There.”

“This hat is crushing my hair,” Cobb grumps.

“A Mandalorian helmet couldn’t unpretty your hair, but you think a toque will?” Din asks, pulling his gloves back on.

“Aw, Mando, you think I’m pretty?” Cobb beams at him, more radiant than the sunshine on the snow crust.

“C’mon,” Din says, embarrassed. He does think Cobb is pretty but he has too little experience of romance to be able to say it smoothly. He grabs Cobb’s hand and pulls him along, heading down the slope towards the lake. Cobb slips and flounders and laughs. He starts to lurch forward, catches himself and throws himself backward, landing on his butt and then flopping on his back with his arms outstretched. “Come on,” says Din, with a chuckle. He reaches down and pulls Cobb up to his feet, leaving his outline in the snow.

“Hey, look at that!” says Cobb, twisting to look back. “It really takes a print, doesn’t it? Not like dry sand at all. It’s so crazy that this is water.” He scoops up a mittenful and crumbles it around.

“Try squeezing it,” says Din. Cobb squashes the snow between his palms. “See how it compacts? It’ll hold together.” He’s remembering the short period his first covert spent living someplace very like this, a little compound in the snowy woods. Unlike most covert locations, it offered both secrecy and open space for children to run and play. The snow forts they built and the snowball battles they fought were both educational for warriors in the making and tremendous fun for a motley assortment of kids in hand-me-down winter clothes and soft training helmets. The snow was the first thing that brought him out of his shell to play with the others. Up to then he had been his foster father’s shadow, dumb with sorrow, until finally the sight of them running, shouting, flinging snow had sparked his attention.

Buir had seen where he was looking as Din stood beside him holding tightly a fistful of his cape. He’d looked down at Din, his helmet impassive, nothing like his lost parents’ dark, expressive eyes and smiling, talking mouths. But there was something kind in the tilt of his head, and he gently jerked it in the direction of the romping foundlings. Buir barely spoke because his larynx had been crushed in a fight years before. Rather than speaking through the mic in his helmet, he would hold a little electrolarynx device to his throat when he really needed to speak aloud, but more often than not he used a modified sign language, finding it more convenient. That was what he told Din back then, but thinking on it now, he’s fairly sure Buir switched to relying on signing because the electrolarynx made him sound a lot like a droid, and he saw how uncomfortable that made the child he’d picked up. He didn’t need to say “Go on”; Din understood, and after hesitating a moment longer, he released his grip on the crumpled fabric and ventured out to play.

That was the day he learned to make snowballs, and it’s something he can teach Cobb now, how to press and mould the snow between cupped palms, how to roll it down the slope, picking up more and more snow as it went, turning it between the two of them to keep its shape even and rounded. It makes them both laugh just out of happiness and satisfaction. Cobb’s cheeks and nose are flushed a sweet rosy pink. His eyes are bright, their hazel colour almost gold where the sharp sunlight catches it, and he’s altogether so lovely a sight that Din is glad his face is hidden and he can stare as openly and foolishly as he wants.

Together they build a snowman where the ground flattens out; he gets an idea and labours back up the hill in the sliding snow into the ship’s hold and brings back a bucket to mould its head into a snow Mandalorian. After that success they make their way down to the lake, and after Din checks how solid the ice is, they venture out on its surface, skidding around a little. Cobb keeps grabbing hold of his hand, and although it actually makes both of them a bit less stable, Din’s happy to let him. When Din asks, “You want to try sliding?” he’s immediately game. They run and slide on foot, on knees, and on a few accidental occasions on their asses until they’re out of breath and glowing with warmth. It occurs to Din that apart from a little light Grogu-entertaining, he hasn’t really played in years. He still knows how, though. Panting and laughing, they stagger off the ice and begin making their way back up the hill, wallowing in the knee-deep snow, helping each other up by reaching down from above or by pushing from below (hands on butts). At the top they look back at their chaotic trail across the formerly perfect snowscape.

“What do you think of it now?” Din asks.

“It’s fantastic,” says Cobb. “I couldn’t have imagined what it’s really like. And there’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.” He throws his arms around Din and, to his surprise, kisses him smack-dab on the cheek of his helmet. He can’t feel it, of course, but he enjoys it symbolically, at least for a few moments until it becomes clear that Cobb’s lips are stuck to the frosty metal. He tries to pull away, gives a little muffled cry of panic and pain, and stares helplessly through the eyeslot of Din’s visor. “Hnnh!”

“Dank farrik — it’s okay, hold still. Just — okay, put your hands on the helmet, hold it, take the weight. Got it? Don’t let go or it’ll peel your lips.” He steadies it with his hands too and brings his head and shoulders down, pulling his head out of the helmet. He’s dazzled by the unfiltered bright light for a moment, then gets a proper look at Cobb, scarlet-faced and glaring with anger, confusion and embarrassment, still smooching the helmet. He has to bite his own lip hard not to laugh, but it’s not really funny, he doesn’t want Cobb to get frostbite or tear the skin off his lips. “Stay there,” he says, turns and runs up the ramp into the ship. In the tiny, cramped galley he draws a cup of lukewarm water from the tap, then rushes back, trying not to spill it. “Okay. It’s okay, just hold very still for me, got it?” Carefully, he pours water over the join between lip and metal, while Cobb breathes loud and fast through his nose. After a few moments the icy seal breaks and Cobb is able to gently, carefully peel his lips away from the helmet. They’re very red and they look like they’re sore and stinging. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding anywhere,” Din says hopefully.

Cobb cautiously runs his tongue-tip over his lips and winces. “No, but they feel raw,” he says. “Goddamn that was cold!”

“I think you’ll survive,” Din says.

“Well, sure, I’ll survive,” says Cobb. “But could you kiss ‘em better?”

It seems only fair.

#dincobweek2021 #dincobweek #dincobb week #fanfic

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facialteeth · 3 years

Text

A Cabbage Print Suit | Ao3.

When Magnus woke Ragnor up in the middle of the night to give him the horrible suit he'd found, Magnus had truly expected that to be the end of it. He assumed he'd never see Ragnor actually wear the suit - until Ragnor showed up at Magnus' wedding, wearing it.

Ragnor & Magnus with a side of Malec, no warnings. This is my ‘Ragnor Ships It’ square for @shadowhunterbingo.

It was the late nineties when Magnus made a critical error, the one that would inevitably lead to the utter destruction of his wedding decades later. See, Magnus had always called Ragnor variations of ‘his cabbage’. One of Ragnor’s lovers had called him that once and when Magnus got wind of that, he’d never let it go.

From that day forward, Ragnor was his cabbage. He’d say it affectionately, if Ragnor had done something uncharastically sweet. He’d say it angrily, the oftentimes when Ragnor’s less than pleasant side reared its head. It was funny and well, the green skin, the bitter off putting taste of cabbage itself - For obvious reasons the nickname had stuck and no matter what Ragnor did, you couldn’t make a nickname unstick after it had already latched on and gotten hold.

Ragnor was affectionately and otherwise known as Magnus’ cabbage there after. So, of course, when Magnus saw a cabbage suit, he had to buy it for him. How could Magnus possibly not? How could Magnus see that and then just leave the store empty handed? It was as if the gods had known Magnus would be in that store that day and they’d placed that ridiculous suit there just for Magnus to see and just for Magnus to buy, for Ragnor.

Of course, Magnus bought it. There wasn’t a universe in which Magnus’ didn’t buy it and after he bought it, he popped a portal open and went right to Ragnor’s home. It was the middle of the night when Magnus showed up, accounting for time zones and all but Magnus didn’t care. He’d come bearing a gift, one that simply could not wait until morning.

Ragnor felt differently. Ragnor felt as if the cabbage suit Magnus excitedly thrust into his hands could very much wait until morning and he informed Magnus of this as he promptly kicked him out and yelled at him as he slammed the door.

Magnus never did see Ragnor wear the cabbage suit he’d so nicely picked out for him and for a long time, Magnus thought that was the end of it. Until decades later. Until Magnus invited Ragnor to perhaps one of the most important events in his very long life.

His first ever and what was bound to be his only wedding. Now, Magnus had longed to see Ragnor wearing that stupid cabbage suit for so long but if there was a single event in all of history that Magnus would not want to see Ragnor wear it to, it was probably his wedding. The day he’d cherish photos of for the rest of his life, however long it may be. Magnus’ wedding was the day he’d look back on happily, if he had to choose a single day to do so.

Magnus’ wedding was probably the only date he’d dread seeing Ragnor wear that stupid fucking suit and Ragnor knew it. So, of course, Ragnor had shown up fashionably late. He’d thrown open the Institute doors nearly a full minute after the ceremony had started, making every single person in attendance turn to see who’d arrived so confidently, so late.

And when Magnus looked up from his loving, soon to be husband's eyes, he’d seen Ragnor standing there with a bright uncharacteristic grin on his face. That alone had unsettled Magnus. Ragnor never grinned like that. He smiled, sure. He grimaced most often but Ragnor Fell did not grin, not ever. Except now, he was and when Magnus glanced down, he saw exactly why.

Ragnor was wearing the suit. Magnus paled the moment he saw it but he wasn’t even sure why he was surprised. Of course, Ragnor was wearing the suit. What else would he wear to the most special day Magnus was bound to have in his life? Why would he wear something normal? Why even consider it, when Magnus had so graciously gifted him a suit like that?

Ragnor had the tact not to interrupt the rest of the ceremony any more than he already had. Magnus too tried to carry on but how could he look at his loving fiance when all he could see behind his eyes was Ragnor, wearing that suit? How could he focus on anything else?

They read their vows and when Alec leaned in and pressed his lips against Magnus’ own, he was thankfully granted a moment in his wedding in which he was not thinking about Ragnor but the moment Alec pulled away and they both turned to everyone in attendance, Magnus’ eyes could focus on no one else because there in the back was Ragnor and it had not been a nightmare, as Magnus had so desperately hoped because he was in fact still wearing the cabbage suit. Among all the very well dressed people in attendance, Ragnor stuck out like a sore thumb, his green skin only amplifying the glaring effect the suit seemed to have under the lights.

Magnus forced his eyes away and he pretended to be unaffected but Ragnor could tell he’d done exactly what he’d come there to do. Ragnor could tell he’d won and Magnus, well Magnus didn’t like that at all. On his own wedding day, really? Ragnor couldn’t let him have his own wedding day without pulling a stunt like this?

Magnus avoided Ragnor as he and Alec made their rounds speaking to everyone and Ragnor didn’t rush towards him either. He seemed to be having a grant time talking to everyone, gesturing to his outfit occasionally before pointing to Magnus every once in a while, apparently telling everyone about the amazing gift Magnus had gotten him.

At last, Magnus couldn’t avoid Ragnor any longer. At last, they made eye contact and Magnus downed the last of his drink before he let go of his husband’s hand and stalked over. “On my wedding day?” Magnus snapped, his words a viscous accusal.

Ragnor smiled, gesturing to himself coyly. “You don’t like it?” He posed, faking shock.

“I got married today.” Magnus snapped, as if Ragnor might have possibly missed the event going on. “I married my husband today, my only husband and you pull this-”

Finally, Ragnor rolled his eyes, dropping the coy act. “You bought me the outfit, Magnus.”

“Yes, as a joke,” Magnus snapped instantly. “A funny humorous joke. You weren’t supposed to wear it to my wedding.”

Ragnor scoffed softly, “Well, maybe you should have been more specific when you woke me up in the middle of the night to give it to me.”

Magnus fell silent for a long, agonizing moment and then he snapped appalled, “I got married today.” He repeated, furious.

“Yes, you seem rather worked up about it,” Ragnor responded, which sent Magnus turning away with a dramatic, aggravated flurious of his hands. Ragnor took a long sip of his drink as he watched him leave and when he felt a soft hand on his arm, he didn’t even need to look over to know who it was.

Still, Ragnor turned to glance towards her, trying to gauge if she found his antics funny or not. Normally, she would but it was Magnus’ wedding and all. Catarina was a hopeless romantic, when she wanted to be. Ragnor half expected her to smack him but instead, she leaned into his arm, sighing softly.

“It is his wedding, you know.” She murmured softly, “You could have chosen another day.”

Ragnor gestured with his drink to the room around them, “Why choose another day when today was so perfect?”

For a moment, Catarina remained silent and Ragnor didn’t need to glance down to know who she was watching. Across the room, Magnus stood with his husband, talking animatedly about something (probably Ragnor) as Alec smiled and tried to sooth the tension in Magnus’ back with his palm.

“They’re good together,” Catarina said simply.

Ragnor had been busy recently. He hadn’t met the shadowhunter until a few weeks before but even he had to agree. Ragnor had never seen Magnus more happy with anyone else he’d ever been with. Magnus was utterly enamoured with the shadowhunter and that would worry Ragnor, if he couldn’t see that same love shining in the shadowhunter’s eyes right back at him.

“They are,” Ragnor said simply and he knew that his lack of a sarcastic quip said more than any more serious words Ragnor could try to find ever would.

He and Catarina stood there for a long moment before she reached out and plucked the drink from Ragnor’s hand, taking a sip before she placed it down on the table next to him. “Let’s go dance in front of them and show off your outfit,” She said, grinning towards him suddenly.

Ragnor could do nothing but follow as she tugged him away.

#Ragnor Fell #Magnus Bane #malec #malec wedding #Crack and humor

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

Can you do 60 for indruck, NSFW? Thank you so much! Love your work!

Here it is! I set it in the same world as this sternclay fill. Credit to @bellafarallones for playing in this space on discord. Apollo is from my Super hero AU

“All I’m sayin is it seems mighty unfair to me that one fella gets a handler-assistant type deal and the rest of us don’t.” Duck crosses his arms as Ned fiddles with the pen on his desk.

“You’re not wrong, dear boy, but Apollo was in high demand from the higher ups-”

“Because he’s a shallow dipshit with a mean streak who’ll be good for ratings?”

“Precisely. He demanded in his contract that we allow his twin to continue his work as his photographer and assistant. He has over a million followers on Instagram, so those photos will be a boost to the show. Just try to get along for the camera’s?”

“His brother ain’t even on camera.” Duck mutters.

“I meant with Apollo.”

Duck shrugs, defeated, “sure thing, Ned.”

As he walks back to the main house, he mulls over the fact that the twin (Indrid, he thinks that’s the guys name) bugs him more than Apollo does. Apollo is vain, mean, and selfish, but at least that gets him things, even makes sense for the kind of show they’re on. Indrid gains nothing by helping him out here. Except protection from the bully, which Duck finds to be the worst kind of cowardice. Hopefully Vincent, this season’s bachelor, will see through the “influencer” and send him packing ASAP.

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

Four weeks in, and this is exactly what Duck was worried about. Not only is Indrid hovering around his brother like a nervous moth (excet when cameras are near, at which point he ducks out of frame), he’s doing fucking nothing to reign him in.

A few frontrunners are starting to emerge, and with that claws are coming out. Barclay, a chef and all around nice guy, is the target of choice. Nico and Josh both took bites out of him this morning. But Apollo sunk his teeth in like a dog on a fox, calling him, among other things, a pathetic, six-foot puppy dog who no man would ever want. The cook left noticeably teary eyed. Duck was about to block the cameras from following when Joseph beat him to it. Which is weird, because he thought Joe couldn’t stand Barclay. Apollo flounces off, but Duck corners Indrid where he’s been stoically watching his brother be a raging asshole.

“What the fuck man?”

‘Wrong twin.” Indrid says flatly, indicating his silver hair, tied back in a half-bun. His dark roots are showing and his eyebrows are black, unlike Apollo’s immaculate blonde dye job and bleached brows.

“Nope, right one. You’re his handler, cant’ you fuckin intervene when he’s doin’ shit like that? Or are you just here to let him hurt whoever he feels like?”

Indrid fixes him with a bitter smile, “If there were a way to make my brother be kind or, indeed, see others as people, don’t you think I’d have found it and used it everyday since?”

“I-”

“You people have no idea how much I’m already doing. I kept him from going after you yesterday by reminding him he looks ugly when he yells on camera. And if nothing else console yourself with the fact you all have only to deal with him for a few months. Some of us have endured twenty-eight years of it.”

With that, he turns and stalks from the room. As he leaves, Duck can’t shake the thought that his black denim jacket and worn jeans fit him better than Apollo’s designer ones ever could.

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

Indrid understands why there’s so much alcohol on set, but he can’t partake (too bitter) and it makes Apollo even harder to handle than usual. Which is why Indrid is out on the grounds at ten p.m, intending to hide from his brother until dawn.

At six weeks in, fan favorites are getting more established and Indrid, needing to predict Apollo’s mood in order to do his job, is keeping a close eye on them. His twin is well-liked for being snarky and hot, though he suspects the large number of contestants means there have been limited chances for his unpleasant side to be showcased. Joseph is another, because of course he is, movie-star handsome with an interesting past. Barclay is beloved for the very things that the other contestants torment him for. And Duck? Duck is quickly becoming the one people think Vincent will choose.

Indrid thinks they’re right. He’s charming in an understated way, funny, and while Apollo needles him for his “dad bod,” Indrid and Vincent have both noticed the muscles in his arms. Who gives a damn about flat abs? Indrid would much rather have something soft to rest his head on while those green eyes look lovingly down at him. His crush on Duck is useless, persistent, and must be hidden from Apollo at all costs.

His foot catches something solid and he tumbles over the obstacle to land ass-first on the lawn.

“Ow.” He glares at the object. The object turns out to be Duck Newton, who's obviously drunk as he sits up.

“Sorry man, thought no one’d come out here. Oh it’s you, it's, uh, fuck, fuck c'mon” he snaps his fingers as he searches his thoughts, “It's cute Apollo!”

“Indrid.” Surely Duck didn’t mean to use that adjective. Right?

“No, I’m Duck?”

He snickers, “No, I meant I’m Indrid.”

“Ohhh, right. You're Indrid. I'm Duck. That's the big dipper” He points at the sky. Indrid follows the line and grins, delighted.”

“It is!”

“Uhhuh. C'mere, can show you more.” Duck pats the spot beside him and lays back. Indrid scoots closer and reclines as well, making appreciative sounds each time Duck shows him a constellation.

As they’re studying the sky, the other man whispers, “Can I tell you a secret? I, I think Joe’n Barclay are into each other now."

“The way they look at each other is not exactly subtle.”

‘“Heh, yeah.” he links his hands across his belly, “I think they're in love. You ever been in love?”

“No.” He sighs, not wanting to dwell on that pile of baggage, “You?”

“Nope. And, uh, don’t, don’t tell anyone but I don't think I am with Vincent. Maybe I could be? Does that make me a bad person? He's nice, think he likes me a lot but, I, I dunno.”

“Not being in love with someone doesn’t make you a bad person. No more than loving someone does.”

Indrid is hard to surprise; years of getting out ahead of his brother and father taught him how to see things coming. But nothing could prepare him for Duck rolling to hide his face against Indrid’s chest. Not knowing what else to do, he pats his back, notices a woodsy scent tingling his nose.

“You smell good.” He winces; that was too creepy, now Duck will pull the comforting bulk of his body away.

“Thanks. I bought a bunch of cologne when I realized I was actually going to be a contestant. News clothes too. Thought it would give me an edge but...I dunno, can't compete with a guy like your brother.”

“Join the club.” Indrid reaches up to toy with a lock of Duck’s black hair, expecting Duck to bat him away. Instead, he sighs and turns his head to give Indrid better access.

“You could compete with ‘im. You're cuter. Nicer too.”

“Oh. Ah. Thank you.”

Duck’s fidgets with the mothman pin on Indrid’s jacket, “You wanna cuddle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No one cuddles with me. And we ain’t allowed to cuddle Vincent yet.” He looks up, lips pouting just enough to be charming.

Indrid let’s a purr enter his voice, “That’s a shame. I’m happy to cuddle.”

Duck rolls more of his body onto Indrid, resolutely nestling his head under his chin and tangling their legs together. His hands stay on Indrid’s chest and shoulders, though he’s now drunkenly petting Indrid’s collarbone, making him shiver. He expends four months worth of daring in a second, wrapping his arms around the curves of Duck’s torso. When Duck’s fingers brush skin instead of shirt, Indrid whimpers, then bites his lip and prays it went unnoticed.

“You don’t get cuddled much either, do you?” Duck murmurs thoughtfully.

“No.”

“Damn shame, you’re real good at it. Can cuddle me any time.”

Indrid “mmhmms” knowing the promise is like the stars; bright and comforting in the darkness, but ultimately beyond his reach.

Three day later, he drops his guard; Apollo’s been on his good behavior since Vincent’s been spending more time with him. You’d think Indrid would learn by now that all his venom has to go somewhere.

He’s huddled down in the rec room trying not to cry; it’s pathetic enough that he let such childish insults get to him, but to cry over them would confirm everything his brother said.

“Indrid? You, uh, you okay?” Duck’s reflection in the darkened T.V approaches his own.

“I'm fine.” It’s the same inflection he’s used hundreds of times, but Duck sits down on the couch all the same.

“Do you, uh, need a hug?’

“No.” He replies a hair too quickly.

“Do you want one?”

“......Badly.”

Duck opens his arms and Indrid shifts on the cushions, doing his best to curl his long limbs so they’ll fit in his embrace. The shorter man notices, concern flashing on his face.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay. You, uh, wanna hear the most exciting news of the day?” He waits for Indrid to nod, “there was a cougar sightin’ in the foothills near here!”

“That is both very exciting and alarming.”

“Doubt it’d go after folks, they try to steer clear of people. We don’t have ‘em back home, but you learn what to do when you’re also learnin how to deal with bears.”

“How does one deal with a bear? Other than buying them a drink.”

Duck snorts, relaxes further into the couch, “Depends on how soon you see ‘em…”

They emerge two hours later, and Indrid is so engrossed in their conversation about hiking incidents that he runs smack into a camera man. While he’s apologizing profusely, Duck guffaws, steadies him, and leads him off in search of somewhere to watch the sunset.

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

“Oooh, ooh, look, sea lions!” Indrid points to the distant wharf.

“Good eye. Man, those fuckers are big. Glad none of ‘em were in the water when we did that fuckin cliff dive.”

“I for one would pay good money to see my brother chased by a sea lion.”

Duck chuckles, pops the tab on his WhiteClaw. They’re having dinner on the beach, a gourmet spread meant to encourage them to show off their pallets. Indrid took Barclay’s recommendation and ordered the whole, grilled snapper, which he assumed he’d be eating alone; Vincent’s attention has been on Duck ever since he went swimming this morning. Duck seems to be enjoying it, but come dinner time he demurred (“gotta let some of the other fellas have a chance”) and brought his basket of fried oysters over to join Indrid on the sand.

“Speakin of your brother, kinda surprised he didn't make any digs at this whole, uh, situation.” Duck gestures to the torso Indrid is currently aching to lick droplets of saltwater from. To subdue the craving, he licks salt from his fingers before replying.

“I, ah, the last time he tried to, I reminded him of all the pictures I have of him eating. He hates to be seen eating. Most of the time.” He tilts his head towards his twin, who’s chowing down next to Vincent without a care for the cameras. Indrid sets his hand on the warm sand, “I’ve been trying to, well, reign him in as you suggested. Or at least make him think twice about his choices.”

(Indrid omits the part where he’s most likely to risk it if Duck is the one with the target on his back).

Duck sets his hand down beside Indrid’s, brushes sand from the side of it with a calloused thumb, “Mighty good of you. But, uh, think I mighta read things wrong that day. You gotta handle him how you think best. Just, uh, just promise me you won’t sacrifice your own well-bein’ for my sake, or anyone else’s. We’re all grown-ass men; we can handle it.”

“I promise.” He lies.

The other man leans back on his hands, green eyes drifting across the waves. Indrid would gladly sit in silence the rest of the night, it’s so easy to be comfortable in the lull when it’s Duck filling the space beside him.

Eventually, the ranger murmurs, “It’s so fuckin breathtaking. The ocean, I mean. Maybe if you live on a coast you get used to it but man, it is somethin;.”

“More so than the forest?”

Duck smiles, “It’s like apples and oranges. Monongahela got its own charms; you’d have a blast takin pictures and drawin there, believe me. If, uh, if Apollo and I both make it to the final four, uh, maybe we could take a few hours durin’ my hometown visit and I could show you my favorite spot.

Indrid imagines the two of them beneath the trees, walking hand in hand.

“I’d like that.”

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

“You know you’re just a distraction, right?”

Indrid doesn’t look at his brother, just flips the page in his book, “I doubt that. You’ve said, often, that I’m too off-putting to be interesting.”

“Not when there’s competition for someone superior; Duck knows he might not win. You’re his back-up if he doesn’t, and a way to kill time until the end. Once Vincent sends him home, which he most definitely will, he’ll keep you around until something better comes along.”

“Don’t act like you know him.” Indrid hisses, looking up just in time to see something scurrying behind the triumph on Apollo’s face: fear.

So, his brother has a new weakness. He’ll tuck that away for later; this is shaping up to be an unpleasant conversation, but not one requiring quite that degree of weapon.

“You should thank me. If I weren’t so captivating, Vincent would spend all his time with Duck. Then you’d be without any attention at all. Even Duck’s taste isn’t that abysmal.” He grins his several thousand dollar smile, “he and Vincent are probably laughing about it right now.”

Indrid stands, crosses the tiny room, “Shut up, Apollo.”

Then he slams the door. There’s a yelp, followed by “you hit my nose, you pathetic excuse for a man, ow, open this door this instant I’m not done with you!”

He flicks the lock and sits back on the bed. There’s a tin of sensory putty on his nightstand and he opens it, playing with it between his fingers. Duck brought it for him after a museum date with Vincent. The image of him not only thinking of Indrid when he saw something, but then buying it for him just to see him smile makes him want to grin and hide his face in a pillow like a teenager who just got asked to prom.

But maybe this date is going differently.

Indrid squeezes the putty, repeats the mantra he’s had since he was a child, “Apollo always lies. Apollo always lies.”

Eventually, he’s calm enough to work on some tattoo commissions, is coloring away when there’s a knock on the door. A secret knock Duck invented as a goof. Throwing open the door reveals the shorter man wearing a suit jacket and an exhausted expression. Indrid gestures to the bed, shuts and locks the door as Duck slumps on the mattress and sets his head in his hands.

“Whelp, that was a shit-show.”

“What happened?” Indrid sits cross-legged beside him.

“Vincent went in for a kiss and I, uh, I turned him down. I mean, he took it well because he’s a sweet guy but I, I feel like shit.”

“There’s no shame in not wanting to kiss just yet.”

“That ain’t the problem. I, I wanna kiss someone on this set, but it ain’t him. Indrid” he looks up, green eyes watery, “Indrid, I think I’m fallin in love with you.”

“Oh. I, are you sure-”

“The whole night, and I mean the whole fuckin night, I was thinkin about you. Thought how nice the trip to the botanical gardens would be with you there to point out color combos and get excited about butterflies. Wanted to hold your hand over dinner. Fuck, when they brought out the dessert menu all I could think was how fun it’d be to order one of each thing to surprise you so you’d do that thing you do with your hands when you’re real excited.” Duck turns, sets his hands on Indrid’s shoulders, “‘Drid, if you don’t want this, I’ll back off but-”

Indrid cuts him off with a kiss, let’s strong arms pull him down to the bed and presses as close to Duck as he can, as if any space between them might be a way for the universe to push them apart.

“Than fuck” Duck pants, cupping his face, “wait, fuck, what do we do now? I can’t string poor Vincent on.”

“We’ll get them to let you out of your contract. It can’t be that hard, right?”

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

“Absolutely not” Ned shakes his head, “dropping out of the show is out of the question.”

“But that ain’t fair to any of us. Can we at least tell Vincent the truth?”

“No, it needs to look as if he naturally decided not to choose you. If not, we could be accused of manipulating results; the last time that happened, the ratings tanked for that season and the next. And my predecessor was fired.”

Duck looks at Indrid, “Guess I’ll just...pull back? That way Vincent won’t have a reason to choose me and’ll let me go soon.”

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

“Droppin out is outta the question, huh?” Duck mutters to Indrid as they watch Barclay and Joseph walk off holding hands, the host eagerly asking them questions as they go.

“I suppose he didn’t drop so much as sprint.” Indrid glances at the rose in Duck’s hand, “congratulations on making the final...well, final three now.”

“Thanks? Guess Apollo’s pretty happy about it too.”

“Yes, but his ego needs no stroking.” Indrid smiles, “maybe this means you’ll get to show me the woods?”

“I hope so. Huh. What are they gonna do with the rest of us when it’s not our turn for the hometown visit?”

The answer turns out to be: drag everyone to each hometown. Because they no longer have Joe’s trip to do, Ned decided they needed more scenes of the contestants exploring where their competitors came from.

Kepler is first, and tonight is the night Duck’s been dreading. His romantic, home-town date that everyone expects to end with at least some kissing. He manages to make it through dinner, even enjoys showing Vincent the down-town he spent years roaming. But as they start down the river walk for a romantic stroll, his heart is trying to smash its way out of his ribs.

“It’s alright, you know.” Vincent stops, guiding Duck to face him, “the fact you want to be with Indrid.”

“I, uh, fuck, I, I don’t not know, uh, fuck-” he closes his eyes, “how’d you know?”

“I’m more observant than I get credit for.” Vincent brushes his cheek, “I’ve had a hunch for weeks now, but I kept you around because I liked having you here, even if I suspected it wasn’t going to end with us together. I’m very fond of you, Duck. You deserve someone who makes you happy. I promise I’ll send you home this next rose ceremony”

“Christ” Duck chuckles, “you’re a hell of a guy too, Vince. I hope whoever you pick treats you right. I, uh, can I, should we…?”

Vincent plants a chaste kiss on his cheek, then smiles, “go get him.”

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

“Any twos?”

“No. Go fish.”

Apollo grumbles as he takes another card. Given Duck and Vincent are on their date, neither he nor Indrid is having a good night. Before Indrid can make his ask, his twin says, “How do you get people to like you?”

“Why do you care? You’ve made it this far, so obviously Vincent likes you a great deal”

“I don’t just mean him. I, I mean, I want him to like me. To want me. But I suspect he’d like me better if other people did.”

Indrid idly taps his cards, “I suggest you stop acting like our father.”

“I’m nothing like him!” Apollo squawks.

“Oh, but you are. Everything he taught us you still hold as true; you’re just the newest version of men like him. Self-absorbed. Cruel. Shallow. I’m amazed you’ve gotten this far with Vincent, given that the age difference means you’d be caring for him in his old age.”

“I, I can care for him. I will!”

“Apollo, I wouldn’t trust you to care for a potted plant.” He sets his cards down.

“At least I’m not a-”

“Ambitionless deviant who has to ride his brother’s coattails to survive?”

“Wha--how-”

“Like I said; you’re just like him. Down to your insults.” Indrid stands, “I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same.”

His brother remains speechless--a rare state for him--as he closes the door and heads for his room. He doubts Duck will do anything on the date (hell, the two of them have only been able to steal some kisses now and then), but the whole charade has him feeling low.

There are far more cameras in the rented house than there were a few hours ago. Which means the rest of the crew is back. Does that also mean…

“Hey, sugar. I was just lookin for you.”

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

Duck’s glad his door is open, because otherwise Indrid would have smashed it to pieces dragging them both through it. He’d only gotten out the barest explanation before the taller man was kissing his face and tugging at his clothes, purring “mine” over and over again.

“Yep, all yours.” He shuts the door as Indrid mouths at his neck, “which also means you’re all mine.” He yanks Indrid’s black sweater up and over his head, sends the matching t-shirt after it a moment later. Indrid whines, fumbling with Duck’s dress shirt, and he gets an idea.

“Uh uh, only good boys who show me why they deserve it get to feel me up.”

Indrid groans into his shoulder, fisting the fabric of his jacket “What constitutes good behavior in this instance?”

“One sec, don’t go nowhere.” He starts to step past him, pauses to grips his chin and pull him into another kiss, “and no peekin.”

As he digs through his bag for the strap on he brought just in case, he keeps an eye on Indrid to be sure he’s following the directions. The taller man’s fingers twitch, but his head stays still. God, Duck is going to memorize the shape of each of the tattoos decorating his skin with his mouth.

“You did real good.” He slips around Indrid once more, resting his back on the wall. Indrid notices the new bulge in his pants and thuds to his knees.

“May I?”

“You better.”

Indrid undoes the button of his fly. Then he looks at Duck over the rim of his glasses as he takes the zipper between his teeth and pulls it down. When the black silicone of the strap breaks free, Indrid cocks his head as if unsure of his options. Duck doesn’t really have a plan--he just wants to be with him, to make him feel good and show him just what weeks of pent-up desire have done to him--but he’s starting to regret that choice.

Indrid flicks hair from his face and wraps his lips around the head of the cock experimentally. He hums, sucking on it a moment, then pulls back blushing, “This is going to sound strange but, ah, I, I really like that. It’s such a lovely texture on my tongue, it’s, it’s almost soothing to suck.”

“Guess you better keep suckin it then, huh?” Duck runs the fingers of his right hand through Indrid’s hair.

“Is that really alright? It can’t feel like much on your end.”

“Don’t mean it ain’t fun to watch. But, uh” he touches the edge of Indrid’s red glasses, “it okay if I take these off?”

Indrid nods and Duck slides them free, tucks them into his breast pocket for safekeeping as Indrid draws the cock into his mouth again. He focuses on the head at first, humming and moaning as it bumps his cheek. Then Duck sees him swallow and relax the muscles of his jaw as he presses closer. Little puffs of breath tickle Duck’s skin as Indrid gets most of the cock in his mouth, cheeks hollowing and head bobbing as he sucks. Hungry noises burlbe up his throat, and the more he lets himself go the messier he becomes, spit coating his lips and eyes fluttering closed in bliss.

“Okay, I lied.”

Brown eyes shoot him a disbelieving look.

“This ain’t fun. This is one of the hottest fuckin things I’ve ever seen.”

Indrid wiggles happily on his knees, left hand dropping to rubs his own cock through his jeans.

“Needy little thing, gotta have somethin down your throat and around your dick at the same time.”

“MMMhhmmm” Indrid purrs, the picture of filthy perfection.

“If, if you swallow the whole thing, I’ll let you finger-fuck me.”

Both hands fly to his thighs with an excited moan. Indrid’s brow crinkles with determination as he slowly, carefully brings his lips to the base of the toy. Duck groans out “good boy” and shoves his pants down, Indrid helping to drag them to his ankles. Indrid keeps his left hand on Duck’s hip while the right hovers below his folds. Duck takes it, the toy making the angle a bit awkward, and guides it against him.

“Start with one.”

Indrid nods, moans reverently as he obeys. Duck curses, looks down to find Indrid watching him attentively. Duck is going to wreck him. Then he’s going to cuddle him to sleep and wonder at the fact he got this lucky.

“You’re doin’ great, sugar. Promise I’ll tell you if you need to adjustOH, ohyeah” he lets his head rest against the chipped white of the door, “that’s the spot. Fuck it, add one more, Ahfuck, yeah, those artists fingers are fuckin perfect for this.”

Another purr and then a sharp, choked noise. Duck looks down, realizing he rolled his hips without meaning to. Before he can apologize, Indrid grips his thigh and shakes his head.

“You like that?”

“Mmhhmmm” Indrid traces a heart on his belly.

“You’ll pull off you need to?”

“Mhmmmm.” Indrid curls his fingers as his stretched lips manage to grin.

“Fuck!” Duck giggles, “okay, if my darlin wants his face fucked, that’s what he’ll get.” He keeps a hand on Indrid’s shoulder as he lets loose, grunts and curses mingling with the increasingly wet moans of his cock claiming Indrid’s throat. Soon he’s out of words, too busy with the sight of himself forcing Indrid’s lips apart as he tightens around his fingers. Handjobs are a toss-up for him most days; sometimes they work, other times he can’t cum from them at all. It turns out what makes it very easy to do so is-

“‘Drid, fuck, fuck, sugar, yeah, right there, rightthererightthere ohfuckyeah.” He cums, jerking his hips hard enough to punch a new, high sound from Indrid’s throat. The other man pulls off, rests his cheek on Duck’s belly with shuddery, satisfied sighs.

“Y’know” Duck unbuttons his shirt from the bottom up so Indrid can more easily nuzzle the skin there, “I had this whole plan where I was gonna fuck you with this and then ride your face to cum.”

“I’m not opposed.” Indrid grins, bouncing a bit.

“Yeah, but I’ve only got one in me tonight. So” He tosses the shirt away, pulls off the harness as Indrid nibbles his hips, “if you wanna cum, you’re gonna have to do all the work.”

An edge enters his smile, “I can manage that.”

Duck hits the floor with a whump, Indrid trapping him on his back and climbing atop him, all the while kissing him with abandon.

“May I fuck you?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Condom?”

“Dop kit, bathroom, aw come back.”

“Patience, sweetheart” Indrid blows him a kiss, returns a few moments later doing an inelegant dance to kick his jeans and boxers away, “got one!”

“Good, now get back down here before I-AHfuck!” Indrid is on him and in him so fast it knocks his breath away.

“Before what? You’re not going anywhere, you’re mine, alllllll mine.” He drags kisses across Duck’s cheek, then bites his chapped lip as he looks down at him, “right?”

“You know it, nnng, fuck, that’s it sugar, be a good boy and cum for me. Fuck, darlin, wanted this so bad.” He locks his fingers into silver hair to keep Indrid in kissing distance as the other man whimpers, thrusts shallow and rabbity.

“Want you too, so much, I’ll be worth it, I swear, I’ll be good, I’ll, I’ll make you so happy.”

Duck rests their foreheads together, “You already do.”

There’s a high, gasping moan, almost like a chirp, and Indrid rides out his orgasm in drawn-out rolls of his hips. Then he collapses, laughing, on Duck’s chest.

“I, I’m sorry, I just never thought I’d get this. Someone wanting me. Choosing me.”

“I mean, I went on a T.V show to find love, so I know a little somethin about that fear. But I also know findin you is better than anythin I ever imagined.”

“Likewise.” Indrid nestles closer, one hand reaching out to hold Duck’s where it’s flopped on the rug.

“...You realize this means there’s a fifty-fifty chance your brother will win.”

Indrid shrugs, lifts his head to smile at Duck, “I leave that to Vincent. I already got my prize.”

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #bachelor au #meet ugly

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nightshade-minho · 4 years

Text

-Blue Book- (1)

Warnings: parent death, mentions of abuse, smoking and alcohol, eventual smut.

Requested: Yes. (A loong time ago, lmao.) This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it turned out a little longer than I’d expected it to, so I decided to make it into a series.

E2L, Slow Burn, High School Au. (Half the story takes place in high school, and the other half takes place when they’re adults.)

You knew exactly why you hated Bang Christopher Chan.

It had all started in high school. A new town, and a new school. You weren’t one of those people that would be bitter about the move- you understood that your mother’s new job meant you could no longer stay in the town you grew up in. Besides, it wasn’t like you had any friends to say goodbye to- or memories you’d miss.

Your father had left your mom when you were 9. He’d met a woman ‘that he actually loved’, whatever that meant. He moved to a new country, and started taking care of a new family. Sometimes, you bitterly hoped he would abandon them as well. Sometimes, you understood why he left. You knew that it wasn’t a good idea to force yourself to stay with someone you didn’t love...but did he have to leave you behind as well? Did he not love you?

A year later, you received the news that he’d died in an accident. You weren’t even able to attend his funeral.

For the most part though, you were actually a very optimistic individual...as optimistic as you could be, without a father and an alcoholic mother. Usually, children who grew up with a single parent tend to hold grudges, and act like the whole world was at fault. However, there must have been some sort of factory error, cause you happened to gravitate towards a world-view that hid behind rose-colored lenses.

You were buzzing with excitement on your first day. You’d never really been much of an academic-oriented student, but there was a newfound need to make your mother proud...one that arose the very first time you heard your father yell at her.

You’d bought cute stationary and school supplies, determined to be a great student and one day be able to support your mother. However, you quickly realized that none of the other students appreciated it when you eagerly answered the teacher’s questions, jotting down notes. You heard murmurs every time you raised your hand, every time a teacher complimented you on your perfect assignment. Nerd. Suck-up. Dork.

It was tiring, but you somehow managed to keep up the positive facade...until a few months later, when Chan walked into your life.

***

You were sat at the cafeteria table, all alone. You sipped your banana milk and hummed along to the music playing through your earphones as you continued writing in your little navy blue book. It was more of a diary, but you occasionally used it in class. Right then, you were writing a small piece of poetry that had randomly popped into your brain, tongue sticking out in concentration as the words poured out.

A few tables away, Jisung chuckled at the sight. “Does she ever go anywhere without that stupid book?”

Hyunjin scoffed. “I don’t think so. What does she even write in it?”

“I’ve seen her write in it in class. It’s probably just some school-related shit. Nerd.” Changbin said, biting into his sandwich.

Seungmin cocked his head to the side. “Um, I doubt she’d carry around something like that with her everywhere. It must be something important.”

Felix waved a hand in front of Chan’s face. The latter had been staring at you, observing the way your face was scrunched in concentration.

Minho suddenly laughed out of nowhere, causing the seven boys to look at him. “Chan, are you into the nerd?”

Chan chuckled lightly. “As if. You’re really funny these days, aren’t you?”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. You know what...life’s been getting a little boring these days. I have an idea.” A smirk appeared on his face. “Chan...I dare you to get that book.”

Chan squinted in disdain. “Ha...what’s in it for me?”

Minho tapped his chin for a few minutes as he pondered. “Hmm...oh, I got it! I won’t flirt with Miyoung anymore.”

Chan looked up at that. Miyoung was an extremely pretty, popular girl that he had a crush on. However, lately, she’d been expressing a little interest in Minho. He didn’t really like her back the same way Chan did, but being the fuckboy that he is, Minho flirted back quite a lot.

Chan rolled his eyes.

“Fine. In fact, I’ll go right now!” The boys hollered, cheering him on as he got out of his chair, walking up to you.

You looked up, taking your earphones out when you felt his presence at the table that had been empty except for you. Confusion took over your face as Chan smiled warmly at you.

“Hi, Y/n. Whatcha doing?”

“Uh...nothing. Just...y-ya know...” You stuttered. You’d always found Chan attractive but he was one of those people who’d never really bothered to acknowledge your presence...until now.

“How are you today?” You asked, trying to recover.

“I’m fine, princess. Better now that I’m talking to you.” You blushed, avoiding his eyes. Chan’s gaze flitted to the book laid open in front of you. You followed his line of sight, quickly shutting your book.

“I find your...book interesting. Can I see?”

You shook your head. “I...I’m sorry, I just...” You couldn’t say anything else, words freezing up in your throat as you squeaked out a “Bye.”

You got up, chair scraping the floor as you grabbed your book and bag, leaving as fast as you could.

Chan sighed, looking back to the boys. He walked back to his previous seat, sighing as he plopped back down. “Well, there you go.”

Minho shook his head. “Welp, guess I’m just going to have to ask Miyoung out to the game-”

“NO! I’ll do it. Just...give me a few more days, okay?”

Hyunjin cleared his throat. “Okay...we’ll give you a week. that should be more than enough, right?”

The rest of the boys nodded in agreement as Chan threw his head back, sighing.

“You guys are so weird...” He rubbed his temples. “Fine.”

***

You sat on a bench, humming as you sketched the park pond. It was a bright, clear-skied day.

Meanwhile, Chan decided to cut through the park on his way to Minho’s house. But as he passed the pond, he saw you sitting on the bench, eyes widening as he remembered the bet.

Cursing, he decided to go over and talk to you. He’d been planning to talk to you tomorrow at school, but he might as well do it, since you were already here.

He approached you slowly, so as not to startle you. Hmm. You actually looked quite peaceful as your eyes ran over the ducks in the pond, smiling softly, as if you were reminiscing about something...or someone.

Chan contemplated tapping you on the shoulder, but you looked way too tranquil to disturb. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat loudly. You yelped, turning to the side and squinting at him.

“Oh...uh, hi...”

Chan smiled, before gesturing to the bench. “May I sit here?”

You nodded meekly, and he lowered himself down carefully, trying to keep a respectful distance. He noted the way your fingers protectively clutched the book tighter, sighing internally. This was going to take a while.

“Hey, calm down. I’m sorry about this morning. I was just curious.”

You avoided eye contact, staring at the pond. “It’s alright.”

“I was just wondering what you do in it. I always notice you carrying it around.”

You pondered for a moment, turning to look at him. “I...write in it, mainly. And...” You trailed off. Shaking your head, you took your backpack and shoved the book bag in. You moved to get up, but Chan’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and effectively stopping you. You looked down at him in confusion. He quickly let go, mumbling an apology.

“I, um...don’t leave yet, please? You seem sweet... and I’d like to get to know you more.”

You squeaked in response. Your brain was short-circuiting as you looked at the cute boy smiling softly.

“Okay...”

You sat back down, hesitantly smiling at him as you played with your fingers. You were a little nervous...well, a lot nervous. Chan’s smile made your knees melt.

“So...what’s your deal?”

“My...deal?”

“You’re new here, right?”

“Oh yeah, I moved here recently with my mom.”

He nodded, noting the way you avoided his eyes with a frown after the sentence left his lips.

Chan groaned to himself, wondering how he would be able to get you to trust him enough. He just needed to get that book for a day...knowing the girl, it was probably just a study book like Changbin had said before. It was just a silly bet...but Chan never lost. Besides, prom was approaching in a few months and he needed Miyoung to be his before then. He needed her to be the queen to his prom king.

He glanced at his watch. Fuck.

“Sorry, Y/n. I’ve got to go now. But I’ll see you around, yeah?” He winked at you, internally smirking at the quick blush that spread across your features.

Hmm...an idea was blooming in his head.

This might be easier than he thought.

***

Chan opened the door, wincing when the smoke hit his nostrils.

Jisung looked up, setting his controller down. “Broo, finally! What took you so long?”

“Well...I saw Y/n on the way here.”

“Y/n...?”

“The nerd, Jisung.” Minho said, holding out a beer can for Chan to take.

“Aaah.”

Chan sighed as he took the can, taking a sip before sighing. “This won’t be easy. She’s very protective of that book.”

Changbin chuckled. “Sounds exciting. I’m even more curious now.”

“Um, guys...why are we even doing this? I mean...she’s just a girl who likes writing in a diary.” Felix spoke up, softly.

Minho scoffed. “Yeah well, we’re bored. And she looks like she’ll be fun to pick on. Always going Teacher this and Teacher that.” He mocked, before turning back to Chan. “So, what are you planning on doing?”

Chan settled on one of the beanbags beside Jeongin, whose full focus was fixed on the video game, fingers fiddling with the controls.

“I kinda have an idea.” Chan says, smirking. “She seems so shy whenever I talk to her, and she’s constantly blushing. I have a feeling that she likes me.”

Changbin looked up from the screen. “I mean, this is probably the first guy who’s talked to her since she moved to town.”

“Shut up, Changbin.”

Seungmin scoffed. “Get to the point, Chan. What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to ask her out.”

***

(None of these gifs belong to me.)

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