#i think physics is cool only when it lets me light drawings in unrealistic and weird ways | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deecitys · 3 years

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blue, white, and a little bit of gold; z. chenle

pairing: chenle x fem!reader

genre/warnings: school au, friends to lovers, student!chenle, fluff, swearing, food

word count: 2.7k

a.n.: this is part of the nct secret santa collab hosted by @neoculturechristmas ! i’m writing for @candychanhee i hope u enjoy <33

masterlist

lowercase intended

MONDAY, DEC. 14

“you’re really going to leave me alone?” you frown. “here? with mrs. s? out of all the teachers?”

your best friend, jiwoo, places her hand on your shoulder empathetically. “she called you. i’m terrified of her. the discussion is over, y/n.”

she bows like a ballerina and proceeds to jump away from you down the hall. you roll your eyes and push the wooden door open, sighing. the empty home economics classroom smells like freshly baked muffins, except evil freshly baked muffins, just because this is mrs. s’s classroom.

you walk up to the one desk you could find, clear of fabric scraps and needles, and dump your heavy backpack on it. the noise echos; or maybe it’s just your hyperactive brain anticipating for a jumpscare. in mrs. s’s classroom, anything can happen…

but just as you were about to call for the terrifying teacher, the door rattles open behind you and you let out a yelp, scrunching down.

“hey y/n,” a slightly familiar voice calls. you slowly shift your gaze to find zhong chenle.

you’ve known chenle ever since middle school (you might’ve had a crush on him back then…), and he was in your friend group at one point, but you two have never crossed paths in particular especially after he was announced as mvp for the school basketball team and became mega popular. he was nice though, as far as you knew, and it was a sense of relief that you weren’t going to be the only one in mrs. s’s room.

“haha, um, hi chenle,” you force a smile and hold the desk to get up. something shifts in the storage room of the class, and when you two turn your attention to the noise, mrs. s enters the scene. her leather buckled shoes clack on the floor as she approaches you and chenle.

“hello, chenle,” mrs. s greets the smiling boy with ink-black hair, and proceeds to frown on you through her narrow glasses. “you should’ve told me you’re here.”

“sorry,” you utter, avoiding eye contact.

she mumbles something about kids these days. “i called you two here because i want to ask for a favor.”

while mrs. s shuffles through her desk, you glance at chenle with wide eyes, who shrugs back in question.

“i’m on duty for planning, and you two are the highest performing in my classes. a week left.” mrs. s hands a piece of paper, and chenle reaches out to grab it.

“december 18th, friday, gym, at 6 through 8:30 pm… the winter dance?” he reads. “we’re supposed to plan it?”

“plan it, manage it, whatever else it needs,” mrs. s explains while you panic trying to think of an excuse out. chenle just stands, dumbfounded. “10 percent raise of semester grade of whatever class if it goes successfully.”

10 percent? holy shit, this is your chance. your math grade!

“we’re doing it!” you blurt out loudly, inducing an emotion (slight surprise? indistinguishable.) out of mrs. s for the first time.

“we are?” chenle questions, to which you blink inanimately . “oh… oh yeah, we are. leave it to us! we’re really trustworthy, and we have teamwork. we’re, we’re practically best friends. you can count on us.”

mrs. s slowly nods in approval while you force a big grin, grabbing your backpack and pushing chenle towards the door. “we’ll start planning now, thank you, see you in class!”

you two rush out of the room. “dear god,” you sigh.

“you know what? i need that grade raise, my english grade is, uh, kinda questionable.” chenle sighs.

“so is my math grade, i’m literally about to be disowned. meet tomorrow after school at the gym?” you ask, and he nods, giving you a thumbs up. with a strained grin, you turn right around and speed walk to the end of the hall. jiwoo appears, peeking behind the corner.

“is that zhong chenle?”

TUESDAY, DEC. 15

“so…” you hold on to the ends of your puffy jacket to make sure they aren’t blown away by the freezing winter wind. “where do we start?”

“we could look at the gym and, i don’t know, envision the scene. i got the keys. and budgets tomorrow,” chenle enunciates, which you give a positive shrug to.

the door creaks open and you hurry in to turn on the lights. you’ve been in here plenty of times before, and you try to remember the setup last year, hoping you would be able to get some inspiration. it’s interrupted by a tingly feeling in your nose and a following sneeze.

“god, it’s freezing in here too,” you exclaim. “doesn’t it get even colder? we’ll need to have everything indoors.”

“do you think they’ll let us sell winter themed popsicles?” chenle asks. you frown at his contradicting question. he’s wearing a simple crewneck sweatshirt unlike you prepared for antarctica.

“...a hot chocolate stand?” he negotiates, noticing your glare.

“a hot chocolate stand it is,” you take your phone out to write a note, pausing halfway to point at the spot near the entrance. “we could have it right there, with the entry fee stand, so people can grab one as they come.”

“and this can be the dance floor?” chenle is now suddenly standing in the middle of the room. you nod, writing down another bullet point.

“so, how was it?” jiwoo asks on the phone.

“it wasn’t that awkward, he’s still chatty, actually,” you describe, twiddling the blanket you have over your head. “we got a week’s notice which is so shitty, but we got to everything we had to do and we’re on track. he comes up with the wildest, most unrealistic ideas, though. can you imagine popsicles in a winter dance? it’s fucking freezing, i’m going to work a bit on decorations after school so he doesn’t mess with it…”

WEDNESDAY, DEC. 16

“what are you wearing?” chenle lets out high-pitched laughs. it’s after school the next day, and this time, you’ve prepared for the climate.

“what?” you frown. “it’s cold in there. i need to survive.”

“you look like a penguin.”

“it’s only five layers.”

“whatever you say, best friend,” chenle does a fancy little bow to lead you into the gym. you huff but follow him anyway.

“today, we have to do all the budget stuff,” he takes a seat on the open bleacher to open his laptop, and you hesitantly take a seat a feet away. “i actually did some research and found all the places we need to contact, with all the costs and fees written and added一 here.” he turns the laptop your way and you lean towards the laptop (NOT HIM, THE LAPTOP!) slightly to take a look. a lot of work with numbers is done and you’re actually quite astonished by the organization and amount.

“practice got cancelled, and so like i had a lot of time lying around. i’ve contacted some places if we already made the decisions on the specifics so some are finalized, um, if that’s okay,” he explains. you continue to scan through the spreadsheet. the dj, catering, lights, they’re all done.

“wow, chenle,” that’s what you manage to say. “i’m glad i did something too.” you quickly dig up your sketchbook from your backpack and flip through it until you find the decoration sketches. you hand it over to him with fully stretched arms, keeping your distance. “they’re all at target, all the stuff i marked. so we can go get them whenever, if the budget, you know, allows it.” you hold down the strong urge to bite your nails through the long, dreadful silence. where did the chatty chenle go while you needed his chattiness the most?

“this is really cool,” he finally speaks. “and it fits our budget, so it’s perfect. i remember you being really good at art in middle school! guess you didn’t change.”

you flush (for no absolute reason!) and quickly take the drawing away, mumbling up a ‘thanks’.

“uh, anyways, today all we have to do is contact the rest of the people on the list, and then we’ll buy the stuff tomorrow, sell last minutes tickets on thursday, and theeeen we’ll decorate and see how the dance goes on friday, right? since the school’s been advertising since, what, last week?” you speak quickly to change the subject. he doesn’t seem to notice and instead nods.

“tomorrow, we’re driving to target to get all the decorations. hey, remember when i liked him in middle school?” you ask jiwoo. it’s after school and you’re at her house, doing homework. she looks up from her science assignment to give you a look.

“don’t tell me you’re starting to like him again,” she laughs.

“hey, what’s wrong with that?” you raise your voice slightly, then turn your attention back to your laptop, suddenly self-conscious. “i mean, not that i like him, anyway.”

“you know i can see right through you?” jiwoo doesn’t take her gaze off of you for the long period of silence that follows. you roll your eyes.

“fine, whatever, i may have the tiniest physical symptoms of liking him again or whatever,” you admit. jiwoo giggles, then scrunches closer to you.

“so, what do you like about him?” she asks enthusiastically.

“i mean… he has a nice smile, yeah, that,” you mumble.

“and?”

“i guess he’s funny, and nice, and actually kind of responsible, i don’t know, and his voice一”

your description is interrupted by jiwoo’s screech.

“shouldn't have brought it up…” you sigh.

THURSDAY, DEC. 17

what have you gotten yourself into?

out of all the cars, you’re sitting at the front seat of ZHONG CHENLE’s car. he’s driving. CHENLE IS DRIVING.

the familiar roads aren’t so familiar when you’re in such a peculiar situation. he drives nicely though. and there’s the radio on. and he’s humming. super nicely. that’s so attractive. there’s nothing particularly attractive about humming, but on chenle it is. SHUT UP Y/N!

“do you sing?” you unconsciously ask.

“yeah, actually,” he answers. “my dad doesn’t like it, though, actually, so i don’t tell a lot of people. he just wants me to focus on basketball, because i don’t sing in a deep tone like the opera people, and he thinks if i don’t do that, it’s not manly enough, or whatever.”

the mood… you brought up the wrong topic, you think. “sounds like what jake would say,” you reply in a lighter note. “remember him? the super old school kid from 7th grade?”

“oh my god, YES,” chenle laughs, moving on to talk about him and middle school memories until you reach target. you quickly find the party decoration section and pick out the things. you’re on your last item when chenle taps your shoulder. he’s holding packages of golden sparkly streamers.

“i know the colors are blue and white, but imagine a little bit of gold. a little bit of sparkle, but no annoying glitter shit! what do you say?” he anticipates.

“actually, pretty cool, yeah,” you say, and chenle pumps his arm before throwing the packages into the shopping basket.

“i was about to just say no without listening after that one time you suggested we get popsicles, but good suggestion. love the improvement!” you half-joke. he immediately mocks you, which you laugh at.

the car is loaded up and now you’re on your way back. you two chat about the most random things, from taste in food to tv shows to traumatic but funny experiences, and you keep yawning. it’s been a long day.

chenle drives out of route, but you’re too tired to realize; the most you can do is keep up with the conversation. a blink later and you’re at the drive-thru of starbucks. “pick a drink, miss,” he rolls the window down when the car stops front of the menu.

“me?” you ask in surprise.

“yes, you.” chenle laughs. “you look so dead right now, it’s only 5 pm. i think we both need a caffeine boost for homework.”

“ooh, so thoughtful of you,” you dramatize.

he rolls his eyes. “shut up, i’m paying.”

“caramel macchiato please, mr. zhong!”

you sit patiently while he orders and gets the drinks; a caramel macchiato for you and a café latte for himself. you sip the drink in now comfortable silence and bliss (who wouldn’t be happy with a free drink?) on the way back.

“why didn’t we ever talk before?” chenle asks, breaking the silence.

“dunno,” you say. “just we didn’t have any reasons to, i guess,”

“remember when i told mrs. s we were practically best friends? maybe that wasn’t a lie.”

for once, you love mrs. s so much right now.

FRIDAY, DEC. 18 (D-DAY!)

with the help of chenle’s friends, decorations are up on time and students show up to the dance. everything goes by plan and people are thriving, except… jiwoo had a change of plans last minute. and you were going to ask her to help ask chenle out.

“i’m telling you, it’s the perfect chance,” over the phone, jiwoo’s voice sounds passionate and a little distorted. it’s a little hard to tune into with the background noise, even outside of the dance room alone. “once this is over, nothing happens, and winter break starts, you guys will end up like before. distance friends with zero interactions and zero chances. take the risk while you can, y/n!”

“but you aren’t here to help me!” you whine. “i’ve never done this before! i wasn’t prepared for this! i’m not the kind of person to be doing this!”

“and you’ll never be prepared anyway, so what’s the point of waiting?” jiwoo argues. “don’t be a pussy and go for it. if he likes you back, that’s cool, and if he doesn’t, you have nothing to worry about because you guys won’t have a reason to talk anymore. now, i have an angry mother to deal with, so i’m hanging up, peace out and tell me how it goes. love you, bye!”

your urgent call of her name is interrupted by a long and loud beep. you sigh.

as much as you hate to admit, she’s right. there isn’t any other excuse to keep talking to him. you check the time, and it’s almost 8; half an hour until the dance ends.

“fuck it,” you say to yourself, pushing the heavy door open and meeting the warm and noisy atmosphere. it’s not long until you find chenle chatting with the dj. you take a deep breath feets away from his back and decide to approach him that way.

“chenle! chenle!” you whisper-yelled through the booming music. he turns around immediately, eyes wandering until he finds you.

“y/n! y/n!” he whisper-yells back.

“i need to tell you something important.” you take his arm and start to drag him towards the door out.

“you good? what’s up?” he asks. you shake your head, signaling it’s too loud in the gym, and point to the door, continuing to pull him. through your booming heartbeat you keep calm until you reach the cold outdoor air where you finally let go of chenle.

“so, um, hi,” you greet, to which chenle chuckles.

“hey.”

“the important thing is,” you take a deep breath in. “ithinkilikeyouandithinkweshouldgoout.”

it takes a second for him to process your fast words. maybe you shouldn’t have confessed, you think. you internally scream, and this is the longest second of your LIFE.

“uhh, this isn’t fair,” chenle argues, and you’re stand there, dumbfounded. ?_? “i was going to ask you out! life is so unfair.”

you gasp. “you’re KIDDING.”

“no, i’m not. uh, so, like, i think yes. what am i saying… i’m saying that yes, we should go out.” chenle looks nervous. CHENLE LOOKS NERVOUS!

“i was NOT expecting that,” you say.

“well, i wasn’t either, on my end,” chenle laughs.

“well,” you hold yourself back from screaming and jumping. “we should go back in, we’re the managers, y’know?” chenle nods, taking your hand to walk back into the gym. smooth.

“also, y/n, when i bought you starbucks, the intention was not to seduce you, just wanted to clarify. that was only like, four bucks. you’re worth more than four bucks, i swear.” chenle rants.

“glad to hear,” you roll your eyes but end up laughing anyway.

there couldn’t have been a better winter dance.

#nct fluff #kpopscape #neowritingsnet #neothestars #nct chenle #chenle fluff #nct christmas #nct collab #nct school au #nct drabbles #nct scenarios #nct #chenle soft hours #chenle fics #chenle oneshots #nct oneshot #nct dream fics #nct dream fluff

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cath-with-a-c · 4 years

Text

Believer

Pairing: mild ShaunDes Wordcount: ~3500 words

Summary: Minerva stops Desmond from getting to the Eye. Desmond finds another way to fulfill his role. AN: I wrote this on a whim, physics? What physics. Proceed with caution.

ao3 link

The moment the key they fought so hard to get, touches the wall, Desmond feels that something is really, really wrong. The sense is overwhelming, and his stomach drops when a figure appears behind the barrier.

“Minerva, what the fuck?!” he demands angrily, terror tearing down his spine. The Isu just looks at him, and, if he squints, he can picture a little sympathy in her eyes.

“I am sorry, Desmond. I cannot let you do this,” she says and her voice, muffled by the shimmering wall, is as flat as ever. “If you touch the pedestal, Juno will be set free, and I cannot allow that.”

No. No-no-no- “And if I don’t, everyone will fucking die, you dimwitted ghost!” Desmond doesn’t care that he is yelling hysterically, he can almost feel the time running out. “Let me through!!!”

Minerva regards him impassively as if he is a screaming toddler. “Some will survive. The human race will thrive again, free and unburdened by past mistakes,” she gives him a slightly irritated look. “You should be grateful - your life would be spared.”

Desmond wants to screech, to tear through the barrier and into the Isu, to shake her until she understands. “I don’t want it!” he replies barely managing to keep his voice more or less even. “Not like this, not by killing everyone else! Seven billion lives, Minerva!”

The woman just gives him another unimpressed look. “It is decided, Desmond Miles. This is the better way,” she says. “The barrier stays.”

And with that disappears, leaving Desmond speechless, gaping at the shimmering wall in front of him. The now-useless key hits the stone floor. Desmond turns slowly, to find everyone else staring at him with the same horror they probably see on his face.

Desmond feels numb. The fight drains out of him as if a plug is pulled.

It was all for nothing.

“How long till the Flare hits?” he asks, throat sore from screaming, and refuses to look anyone in the eye.

It’s Rebecca who answers him. “Three hours, tops,” her tone is quiet and flat, she is pale as a ghost. Desmond nods slowly.

“Can we at least try getting anyone to safety, Dad?” another almost pointless question.

William shrugs, shoulders slumped. He looks uncharacteristically disheveled and almost lost. “I’ll call everyone, three hours is enough to find some shelter,” there is no certainty to his answer.

Desmond gives another nod. It’s probably the best they can do. What else is there to do?

After they’ve done packing and moving stuff deeper into the Temple (pointless shifting things around, but still better than to sit and wait on the impending doom), and Dad returns after making every single call possible, Desmond strides to the exit, muttering a generic excuse about getting some fresh air.

Everything seems so... normal. The life is about to get toasted off the surface of the earth, and it still is a normal day outside, if maybe a little warm. Desmond breathes in and out and just stays, a few feet away from the cave entrance, all but unable to move. He doesn’t want to move.

He’d failed.

Someone approaches him, stands close, their shoulders brushing, and Desmond inhales the familiar mix of coffee and mint and old paper. Shaun.

“It’s not your fault,” he says softly, and Desmond leans on his shoulder letting their fingers tangle.

“Isn’t it?” he replies a bit bitterly and then sighs, as Shaun opens his mouth to argue. “I know, I know. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, you stupid git” Shaun shoots right back, like everything is a-okay, and his hand is warm, and Desmond can’t help but smile a little at the weird normalcy of this.

They stay like that for some time, watching the horizon, that gets a slight reddish tint. Talking seems redundant, what is there to talk about?

“You know what,” Shaun says suddenly. “For what it’s worth, I think I’ll enjoy spending however much time we’re gonna get after this with you.”

Desmond wants to answer him but his throat suddenly closes, and he can’t breathe, and he just wants to scream, because the world is ending for everyone else, and the radiation after will probably kill them really fast, and he just wants to do something-

“Hey,” Shaun gently cups the side of his face, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Desmond, look at me.”

Desmond looks. Shaun’s eyes are red-rimmed behind the glasses, and still the most beautiful sight Desmond has ever seen.

“I know it hurts like hell, and I am sorry, but there’s nothing we can do,” Shaun says and his voice is firm and unwavering and is a singular solid thing in the whirlwind of Desmond’s mind. “We can’t stop the Flare, we can’t wish it away, we can’t run from it to the Alpha Centauri. It’s happening and it’s happening now. But we’re going to get through it. You get me?”

Desmond wants to ask how he can be so calm, when a thought strikes him like a lightning. A stupid thought. “Yes,” he says, pushing it away for a moment and pressing into Shaun’s palm, all but melting into the touch, savoring the contrast of the cool air and Shaun’s warm fingers. “We are going to get through this. Together.”

Shaun’s lips curl up in a semblance of a smile. “Damn right,” he says and Desmond leans forward, briefly pressing their lips together, like it can soothe the burning aftertaste of the lie.

When they break up, Shaun leans in, pressing his forehead to Desmond’s, and he can’t help but just look at him, knowing it’s the last time he sees that stupidly beautiful face.

Desmond doesn’t want to let go. Ever.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” he whispers, leaning away and giving the skies a sidelong glance. “Just need a few more moments.”

Shaun smiles sadly. “Sure,” he nods and pokes Desmond in the chest. “Don’t stay out too long, you’ll get a heatstroke.”

At that, Desmond can’t help but chuckle. “Lame!” he calls at Shaun’s retreating back and the historian flashes him a bird.

Desmond watches him disappear in the mouth of the cave, before looking around again. The air is hot enough that the snow melts, the forest turning from whitish to evergreen again, and Desmond breathes in the smell of pines and humid moss, and his heart is racing.

The Apple in his hand gives a slight static sound as he pulls it out of the pocket and squeezes, focusing. A moment later, his own doppelganger appears from the strings of golden light and looks at him expectantly.

“Go after Shaun,” Desmond commands aloud. He doesn’t have to, but it just feels right. He slips his phone in the other’s hand. “Behave naturally, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Not-him nods and heads for the entrance, but before he is gone, Desmond calls after him.

“Tell them I’m sorry before you disappear,” he says, as his chest constricts painfully. He wishes he could be with them, just as Shaun said.

But he can’t.

The doppelganger gives him an almost pitying look and nods again, fading into the darkness. Desmond closes the cave with the Apple and starts walking away. They can open it from the inside in time, but for now, he can’t risk his only family getting hurt.

He manages a few hundred yards into the forest before coming across a clearing and stops. That would do just as nicely as anything else. Stomach heavy, Desmond looks at the sky.

It is now creepily reddish, like in a light-polluted city at night, sparse clouds molten-orange. The sun just above the horizon looks bigger, edges loose, jagged. And it gets brighter.

He has minutes.

After a moment of hesitation, Desmond takes the Apple out of his pocket again and looks at it for a long moment. The air around him gets a little hotter by the second, and the dry wind ruffles his hair. Desmond desperately doesn’t want to be alone, not right now, so he wills another doppelganger to life.

“You are an idiot, you know that?” a familiar voice that’s definitely not his own, asks him, and Desmond opens his eyes again.

“Sixt- Clay?” he corrects himself, which earns him a scoff. “How are you even-”

Clay looks almost apologetic. “Well, Seventeen, I hitched a ride in that big head of yours -- so much empty space, you really should have done something about that-” Desmond can’t help but laugh a little at the ridiculousness of it all, and Clay gives him a little smirk. “-and I guess the Apple decided that if you summon the same guy, it’s technically still alone, so here I am.”

Desmond sighs. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and that’s not a lie. “Y’know what I’m about to do?”

“Something monumentally stupid,” Clay supplies helpfully with a shrug, and Desmond smirks sardonically, even if it’s really strained.

Shaun’s words sparked that idea, stupid and incredibly unrealistic as it was, it was still a sliver of a chance. A tiny, almost nonexistent sliver.

“Wish it away,” he had said, and Desmond thought of the Apple, of how Juno had shown that it was used to make people wish things into existence. She did say they couldn’t create a shield, but Desmond wasn’t after the shield. He wasn’t about to protect the whole planet single-handedly -- or single-mindedly.

But what if he could reduce the Flare? Maybe not by much, maybe just a little, maybe up the survival count from ten thousand to say fifteen or twenty? A drop in the ocean now, but it could change so much for the future of the human race in the long run.

Desmond wasn’t about to let this chance go to waste.

And all he has to do is use the Apple and believe. Believe that he can withstand the Flare, believe that he can focus it on him, until everything he is would be reduced to less than atoms, to electrons, protons and neutrons, and that would be enough to save some people.

He never was much of a believer, yet here he is.

“You can still go back,” Clay says softly. “There is just enough time for you to run back into the Temple before it hits.”

Desmond looks at him and smiles. He is shaking a little, but it’s genuine. “Yeah, I know,” he shrugs and grips the Apple tighter. The air around them is almost painfully hot and orange-red. The end of the fucking world. “But that’s not why I’m out here.”

Clay smiles back at him. “You’re such an idiot, Seventeen,” he says, shaking his head.

“What else is new?” Desmond chuckles and lifts the Apple up, towards the bright, flaming sky. “Don’t go just yet,” slips out of his mouth, as embarrassing as it is.

“Have nowhere else to be,” Clay steps a bit closer. ”Good luck, Desmond.”

Desmond closes his eyes and wills himself to believe. To forget everything else, to put everyone out of his mind, no doubts, no attachment, just his belief in himself and the might of his blood, genes, whatever made him that special snowflake Juno needed. He knows enough to be aware, that it’s impossible, but hey, wishing a tree or a wall into existence wasn’t supposed to be possible either, and that didn’t stop the Isu.

The Apple in his hand makes a tiny melodic sound, sending a power surge down his hand, and that’s the last thing Desmond hears before the Flare comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave of what feels like pure fire, roaring in his ears and drowning out everything else.

He doesn’t die immediately. There is a searing pain tearing his body apart, but he doesn’t die, and that makes hope bloom in his chest. He is alive, it’s working! Desmond grits his teeth, willing himself to believe, to become nothing but a beacon of unchallenged will.

It’s like something breaks, something that was holding him back, and Desmond takes one hard, labored breath that burns him from inside out and soars.

He is everything. He is the ground, charing under the relentless heat, he is the stones, the vapor streaming up, he is the sunlight and the burning trees. He is the earth, and the air and the skies. He is cities and mountains, animals and plants.

He is people. He is amongst a group of assassins, watching the roof of the shelter with bated breaths, he is a little boy, no older than seven, looking at the metro ceiling through the pitch-dark curly fringe with confusion. “You will live through this, buddy,” Desmond thinks affectionately before the image of the boy fades.

He is inside the Temple, and it’s alight with energy, sparks and flairs running up and down walls in a continuous stream of gold and blue, and he sees his dad, and Shaun and Becca watching the show with shadows dancing over their faces, making everything surreal.

He is everywhere. He is everywhen. He is Altair, seeing the map of the whole world for the first time, he is Ezio taking his first Leap of Faith, he is Connor looking at the night sky from the Homestead roof, he is Haytham watching the horizon on the bow of the ship, he is Edward, lying ashore, laughing and coughing up water after almost drowning, he is Flavia running across the rooftops of Firenze, he is Sef sparring with Darim, he is-

The Apple in Desmond’s hand starts to give way. He gives in too, bit by bit, clothes and hair burning, skin bubbling and sizzling, and chipping away, and he breaks apart, surrounded by fire, turning into ash, to atoms, to nothing-

“That’s it,” Desmond thinks with sudden ease and the darkness takes him.

AC_AC_AC_AC

“-enteen? Desmond?!” the voice cuts through the darkness, loud and frantic. “Seventeen, I can see you breathing, wake the fuck up!” Oh. That’s right, he is breathing. Desmond breathes in and out, and after a moment of struggle, opens his eyes.

“Thank fuck,” comes a relieved sigh, and Clay’s concerned face swims into view.

“Sixteen?” he blinks and sits up, slowly, suddenly acutely feeling the muscles moving under the skin. “What happened?”

Clay scoffs-laughs. “I was about to ask you the same thing, you know,” he says and spreads his arms, prompting Desmond to look around.

The sky is clear again, watered-down winter blue, tinted pink with the rising sun - the first safe sunrise in the next seventy-five thousand years. There are lights there, like huge swaying green and violet curtains hanged from the heavens - aurora borealis, fading, but still visible.

The forest is no more, there are just planes of charred black ground spreading as far as the eye can see. It looks lifeless, but in the distance, Desmond sees the town, Turin, and it doesn’t look like a pile of smoldering ash, and he breathes out, relieved.

And looks down at his hands.

His right hand is… weird. It looks like it was dipped into tar, with silvery First Civ designs running across the palm and up the forearm to the elbow.

“What the actual fuck?..” Desmond whispers.

“I guess that’s what’s left of the Apple of Eden,” Clay chimes in, looking at his hand with interest. “The pattern looks really close to it. You somehow managed to fuse it into your hand?”

He is right, Desmond thinks, the pattern in the center of his palm does look like an Apple’s imprint. “Wait a hot second,” he says and looks up at Clay, squinting. “That shit isn’t working now, I’m not even sure how to get it to work.”

Clay cocks an eyebrow at him. “So?”

“So... how are you still here?” Desmond asks slowly, gently, and Clay all but startles.

“I-,” he starts, eyes going wide and then blinks a few times. “I didn’t think-” he lifts his arms to his face and examines them closely, counting finger, before biting himself.

“Wow, dude!” Desmond exclaims out of surprise, but Clay seems to not hear him, eyes wide and looking at the indents on the meat of his palm.

“I am a real boy,” he whispers, and a huge grin, genuine and ecstatic breaks on his face. “I am a real boy!!!”

He jumps in place a few times and does a cartwheel. “Amazing!” he exclaims after he can’t stick the landing properly and falls over, landing face-first, and rolls over, smearing his clothes with coal dust. “Wow, that’s still pretty hot, I gotta say.”

“Um, you okay, Sixteen?” Desmond asks him and Clay turns to him, smiling so wide it seems his cheeks will split any second.

“Never better, Seventeen!” he assures and jumps up, like on springs, grabbing Desmond in a full-on bear-hug. “Thank you,” his voice suddenly hoarse, raw.

Desmond pats his back awkwardly, hiding his face in Clay's ash-smelling shoulder for a moment. “I literally have no idea how I did that, but you're welcome.”

“Who cares how,” Clay laughs again, a bit watery, looking around with the face of someone, who’s seen the light of day for the first time in years. “We are both alive, Desmond! All thanks to your stupid sacrificial ass,” his face turns serious. “Don’t pull that shit ever again.”

Desmond makes a face. “Hey, it worked,” he points out. "And the others would care, wait till my dad throws a tantrum about you being the Templar spy or some shit.”

Clay cackles. “I recognize dear old Bill,” he says and pushes Desmond into the general direction he came from. “Let’s get back to the Temple then, I’m dying to hear some nagging.”

“I’d do without,” Desmond mumbles just to be contrary and looks around, uneasiness creeping in his gut. “Do you think we did it? Save the world, I mean.”

“You tell me,” Clay replies, looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. “That thing in your hand must work somehow.”

He is probably right, Desmond thinks and looks at his right hand again, at the Apple’s imprint. And then, on instinct, closes his fist, squeezing his eyes shut, concentrating. The rush of electricity is immediate, and he can’t see it, but he somehow is aware of the edges of the burnt forest, as if he can feel it. They are standing in the middle of a burnt spot, just a few miles in diameter, and beyond that everything looks… normal. The trees are alive, untouched by the flames, and he even feels a couple of small animals nesting in the branches.

The world didn’t go up in flames.

“It worked,” Desmond whispers to himself, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and notices something else. The Grand Temple cave wall is raised.

Desmond’s eyes fly open. “Come on, we gotta go,” he tells Clay and takes off running.

The others are standing at the mouth of the cave, and Desmond breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. They are safe.

Rebecca, hair sticking in every direction more than usual, stares at what from a distance looks like a bastardized Geiger counter in her hands.

“-idea how it’s possible,” Desmond hears her tell disheveled Shaun as they approach. “Not even a trace of radiation, like it didn’t happen, and that shouldn’t be-”

“Son!” his father exclaims in a voice that sounds close to desperate and takes a step to him before he notices Clay. “What the?..”

“Desmond!” Shaun sees him too and rushes out of the cave, despite Becca’s protest. He reaches Desmond in a few long strides and grabs him by the collar.

Desmond expects shouting, maybe a shake or two, but Shaun just fists both hands in the fabric of his hoodie and looks at him, like for the first time, and his eyes are so beautiful, Desmond almost gets lost in them.

“You absolute bloody twat,” Shaun finally says, almost calm, measured, but his voice is shaking a little, as do his hands. “I will kill you myself if you do that again, I swear.”

He kisses Desmond, hard, almost bruising, and Desmond pulls Shaun into his chest, a tiny moan escaping his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as they part, and Shaun looks like he is about to cry.

“You better be,” he replies, hands still on Desmond’s collar. “Arsehole.”

There’s a loud “ahem” coming from the rest of their party, and Desmond gingerly turns his head only to lock eyes with his father, finally realizing what has just happened.

“I can explain,” he blurts out and sees Becca snicker behind his father’s back.

William looks from him and Shaun, to his Apple-fused arm, to Clay, who is watching them with the smuggest grin on his face, and back to Desmond. “I hope so, son,” he says mildly and opens his mouth to add something when the phone in his pocket starts going off.

He fishes it out, looks at the screen and after a moment holds it out for Desmond.

“It’s for you, son,” he says, and Desmond takes the phone, confused, pressing it to his ear.

“Bill? Thank heavens, what happened?!” the familiar voice fills his ears, and just like that, Desmond is left breathless, eyes widening. “Bill?”

He has to swallow the lump in his throat before he can speak. “Hi, mom.”

On the other end, Maria Miles gasps. “Desmond!” she exclaims, just like she would all those years ago, when he was little, and his vision goes a little blurry. “Oh, sweetheart... Are you alright?”

Desmond wipes his eyes, and looks around, at the smoldering remains of the forest under the winter sky, at his Dad, giving him a tiny, understanding smile, at grinning Clay and beaming Rebecca, at Shaun, holding his hand, and smiles himself.

“Yeah, mom,” he tells her honestly. “I really am.”

#Assassin's Creed #Desmond Miles #shaundes #Shaun Hastings #assassin's creed fanfiction #fanfic #i'm gonna regret this #happy bday desmond

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redroseinsanity · 4 years

Text

And I, the stained glass in your sunlight

Part 2 of the IwaOi hero/villain series, Meet me in the grey area

Oikawa Tooru doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he shouldn’t be doing it.

It’s been an agonizingly long day and he should be home, resting or eating or even plotting, instead he’s here, shrouded in the late evening gloom, eyes intent on the unassuming dark wood of Iwaizumi Hajime’s door.

Since the night he showed up on his enemy’s doorstep and essentially left himself at the city hero’s mercy, he’s found himself drawn back to Iwaizumi’s house, a moth to the flame, Icarus to the sun.

He doesn’t do anything, he’s not foolish enough to try waltzing back into his enemy’s house. Instead, he dallies under the eaves of houses across the road, melds into early morning murkiness and watches the lights in his nemesis’s house flick off and on, imagines the person inside and wonders what he’s doing.

It’s research, he tries to tell himself, obviously it’s all about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer. But he winds up there for no reason but to sit and follow the shifting moonlight that trickles and ripples over the empty street and rooftops.

He ends up there on days like this, when nothing sits right and there’s no one home and the only thing that makes breathing easier is being across the street from the Ace of Seijoh city.

Maybe it was the way Iwaizumi had looked at him as Tooru was leaving, unconcealed concern flashing in those hazel eyes, a light frown on that handsome face and arms that were outstretched, as though ready to catch Tooru if he fell. The Ace of Seijoh, unyielding in his righteousness, a formidable opponent and yet, exposed as someone whose hands were unbelievably gentle as they wiped the dirt off Tooru’s face.

Letting out an uneven breath, Tooru tries, for the billionth time, to shake the memories and get his life back on track. But the Ace of Seijoh no longer sits neatly in the pigeonhole marked ‘Hero/Enemy’, he’s spilled over the precise divides in Tooru’s mind and has wandered into uncharted territory as Iwaizumi Hajime.

Read on AO3 or...

This is insanity, it's nonsensical and ridiculous and Tooru can't put it out of his head. Even if Iwaizumi has forgotten, Tooru knows the boundaries: Iwaizumi Hajime is the city's golden boy, brilliant and perfect; Tooru is decidedly, stubbornly mired in the tainted recesses that the life of crime has positioned him in.

It's laughably unrealistic and it solidifies his resolve, he must do something about this, this folly. He must knock himself out of orbit, force his thoughts away from revolving around the brightest hero in the city, even if it means falling from the sky.

As though by telepathy, that dark mahogany door eases open and Iwaizumi appears to take out the trash. Despite the rapidly cooling weather, he’s only in a muscle shirt that bares his arms to the wind and a baggy pair of sweats. Tooru isn’t ogling at his enemy’s biceps, he’s merely gathering data about the Ace’s strength, as though he hasn’t been slammed to the ground by those very arms countless times before.

After completing the chore, Iwaizumi strangely doesn’t head straight in, instead he wanders to the edge of the street, typing on his phone and suddenly, it seems like a sign. As though this is the moment that Tooru has been waiting for to say something, do something, anything that could possibly remedy this strange conundrum he’s been saddled with.

A quick check to ensure he’s nothing less than perfection and he’s straightened his spine, eyes fixed on the loitering figure, weighing the odds. Without thinking, he’s drifted forward, as though pulled by a gravitational force that has him a couple of steps away from his corner, but he halts as an unfamiliar car zooms down the quiet street and stops right in front of Iwaizumi.

Tooru freezes, thankful that he’s not completely out in the open yet and observes as a fierce young man hops out of the driver’s seat and moves to pass a package over, seeming to mutter a few words while gesturing with the delivery.

Then Iwaizumi smiles and Tooru gets the worst feeling just under his sternum, a ball of sour longing that condenses there and Tooru wants to believe that it’s because a smile looks out of place on a face that has only directed frowns towards him, all the while desperately shoving down the petulant whine of ‘Why doesn’t he smile like that at me?’.

Glaring, Tooru takes in the close cropped hair with shaved stripes and, he squints, the eyeliner that accentuates a brooding gaze. He crosses his arms, so that’s what Iwa-chan likes, huh? Both Tooru and Angry Guy both tense up as Iwaizumi claps a hand on the other man’s shoulder and Tooru watches as Angry Guy visibly relaxes under the touch, seeming a little happier. They’re chatting too long for it to simply be a delivery, they could be friends if not for the way Angry Guy is looking at Iwaizumi and icy recognition of the emotion on Angry Guy’s face creeps in and settles.

Tooru is already backtracking by the time the car starts and peels away from the curb, his face set, limbs heavy and that leaden disquiet weighing in his chest, he blinks, entire body like a clenched fist before he finally turns away and allows the darkness to swallow him.

He doesn’t see the pause after Iwaizumi opens his door to go back inside, doesn’t see him turn to face the street, nor the way hazel eyes rove and linger in the hazy corners, as though searching for something he doesn’t expect to find but hopes to chance upon anyway.

. . .

Complete chaos.

Hajime doesn’t know who’s fighting who, doesn’t know how many allies of his are left standing and how many are down, doesn’t even know which villains have banded together to launch this multi-pronged attack.

All he knows is that everything hurts but he’s not done yet, the fight isn’t over yet and he’s got to get up and keep going or more innocent people are going to get hurt. He catches a grenade mid-air and faster than anyone can react, pitches it straight back into the villain who had thrown it.

The Ace of Seijoh crashes through glass windows and hits the hot cement of the pavement with considerable force. But there’s no time to cry over cracked ribs and bruised ankles, Iwaizumi Hajime picks himself up and launches himself back into the thick of the fight.

Over his own ragged breathing, and his hobbling footsteps, he hears something else that sounds like muffled whimpers. Whirling around, he scans the premises until his gaze catches on a quivering heap of cloth half hidden by debris. It’s a child, one that probably couldn’t get out of the way in time and is too scared to move now. He doesn’t look bloody or seem hurt, just terrified, and Iwaizumi starts towards the kid before he’s forced to block and engage in a ruthless round of hand-to-hand combat with a tiny villain in a gigantic metal suit.

By the time he’s smashed the suit and tossed the villain away like a sack of potatoes, every breath feels like a stab and sweat drips into his eyes, forcing him to blink the burn away. In a limping jog, he gets to the child and wide, teary eyes peer out at him.

“Hey,” he tries to smile but realises with countless bruises and blood trickling down from god knows where he might look scary so he keeps his tone as gentle as possible, “I’m gonna get you outta here. Come on.”

The kid looks even more upset as his eyes flicker down to a colourful object that Hajime belated realises is a shoe, still attached to the child but in an awkward angle. He shifts some of the cloth to reveal a leg pinned by what used to be a lamppost.

It probably hurts a lot, but the boy's quiet as Hajime braces and heaves the entire structure off him, scuttling closer to the hero as soon as the lamppost is thrown to the side. Scooping the kid up, Hajime only gets a second’s warning before he hurls himself to the right, tucking himself over the child’s body as he rolls and avoids a series of bullets.

It’s too dangerous to leave the boy out in the open and tackle the threat head on so Hajime pushes himself into a run that his ankle protests and makes a break for it with the bundle of frightened child clinging to him.

Darting into the outskirts of the fight, Hajime stops short when a familiar figure steps into his path. He hadn’t expected to feel so strange about seeing the Grand King in battle again, but as his eyes rake over the tall, poised figure in aquamarine and white, his stomach drops. The Grand King has acquired several scrapes but somehow, not a hair is out of place and something about that mask looks different, more defined.

“Are you wearing eyeliner?” Hajime asks hoarsely, incredulous and trying to catch his breath. The villain blinks and then seems to puff up a little, preening.

“One must always strive to look their best,” Oikawa sniffs loftily, “Besides, I was trying out a new look.”

“In the middle of a fight?” Hajime can see the villain huff and a fond smile threatens to appear on his lips when he is pulled sharply back into reality by several loud shots and the child tensing and pressing even closer to Hajime.

Hajime can hear the battle drawing closer and knows he needs to get the kid out of there and soon. He glances down the most direct path to safety and then his gaze flickers to Oikawa’s, determined hazel eyes boring into an equally hard glare and Hajime’s arms tighten on the kid who has been silent save for small snuffles into his shoulder.

For a moment, all of it seems to fall away, the fight is nothing but muted noise and it’s just them on an empty street, just them at a standstill and the broken glass as their witness. Oikawa is an obstacle Hajime knows that he can take on, knows that he could push his way through, that his body has memorised the nuances of Oikawa's fight patterns. But there, as time swims and ruptures, Hajime's chest begins to ache not due to physical fracture but the dissonance between what he's always known and what he knows now.

He doesn't want to fight him.

Because the Grand King is no longer the Grand King, he’s Oikawa with the sad brown eyes and the lovely face, the annoying voice and the even more obnoxious personality.

You just be you and I’ll just be me.

But there are lives at stake and they can’t just be them - here in this makeshift battlefield, Iwaizumi is the Ace, Oikawa is the Grand King, and they stand on opposing sides.

There’s an airless pause that suspends over the scant metres between them and then Oikawa, face unreadable, steps aside, leaving Hajime’s exit route empty. Hajime doesn’t know how to think, how to feel, but he’s nodding and briskly moving off when a strangled shout rips into the air behind them.

“ACE!”

He jerks to a halt and even before his brain can parse the implications he's already angry, already hating himself.

It comes from the battle that’s rapidly catching up to them and Hajime knows none of his allies would call unless they truly needed help but he’s torn between ensuring that this child is safe and under a doctor's care, and going to help turn the tide.

He’s rooted, unable to go on but reluctant to turn back, unwilling to exchange one life for another. The kid had seemed fine but his grip on Hajime’s collar is slackening fast and Hajime can’t take chances. He hates this, loathes that his power, his position, his duty, shoves upon him the decision of who lives and who he damns.

Closing his eyes, he grits his teeth and tries to force himself to a decision, either way he knows he’ll probably regret whatever he goes with.

“I’ll take him.”

Hajime head snaps around so fast his wounds twinge angrily and he fixes the Grand King with a disbelieving look. Oikawa looks furious with himself but he’s already coming over, hands reaching.

“I’ll take him, you should go,” Oikawa repeats, prying the kid from his arms, carrying him far more carefully than Hajime had. Hajime blinks, swallows and tries to speak over the rising emotion, the crash of confusion and gratitude and something else that slams into him and leaves him more winded than before.

“He needs medical attention, his leg-” He croaks in lieu of thanks, brushing away the other things that his brain is currently conceiving and tempting him to say.

“I know, I know, I’m not that heartless,” Oikawa shoots him a pointed look and primly turns, trotting off as though saving children has been part of the villain’s job scope all along. A few steps away, he turns and finds Hajime motionless, still staring and he grins ruefully, “My ass looks great, Iwa-chan, but you need to go.”

That snaps Hajime out of whatever emotion fuelled fog he had been in and scowling, he wheels around, ready to charge straight back into the action. Then he hesitates, chancing a glance back to say thank you at least, but Oikawa’s already gone.

. . .

He finds the note stuck to his door when he surreptitiously lets himself back in later that night, aching down to his bones and trying not to get blood on the handle. It’s a tiny piece of paper that flutters in the evening breeze and on it is a hospital, a ward and a bed. The handwriting is elaborately cursive and Hajime knows exactly who it’s from.

He turns, hoping that it’s late enough that none of his neighbours come out of their houses to catch him sneaking into his own house looking like a mess, to survey the street. Even when he strains, the glow from the streetlights gives nothing away, and he’s left facing a darkened stretch. All the same, he casts for a point in the tenebrosity that he feels right about in his gut and stares for a moment before the corners of his mouth quirk up lopsidedly.

“Thank you.”

He heads in, Captain twining around his legs and threatening to trip him as he makes a beeline for a much needed shower.

In the darkness, Tooru takes a sharp, silent inhale. And then he smiles.

. . .

Bonus:

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Hajime tells the kid as he sets the soft toy down on the bed next to him.

“You were so cool! The bullets were like, ta-ta-ta-ta and then you jumped and it was like being on a roller coaster except with no seatbelt!” The child is cheery, not as traumatised by his near death experience as Hajime had feared, “My friends are gonna be so jealous!”

“Of?” Hajime looks down at the boy, bewildered by the possibility that all children around the ages of nine or so seemed to want to be caught in the cross-fire of a major fight.

“Me! Cause’ I got saved by the Ace and see you do all your cool stuff up close,” The kid grins, exposing one missing tooth and gives Hajime a thumbs up.

Slightly sheepish, Hajime does a silent ‘ah’ and nod of comprehension, the lukewarm response doing nothing to dampen the boy’s hype.

“Yeah! Two heroes came to save me! I didn’t just meet one, I got two!” He laughs happily and Hajime’s glad he’s wearing his mask because he isn’t sure what his face is doing right now, if it’s reflecting the soft indulgence that chases surprise and spreads down to the curve of his lips.

“I don’t know who the other hero was,” The kid looks up, face open and sincere, honest, “But he was really nice!”

“Yeah,” Hajime startles himself by saying, the smile growing even wider, “He is.”

#villain x hero #iwaoi #haikyuu fanfiction #Iwaizumi Hajime #oikawa tooru #redwrites

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kookadoodle · 6 years

Text

All About Me

PLOT: Y/N is having a terrible day, and Jimin refuses to leave her uncared for - today of all days.

PAIRING: Jimin x reader GENRE: angst, fluff, F2L!AU WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of physical pain WORDCOUNT: 2.3k A/N: happy b-day to our chim chim x

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This was not supposed to happen. You had done everything in your power to not let it get to this, but here you are, sitting in the emergency room like a fool. Why am I like this? you scold yourself internally, staring at your swollen foot that has once again let you down. Your ankle has only caused you problems ever since you broke it those many years ago. Since then, you have tried to be extremely careful, but your chaotic self always finds a way to ruin it. It would have at least been better if it was just a simple ache, which a pill could take care off, but of course, today of all days, you had to sprain it. Badly. You cannot believe it. “Miss Y/L/N,” the nurse states with a kind smile, and you nod at her greeting. “We’re ready for you now,” she says warmly, gesturing for you to follow her. Getting up from your seat and clutching the borrowed crutch at your side, you slowly let her lead you to the chosen room - one painful step after the other.

After the consultation, you are only a bit more educated in your current situation. Your ankle is indeed sprained, and it is a tough one at that. It means that you will have to do as little as possible today, keeping your foot up and resting it. How inconvenient. You shake your head to yourself as you wait for your bus. The rain is pouring down, but at least you are shielded by the bus shelter. You pull out your phone at the sound of another ding, signaling that someone is trying to get ahold of you. Well, not just someone. Reading the words, you feel it pull at your heartstrings more painfully than the one throbbing underneath your foot dressing. You close your eyes and sigh with disappointment, knowing you are letting him down. You owe it to him to at least call him back, so therefore, you do. “Y/N?” the boy’s voice says as he picks it up after mere seconds. You sense the excitement in his voice, and it pains you to know that you will be causing its demise. “Hey Jimin,” you say back, and you try to hide the shame in your tone, but it does not go by unnoticed. “What’s wrong?” he asks intently as he focuses on your slightly shallow breath through the call. You do not want to say, honestly. You wish that you could just play it off or ignore it, yet this time is much worse than the last one was. You cannot just push away the agonizing ache that has all color drained from your face. “Uhm,” you sputter hesitantly, biting down your lip to fight back the urge of getting emotional. It seems stupid to cry, but you must admit that it would feel a bit relieving to actually let the tears spill after trying to keep it cool all morning. Yet you refuse to lose it now and let him drop everything for you once again, which you know he will do at the very first sound of your sniffing. “I’m fine, I just… hurt my ankle,” you explain and feel the worry leave you with your spoken words. “Where are you? I’m on my way,” Jimin quickly states almost as a reflex, and the red alarms go off in your head. “No! You don’t have to come, it’s fine. I’m taking the bus,” you urge him, hoping to stop him from his heroic act, but as soon as you speak, you realize that you only just made it worse. “The bus? Hell no, I’m coming to get you,” he cuts you off, clearly not taking a no for an answer. He is your best friend in the entire world and the sweetest guy you will ever know, so for once, you wish that it could just be about him and not you. You try to argue with him and convince him that you can make it home perfectly fine on your own, but nothing is good enough. He is already in his car and on his way to the hospital. There is nothing more you can do. Not that there ever really was, since Jimin helping you is inevitable. The only way you could have avoided this was to lie, and you would never do that to him. Or you could of course never have twisted your stupid ankle in the first place.

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His car pulls up, and he emerges from it with pure worry staining his features. He finds you, waiting by the front entrance of the hospital, and he quickly makes his way to you. “Are you okay?” he asks as he approaches. He steps up close and lifts his hands to cup your face gently, looking into your eyes as if to study them as a doctor would. He touches the back of his hand to your forehead, checking to see if you are warm, and you pull at his wrists. “I’m fine, Jimin,” you state, whining a bit at his overprotectiveness. You love that he cares so much for you, but it only makes you feel more guilty right now. “Can we just go?” you ask. He takes a moment to look at your face, eyes moving back and forth at yours as thoughts run through his mind. He finally sighs with defeat. “Yes,” he nods softly and takes your hand, letting you lean on him as he walks you to his car. He helps you into your seat and closes the door as you buckle yourself up. You do not know what to say right now. You know that he would never think to get mad at you for something like this, but somehow you wish that he would. It is not fair that he always has to do these kinds of things for you. Especially on a day like today. “We should go to your place,” you say as he gets in behind the wheel. He looks over at you with a dumbfounded look, until he realizes why you say it. “Oh, right,” he exhales, shaping a light frown in the process. “But you should get home and rest, though” the boy then adds, and you mirror his furrowed expression. The doctor’s orders were to relax, but in theory, you should be able to do that anywhere. “I can rest at your place if that’s okay?” you ask, even though you know that he would never turn you away. “Sure,” he smiles gently at you with sincerity in his glance. He starts the car and drives the two of you to his apartment.

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No one has arrived yet, when you get there, which is a good thing. You would not want to draw any attention with your current state and steal any spotlight that is not yours to have. Jimin helps you up the stairs with your arm wrapped around his shoulders and his hand on your waist to keep you from having to put too much weight in your steps. “I fucking hate these stairs,” you state as you struggle with the climbing, intentionally making him laugh. The sound never fails to please you. “I’m sorry,” he chuckles, turning his eyes to crescents. You finally reach his door, and he leads you inside all the way to his bedroom, where he tells you to lie down on his fluffy bed. He pulls out a few pillows and lays them on top of each other for your foot as you are supposed to keep it up to let some of the blood drain. Having it downwards is unpleasant, considering its pounding effect. You rest into the covers of his bed, where you have found yourself many times before whenever you would sleep over at his place, and he sits down as he stacks up his pillows. The bed barely fits two people, but Jimin being a cuddler means it fits the two of you perfectly. “How is this?” he asks and gestures for you to try out his tower of fluffiness. You gently lift your leg and place your calf on the pillows, letting it sink into the softness. Your ankle is still very sore, despite the medication, and you feel extremely exhausted by now, which does not exactly help. The tower of softness, however, is not too bad of a creation. “It feels good,” you smile softly at him, earning a soft smile in return. “Good,” he says. You feel your eyes getting droopy with tiredness, but you fight to keep them open. You do not want him to pity you any more than he already does. “I’ll get you some water, I’ll be right back,” he says and rises from his seat, disappearing out through the door as he makes his way to the kitchen. You lay your head back down and close your eyes for what is meant to be the briefest of moments, but before you know it, you are fast asleep.

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

Your eyes flutter open a few hours later, welcomed by the pleasant warmth of the covers beneath you and the blanket laid on top of you. The room is quiet and empty, and your ankle feels less painful already than it did before. You rub your eyes gently, allowing the light to embrace them with its refreshing sight. The clock is currently unknown to you as you realize the day outside has gotten a bit darker with time, looking out upon the sky and the slightly greyish clouds. It has stopped raining, and you wonder for how long you have slept. The apartment is too quiet for your liking when you listen for the noise and voices that are supposed to vibrate off his walls by now. “Jimin?” you call out, and it does not take long before the door is opened, revealing the boy in its frame. “You’re up,” he smiles, making his way towards you and placing himself down on his bed at your side. “What time is it?” you ask, eyes still a bit strained from your newly awoken state. “around 7 pm,” he answers back casually, but the words make your heart sink. “Why aren’t anyone here, then?” you ask knowingly, already feeling guilty, since you know what he is about to say. A part of you hope for him to say that they are all on their way, but it is unrealistic at this point. “I called around and cancelled,” he explains, leaning forward and looking at you. “And before you say it, you do not have to apologize for anything, I made the decision entirely on my own,” Jimin states, knowing his cancellation of his plans will eat away at your conscience. He studies your face, taking in your slightly puffy features and finding them too precious for this world. “But Jimin, I--,” you start, yet he hushes you and takes your hand in his. “Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, caressing your skin gently with the trace of his fingertip. The sensation is too comforting, and you hate him sometimes for being so nice to you. You do not deserve him at all. Despite his directions, you cannot help but feel overwhelmingly guilty, and it causes your eyes to begin watering. The tears slip past your lashes and run down your cheeks, earning him to scoot closer to you and place your face in his palms as he looks at you with concern. “Baby, please don’t cry,” he pleads as he wipes away your tears, and his soothing approach only causes more tears to shape. You avoid his eyes as their attentive gaze only further proves that once again, everything is about you. It makes you feel selfish, and you just hate it so much. “I always do this, make everything about me,” you explain as you attempt to collect yourself. Your tears become less of a stream and more of a few gentle drops while you speak. “Y/N, can I be honest with you?” Jimin asks, forcing you to look at him. Your heart flutters at the sight, and you nod gently as a reply, when you fear your voice will not carry any words. “I want it all to always be about you,” he says with a short chuckle as if stating the obvious. His statement is honest, and he looks at you with pure adoration and want. “Even today? I mean, I just wanted to give you something nice, but all I did was ruin everything, and I didn’t even bring you my gift, I--” you speak, and Jimin shuts you up by leaning in and placing his soft lips on yours. The kiss is drawn out by him as if he intends to savor every drop of you until he has to pull back and face your reaction. You are breathless, when his lips leave yours, and he looks at you once again to study your delicate features. Your slightly gleaming eyes tell him all he needs to know, and with relief, he leans in to rest his forehead against yours for intimate closeness. “I promise, being with you is all I really wanted for my birthday,” the boy says quietly as the words are meant for just the two of you. You lay your fingers atop of his that rest still on your cheeks, curling them around his hands to keep him in place. “Happy Birthday, then,” you smile.

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i-am-not-anon · 5 years

Text

Helping a stranger out: part 18

Summary: Roman is working at a bookstore and his customer needs help. But how much would he do for a stranger?

Author's note: Hoo boy! Got a major writer’s block both in terms of working with the plot and the physical act of writing, but I’m back now! But most importantly: Thanks for taking the time to read my work and I appreciate every like, comment and reblog!

And don’t hesitate to message me if you want to be added to the taglist

Pairings: Anxceit (they broke up), eventual platonic prinxiety

Other parts: Part 1 (-) Part 17 (-) Part 19

Warnings: Deceit by name Famian, cursing, abusive relationship mentioned, breakup, crying, panic attack, mild angst, manipulative s/o, kissing, possibly mentions of smut but no n/sfw will appear

”Would it be weird for us to sleep on the same bed now though?” Virgil pondered, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie.

”Right.. I’d say we can sleep one night together and see how each of us feel about it”, he suggested.

”Sounds good to me”, Virgil nodded. ”It’s kinda the only thing I would miss about us being together to be honest.”

Roman smiled.

Virgil’s phone buzzed, making him slam it shut and collapsing back on the bed. He breathed, watching Roman wake up. ”I hate mornings”, Virgil groaned, sitting on the bed and pulling the blanket around him. ”There’s all of the pressure for this day already present”, he changed his tone to a mocking one, ”Wake up, put clothes on, go to school, socialize, study, aghhhh! I hate it.”

Roman sat up, confused by the sudden rant. ”Dunno, I just feel mornings are full of opportunities”, he argued.

”Well you’re you”, Virgil pointed out and flopped face down on the bed.

”If it helps you in any way, I actually worked a lot of my emotions through last night and came to a conclusion”, Roman hummed, walking to change his clothes.

Virgil hummed curiously, managing to sit up and turn his face away from undressing Roman.

”I actually feel we are better as friends than a couple”, he admitted, having been surprised by the conclusion himself at night when thinking about it. Roman was usually the hopelessly pining one, and he had had very hard time getting over his crushes until this moment.

Virgil let out a breath. ”That's good. I was scared of hurting you by staying here if you still had feelings for me.” he also got out of bed and began dressing himself.

”Yeah. It also occurred to me how different we are”, Roman analyzed, ”I have had a dream of travelling the world one day but I assume you’re more like a staying home -person?” he raised his voice at the end, making the statement a question.

”You got that right”, Virgil admitted. ”I’m the most comfortable surrounded by my own stuff and all the necessities like internet.”

”I figured”, Roman chuckled. They eventually ate some breakfast and headed outside, driving off.

”I also should go back to my old job, but it is going to be way more stressful than going back to school”, Virgil sighed as Roman was driving.

”Where were you working, then?” Roman asked.

”I was helping at this one garage but it’s annoying and the workmates loud and rude.”

”I was actually thinking the other day if you’d like to work at our bookstore”, Roman raised a brow. ”We really need a third worker since when one person is behind the counter, the other could do some much needed arranging and cleaning. What do you say?”

Virgil stared at Roman. ”Do you sell enough to pay me? I don’t want you two to have any less.”

”It’s unbelievable but yes, we do get enough money for at least two and a half employees. And by the good work you’d be doing the gainings would only rise. I need to talk about this with Patton though.”

Virgil snorted. ”You should probably do that, quicksand.”

”Hi Virge! What’s up?” Valerie greeted, waving at the dark-clothed figure.

”I’m pretty good, how about you”, Virgil hummed, still dumbfounded but grateful to be accepted by his cool schoolmates.

”We were actually thinking about throwing a party, Valerie has her birthday next weekend!” Joan announced. ”You are invited as well.”

Virgil pondered the offer. ”I’m not the most partying-type of guy, but seems cool. When and where?”

”Not sure yet”, Terrence stepped to the circle. ”All of us live at the dorms and it’s prohibited to throw a party there, even though there would be only six of us if possible gatecrashers won’t be count.”

Virgil relaxed. If it was mostly this group of people, he might get through the party without having to back out before midnight. “I need to ask Roman, but he might be cool with us going to his place. I’m his housemate anyway.”

”Ooh~ who’s Roman?” Terrence winked, grunting as Valerie elbowed him. ”He’s a housemate, didn’t you hear? Besides how do you not know Roman? He’s the heart and soul of every theatre performance I’ve seen!”

”Never heard”, Terrence shrugged. ”Anyways, you ask Roman and we’ll see how it goes.”

”Will do”, Virgil saluted and they parted to their classes.

Virgil stepped in to the Books R Us, smiling as he felt home at the scent of old literature and Patton’s light perfume. He walked to the counter where Patton was quickly checking items for people who were waiting in a line, somehow managing to casually small-talk with every customer before their turn was over. Virgil gulped at the realization of his new possible workplace right there. He would be terrible at managing customers on his own, let alone small talk with them on top of all other stuff. He decided to ask for something to do after the line of customers would be done.

”Virgil! I didn’t see you there”, Patton puffed as he waved the last customer away. ”Roman called me and I think it would be amazing to have you working with us here!”

”Thanks”, Virgil smiled at the other man’s excitement. ”It will take awhile for me to get used to customer service though.”

”I’m happy to hear you’d be interested to try that as well, but I thought you might prefer handling the books more than people so I already put some boxes aside for you to look through”, Patton hummed and pointed at two boxes full of books.

”Read my mind”, Virgil pretended to shudder, and Patton giggled.

”Not really, you just give a certain vibe and I made an assumption based on that”, the other man admitted. ”Let’s get to work, kiddo. We don’t have the whole day.”

Virgil found himself slowly learning to go through the new books by himself, feeling slightly proud of himself. He felt like a new life was starting for him, with new challenges of course but there were so many things he was thankful of already. Roman as a new friend, and Patton, Joan, Valerie and Terrence who he was getting well along with. A new job with the best co-workers and work that he didn’t hate. Virgil hummed as he put books to the shelves, awkwardly pointing Patton to some customers who asked for help. He almost felt like he was going to be fine eventually.

Roman entered the shop, running to Patton who by luck didn’t have any customers to deal with despite the busy season. ”Patton!! Help me!!” He screamed, grabbing the other man’s forearms.

”What?!?” Patton screamed back, matching the dramatic tone Roman had come to him with.

”The audition is the day after tomorrow! They changed the date! I don’t have time to prepare!” Roman wailed, leaning his face on Patton’s shoulder before shooting back up. ”I need to practice!” the man in distress hurried to the back room, slamming the door behind him.

Virgil frowned, walking to Patton. ”What audition?”

Patton sighed, smiling.

”Roman was supposed to have an audition for a big show next week, but now they’ve changed the date closer. You know Newsies the musical, kiddo? It was that one, and Roman was thrilled to get a change to play at his favourite show.” Patton smiled sadly, nodding to a customer that they’d be helped in a moment. ”I really hope he has enough time to prepare, I think you can see as well that this means a lot to him. Could you run the shop for a second while I go and look after him?”

Virgil stared at Patton and the waiting customers. ”You know what.. I’d prefer to go after him myself. See ya”, he walked to the back room, leaving confused Patton behind before he could say anything. The roles have changed, Roman. It’s my turn to help you now. Virgil took a breath, opening the door.

Taglist: @the-unrealistic-dreamer @selectivereality @metaphoricalpluto2 @sherlock-lives-on-bakerstreet @quietwords-loudthoughts @aesthetemoonshadows @draw-eat-stab-and-sleep

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #roman #virgil #patton #logan #deceit #prinxiety #platonic prinxiety #haso18 #helping a stranger out #part 18 #part eighteen

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jennycalendar · 5 years

Text

lucky to have you

The lights flash purple-blue, catching in the raven-black of Jenny’s hair. Jenny’s mouth forms the lyrics of the song blaring through the ballroom, and Miss Charlotte is on the verge of falling in love. She lets her forehead bump against Jenny’s, telling herself she can blame it on the alcohol. “You’re a godawful singer,” she shouts over the music.

“Don’t I know it!” Jenny shouts back, beaming at Miss Charlotte as though she’s been paid the compliment of the century.

i started thinking about my potential novel again today, which of course meant that i went through my old notebooks and extended something from last year into an actual little piece. mostly about my beloveds biconic vampire jenny callahan and british fire-witch miss charlotte, with some mentions of various other people.

a brief synopsis: jenny and miss charlotte dance, flirt, and might have kissed if they weren’t both so bad at communicating. miss charlotte is a pining idiot. jenny is probably also a pining idiot.

Miss Charlotte takes a long sip, looking at Jenny over the rim of her glass. “You’re not dancing,” she observes. “Isn’t now a prime time for you to bring out the funky chickens?”

Jenny chokes a little on her drink and wipes her mouth on her sleeve, still grinning. “First of all, Charlie-pie,” she says, “the dance itself is called the funky chicken. And second, I don’t generally dance at these kinds of things without a partner to dance with.”

“How horribly traditional of you,” says Miss Charlotte, and smiles a little so that Jenny can tell she’s joking. “Next you’ll tell me that you always let the gentleman lead.”

“Hardly,” says Jenny, and places her drink down on the bar, taking a sweeping bow. “I let the guy in the suit lead, and that’s pretty much always me.”

“And if it’s black-tie?”

“Then I cut a rug with a girl instead,” says Jenny, extending a hand to Miss Charlotte.

Miss Charlotte bites back a smile. It won’t do to act a besotted fool. “As it happens,” she says, “I’ve all but finished my drink—” and places her nearly-empty glass down on the bar, picking up the drink that Jenny’s abandoned. “Do you waltz?”

“I’m a vampire from the 1890s,” says Jenny, as if this should answer all Miss Charlotte’s questions. “I can waltz, I can shimmy, I can jitterbug—”

“You are making it far too easy for me to make fun of you,” Miss Charlotte informs her.

Jenny winks. “That’s the idea.”

Miss Charlotte takes a sip of Jenny’s drink. A bit too bitter for her taste, she thinks, and a bit too expensive for her to afford at any rate. She often forgets that Jenny, who has the sweetness and excitability of someone much younger, is a cultured, ageless being—perhaps it’s because Jenny is never pretentious, never holds her experience above other people. It’s remarkably endearing. “I suppose,” she says, “that I might be able to spare you one dance,” and takes Jenny’s hand.

“Ooh, your dance card’s all full?” Jenny plucks her drink from Miss Charlotte’s hand, tossing it back in a last graceful sip. She looks extraordinarily dashing in the dimmed lights of the ballroom—completely in her element—and as she sets the glass back down on the bar and leads Miss Charlotte onto the dance floor, Miss Charlotte is struck by the beginning of a feeling that she can’t yet place.

A faster song starts up, one with a pulsing beat. Miss Charlotte feels Jenny’s hands on her waist in a way that sends a thrill through her. Refusing to comply to her fluttering heart, she says dryly, “You’re certain that you can manage a waltz at this tempo?”

“The advantage of having a century or so under your belt,” says Jenny, “is the amount of time you’re given to accrue numerous talents.” She pulls Miss Charlotte close—the way one does when they waltz, no closer than that, but it feels like they’re close enough to kiss—and this close, Miss Charlotte is suddenly aware that Jenny is nearly a head taller than her. Sometimes she forgets—Jenny makes herself so easily accessible—

“Don’t I know it!” Jenny shouts back, beaming at Miss Charlotte as though she’s been paid the compliment of the century. “At least I’m not as bad as Oliver!”

Miss Charlotte laughs, forgetting herself, and Jenny’s answering smile makes her heart sing. Her hair is falling out of its neat bun; she is only slightly paying attention to her state of disarray. “You’re not waltzing,” she persists, “we’re just jumping about while you hold me.”

“Any objections?” says Jenny, giving Miss Charlotte that playful, flirtatious grin that she gives absolutely everyone.

Miss Charlotte is jerked unpleasantly out of the moment. Jenny Callahan is an ageless being, Jenny Callahan flirts with everyone, and the thought that she might someday be something special to this woman is terribly unrealistic. “Yes,” she says, “yes—” Her chest is tight as she pulls herself free from Jenny, missing the brief handful of seconds where she was able to forget.

“Charlotte,” says Jenny, a sudden worry in her voice.

“Call me one of your foolish nicknames, why don’t you?” says Miss Charlotte waspishly, well aware that her tipsy state probably isn’t helping this interaction. “It’ll make this whole thing seem bloody normal again. Excuse me.” She hurries away from Jenny—or tries to. Jenny has caught her arm.

“Charlotte,” says Jenny again, and her hand moves up to undo Miss Charlotte’s bun. Miss Charlotte’s blonde curls tumble loose, bouncing free against her shoulders (left bare by the strapless dress), and Jenny draws in a soft, pained breath. “You’re so beautiful,” she says.

“Are you drunk?” says Miss Charlotte stiffly.

Jenny’s eyes are incredibly clear; she looks the farthest from inebriated that a person can be. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m—I’m drunk. Sure.”

Miss Charlotte nods to herself, heart pounding. “Don’t tell me I’m beautiful like it matters to you,” she says. “Don’t do that to me.” And she jerks her arm out of Jenny’s hand, hurrying across the room and through the crowd, out the door and into the deserted gardens.

Well. Mostly deserted.

Tasha and Natalie are lying sprawled on the grass together, Natalie’s suit rumpled and Tasha’s dress riding up her thighs. Tasha is settled in Natalie’s arms, and Natalie is pointing out various constellations, and they look unapologetically happy, and it is almost too much for Miss Charlotte to bear. What is it like, she thinks, to be in love with someone who can love you back just as easily?

“Hey,” says a voice, and Miss Charlotte turns. Oliver’s girl—Clover—is standing there, surveying her with a thoughtful expression. “Jenny’s hitting the bar pretty hard,” she says. “And when I asked her why, she said she was shooting for attainable goals tonight, and getting drunk seemed more attainable than some of the stuff she really wanted.”

“She wants me, I think, for tonight,” says Miss Charlotte coolly. “I shan’t oblige her.”

“Shan’t,” Clover mimics, and laughs almost affectionately. “Listen, Charlotte—”

“Miss Charlotte, if you please,” says Miss Charlotte all but reflexively.

“—she doesn’t want you just for tonight,” says Clover. “At least, I don’t think she does.”

“Thank you for your input,” says Miss Charlotte, and goes resolutely back to watching Natalie and Tasha cuddle under the stars.

She hears an exasperated huff from Clover, and the sound of retreating footsteps. She doesn’t bother to look back. Clover is a young thing with little experience when it comes to love, and Miss Charlotte is nearing her forties having participated in a healthy number of relationships.

(Granted, she has never been in love before, but this is not something worth mentioning.)

Jenny is spectacularly smashed by the time they all leave the gala, leaning heavily on Miss Charlotte and playing with her curls as they sit together in the back of the limousine. “You’re beautiful,” she says again, still with that odd, helpless note of sincerity to her voice. Miss Charlotte determinedly ignores it, focusing instead on the fact that Jenny has said this to a thousand other women and men before her. “You are so so beautiful and any girl would be lucky to have you.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” says Miss Charlotte.

“Jesus fucking Christ but they’re idiots,” says Clover to Oliver, who gets the vaguely panicked look on his face that he always does when he might be asked to side with someone.

Jenny hums, settling into Miss Charlotte’s side. “I hope I’m drunk enough not to remember this,” she mumbles to herself. “Made such a fucking idiot of myself—god, I hope you’re drunk enough not to remember this too.”

The statement cuts Miss Charlotte to the bone; she tightly grips the fabric of her dress, part of her wishing it to tear under her hands. She wants some physical representation of what she feels—she wants it not to be bottled up inside, inflicted on no one but herself. “I am drunk,” she agrees, if only for the sake of drunk-Jenny. “Drunk enough not to remember, I’m sure.”

Jenny raises her head, eyes bright. “Can I kiss you, if we won’t remember?” she asks. “I’ve always wanted—”

“WE ARE STILL IN THE LIMO,” says Tasha very loudly, an expression of abject mortification on her face. Miss Charlotte buries her head in her hands, Jenny blinks languidly at the rest of the Do-Gooders, and Oliver sort of whimpers.

“So this is what you guys do when you go out,” Clover observes. “Cool. Remind me to never go out with any of you again.” She considers, then squeezes Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re okay, though. Maybe.”

Miss Charlotte replays that memory; it’s the only one she’ll get. Can I kiss you? Jenny says to her, eyes longing, lips parted as if in anticipation of the kiss she is requesting. Can I kiss you? Jenny says to her, and the note in her voice is still that one of desperate sadness, as though she already knows the answer. Can I kiss you? Jenny says to her, already leaning forward.

Yes, says Miss Charlotte, in a world where they were the only two people in the godforsaken limousine, and she was just a bit more drunk, and both of them were just a bit less afraid. Yes, yes, yes.

Jenny is painfully hungover the next morning. “I am dead,” she complains to the office at large, “I should be exempt from things like this—and how are you not hungover, either, Char-lots-of-curls? I could’ve sworn you were drinking too.”

There is no apprehension in her eyes as she looks at Miss Charlotte.

Miss Charlotte aches.

“Miss Charlotte’s a witch, remember?” Natalie points out. “Probably she’s got some high alcohol tolerance thing going.”

“Yes,” says Miss Charlotte. “That.”

Jenny pulls herself up from the floor and to her feet. “Hey, Charcoal, can we talk?” she says, and sort of jerks her head towards the conference room. “Real quick. It’ll only take a second.”

All of a sudden very nervous, Miss Charlotte follows Jenny, grateful for her years of practice when it comes to remaining calm and composed. Jenny shuts the door behind her, and involuntarily, Miss Charlotte blurts out, “You asked to kiss me last night.”

Jenny winces. For once, she looks her age. “Yeah, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that,” she said. “Most of it was the alcohol, I think.”

“That’s good to know,” says Miss Charlotte miserably.

“What—oh, no, Charlotte, don’t you ever think I don’t want to kiss you,” says Jenny, sounding genuinely horrified by the concept. “I just meant that if I made you uncomfortable with any of my come-ons—”

“You want to kiss everyone,” says Miss Charlotte. “I don’t take it personally. Leave it, Callahan, all right?”

“Charlotte—”

“Leave it,” says Miss Charlotte, and hurries out of the conference room, unable to look back and see the hurt that she knows is on Jenny’s face.

#my writing #oc tag #the do gooders #jenny x miss charlotte #jenny callahan #charlotte novak #not tagging everybody else #i would tag clover but she still doesn't have a last name. so #anyway i will reblog this MANY times probably. so look forward to that

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vampire-email · 5 years

Text

while the rhythm of the rain keeps time: chapter two

ao3 link (kudos appreciated!)

from the beginning: ao3

Rating: General Audiences (subject to change)

Pairing: Dan Howell/Phil Lester

Chapter Word Count: 4,604

Full Word Count: 8,670

Summary: Phil didn’t very much like the rain, but at the same time, he didn’t very much dislike it, either.

It had a distinctly lonely feeling, like if he allowed himself to get lost in the sights and sounds and smells of the rain everything else would disappear and he’d become the only person in the world.

A little odd, yes, but some days he’d ache for this feeling. He wasn’t sure why, but sometimes all he’d crave was utter solitude, so he’d have space to think his own thoughts and exist without being a bother to anyone else.

a/n: a special thanks to my beta readers, @freckliedan, @shrugs-are-kinky, and @edgylester for making this fic possible! Go show them some love!

likes and reblogs appreciated!!

Chapter Two: Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home

Phil didn’t very much like the rain, but at the same time, he didn’t very much dislike it, either.

It was okay, he supposed.

It made his mornings a bit slower, he mused, but it was also kind of peaceful, listening to it pound the outside world tirelessly.

The rain was melancholy and somber, and it put Phil in an odd sort of mood where all he wanted to do was lay down outside in the grass and let it wash over him.

If it was warm enough. Cold rain was the worst. He was staying inside for that shit.

Today, unfortunately, he didn’t have any time to ponder the different ways rain made him feel, because he had a double shift at the Starbucks next to Tesco and it started in less than an hour and he hadn’t even gotten out of bed.

He’d recently taken up a second, part-time job because as it turns out, a job in graphic design didn’t exactly make the most money--and to put it bluntly, he was broke as fuck.

He went in to the office three times a week, and was expected to finish his assigned projects at home if they hadn’t been completed at work. Which was all fine and dandy, but the little ADHD monster that lived in his brain tended to grab the controls and make him do something utterly ridiculous like hyperfixate on the interesting article he was reading about children’s brain development instead of doing literally anything else he was supposed to.

He had actually been offered a home office, which would have been excellent in the fact that he would have been able to wear nothing but socks and a pair of boxers while working, but it also meant that he probably would have ended up lying on his back and watching the blades of the fan spinning and trying to count how many times they go around in a minute instead of getting any work done.

He was glad, at least, for the fact he had a steady income and he didn’t absolutely hate his job, no matter how slow it got sometimes.

Anyway, whenever it got boring he’d always end up doodling straight onto the desk he was sitting at (he’d have to wipe it off later) or coming up with elaborate daydreams in his head about scenarios that were completely unrealistic (that was the fun part).

Speaking of daydreaming--Phil reluctantly pulled himself back into the present and realized that he’d wasted ten minutes allowing his mind to wander as he sat in bed, being about as useful as a garbage bag full of rocks.

That was the one thing he didn’t like about his job--his mind wasn’t allowed to wander or else he’d lose track of time and five minutes turned into ten and ten minutes turned into thirty and suddenly he’d been thinking about absolutely nothing for the better part of an hour.

Unfortunately for Phil, he got most of his best ideas when he let his mind roam free, and sitting at a desk all day was the perfect way to kill all of his inspiration.

He wasn’t completely oblivious to what was going on inside his mind, however; he had seen a doctor about medication for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and while it had worked pretty well at first, at some point or another the doses stopped working as well and it felt like the pills were only taking all his ADHD-fueled ideas and guiding them in the general direction of where they were supposed to go. The side effects were also awful--sometimes it seemed like any noise that was too loud or sudden could launch him into a panic attack and he often felt like vomiting.

He hadn’t had the time to go back to the doctor who had prescribed them in the first place, and so he’d just put the bottle on a high shelf and tried to forget about it.

Alongside battling his attention-disorder, Phil also had to deal with being both physically and mentally exhausted to the point of breaking due to his new part-time as a Starbucks barista.

He barely had any free time, either, and he usually spent his blessed days off sleeping for fourteen hours and ordering takeaway and playing Mario Kart on his couch alone.

Lovely.

With these thoughts in mind, Phil finally rolled out of his bed and dressed in the boring all-black that his job required he wear.

His mind still muddled with sleep (though thankfully warmed up by his wandering thoughts), Phil shuffled his way into the kitchen to get breakfast.

Pulling the coffeemaker towards himself and shoveling generous amounts of ground coffee inside it, Phil wondered if he’d have time to shower before heading to work. Probably not.

He lived close enough to walk to the cafe where he worked (not that he particularly wanted to--it was all drizzly and cold outside) and so he never had to worry about finding a method of transportation (he was awful at driving, the Tube gave him anxiety, and he didn’t have money to spare on cabs). He had a bit of time before he had to leave, enough to finish breakfast and sit and stare at the kitchen counter beneath his mug (or perhaps the telly) and wonder whether it was really worth getting out of bed this early for a job.

Shuffling around the kitchen and pulling a box of cereal from a cabinet, Phil made himself The Breakfast of Champions with little more than dry cereal and a big enough bowl (likely because of all the times his mum had chastised him for eating cereal with his hands straight out of the box, which resulted in a squirmy guilty feeling every time he did it).

There was, however, no point in using a spoon for dry cereal, which really only meant less dishes to wash later.

Pushing his glasses up his nose and sitting in front of the television, Phil wondered whether he could turn it on and watch half an episode without all his self-control going down the drain. Considering… er, previous events, Phil decided to keep the telly off or else he very well might end up marathoning The Office or Food Wars! instead of going to work like he was supposed to.

At least he knew what he was doing tonight.

Before he knew it, fifteen minutes had passed and he had to be at work in ten and he hadn’t even gotten his shoes on- but that was okay because they were just by the door, and so were his house keys-

Running back into his room to grab his phone and to turn off all the lights, Phil skidded back through the kitchen and nearly hit his head on a cabinet door he had forgotten to close.

Damn cabinets.

Phil slid his shoes on and slammed the door behind himself, barely remembering to lock it.

Walking briskly through the lobby of the apartment complex (his flat was on the ground floor, which was by far the Least Cool place he’s ever lived) and stepping through the double doors, Phil immediately found himself standing in the pouring rain.

He wished, as he always did whenever it rained, that he owned an umbrella.

It’s not like an umbrella is always first on his mental list of Things To Buy whenever he went to the store--after all, there were always much cooler and conventionally useful (he had always had trouble preparing for the future--which was why he currently lived on the first floor of an apartment building with one job in graphic design and another at Starbucks).

Phil resigned himself to walking along the sidewalk, already soaking wet and freezing. For God’s sake, it was June! Why was it so bloody cold outside?

Checking his phone and realizing that his shift was supposed to start in three minutes, Phil started walking slightly faster. He could always blame the rain for his tardiness.

By the time he finally set foot in the coffee shop and stepped behind the counter, the rain had relented slightly (although Phil was still very wet).

At the sound of his arrival, Devon (the shift manager) turned and regarded him with a look of slight disapproval.

“Phil, you’re late. Again.”

Phil swallowed. “I’m sorry, Devon- I lost track of time and it was pouring rain and I uh, forgot my umbrella-”

Devon dropped their stony disposition and grinned. “Yeah Phil, I’m sure you forgot your umbrella that totally exists. C’mon, we were gonna draw straws-” They guestured in the general direction of Alex and Liz, who waved, “-but since you’re the late one, you get to wipe the tables!”

Phil groaned exaggeratedly.

“C’mon, Devon, I did that last week! Besides, I’m all wet and-”

Devon held up their hand to hush Phil, and turned towards the back room, chucking an old towel at Phil.

Phil then proceeded to get hit in the face with said old towel, to which the people behind him burst out laughing.

Ignoring Liz and Alex’s giggling, Phil ripped the towel off his face and surveyed Devon with a look of mock disgust on his face.

“Fine,” Phil said haughtily, “but believe me, you’ll regret making me do this!”

Devon snickered.

“C’mon Lester, we don’t have time for dramatics. Just wipe the damn tables down and be done with it, okay?”

Phil rolled his eyes, hiding a smile on his face. Doing actual work might suck, but at least he wasn’t totally alone. His coworkers were pretty cool.

After wiping the tables down, Phil was instructed to make drinks for the morning stragglers with Liz as Alex manned the registers. Devon was in the back doing inventory- something that Phil was very glad he wasn’t in charge of.

Making drinks was fairly simple for the most part--save for the insanely complicated ones. Phil still hadn’t gotten the hang of doing the fancy ones with the custom flavors and customers who knew the menu better than he did--especially the Starbucks “secret menu,” which simply took drinks that already tasted good and added a bunch of complicated ingredients to them. Liz was in charge of those. Phil was fine with making lattes and frappuccinos and tea for now.

He and Liz made a great team, with Devon scrawling the abbreviation of the drinks on the cups and passing them to Phil, who glanced at the order and determined whether or not he could make themself. If not, he would have to pass them to Liz, who had been here for years and knew every possible combination like the back of her hand (that metaphor confused Phil. There wasn’t really anything that distinguished the back of one hand from another, unless you had a tattoo or something). Phil had only been here about a month, which immediately meant he was tasked with the more physical jobs, like sweeping the floor after the shop closed and taking care of the registers when nobody else wanted to.

Phil, Liz, and Alex continued working until about ten-thirty, when the lunch rush was just beginning.

That was when Alex, who looked even more exhausted than usual, took off her apron and hung it in the back. Devon stepped out, and stood in front of Liz and Phil.

There was a chocolate chip in their hair.

“Okay guys, Alex is taking her break and I need Phil to watch after the registers. I’ll be helping Liz make the drinks, and as soon as Alex is back, she’ll help Phil. Got it?”

They all nodded. Alex walked out the back door, likely to go sit at the plastic table out back. In the pouring rain. Sometimes Phil admired Alex for her complete inability to give a shit.

Phil took up his place at the register, and plastered on a smile for the growing queue of customers waiting to order.

God, people were scary.

Taking orders was quite stressful, and he had to remember the correct abbreviations of the drinks and try to understand what the customer said their name was- Riley? It was probably spelled Reileigh or Rylie (he’d had both already) or some other monstrosity sent from hell.

It was during a lull in business that Phil took the opportunity to slump against the counter and stare at the door to the shop, desperately hoping for no one else to walk through so he wouldn’t have to get up.

Devon looked at him pityingly.

Phil glanced down at the counter, swaying slightly and studying the swirling design of the plastic countertop and the crumbs that had managed to stick there.

Lo and behold, someone else stepped into the shop, and Phil smiled automatically while stepping forward to take their order.

An hour later, his head throbbed from talking to so many people, and with a nod from Devon, Phil stepped out of view from the customers and perched himself on an old stool in the corner.

This was exhausting.

Tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, Phil took a few deep breaths. Only a few hours until his break, and Devon was being kind enough to let him relax for a few minutes.

He was already so tired, but that didn’t mean he could slack off his job like this.

After a few minutes of sitting down, he’d surely be able to stand up again and go back to work without wanting to die.

...Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but Phil was a gay twenty-something and also happened to be exhausted to the point of collapsing. He figured he could cut himself some slack.

When the boy with curls damp from the rain and eyes the color of the coffee Phil was making stumbled into the shop like some great force of nature, Phil couldn’t help but glance up.

And he kept glancing, but then he somehow ended up taking longer looks that lasted only a few seconds and then only a few seconds turned to even more seconds until suddenly Phil realized he’d been outright staring at the man for at least a minute.

Behind him, Liz cleared her throat loudly.

“You can’t stare at the pretty boy while I do all the work, Lester,” she teased.

Phil nodded, taking his eyes off the stranger and finishing the iced tea he was making.

At that moment, Alex stepped back into the store, her short hair soaking wet and her clothes dripping water on the floor.

“I’m off my break,” she announced.

“You do know that someone will have to clean that up later, right?” Devon inquired dryly.

Alex said nothing and stepped behind the counter, putting her apron back on and gesturing drippingly to Phil to help her with the cash registers.

Devon sighed and stepped back to help Liz with the drinks.

It was at this moment that the boy (who was still slightly damp and who also seemed to be having some internal battle) stood up from his seat and made his way over to the counter.

Phil’s heart did a funny swoop thing and he was pretty sure he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.

Did he really fall apart this easily whenever an attractive person breathed in his direction? Honestly.

The stranger, who still hadn’t noticed Phil yet, surveyed the pastry cases and stepped closer to study the menu.

With a jolt, he seemed to realize that Phil was there, and proceeded to stare at him, a slight blush tinting his cheeks.

Phil was aware of the fact that his own face was likely bright red.

“Er, hello,” Phil began. “I’m Phil. What can I get for you today?”

It was a miracle he hadn’t embarrassed himself already.

“Oh, er, well- I, I actually haven’t decided yet? I mean, uh, yeah.” The stranger’s tongue seemed to trip over itself in an attempt to get the words out. “Sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

Phil felt his heart soften at the boy’s nervous stuttering.

“It’s fine. Take your time! It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” Phil managed, and then felt himself cringe as he realized that it probably sounded he was implying that the boy needed Phil to make an order, or something. God. Why was Phil always embarrassing himself like this?

The stranger cleared his throat, and Phil snapped back to the present.

“I- could I actually have, um, the er, the Caramel Mocha Latte? That’s good, right?” He paused, considering. “Could I also get an, er, a blueberry muffin?”

“What size?”

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

“What, er, size do you want your drink?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, medium, I reckon.”

Phil nodded, pulling a grande cup towards him. “Could I get a name?”

The stranger looked confused for a second, and then seemed to realize what Phil meant.

“Oh, right. Uh, Dan.”

His name was Dan.

Phil scribbled that on the cup, along with the abbreviation for the drink.

“That’ll be, er, £8 .50. Cash or card?”

Dan, who had seemed to be staring off into space, seemed to jolt himself back into the present. Phil could relate.

“Oh, yes, card, sorry,” Dan said, fumbling for his wallet and extracting a credit card.

Phil nodded and took it. Dan’s eyes were very pretty. So were his curls, and the light dusting of freckles across his nose- Phil shouldn’t be thinking about this.

Dan, as if oblivious to the effect he was having on Phil, seemed fascinated with the way Phil’s hands moved as they swiped the card.

If the twinge of pink lining his cheeks were anything to go by, Phil could guess that it was either very cold outside or Dan was still embarrassed about the loud entrance he had made a few minutes previously. There had to be a reason he was blushing like that, right?

Phil handed the card back to Dan, who now appeared to be staring at Phil’s mouth. Embarrassed, Phil wondered whether he had food stuck on his upper lip or if he had missed a spot shaving that morning.

Ducking his head and reaching into the pastry case, Phil pulled out Dan’s muffin. Tucking it into a paper bag, he set it on the countertop between them.

Clearing his throat, Phil waited for Dan’s gaze to snap back up to his own. God, his eyes were gorgeous.

“Er, your drink will be ready in a few minutes over there-” he gestured towards the end of the counter, “-and here’s your muffin! Enjoy your food,” Phil added, smiling at Dan.

Dan smiled back. He had a dimple. Phil immediately wanted to kiss it. He also wanted to bury his face in the crook of Dan’s neck and stay there for a while, but he had a job to do and also Dan was a complete stranger and- God, Phil was probably so creepy for thinking like this.

As if on cue, Dan took the muffin between them and gave Phil an awkward wave before walking back over to his table and sitting down.

Turning back to face his coworkers, Phil was immediately unsurprised to see all three of them gaping at him. Even Alex.

“That was literally the most awkward interaction I have ever seen.” Devon said, their hand over their face.

“Oh my God you guys, get a room,” Liz quipped, trying not to laugh.

Alex just stared, an expression of shame on her face. “God, Lester, what was that? Have you ever successfully flirted with anyone, I don’t know, ever?”

Phil rolled his eyes, his heart beating unfairly fast in his chest. “Can you guys just make the drink? I wasn’t even trying to flirt at all! I was just taking his order! He probably doesn’t even like guys, for fuck’s sake.”

Devon snickered. “You mean to tell me, the master of gaydar, that that man wasn’t ogling your ass when you turned around to get his damn muffin?”

Phil sighed. These people were relentless.

Alex grabbed his shoulders, looking like she was ready to shake him. “Phil, I swear, if you don’t have that guy’s number by the time he leaves this place, I am going to personally walk to his house and get it myself. You hear?”

Phil shrugged her off. “C’mon guys, seriously. Can you just make his drink?”

Liz raised an eyebrow. Devon smirked. They all backed off a little, although the looks they shot each other definitely meant they weren’t going to leave this alone.

A few minutes later, Dan’s drink was ready and Phil had taken orders from three more customers. Liz had called Dan’s name and he had come up to collect it--and Phil definitely didn’t miss the intense stares all of his coworkers had given Dan as he walked away.

“Nice ass,” Alex commented slyly, eyeing Phil to see his reaction.

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Again. Honestly, at some point his eyeballs were going to pop out of his head and onto the floor, just like his mum told him they would when he was a teenager.

Phil’s co-workers weren’t the only ones staring at Dan, though. Phil had to admit it was actually quite hard to keep his eyes off the man’s figure, hunched over the table and scribbling in what looked like a journal of some sort.

He was left-handed. Phil wasn’t sure why that was important to him, but it was.

Once or twice, he was sure that Dan was looking at him as well. It was hard to tell, though, and anyway, why would someone as pretty as Dan be looking at Phil?

When it was nearing the end of Phil’s shift and he was glancing anxiously at the clock every few seconds, Devon seemed to take notice of this and casually made their way over to Dan, who was still sitting at his little table.

Phil was too far away to properly hear what was going on, but when Devon first began to speak, Dan’s head jerked up, like he hadn’t expected anyone to take notice of him.

Dan only seemed to look further confused as Devon went on, but when they jerked their head back in the direction of the cash registers, Phil began to have an idea of what was going on. Dear God, he wished he didn’t.

Hiding his face in his hands, Phil wished dearly that Devon had only walked over to inquire about the quality of Dan’s drink, or the weather, or literally anything other than what Phil knew it was about.

Peeking through his fingers, Phil saw just in time Dan scribbling something on a napkin and offering it to Devon. Dan’s face was quite red.

When Devon turned around with a smile big enough to engulf their face, Phil groaned and stood up fully, hands gripping the countertop.

Dan, whose face was still beet-red, stared at the floor and tucked one ankle behind the other nervously. Phil turned his attention back to Devon, who slapped the napkin down on the counter proudly.

“You’re welcome, Lester. I just got you a pretty boy’s number, and you bet your ass you will call him, or I’ll do it for you! ”

Phil sighed. “Like how you got his number from him for me as well?”

Devon rolled their eyes. “C’mon, I’m doing you a favor. He was so cute about it too! I thought if his face got any redder, he’d explode!”

Devon looked at him expectantly.

Phil swiped the napkin off the counter and tucked into his pocket. “There. Happy?”

“Obviously.”

Phil was sitting in his flat.

The rain was still drizzling outside, and the sounds of it hitting the pavement echoed off the tall London buildings and created a peaceful, rumbling sound--like a cat purring loudly or the far-off sounds of a train on the railroad.

The sun was setting, and the darkening sky seemed to breathe with the city, creating that special sense of calm that only a rainstorm at night could produce.

All the curtains in his flat were open, as if trying to welcome the last streaks of washed-out daylight left in the world, and the room was getting darker and darker at such a pace that if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to watch it happening.

Phil, oblivious to the rest of the world, was clutching a brown, wrinkly Starbucks napkin with pen marks messily scratched onto its surface.

His handwriting was adorable. It had a slight left slant, and he had drawn a smiley face next to where he had scrawled his number for Phil.

His number. For Phil.

Phil wondered if he had even gotten out of bed that morning or if this was all a dream.

God, he hoped not.

It was around six in the evening, and Phil, in lieu of turning on Netflix and binging a series like he normally would, was sitting on his couch with his phone in his hand and debating whether to call the number on the napkin.

Oh God, what if it was fake? What if Dan had just given a pretend number to make Devon go away? Phil wouldn’t blame him. Oh God. This was so embarrassing. Phil didn’t even know what Devon had said to acquire the number, and to be completely honest, he didn’t want to know.

This was nerve-wracking.

Should he call or text? A call might look like he was trying too hard, but a text might look like he wasn’t trying enough- oh, he was insane. He definitely wasn’t going to call Dan. Did he have a deathwish? Phone calls were awful.

Before he could overthink it, Phil typed out a quick text.

Hey, Dan. It’s me, Phil, from Starbucks!

Okay, that was simple enough. Phil highly doubted Dan had met another person named Phil and had also given them his number on the same day, but it never hurt to make sure, right?

Phil sent it before his brain’s irrational panicking could get in the way, and tossed his phone down on the coffee table as if it were a bomb.

Staring at it, Phil waited for something, anything, to happen.

Nothing happened.

Phil was forced to acknowledge the fact that no, sending a text before he got the chance to over-think it was definitely not a guaranteed way to stop his anxiety from going into overdrive. If anything, it was worse.

Flopping back against the couch, Phil stared up at the ceiling. Maybe it was a fake number. Dan probably wasn’t going to reply, and Phil would never be able to face his coworkers after this embarrassment.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with an incoming text, and Phil lunged for it.

hi phil! to what (or whom, i suppose) do i owe this pleasure? :)

Grinning to himself in the semi-darkness of his flat, Phil typed out a response to the boy with the coffee-colored eyes and a blush that happened to be the exact shade of the begonias growing in the dirt outside the building.

Maybe rain wasn’t quite so melancholy after all.

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nancywheelxr · 5 years

Text

(our friends set us up on a blind date as a prank because we don’t like each other but neither of us wants to let them win so ) | Part 7:

( part 1 ) ( part 2 ) ( part 3 ) ( part 4 ) ( part 5 ) ( part 6 )

Weeks pass surprisingly uneventfully, but even amidst the dull boredom, something stays with Winn, nagging at him to pay attention. Alex hadn’t meant anything by her comment, not really, not this time, but it makes clear they have to step up their game if they want to keep this up for much longer. Soon, people will begin to wonder why they never seem to go on “dates”. And god knows the DEO loves a good gossip.

So when Kara asks if they want to go get drinks after work, Winn makes a big show out of telling her no, he can’t, actually, because you see, it’s date night.

The choice of words is important, too. He’s very proud of that. Date night, implying a routine, implying they did this before, implying they go out regularly.

And he thinks Brainy notices it, too, because he smiles from across the table, knowing and private, eyes shining under the lights, before going back to his conversation with Alex.

Kara grins, watching them. “Right, are you guys planning anything big for Valentine’s Day?”

“Sure,” he replies easily, “I’ve got reservations at that fancy french place downtown.”

She coos, shaking his shoulder excitedly, “oh my god, that’s so romantic! You’re taking him back to the place of your first date!”

“Yeah, well, not to brag, but I’m a damn good boyfriend.”

“You are constantly bragging,” Brainy comments, suddenly appearing at his side, “although you’re not incorrect. This time.”

Winn snorts, “thanks, babe.” A foot steps on his, and he has to bite back his snickers, “anyway. We were talking about how awesome I am, right? We should go back to that.”

“No, but seriously, how did you get that reservation? And at Valentine’s Day?” Kara says, gaping, “I heard there’s a month-long wait list.”

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “two months long. But I actually made them back in December? I mean, I was already there anyway, so I asked just to see– who knows, right? And there was a table left, so I took it. Seemed smart at the time.”

“Not at all,” Brainy frowns, apparently not grasping the logic of that, “two months are too far ahead, what if we had broken up?”

“Nah,” Winn grins, swinging an arm around his shoulder, “I thought it was worth the gamble. ‘Sides, I have faith in us, man.”

The frown clears from his face, but Brainy keeps looking at him with surprise– no, that’s not right. Something surprised and disbelieving in his eyes that Winn wishes he had more time to figure out properly–

Someone makes gagging noises nearby, drawing their attention away from each other. It’s Alex, faking a disgusted grimace, “yeah, yeah, we get it,” she rolls her eyes, waving them off, “you guys are disgustingly in love.”

If she wasn’t grinning just like her sister, Winn maybe would be inclined to believe the annoyance on her words, but as it is, Alex isn’t fooling anyone. She’s just as happy for them. And maybe if he hadn’t meant it what he had said earlier– he did have faith in them at the time. Half-drunk and excited with their new plan, he had been absolutely goddam sure they would be able to pull this off– then maybe he would feel a little bad for tricking them.

“It’s a love story for the ages,” he says. His smile slips briefly, but it goes unnoticed.

“Absolutely revolting,” she shakes her head.

Kara elbows her sister, snickering along. “Let them live, Alex,” she keeps a straight face for about a second before adding, “they have a date tonight.”

“You know, I met thirteen-years-old more mature than you two,” Winn tells them matter-of-factly, then turns to Brainy, “are you ready to go? Or do I need to entertain the peanut gallery for much longer?”

“There are no peanuts here,” Brainy gives him a perplexed look, “do you want peanuts?”

Right, he should’ve seen that coming, this one’s on him. “No, it’s just an expression, it means they’re children and their comments are stupid.”

“Oh. It’s a very misleading expression,” he shrugs, “but in that case, yes, we can go now.”

“Great,” Winn claps, whirling around, “shall we?”

“Have a good date,” Kara calls.

“And bring him back before midnight!” Alex adds.

“Will do,” he laughs.

“I have a very important question,” Winn says with a serious expression. He’s just finished locking the door, and Brainy is still hovering nearby. “Have you ever played Mario Kart?”

He throws his keys in the vague direction of the dish by the door, and Brainy follows him into the living room, sitting down on the couch. “I have not. The only games I know of are the ones Kara has brought at Game Nights.”

“Yeah, right, right, she told me you were there a few times,” Winn says, hooking up his game system on the TV. “She also mentioned it was a bit of a learning curve?”

“There were no explosions and no kittens,” he complains, huffing forlornly, “everything is so misleading in this century.”

“Even Scrabble? I thought you would be good at that one.”

“We haven’t had the opportunity to play it,” Brainy says diplomatically and takes the controller passed to him, turning it around curiously.

“Seriously? Kara hasn’t lifted the ban yet?” Winn scrunches up his face, “but then again, we’re still strongly against Mario Kart during Game Night, so. That’s fair, I guess?”

Only sort of, though. Adding the letter s to every completed word on the board just to see Alex slowly go through all five stages of grief does not compare to breaking one’s favorite controller during Mario Kart. The thing was crushed. To smithereens. But he supposes some games are just not meant to be played by a group of very, very competitive people.

They haven’t banned Monopoly yet, though, for some reason.

“Nevermind that,” he shakes his head, focusing on the task ahead, “so. I figured since we gotta stick together for a couple hours, we could just stay here and chill? I’ve got Mario Kart, Netflix, and the pizza place on speed dial.”

“Not Massimo’s?”

“God no, that place is stricken from the records. Giorgino’s two blocks down– and before you ask, yes, I’ve checked and they’re willing to make your weird apples and olives pizza.”

Brainy smiles. “It is the only acceptable flavor of pizza.”

“And people think pineapples were the real crime,” Winn laments.

The familiar song kicks in as the menu pops up, and Winn does his best to explain the game. It’s fairly simple, after all, and it’s not as if they were going straight for the rainbow road. Brainy picks up on it quickly, choosing Luigi as his avatar. Winn, of course, chooses Yoshi because some traditions are meant to be followed. And, weirdly enough, it’s not so bad. Throwing shells at him is very entertaining, watching his confusion as to why he’s suddenly spiraling off the road turn into suspicion turn into really? And that turns into spite pretty quickly.

Because the thing about Mario Kart is that it’s so much more fun when you’re overly competitive– and not gonna lie, both of them are guilty as charged on that one.

“Fuck off,” Winn says, too busy to physically flip him off, “that’s cheating!”

“No, I am merely using the resources available in the game,” Brainy replies calmly.

“I don’t know how yet, but I know you are and I will figure it out,” he threatens, leaning to the right as he makes a curve, “in the meantime–”

“I’ve told you I’m not– wait. What happened? Why have I shrunk?” Brainy glares at him, “and I’m the one cheating?”

Winn laughs.

He had been so prepared for tonight to suck, it’s almost upsetting how well it goes. They don’t argue properly, no more than the usual bickering, which by now it’s mostly fun. Brainy accepts the beer he tips in his direction, humming pleased and somehow not swerving on the road while holding the controller one-handed.

That’s so cheating.

“So, you want that pizza now?” Winn asks, pausing the game.

“I could eat,” Brainy decides after a moment of indecision. He might have been aiming for a nonchalant, cool reply, but his stomach betrays him, growling earnestly, and he sighs, halfway amused, “I meant, yes, I would like that pizza now.”

Hiding his snickers, Winn digs around for his phone, lost somewhere in the mess they made of the coffee table. The pizza place is on speed dial and the teenager on the other end of the line apparently isn’t paid enough to judge his weird ass order.

“Appalling,” he says later, when the two pizzas are laid side by side and the olives stare back at his soul amidst the apples. “God really has left us.”

“Try it,” Brainy tells him, eyebrows raising in clear challenge. He picks up a slice for himself and nudges the box towards Winn.

And well. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Winslow Schott, Junior cannot back down from a dare, so he sets down his own pepperoni slice and carefully takes the olive and apples, gingerly raising it as if it were a nuclear bomb about to go off in a crowded mall. A deep breath. He takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Eh, it’s not so bad. I thought it would be worse, to be honest.”

Brainy gives him a victorious smirk, “would this be a good time to say I told you so?”

“It’s never a good time to say that,” he scowls, washing down the taste with beer, “and it’s still weird.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” They eat in relative silence for a while, and Winn isn’t surprised to see him slowly working his way through the entire pizza. The game is soon switched for some very unrealistic action movie neither of them recognizes, but the explosions do look cool with the electronic soundtrack.

“It’s a shame there are no pizza places in the future,” Brainy comments idly.

“Oh my god, I know, right? I searched everywhere for one, it didn’t even have to be good, the bar was at existing.” Winn says, gesturing broadly with a slice, “and how come there are no bananas, either? And no one even knew what I was talking about, it was like they didn’t even exist! Like, I didn’t look it up because, you know, spoilers, but what happened? Did we all as a species develop a sudden aggressive allergy to bananas and had to destroy all records of the fruit? Is there gonna be another banana apocalypse in the next centuries– what?”

He stops, self-consciously wiping his mouth with a napkin, because Brainy is staring at him strangely. To be fair, everything about all of this is strange. But he caught him doing that before; sometimes at work, Winn will turn to say something, only to find Brainy already looking back. It’s odd and offputting, and honestly? A lot easier to just chalk it up to another one of his quirks and call it a day. That’s probably the explanation anyway. Now, though, Brainy shrugs, “nothing. Do you always feel this passionate about fruits?” A pause. “Did you say another banana apocalypse?”

“Dude,” Winn breathes, sitting up properly because it’s not every day you get to school Brainy about something. “It’s so much less exciting than it sounds, but here’s the thing– “

It’s a little after ten o’clock when he walks Brainy to the door, awkwardly stopping in the doorway. He scratches the back of his neck, “so. I guess it wasn’t all that bad, after all.”

“I suppose it was not unpleasant,” Brainy allows, his lips twitching, “although, I do have a request– next time, may I bring the movie?”

“Sure,” Winn says easily, then stops. He narrows his eyes, “am I going to regret agreeing to this?”

Now, Brainy grins openly, startlingly amused, “well, you’ll just have to wait and see. Good night, Winn. And thank you.”

It’s something in the way he says it that Winn wonders what exactly he’s being thanked for, too warm, too grateful to pass as simply politeness. Still, unwilling to overthink it, he shrugs awkwardly, “no problem, man. See you tomorrow.”

Brainy nods, slipping out the door.

Winn stays there, staring at the end of the hall for another long moment before going back inside.

#brainy #querl dox #brainiac 5 #winn schott #winndox #supergirl fic #when in rome #fake dating au #god i cant believe i rewrote the whole chapter #clearly i hate myself #still feel kinda meh about this one #but oh well #now i shall go back to the asks

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peacefulwriter88 · 6 years

Text

Disarm

Lance Tucker x Curvy WoC

Warnings: Fluff, language like subtle hints of SMUT but nothing to crazy kids

A/N: I’m just trying to clean my system of this asshole, don’t mind me…

The room reverberates as the crack of thunder hits above the hotel. You’re frozen in your bed, comforter pulled to your chin as lightning flashes against your pulled curtains, the stiff material doing nothing to dispel the chaos that is happening between the thin layer of glass. Can’t help dispel the anxious way your chest heaves up and down, the way your tank top sticks to your sweat drenched skin and you try to close your eyes, willing the scenario away from your mind. But another clap of thunder has you snapping your eyes open and you whimper lower into your bed.

You hated thunderstorms like this.

Your grandparents who had a home in North Carolina loved storms like this. Wasn’t bothered by it. So, that night when a hurricane had blown in, it had taken them off guard. It was a wonder that your grandfather was able to get you and your grandmother to safety, but he had lost his life in the process. Nights like this drew you back to your six year old self and you jump at another flash of thunder, before you’re giving into your anxiety and pull your phone from the nightstand.

You knew he’d be up. It was only 11 – he was always up this late.

Are you up?

You knew it’d throw him off. You never texted him outside the context of work. When you were hired to help coach the girl’s Olympic team, you and Lance had naturally butt heads. He thought he knew what was best for his winning team and you assured him that he didn’t, that there was more that could be learned. You would know, you were a former gold and silver winner like him and that was probably what irked him as much.

You were on his level.

Over time though, annoyance became respect. Lance realized that you did a lot more with the girls than he was capable of, connecting with them on different levels that translated in the gym. Though you barely were in the gym as much as your former self was, it helped when you were able to jump on a beam or the bars to show a technique. You’re muscles had memorized techniques, form, even if the weight of your body’s curve betrayed you and made you regret the suppleness of your ass and breast as a 29 year old. Barely 30 and anytime you were done after a day’s technique, you felt like you body was going on 50 after you finished a demonstration, needing to ice and soak every part of you.

Lance respected that you still got up there and could do it with ease though. Was impressed on the way you were still able to call control to your body and show the mental and physical discipline that is gained if your mind is in the right place. Lecturing them that boys were nice, sure, but the wrong boy could have you in the wrong state of mind when you were twisting your body off a vault. That going to ballet was a bummer after spending hours in the gym but it strengthened your calves, helped you meditate in a different way. He would also echo his agreement, his eyes lingering a little too long on your ass or chest when you finished a move. You ignored the way that made you feel, you had no room for a Lance Tucker.

Except tonight, as you look down at your cell phone. Two minutes had gone by and he hadn’t responded which mean he hadn’t taken Kyle’s offer to go out for a drink. That he was in bed – hopefully his own. Another boom of thunder and you throw the covers off of you. Fuck this. You weren’t going to be stuck in this room all night, unable to sleep when you both had a long day ahead of you. You find your room key, take a deep breath and lunge out of your bed after a rumble of thunder, counting slowly down to yourself as you scamper out into the hallway. If he wasn’t going to wake up and give you the comfort you needed you were going to force it on him.

There’s something loud banging on his door, drawing him out of his subconscious. He’s suddenly aware of the coolness in his room, the way something bright flashes occasionally throughout the small space and the buzzing of his phone. He groans, blindly looking for the metal contraption that’s annoying him first, rubbing his eyes as he croaks out an answer,

“Hello?”

“Open your goddamn door!”

Your voice is different. It’s not commanding, confident or elegant. It’s the opposite – needy on the verge of fear and it’s enough that has him stumbling out of his bed, clicking on a light as he makes his way to the door.

The pounding has stopped now and by the time he cracks open the heavy wood, you’re pushing past him with lightning speed. You’re just wearing a tank top that pushes up your ample bosom and shorts that might as well be illegal as they grip your ass in the best kind of way, causing him to bite his lip as he tries to look away. You throw your phone and room key on his night stand, push your phone into his charger, before your wrapping yourself in his comforter. He furrows his eyebrows together as he closes the door, looking at you with skeptically curiosity as another boom of lightening hits and you jump nearly off the bed, fear laced in your eyes.

“…you’re afraid of thunderstorms?” he doesn’t mean for his voice to be cynical, he’s genuinely curious and you snap a look at him, one he’s seen enough times. The one that makes him want to go hide in a corner while simultaneously bending you over his knee in punishment.

“Maybe.”

“You? Really?”

You give a deep sigh, pinching your nose as he walks over to the window, taking a peek outside and whistling under his breath.

“It’s coming down. But makes sense for Florida – it’s trying to wash away all the crazy shit that happens in this state away.”

He looks back at you as you watch him with wide eyes.

“Don’t be so close to the window. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Your voice is meek but genuine and he gives a deep sigh, shaking his head as he closes the curtain, turning to walk toward you.

“You know I was charging my phone. Now it’s going to die.”

“I’ll make sure to keep it at full charge tomorrow. Besides anyone important who needs to talk to you can also connect with you through me. The skanks in your life are just going to have wait a day.”

Despite the sassiness in the comment you’re frozen, he can see the way your body shakes while you hold yourself. He places his phone next to yours before he grabs the sides of your body, pushing you over a bit. You’re soft and hard in the way he’s always imagined and he prays the small erection that always makes an appearance whenever he’s this close to you isn’t apparent as he gets into bed. He pulls the comforter a bit, enough so you have to share and another bout of thunder hits that has you practically jumping into his arms. He chuckles as he wraps them around you, drawing you close as you rest your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry this is unprofessional. But I was stuck for two days in a hurricane that started like this and…..it brings out the worse fear in me. I know it’s unfounded and unrealistic but I can’t afford not to sleep. And Kyle’s a fucking pervert, no way I’m trying to bunk with him. Tracey would keep me up all night talking my ear off about that one time you banged her in her office and the girls would wake me up constantly, asking if you and I were a thing. I just wanted to be with someone who I felt safe with and that I trust….”

You’re shaking and he nods, placing his head on top of yours. He knew your story – it had ben plastered all over the news the years you had gone to the Olympics. Your grandfather had gotten killed in that hurricane that ripped through the east coast. A few years later, your grandmother had passed away and the orphan in you had found a way to overcome, to practice and train and work and go to school to be an American Olympian. He had respected it, respected it more than Hope.

What surprised him was that you trusted him. You talked to him the least, kept him at an arms distance. The fact that you thought to come to him made him feel proud and something else he can’t put his finger on. Tries to push it into the back of his mind even though he knows it’ll linger there for weeks as he rubs your arms up and down as he whispers,

“You don’t have to explain, its ok. I get it. You can stay here as long as you want….”

You fall into his embrace, a sigh of relief hitting his exposed chest.

“Thanks Lance,” another bout of lightening that has you jumping into his lap, arms wrapped reverently around him. When it passes you look at him, large doe eyes that make his cock twitch before you give a sheepish smile. “Probably the night.” You admit and he chuckles as he falls back into his headboard.

“That’s fine with me,” another smile as he grips your hips. “I’d be more than happy to find a way to distract you.”

His moves his hips into your own, his erection moving against your center and you let out a small moan, before you narrow your eyes and shake your head.

“Are you trying to use my fear to seduce me?”

He gives a lazy smile.

“You want to tell me you’ve never thought about you and me? I’ve seen the way you’ve checked me out in the gym….”

You roll your eyes as you shake your head.

“Yea Lance you’re hot. And sure, I’d love to ride you like no tomorrow,” the honesty of the words take him off guards as his eyebrows raise. “But we work together and honestly, I’m not just trying to find some guy to fuck me. I’m past all of that. If I’m riding you like the stallion you are, it’s because you’re more than a good lay.”

Even though you say the words, he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your eyes scan down his chest before your pushing off of him.

“I’m going to bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“Fine. But just for the record, I wouldn’t just consider you a good lay. I actually like you. You think I’d let Tracey in my room if she was pounding at my door this late at night. I’d send her over to pervy Kyle.”

You giggle as you lay on your side, shaking your head and he takes the opportunity to wrap himself behind you, drawing your backside to his erection that causes you both to groan.

“Let’s at least cuddle. My fee for disrupting my good sleep. Although, you’re going to have to deal with the consequence of my erection from coming in looking as hot as you do...”

“….unbelievable….” you mutter, but your hand already falls over his arms, snuggling back into him.

Neither admit that it’s the best sleep you’ve gotten in months, even if you both wake up with the worst case of blue balls. Even if you can’t help the lingering way Lance pulls away when you hug him thanks in the morning, or the way his eyes fall on you even more openly throughout the rest of the meet.

Even if you do give in a little bit when he asks you out to dinner, the moment you both land back in California. Even if you say yes with a big grin on your face.

#lance tucker #lance tucker x reader #lance tucker x plus size reader #lance tucker x person of color #lance tucker x woman of color #Sebastian Stan

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lavender-noire · 6 years

Text

Read on MTS

As perfect as it is in theory, a white colonial style house with two stories, a big blue front door with a golden knocker emblazoned on the front is terribly unrealistic for life in the city. The property alone required for that sprawling backyard would cost a fortune worth several lifetimes over. Not to mention the price of that immaculate green lawn out front. Then there's the cost of the never-ending parade of gardeners for the grounds, housekeepers for the rooms, plumbers for those four bathrooms she insists were absolutely necessary, and of course, a nanny for the children, because how dare he expect her to renounce her career just because she's created a life. How god damn dare he. But no. Of course that's a ridiculous fantasy for a working couple living in the heart of Downtown Pleasantview. There's the cost. There's all that space, mocking her with its unresponsive emptiness. And moving back to the suburbs is obviously out of the question. The thought of being walking distance from her mother and sister makes her heartbeat spill into her ears. Not again. Besides, the apartment is nice enough. Nevermind that the floors creak and the porch light still isn't fixed after sixteen weeks of asking.

The apartment is cool inside, despite the heat of the day pooling just outside the kitchen window. Her tiny porcelain cups of wheat grass and soil are appreciative for the unobstructed light. Angela's gaze doesn't falter from looking across the table to admire her plants, proud as she is. A jolt of pain leaps up from the small of her back and across her vertebrae, then comes to rest somewhere at the base of her skull. Heat and throbbing soreness moans warily from the bottoms of her feet. Her skin chafes every second of every minute to accommodate her growing belly. To cope, she frantically applies butters and creams to her stomach at every trip to the bathroom. Sometimes she looks at her body in the mirror and grins, eager to meet the person sleeping inside it. Other times, she sobs as her mind suffers to reconcile her swollen belly and tired legs with the image of herself she's known for forever until now. Sometimes she plucks the hair from her scalp to regain some sense of control over the metamorphosing landscape of her own physical form. Sometimes she screams into a folded towel. Every time, she blots a makeup sponge under her eyes, reapplies her lipstick, and returns to society all clean and pretty.

Gazing back at his wife from across the table, Jake can't help the upward tilt of his lips. She's glowing. People always say that about pregnant women, but he's seen pregnant women, and nobody radiates like Angela. The muted scent of lavender and linen trails after her wherever she goes. Distant starlight catches the green of her eyes and blinds him with her absolute perfection. It wads his stomach in knots to look upon her and then remember himself.

She knows she's too good for him. She doesn't have to say as much, of course. The entire world showers cherry blossom petal praise and congratulations for her charming manner, pretty face, and sharp wit, then recoils in horror when they realize that man beside her is her husband. The sweet, sticky odor of hair gel and body spray heralds his presence before he even enters a room. Years of drunken revelry and cigarette smoke has made his voice husky. He saunters from place to place, constantly late, his attentions and affections carried on an unpredictable wind. They've moved more than twice because asking him to turn down the volume of his music is an assault on his creative expression. His reputation precedes him everywhere. "Him?" they all say. And it's getting harder to respond.

Her eyes linger on him as he walks past. She wrinkles her brow and implores his broad back to explain just what it is that tethers her to him. She hardly noticed him at all in college. He was her sister's plaything back then. Jacob Martin existed merely as a deep voice comingling in the raucous laughter that emanated from behind her sister's door. He was the nonchalant arm draped around Lilith's shoulders at the cafeteria. He was the lazy cheek kisses and the napping body beside her on the couch in the common room. He was an accessory to her antics, equally directionless and shallow. But a single drunken night of dancing and stolen kisses under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, and he's Mr. Pleasant-Martin. Angela smiles a meek smile. It had been a fun night, at least.

He perches on the couch beside her, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Angie, I've been thinking," he says. Angela cringes at the bastardization of her name. It's Angela, she wants to say. It's been six fucking years, Jacob, you know I like it "Angela", not "Angie", "Angel", or even goddamn "Jelly". But she steals a moment with eyes pinched close, a wrinkle of the nose, then responds, "What's that, babe?" He blossoms. Pet names are rare. "I want to throw you a baby shower. I promise, nothing big, just a little get-together for family and friends here at the house. I'll be conservative with the music, I'll leave the menu to you, and it'll just --" The corners of Angela's lips bow in not quite a smile. "It sounds great. Let's do it."

Of all the extended family, Jacob's dad is the over the most often. Angela thinks their relationship is unhealthy. Codependent. Jacob thinks that that's an overdramatic, assumptive assertion that she makes because she lives in abject fear of her own mother, and can't comprehend a relationship that deviates from that. He would never say so, but it's what he thinks. "Dude!" Jacob cries as he bats his father's hands away, "Don't tickle me, I'm like thirty." Andrew grins a lopsided grin and buries his fingers in Jacob's sides, "Shut up, you love it." They share a laugh.

Antithetical as they are, the two family groups mix without incident most of the time. Mary-Sue attempted a conversation with Jacob's father once. While the conversation languished around stocks and the state of the economy, she was perfectly enthused. Once Andrew decided to dust off the fart noises and impressions, Mary-Sue had written him off as an intellectual dead end. These days, she greets him with a single nod of acknowledgement and nothing more. Andrew, who cannot bear the thought of not being liked, nurses his hurt feelings with food every time he and Mary-Sue are in the same room. It works for them.

Lilith and Jacob remain friends, though not as close as they used to be. They lounge around the house together watching television or playing video games under Angela's skeptical surveillance. Neither one has any interest in rekindling their sexual relationship, but Lilith likes the anxiety in brings to her twin's stupidly immaculate household, so she lets Angela worry.

Angela's eyes flit between her sister's face and the protrusion of her own pregnant stomach. She surveys with displeasure the shaggy red tresses that drape across her twin's forehead and curl near her ears. It's better than when she was bald for a year, sure, but not by much. Angela finds it hard to look at her sister for more than a few minutes at a time. The familiarity of those features -- that same freckled nose and pale face, those same, cutting green eyes staring back into her own -- makes her want to peel her skin off and inhabit someone, anyone, else.

She dips her chin downward to draw attention to Lilith's belly. "That's new. Don's the dad?"

Lilith smirks. "Sure is."

"I'm glad we're pregnant at the same time, this way our kids can --"

Lilith cups her hand before her lips and shakes loose a yawn. "Angela, nothing would be more boring to me than playing the whole 'twinsies' game with our kids and forcing ourselves together for Sunday brunch or whatever contrived, inauthentic bullshit you've concocted to appease our terrible mother."

Anxious, incensed butterflies flood Angela's stomach. Their sickly yellow wings bat against each other. Scarlet heat rises to the surface of her skin. Her face flushes. Her ears numb. She can feel the blood swirling beneath her flesh, and it makes her sick. She fixes a smile upon her face as she winds her fingers into fists at her sides. She pictures glass fracturing in the beds of her palms, sheer edges pressing to her skin and alleviating the thrum of her heart, the rage in her veins, for just a moment.

It's fine.

"Congratulations, Lilith." she softly says.

It's fine. Angela is a great daughter-in-law. She's intelligent. She's lovely. She's kind. She is an excellent addition to any family, and anyone who doesn't see her value is obviously worthless, themselves. She throws her arms around her father-in-law and wraps him in a warm embrace. He smells like paperwork and brandy, and for a moment, Angela worries that he's driven here. Nevermind. She pulls back.

"Andrew, thanks for coming. We're always so happy to have you."

She wonders if he can tell her words are hollow.

Angela's mouth begins to water and her stomach lurches. Nausea blurs her vision and burns her throat. She touches a few fingertips to her lips and heads for the bathroom.

A melodic voice cuts through the mental noise awash in Angela's head.

"Angela!" the voice says, "Congratulations, sweetheart! Have you picked out any names?"

Her throat constricts and the gushing, angry bloodflow ebbs for a moment as she registers Meadow Broke's face. She can feel her pupils reduce to pinpricks in the center of her eyes, a thieving raccoon caught in the glow of a flashlight. Her attention bounds between Meadow and the man approaching behind her. Oh good, Dustin's here. It was only a kiss and she didn't know they were engaged. Either way, Meadow stole him from her first, so really, it all cancels out. They're over it. It's fine.

"Hey!" she says too loudly, "Th-thanks for being here. I have a few names I really like, but Jacob wants to wait until we meet the baby to decide."

Meadow chuckles. "And it's driving you crazy, right?"

She presses the inside of her lip between her teeth, then forces a laugh.

"Completely nuts."

Mary-Sue Pleasant has a way of looking through to the core of people. She sees through the miles of coping mechanisms, aesthetic distractions, and defensive walls to the heart of their character. In another life, she may very well have made an excellent therapist. But in this one, her perception and intuition about people is stained by the inky black streaks of judgment she paints upon them, deeming them worthy or not of her respect, her acceptance, her praise. Currently, she looks upon the unkempt frame of her son-in-law at a party he's cobbled together to celebrate the impending arrival of the child he's made with her daughter. Mary-Sue is elated at the thought of meeting this darling bundle of untapped potential, but immeasurably disappointed when she considers its father.

"Hello, Jacob," she says dully as he makes his approach. He looks stern.

"We need to talk. Before the baby comes, before anybody makes any decisions about childcare, education, expectations -- whatever -- you and me have to talk."

Mary-Sue cocks a brow and leans onto one hip, her arms fanned confidently at her sides and and utterly unimpressed frown scrawled across her face. "I agree, we do need to have a discussion."

Jacob parts his lips, but Mary-Sue plows through his opportunity.

"I'm not like everyone else, Jacob. I'm not going to do this dance with you, protect your flimsy self-esteem. Let me be transparent: I am unhappy with the choice my daughter has made. I don't think you're right for her or for this family, but I cannot make her decisions for her. What we're looking at is an eternity tethered to each other through this child, and while that's obviously not ideal for either of us --"

"I don't have a problem with you, Mary."

"Mary-Sue. And fine, obviously it's not ideal for me. But seeing as there's no way around it, there are a few things I'm going to need from you. One, find a real job. I will not have my daughter and grandchild's fate hinging on the potential for upward mobility for a DJ."

Jacob scowls. "Emcee."

"That is literally the exact same thing, Jacob. Do you even hear yourself?" The older woman sucks in a breath and releases it with great effort. "One, real job. I can get you a job at Dirk Dreamer's firm, and you will take it. Two, the child will attend private school and university, nonnegotiable. Three, get a real house. I will not have my grandchild raised in an apartment of this condition on the poor side of the city. Are we clear?"

Jacob grits his teeth. "You're being insanely demeaning to me in my own home at a party I threw to honor your daughter, and I won't take your --"

Mary-Sue clucks her tongue and shakes her head softly. "Mind your tone, Jacob. It's Angela's party and we don't want to cause her any undue stress, do we? Think of the baby."

Jacob sighs. "Fine. But we'll continue this later."

Mary-Sue chuckles. "If we must."

"Oh, hey Angela. You feeling okay?"

Angela brushes her wrist across her mouth, having emerged from the bathroom renewed. She glances down at Jules O'Mackey, sitting sentinel upon the sofa.

"Me? Yeah, I'm great."

Jules warms to her just a little. "Well, good. I've watched you run around all night long, and I wanna be sure you're okay. Want to sit?"

Angela shakes her head with a neighborly smile. "No, but thank you. I prefer to stand."

"Alright. Just mind your stress, alright? I have no doubt you can handle it, I'm just thinking of that kid in there."

Angela nods.

Jules glimpses some space else with a wistful sheen in her eyes. "I just can't believe Jake is having a kid. I mean we're all at that age, right? Everyone's got their partners now, Dustin and Meadow have Summer, and -- it's silly, but as a kid I was so sure Jake and I were gonna end up together. I wonder if he'll say anything about me to that little guy of yours."

In her stunned silence, Angela can hear the sound of Jacob's voice as he spins a mostly true story from the kitchen.

"Anyways, Lilith told me there was no way to crush a full can of soda against my head, and I said 'not with that attitude, there's not'. So that's how I wound up getting eight stitches in my head at the hospital on New Years Eve."

She watches Jules' smug, self-satisfied freckled fucking face, something monstrous bubbling to the surface. Her shoulders pitch and her nostrils flare once, then twice. She can feel her throat constrict and her muscles pull against the bone. She inhales through her nose and cool air meets her scalding lungs. She plants a loving hand upon her own stomach and glowers down the bridge of her nose at Jules. It's fine. It really is.

"Don't worry, Jules, I'm sure it'll happen for you eventually," she says, a cakey sweetness laden in her voice.

"And that's how I met Angela again after college!” she can hear Jacob sing from the kitchen.

Angela steals away to the bedroom after most the guests take their leave. She sleeps an uneasy rest, drenched in sweat, sharp pains electrifying her skin and insides from her navel outward. She yanks her entire body upright and fumbles with the blankets, hands shaking. The sheets are drenched down to the mattress, and her body aches under the immense pressure building in her abdomen. She can't catch her breath. She throws herself from the bed and wails, grasping at her stomach.

"Jacob, wake up!" she screams.

"Wait a minute, let me call the hospital." Jacob mutters as he tears himself from the bed.

"No time!"

"Holy shit, is that--?!"

The minutes pass like small eternities, one by one, and eventually, where before there were two, there are three.

Angela pulls the baby to her chest and wipes away the sweat from her forehead with an arm. She presses a few tired kisses to the baby's skin before inhaling his scent.

"Whoo! You did it, Angie! And I'm only sort of traumatized for life."

Angela smirks against the baby's shoulder. "Wanna hold him?"

“What do we call him?” she asks.

There’s a palpable thickness to the silence between them. Jacob gazes into the brand new face of his child -- his child -- and two little brown eyes gaze back. He chokes on the wet wad of emotion that eases up his throat, then replies.

“Munn.”

“What? ‘Munn’?”

“His name is Munn.”

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unit-8-jakubrozanski · 5 years

Text

Evaluation

About 8 weeks ago I was set with a task to come up with a project for my FMP. My proposal was to make a futuristic city. Dystopian / Cyberpunk inspired city. I have had my up and down moment, at time I’d feel like I would be making no progress and at times I’d be making a lot of progress. Overall I feel like I’ve made a really good job of making a city of the future. I’ve learned a lot of new different techniques which are going to help me in my future and especially in my second year.

The purpose of my project in the creative industry would be a game level. This could be used for a cinematic or a playable area that a person can go run about. I have put a lot of effort focusing on the light effects in this world since a Cyberpunk theme tends to have a lot of different neon lights and that is what makes it look quite futuristic.

I feel like I did understand the specialist area that my project was focused on. I have watched a lot of movies that are set in a dystopian or they are set in the Cyberpunk theme however I feel like I was slightly too scared to go all out with being creative. In my head I had a lot of different ideas that seemed a little bit crazy and unrealistic. I think that I forgot that it’s a game therefore non of the buildings have to be real they don’t have to follow all of the rules of physics since the technology is advanced in the cyberpunk theme there can even be flying buildings.The concepts that I was going to make seemed like the building was going to collapse, even though the buildings did look futuristic I think my mind set changed my ideas around a lot. I need to be more creative and just release my creativity when it comes to me, I need to stop restraining my self from making things that don’t really seem like they could be possible, they still need to be believable and look like they can be made however I have to adjust that to the theme that I am making something in.

In the future I think I would need to edit some of the buildings and make them a little bit more interesting eg: play around with the shape, don’t just stick to a rectangle / square. Using just rectangles is slightly boring and also not too futuristic. I need to experiment with buildings and make them look more interesting.

Over the course of the whole FMP I have made a lot of research, every singe time I went home after college I sat watching YouTube tutorials how to make different things like cool looking materials, rain, how to code in Unreal Engine. I have also look at a lot of art that people have made that was inspired by films just like the Bladerunner or Altered Carbon. This helped me get a grasp of how creative artists are and also what makes their art so interesting. I feel like I haven't applied all of the things that I took in from these references since I have never put them into practice however I feel like all of the lights that was inspired from the articles did have a really good effect onto my world. I understand what I have to do better for future projects which is don’t restrain my self because I’m using too much logic to make projects, I need to use my creativity because that is what makes a good strong project unique and interesting.

I think the best way that I could research is to use sites like Artstation to get good photo references. Google is huge, finding the right photo that I want to use can some times be a difficult task. In the design industry we don’t have too much time to spend browsing through the internet just to find one photo. Sites like Artstation are really good since they have a huge archive of fan made photos and art. it’s a good, simple and an effective way to find the right photo that you could want for your reference. Another thing that I should do is read more books, they tend to hold a lot of information and also a lot of pictures that are real.

Over the course of these 8 weeks I ran into multiple issues ranging from crashes, corrupting hard drive to errors in game, light errors etc. Solving these task wasn’t an easy job especially when it hit me when I was least expecting it. I feel like the major problem that I kept having to fix over and over again was the light issue. Since I was using mostly geometry’s to make my project I had to constantly rebuild my light, unfortunately this caused the shapes / meshes to turn all black due to an error while building. All I had to do was go into the shapes code and change the UV from UV - Non to UV - 1, this has instantly fixed the overall object and the lights remained normal. Another error that I have kept en counting was with my Hard Drive. Since I work at home in my spare time I have my Hard Drive plugged in my PC, when I eject it and plug it into the college computers it corrupted which implies that I could have better drivers at home rather than at college. This was slightly scary since I have not made any back-ups of my work. If the Hard Drive would corrupt fully then that means all of my work all through out this year would have been gone. The way I fix for this was quite simple, if the computer wasn’t detecting my HDD then I had to unplug it and plug it into different ports, I am not able to access the CMD on the college computers therefore there was no other solution that I could have done.

I feel like I’ve dealt with all of my problems very fast and efficiently. Even if I didn’t know how to fix something I had Google accessible, all I had to do was type my problem and about 10 different fixes came up which was easy to find and to do. I also had some help from my tutor, he kept giving me tips all through out the problems and how to over come them. I feel like I am prepared a lot better and will be prepared for my future projects. I’ve learned that making back-ups often is a good idea and also I have learned how to fix many of the small errors that you normally get with using Unreal Engine my self this means I don’t have to rely on people which is really good when it comes to the creative industry and working, people there don’t have time to explain everything and baby sit a person, this means I can work a lot more efficiently.

I had to adjust my plan multiple time, I was not allowed to use other peoples assets therefore I had to make everything my self. This was because the assets was not mine, I never made them and I shouldn’t release something out onto the internet if most of the project was not actually mine. This was a difficult task since I have never done any 3D modeling on software’s like Blender. I did give Blender a try since I wanted to make my assets on there however shortly after that I’ve realized that I don’t have the time to learn all of Blender right now, I have too much to make and no time to waste. I had to evaluate realistically if I would be able to make assets with in a day or two. I have decided to use the Advanced Geometry’s tool in Unreal Engine in order for me to work efficiently and get the project done since there was nothing to learn about it, just simple click and drag which was a fast alternative to 3D modeling. I am able to make simple models however if I want something more realistic like a chair I would have to 3D model that in an external software due to limitations of the tool. It is only good for making simple shapes but nothing advanced.

I feel like I have used nearly all of the skills that I have acquired over the course of the year. I have used all of the Unreal Engine knowledge to my advantage in order for me to make a good project. I have made quite a bit of planning before I have started to make anything however I feel like I need to sketch more to help me come up with designs, I can’t draw too well that’s the reason why I didn’t do this however I feel like drawing would have made it significantly easier since I would be able to plan out what my world looks like overall and I would have been able to plan out some buildings in advanced which would have sped up the time of me making the world if I would have been prepared. This FMP has been a huge challenge and it was not easy however I still really enjoyed going through this experience of working to a deadline and meeting my goals.

In my opinion, next time I am going have to get out of my comfort zone and start to sketch a lot more and also I will have to also be more creative instead of restraining my self I should not let logic take over what I produce only because it’s not realistic. That being said logic is still important since games have physics too however I should be able to bend the rules slightly and make buildings that don’t look like we could be able to build them.

Overall I am really proud of what I have made. I set my self a hard task and I think I’ve done a good job at it. I have over came every difficulty that stood in my way and completed my project. I’ve learned a lot of new techniques and fixes that are going to help me in future especially in the second year. I have found my weak sides which are sketching and also time management. These are some of the things that I am going to have to improve on if I want to be successful in the design industry.

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clarenecessities · 7 years

Text

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch. 9

Chapters: 9/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: it’s time Chapter Warnings: Mild violence, blood mention, blade cw, attempted murder, poorly written romance

AO3

They tore across the hills, the woman in red not releasing Adrien’s arm until she tossed him unceremoniously against a standing stone, telling him without looking at him, “Catch your breath.”

“What is this?” asked Adrien, panting. He leaned back against the cool stone, grateful for its shade. There had been too much hiking and running and life-threatening situations that day, and he really hadn’t gotten enough sleep. “You want a ransom? You could just send a letter to the palace. There’s no need for all this… physical activity. Princess Chloé would hardly refuse you.”

She laughed at him—a cruel laugh, void of humor.

“A bit winded, are we? Don’t worry Your Highness, I’m sure your dearest love will come and save you soon.”

“I never said she was my dearest love,” he protested immediately, “but she certainly won’t let me be kidnapped for long. She’s far too concerned with her image to let two packs of hooligans make off with me.”

The woman in red stilled, staring at him. Her gaze was unfathomable, and Adrien met it with defiant confusion. Granted, he’d already been kidnapped by one pack of hooligans, but he didn’t think it was unrealistic to expect Chloé’s intervention—particularly when his new captor seemed to be solidly in the ‘don’t murder hostage’ camp.

“You admit to me you do not love your fiancée,” she said finally, after so long a pause that Adrien had actually managed to catch his breath. Her voice was as inscrutable as her expression, and Adrien’s confusion deepened.

“She knows I do not love her,” he said after a moment.

“Does she? Or are you filling her head with empty promises? I shouldn’t wonder to find you incapable of love entirely,” said the woman in red, and her tone was suddenly heavy with contempt.

Adrien reared to his full height, back coming away from the support of the boulder. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw clenched, his mouth warped into a terrible grimace.

“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream,” he spat, voice shaking with fury. This woman could do whatever she planned on with him, murder him, ransom him off, whatever—but he would not stand by and allow her to demean, however unknowingly, the way he had felt about Marinette.

Unbidden, his nightmares from the previous evening sprang to his mind. Marinette, the sea, the screaming. The screaming that felt like it was ripping from his own throat when he had seen her torn away from him again.

The way he had felt about Marinette? The way he still felt. The way he’d always feel. And this woman, just because she’d saved his life, felt entitled to debasing the constant agony he struggled to bury? He glared at her more ferociously than he’d known he could. It had been a long time since he’d felt anger.

Abruptly though, the woman in red looked just as furious.

“Do not,” she hissed, “talk to me about dreams.” She lunged towards him, and he flinched instinctively, raising an arm in defense. But her hand simply clamped around his wrist, and she pulled them back into a run, Adrien dragged bewildered and seething in her wake.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

They stopped at the lip of a ravine, and she set him on a low rock a little more gently than the previous shove.

“Rest, Highness,” she said, turning away from him again.

Adrien was so angry he was shaking. All five years of lost and suppressed emotion seemed to be catching up with him at once.

“I know who you are,” he accused, his voice deep and rough, almost a snarl. “You’re not a mercenary. You’re the Dread Pirate Ladybug, admit it!”

“With pride,” she said, with a mocking bow, “What can I do for you?”

“You can die slowly, suffering under teeth of wolves and tongues of flame.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Hardly complimentary, Your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?”

“You killed my love,” Adrien whispered, and had to shut his eyes against the flood of emotion. He had no idea how to regulate the feelings and images that assaulted him. Her laugh, the way she chewed her lips when she was drawing, the songs she made up when she didn’t know he could hear.

Knowing that they would always be together. Knowing that she loved him.

Knowing she was gone.

“It’s possible,” said Ladybug, and the detachment with which she spoke jolted him back to the present. “I kill a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another princess? Striking, rich, selfish?”

“No,” he bit out, “A farm girl. Poor. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sky in early autumn.”

Her eyes. Her beautiful, endless eyes that he felt he could have stared into forever. She’d been so lovely in the crisp air, laughing and twirling and promising to bring him a present to match her earring necklace from the harvest festival.

“In early autumn your ship attacked,” he heard himself saying. He was having a hard time staying rooted in their conversation, which really wouldn’t do. He was pretty sure he had never wanted to do anything more than he had wanted to avenge Marinette, except to have never lost her. So he had to stay ready, and lucid. He had to wait for his chance and kill Ladybug before she realized what he was doing and stabbed him or something equally drastic.

Purpose sharpened his vision, and things came into focus. “The Dread Pirate Ladybug never takes prisoners.”

She just looked at him. Expressionless, emotionless, not even bothering with excuses.

Another tremor of fury racked Adrien’s body.

“Do you even care?” he demanded of her, jaw white from the force with which he clenched his teeth. “Do you feel bad about all the lives you’ve taken? Do you feel anything?”

This seemed to get to her. “Do you?” she challenged, barking out a cruel laugh.

They glared at each other again, until Ladybug’s face smoothed back into its usual calm.

“I remember this farm girl of yours, I think,” she said conversationally, “This would have been what, five years ago?”

Adrien clamped his mouth shut. Five years. A quarter of his life without her. At the prospect of living another five and diminishing the fraction, his anger was almost (almost) overcome with a wave of despair.

“Does it bother you to hear?” asked Ladybug, when he remained silent.

“Nothing you can say will upset me.”

Well, that was a lie. He wished he could return to his emotionless fugue. What he wouldn’t give for some good old fashioned hysteria right about now.

“She died well—that should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering. She just said she needed to live, she absolutely had to. When I asked why, she said ‘true love.’”

Ladybug looked at him. Adrien struggled to maintain his composure. He’d done so well before the crowds yesterday; why was this damnable woman any different? He had to stay calm. He had to get the upper hand.

“And then she spoke of a boy of surpassing beauty and character; I can only assume she meant you.” She stalked around him as she spoke, her arms crossed loosely over her chest in an obviously deliberate attempt to look casual. It only served to enrage Adrien further.

She turned her piercing eyes on him. “You should bless me for destroying her before she found out what you really are,” she told him, low and rough and accusing.

“And what am I?” Adrien erupted, shooting to his feet. He was at least a head taller than Ladybug, but she didn’t so much as flinch beneath his glare. He had anticipated her backing up a step or two, and now found himself uncomfortably close, close enough she could simply push him over the edge of the ravine.

The danger was nothing; all his half-cocked plans for revenge were abandoned in the face of her accusations. He’d sooner die than let her carry on.

“She thought you loved her, she told me of your enduring faithfulness, your unwavering support. She told me you would be waiting for her and scarcely a month after, news reached my ship of the Princess’s betrothal. Tell me, did you get engaged that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?” Ladybug demanded, fists clenched at her sides, stance wide. She looked about as willing to attack as he was.

“Do not mock my grief! What have I to wait for? She’s gone! She’s gone and I’ll never see her again, and I can’t—I can’t even—follow! It doesn’t matter what I do! You should have just let them kill me—damn it—Damn you! Everyone would be h-happier if I were dead—” Adrien told her, hot tears finally coursing down his cheeks. They made up for lost time by pricking at his eyes and burning in his throat, choking him as he glowered at the one who had taken all the light from the world and asked to be blessed for it.

She stared at him, startled either by his words or the way he was now weeping defiantly at her. Her eyes were round with shock and blue, too blue, too much like his lady’s—

There was a distant rumble of hoof beats, and Ladybug turned, momentarily distracted. The Princess was coming.

As Ladybug stared, distracted, Adrien lunged, one hand grabbing at Ladybug’s mask, pulling it into her eyes, while the other grappled for the sword at her side. His hand had just closed over the pommel when she yanked away from him, her mask torn violently from her face as she sprang back.

Adrien had a split second to gape at the unmasked Ladybug, to take in her rueful grin and all-too-familiar face, before she vanished over the side of the ravine.

His stomach, his heart, his whole world, dropped out from under him.

“Mari—” he began to stammer, but before he could even finish he had launched himself down the hillside.

Tossed and spinning, crashing, torn, out of all control, he rolled and twisted and plunged, cartwheeling head over heels towards what was left of his beloved. Everything was a whirl of color and a series of harsh collisions and hope and fear and hope, hope he hadn’t felt since the day he lost her.

He came to a rest at the bottom, groaning and clutching his head where it had banged painfully against the ground. It was a sharp pain, but his fingers felt dry where they threaded along his scalp, even as it throbbed in protest. His eyes were still burning from his crying.

And then he was enveloped in a pair of familiar arms, and felt he’d never know pain again.

Marinette lay draped over him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She was tanner than he’d even seen her, and had more freckles than she used to. Adrien ran his thumb along them, tracing her every feature as if she were a dream he could will into reality. He brushed her hair with the very tips of his fingers, ghosting along her ears (they were pierced! When had that happened?) and the side of her neck, finding the cord of the necklace he’d made her.

She was still wearing it.

He was sobbing in earnest now, coughing out broken laughter as he struggled to blink the tears away enough to look at her. She was smiling at him, touching his face, lingering on the bite he’d received from the eels, pressing her palm into his cheek and running her thumb along his tremulous smile.

“Are you okay? I—well—are you hurt?” she asked him, and he laughed even harder.

“Hurt? You’re alive!” he declared, burying his face in her neck.

Pressed against the bottom of the ravine, they clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck clinging to driftwood. Adrien gulped in lungfuls of her scent, his hands still roaming her face and neck and shoulders, desperate to relearn every dip and contour. Her cheek was against his hair and she clutched at him like he might disappear, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt and at the nape of his neck. Her gloves had been torn from her hands in the fall, and her bare skin felt like brands against his.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she whispered, drawing back to look him in the eye.

His face contorted as he tried to find the words.

“You were dead,” he managed, “You w-were dead a-and, oh god Marinette, you were dead.”

He broke down completely, nearly howling with pent-up grief and joy and gratefulness that she was here, that she was alive. He pressed his face against her chest, nose flattened against her heart. He could feel it beating. Her heart, her indomitable, impossible heart, his very favorite part of her, strong and loud and fierce against his tear-streaked face.

“I love you,” he told her sternum, rolling his head around the anchor of his nose. The cool stones on her necklace were a shock against the heat of his closed eyes, another reminder that this was real. “I l-love you so much, I couldn’t—it wasn’t—without you, I—you w-were dead.”

“Death cannot stop true love,” she told him, her hand gently pulling his face away from her. He let his head fall back against the ground to drink her in again. She was crying now too, her cheeks blotchy and flushed, and so beautiful, so full of vitality he swore he could see her pulse beneath her skin.

“I shouldn’t have doubted. I never will. Not again,” he promised. She was here. She was alive and they were together and she loved him.

“There will never be a need,” she returned, and kissed him.

It was almost chaste, scarcely more than pressing their lips together; they were both in absolute ruins, and tasted more of the salt of their tears than one another, but Adrien’s heart stuttered in his chest at the familiar weight of her, the tickling of her damp eyelashes against his cheek, the heat of her shuddering breath as she tried to breathe and cry and kiss him all at once.

Alive, alive, alive.

They started laughing in delight and broke apart, Marinette pressing her forehead against his as he gazed awestruck into her blue eyes. He’d managed to stop sobbing, but he could still feel tears leaking from the corners of his own.

“I haven’t cried in five years,” he told her, “I haven’t felt… I haven’t been anything. I’m nothing, without you.” In the plainest, truest sense of the word.

“You’re everything,” she told him, tightening her grip on him. “You’re everything, and you’ll always have me. I will always come for you.”

“I’m sorry I told you I wanted you to be set on fire and eaten by wolves,” said Adrien, “…and pushed you off a cliff.”

“Well, you thought I had killed me,” she told him, grinning, absolving him immediately. “It’s not like I can’t relate; if someone so much as shoved you I’d be absolutely murderous.”

“I noticed,” said Adrien, chuckling as he touched the thin cut at his throat, thinking of Papillon. He’d have regretted staining Marinette’s hands over it, but knowing that the older man had been trying to kill his true love all day, Adrien kind of wished he’d been the one to dole out the poison.

They both looked up at the sound of approaching horses. Marinette sighed heavily.

“We need more time,” she said, scowling up the walls of the ravine. The princess’s party was not yet in sight, but doubtless would be soon. “I haven’t explained anything.”

“I get an explanation?” he teased, stretching up to kiss her cheek. She rolled her eyes and climbed off of him, standing and pulling him to his feet with one sure hand.

“Unless you’d prefer the allure of mystery,” she replied. He stood close, their raised hands clasped between them, and looked down at her, not even bothering to answer.

She stretched up and kissed his chin, then took off, pulling him into a run.

“More running?” he groaned as they raced along the ravine floor. “I haven’t slept much lately, my lady.”

Her hand tightened around his at the nickname, and she flashed him an apologetic smile.

“Just a bit further,” she assured him, “a few more steps and we’ll be safe in the fire swamp.”

“Safe,” Adrien repeated flatly, “in the fire swamp.”

“Well we can always double back and meet with your fiancée, but I don’t particularly fancy being shot today. I haven’t slept much either, you know.”

“If I explained the situation—”

“She would extra shoot me,” Marinette finished for him with a laugh. High and clear, a delicate sound that didn’t match what she was saying. She was bouncing with reckless energy, and the grin she carried as she spoke so lightly of injury had Adrien hesitating. He paused at the mouth of the fire swamp, looking at the ground.

She looked back at him, and her face immediately softened.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching up to touch his face again. With anyone else Adrien wouldn’t have understood the constant need, but here, before the face he’d missed so desperately for five years, it was all he could do not to return the gesture. Touching her was a confirmation, a reassurance he knew he needed.

“Adrien,” said Marinette, and hearing her say his name almost had him breaking down again, “It’ll be okay. I won’t let her take you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he muttered, still refusing to meet her eye.

She waited, patient as ever.

“I just—we’ll never survive the fire swamp,” he told his feet, “and with the princess we’ll be taking a chance but if I keep you out of sight until I explain, then—”

“Adrien.”

She said it so gently that he had to look up, and see the way she looked at him. She didn’t say anything else; it was simply a quiet plea. She wanted to know what was wrong.

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a whisper. “This is all my fault and now you’re trapped between the fire swamp and a bunch of angry politicians.”

“I’ll take the fire swamp any day,” she said glibly.

“If I hadn’t have stopped for those three yesterday, or if I had swum to you instead of freezing up against those eels, or—”

“Then we wouldn’t be together,” she told him, smiling again. “None of this is your fault, Adrien; you’re just beautiful enough to be a hot commodity in the kidnapping world. You stopped to help them because you’re kind.” She drew away from him slightly, her fingers tangled with his.

“You tried to swim to me anyway, because you’re brave.” She took a few steps back, not pulling on his arm, but carrying it with her, inviting him to follow.

“You made it very difficult to stay mad at you,” she concluded teasingly, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

He chuckled, letting her lead him where she would. Dried leaves crunched beneath their boots, conspicuous after the softer noises of the grass.

“Besides,” Marinette went on, “we can be scared together.”

He squeezed her hand in reply, moving closer to her as they were enveloped in darkness.

#miraculous ladybug #clare's writing #the dread pirate ladybug #you know when you edit something so much you lose all concept of its quality #and also start to forget the english language a little bit

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kiyabujayniah1996 · 4 years

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Reiki Therapy Labor Easy And Cheap Cool Ideas

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takebackthedream · 7 years

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Trump Says 'Love' but Spews Hate by Libero Della Piana

The rabid, racial-nationalist Trump was on full display in Phoenix Tuesday night, in a speech CNN’s Don Lemon called “A total eclipse of the facts.”

The Phoenix Trump was a sharp contrast to the more conciliatory Trump we heard just one night before, in his scripted address to the nation on Afghanistan.

“We can find the inspiration our country needs to unify, to heal, and to remain one nation, under God,” he told a military audience on Monday.

On Tuesday, in what was a billed as a campaign speech just eight months into his presidency, he said, “the only people giving a platform to these hate groups is the media themselves and the fake news.”

Charlottesville’s Shadow

Trump’s comments in Phoenix come on the heels one of the most tense and contentious moments of his deeply divisive presidency: the white supremacist mobilization in Charlottesville, Virginia which resulted in the murder of anti-racist activist Heather Heyer.

The Phoenix rally, which frequently veered off-script, was exactly a week after Trump delivered an off-script rant blaming “both sides” for the violence in Charlottesville, drawing criticism from across the political spectrum.

Thousands Descend

It was no surprise, then, that thousands on both sides came to Phoenix – some to cheer the President, and others to jeer him.

The rumor was that Trump would use the occasion of the speech to pardon former Maricopa County sheriff Joe Arpaio, who was convicted of contempt of court for willfully violating a court order to stop racial profiling.

Greg Stanton, the Democratic Mayor of Phoenix had implored Trump to delay his trip to the city until things cooled down from Charlottesville and the President’s inflammatory comments.

“America is hurting,” Stanton wrote. “And it is hurting largely because Trump has doused racial tensions with gasoline. With his planned visit to Phoenix on Tuesday, I fear the president may be looking to light a match.”

Sheriff Joe

The White House did not cancel or postpone the event, but they did promise Trump would not pardon Arpaio at the event. But Trump did all but pardon him in the speech.

“I think he’s gonna be just fine,” Trump said. “But, but, I won’t do it tonight because I don’t want to cause any controversy. Is that ok? But Sheriff Joe can feel good.”

Trump also railed against the media, blaming reporting of his comments for the criticism he received in the past two weeks.

“I hit ’em with neo-Nazi,” he said. “I hit ’em with everything. I got the white supremacist, the neo-Nazi. I got ’em all in there. Let’s see. KKK? We have KKK. I got ’em all. So they’re having a hard time. So what did they say, right? ‘It should have been sooner; he’s a racist.’”

Bait and Switch

‘I checked off all these things,’ Trump, so why are people so upset? Of course he left out his reference to “hatred, bigotry and violence on many sides.”

This is the essence of Trump’s rhetorical handling of race. He says “they call me a racist” in mock surprise – this from the guy whose first act as a candidate was to call Mexicans rapists. Then he adds, “they are trying to take away our culture.”

Trump says, “racism is evil,” then trades in the most base racial stereotypes. This is from the same man who as a candidate claimed, “I am the least racist person you have ever met,” a statement which immediately calls into question one’s intentions.

Whose Champion?

Trump has stocked his Cabinet with billionaires, and champions a legislative agenda that targets people of color for repression, discrimination and vilification.

Trump’s border wall proposal has been exposed as unrealistic, ineffective, outrageously expensive, and silly. It’s main purpose is in fact ideological. The idea of the wall gives a clear physical representation to the anti-immigrant sentiment of his base.

Trump’s Wall is a monument of hate, as surely as any statue of Robert E. Lee.

The Trump administration’s rollback of civil rights enforcement and police oversight, the Muslim ban, the increase in family-destroying deportations, the dismantling of the social safety net – the list of violations gets longer by the day.

All of these measures disproportionately impact communities of color, and materially contribute to racism far more than his rhetoric.

Trump’s Heart

Trump takes advantage of a popular misconception about racism. For many, racism is viewed as a personal matter, something held in the heart. Racism is an expression of bigotry alone.

Presidential counselor Kellyanne Conway famously said judge Trump by “what’s in his heart,” not what “comes out of his mouth.”

By this reasoning, since we can’t really know what’s in Trump’s heart, how can he be a racist?

But racism is much more than deeply felt racial bias, or even marching white supremacists. Racism is a system of oppression that promotes power and privilege for white people in the real world, and oppresses people of color.

It doesn’t matter what’s in Trump’s heart or mind. It doesn’t matter what his intentions are. His actions, words and policies support and advance racism. Trump is in fact racism’s main spokesperson today. And its main policy advocate.

Hate Rising

This is why so-called “alt-right” white supremacists, as well as old-fashioned Klansmen and Nazi adore Trump. This is why his name has become a weapon to hurl at victims of hate crimes.

This also why hate crimes are on the rise since Trump’s election.

Avowed racists understand clearly that Trump has to say “love” and “unity” and “racism is evil.” But they also know that once he makes the required nod to acceptability, that the dog-whistle racist code words will be unleashed.

When Trump says he condemns racism “in the strongest of possible terms,” it’s not the same as actually condemning it in the strongest of terms.

Trump can continue to call for love and unity, but he’s actually just spreading the hate.

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