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sour--disposition · 3 years

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Take Me By The Hand

harry lewis x fem!reader

requested: Heyy, could you do the ‘take my hand’ concept that you did with JJ, but with Harry?? Love your writing sm! Xxx

please see my pinned post for masterlist and request info!

One taking the others hand to help them up

You were 4 when you first met Harry properly. You’d been running around the playground, chasing after one of your friends when you’d taken a tumble and ended up in a small heap on the floor. Harry had come trotting over, sticking out a hand to help you up.

“Is your knee okay?”, he asked you.

“I don’t think so. It’s bleeding”, you told him sadly.

Harry kept hold of your hand, dragging you over to where the teachers on duty were standing. “She hurt her knee”, Harry said bluntly, poking one of the adults and then pointing to your knee.

Harry followed you and the teacher inside, sitting next to you as you had your knee cleaned and a plaster stuck on. The teacher left to fill in the accident book and write a note for you to take home. “I’m Harry”, the boy said as soon as she’d left.

“I’m Y/N”, you told him with a bright grin.

“Shall we be best friends?”, Harry asked with a toothy smile.

“Yes!”.

Holding hands whilst one walks on a small wall

You and Harry had stayed best friends from that day forward. There wasn’t anything that you didn’t do together. Harry would always be the first person you’d turn to whenever anything was wrong. He held your hand through every trip you took to the first aid room in your primary school and he shouldered his way through to sit next to you whenever you were in a classroom together.

Harry asked you out on your first date when you were both 15. You’d gone to his house after school, pestering him until he did his homework before you let him outside. He’d been pacing around the lawn in front of you, completely distracted from his kickaround with Josh, as you sat on the deck with Rosie.

“What’s wrong with him?”, she asked from beside you.

“I have no idea”, you told her. “You know what he’s like though”, you dismissed, all the while worrying about your best friend.

Rosie and Josh ran inside 20 minutes later to help set the table for dinner, leaving you and Harry alone in the back garden. “Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you?”, you asked him.

“Do you wanna go on a date?”, Harry blurted, leaving you stunned. The two of you were wide-eyed in surprise, both with words caught in your throat that you were desperately trying to say.

“Yeah”, you smiled.

A week later you met Harry by the beach. You’d seen each other through the week during school and spending the evenings after school together, but this evening felt different. This evening would be the one that potentially changed yours and Harry’s relationship forever.

You walked side by side down to the sea front, stopping and sitting on a small wall there. The two of you talked for hours, like you always did. Harry telling you about his family, about what happened in the few classes that you didn’t share together, telling you about his day and you returning the favour. You laughed well into the sunset, a soft silence falling over you as you watched the sun dip beneath the Guernsey horizon.

“It’s getting dark, and it’s cold. Let’s head back”, Harry suggested. As soon as you’d stood up, you stepped up onto the wall you’d just been sitting on, making you ever so slightly taller than Harry. With your arms held out for balance, you took a few tentative steps.

Harry reached out, grabbing your hand to keep you steady. You looked over to him, a shy smile on his face that you soon mirrored, paired with a rosy blush. Harry kept your hands entwined as you walked along the wall, matching his pace with yours so he didn’t rush you and cause you to stumble.

When you reached the end of the wall and jumped down, your hand didn’t leave Harry’s.

Holding hands whilst driving

Harry had never let whatever Youtube success he was gaining get in the way of the two of you. He always made time for you, always made you feel important. As soon as he’d learnt to drive and got a car, you and Harry would spend hours traversing the coastline, wind pouring into the window and billowing through your hair as you watched the cliffs and waves pass you by.

If you were in his car, Harry would insist on you being in the passenger seat, no matter who else was joining you. His hand would always rest on your thigh as he drove, only ever moving to change gear before quickly returning to its place.

Your fingers were wrapped loosely in his, making sure he was able to let go and reach for the gear stick whenever he needed to. The roads along the coastline were fairly straight, only ever bending slightly and no sharp turns in sight.

With the road empty bar from the two of you, Harry snuck a glance over to you. Your face was illuminated by the soft glow of the sun, hair windswept against the headrest and over your shoulders.

“I love you”, Harry said simply. It was no massive declaration, it didn’t have to be. You and Harry had been friends for 13 years, together for nearly 2. He’d loved you for as long as he could remember.

“I love you, too”.

Possessive hand holding

The first time you visited Harry in London was quite the nerve wracking experience. Aside from helping him move his stuff into his flat with Lux and Freezy, you’d barely seen him since he’d left the small island you both called home.

You waited by baggage claim, leg shaking with restless, nervous energy. It was just your luck that your suitcase was one of the last to make its way through and round the conveyor belt, the hall almost empty by the time you’d got your belongings.

Harry was waiting for you just outside arrivals, just as restless and nervous as you were. His eyes had been glued to the door from the minute you’d text him to let you know you’d reached baggage claim. Every person that walked out of the sliding doors that wasn’t you irritated him even further. It had only been a few weeks since he’d last seen you, and he was going mad.

At last, you trudged through the doors, looking a little worse for wear and incredibly pissed off. But you were there.

Harry wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight against his chest. “I’ve missed you so much”, he whispered into your hair. “The guys are already at my place, I hope that’s alright”, he told you. “They’re really excited to meet you”.

At Harry’s apartment building, he kept a tight hold on your hand as he led you upstairs. “Harry, it’s okay”, you assured him, squeezing his hand.

“Just nervous”, he told you.

Harry led you into the apartment, pausing for a second so you could drop your case by the door and kick your shoes off. His deathly tight grip on your hand never waned, like he was scared you were going to escape.

“Lads, Y/N”, Harry said awkwardly as he led you through the doorway. “Y/N, both of the Cals, Ethan, JJ, Simon, Josh, Tobi and Vik”, he introduced, pointing to each man in turn as he said their names.

“Nice to meet you”, you smiled happily.

You sat next to Harry on the sofa, squeezed up against his side. His hand was still gripping onto yours, squeezing tighter whenever any of the guys started to talk to you. “Harry”, you whispered, wiggling your fingers in his grip. “What’s wrong?”.

“Someone looks a little jealous if you ask me”, Freezy poked, wicked grin shooting across the living room.

“Oh, give over”, you scoffed, flicking Harry in the chest. “You buffoon. There’s nothing to worry about. Now ease up, you’re cutting off blood flow to my fingers”, you teased.

Rubbing their thumb over the other’s hand

“I don’t wanna leave”, you sighed, leaning further into Harry’s chest. “I miss you too much”, you whispered.

“I miss you, too”, he told you, wrapping both arms around your body and pulling you closer.

Harry watched over your shoulder as you opened your phone and pulled up flight times for a few weeks time, scrolling through them to find the cheapest option. Seeing Harry as often as possible was taking its toll on your finances and Harry knew you’d only accept so much help from him.

“What if this was the last time you flew home?”, Harry asked into your hair.

“What do you mean?”, you asked, thumb pausing over the screen.

“I spoke to Cal about it the other day, before you came”, Harry started. “How would you feel about moving to London?”, he asked.

You turned in his arms, facing Harry. “Are you being serious?”, you asked, a blossoming grin eager to bloom over your face.

“As I’ve ever been”, he whispered.

3 weeks later, you waited at the gate in Guernsey airport, surrounded by your family. “I’m so happy for you”, your mum whispered as she pulled you in for a tight hug. When she pulled back, you were both laughing through the tears that had begun to shed. “You and Harry deserve to be happy”, she told you.

They watched and waved as you walked towards the flight bridge, knowing that this would be the last time they’d see you for a while. You sat in your seat, watching as Guernsey got smaller and smaller below you. Although leaving home was never going to be an easy thing, you knew that you could build a home wherever Harry was.

You’d already shipped a lot of your stuff over to Harry, leaving you only to bring a large suitcase with you on your flight. You had no idea what to expect when you arrived, whether your stuff would be in Harry’s room or boxes strewn into whatever corner of the apartment they could fit into.

“Here”, Harry said as you sat in the car in the car park outside of the apartment building. He handed you a key on a keyring. “House keys”, he told you.

“Thank you”, you smiled

Harry pulled your case behind you as you walked up to the apartment. You stilled in front of the door, Harry pulling to a stop next to you. “Are you okay?”, Harry asked, voice filled with concern.

“Yeah”, you assured him quietly. “It’s just a lot, y’know”, you murmured.

“I know”. Harry’s thumb skimmed across the back of your hand in a soft, repetitive, soothing pattern. “I love you”, he reminded you, thumb never halting its soft reassurance against your skin.

“I know”, you smiled up at him. “But I love you more”.

Unconsciously searching for the other’s hand whilst asleep

If you were to ask Harry when he knew you’d be in his life forever, he’d have told you when the two of you were 5. Teasing from the other kids about you being best friends with each other was almost never-ending, but you and Harry always found a way to make light of it.

It wasn’t uncommon to see you and Harry playing with the dolls amongst the other little girls or racing around through the mud with the other boys. Everyone quickly learnt that where Harry went, you went and where you went, Harry went.

Harry knew you were going to be his bestest friend forever when he’d sat down on the grass to play and realised that there were no toys left. You’d come and sat down next to him and you’d played in the mud together, making daisy chains and mud pies and potions that you stirred with sticks, never caring about the dirt coating your pretty pinafore dress.

If you were to ask Harry when he knew that your relationship was meant to last, he would fumble and stumble over his words, not really knowing what to say. It was something that brought his friends great joy, asking what he saw in the future for the two of you. After all, you had been together since you were 15.

The night Harry realised you were his one great love was rather anti-climatic. There was no fireworks or mind-blowing kiss or Earth shattering sex. In fact, you were curled up asleep next to Harry, hair piled on top of your head and the hem of one of his Sidemen Clothing shirts riding up on your thigh.

He’d shut his computer down and gotten ready for bed, sliding in next to you as quietly as possible. Whilst he was lounging in bed next to you, attention focused on the screen of his phone, you’d started shifting beside him. Harry laid stock still, not wanting to wake you up with any movements.

Instead, you reached a hand across the bed, seemingly searching for something. When you couldn’t find whatever it was you were looking for, a frown settled itself onto your face. Harry was sure you were dreaming, but couldn’t resist closing the gap between your fingers and his.

The minute Harry hooked his fingers around yours, the frown on your face disappeared, replaced by a soft, blissful smile. Harry had known you long enough and knew you well enough to know that you were still fast asleep, the gentle sighs falling from your mouth being a dead giveaway.

So, if you asked Harry when he knew that your love was meant to last, he’d tell anyone that listened that it was the moment he realised you loved him even in your dreams.

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freakie-deakie · 3 years

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Lucas // How To: Kill an Idea

i have been really struggling with feeling numb lately and i super projected that onto this character. i really do apologize if it doesn’t make for the most interesting read. i may or may not end up rewriting this when i’m feeling better.

Warnings: emotional numbness and detachment

Masterlist

THIS IS PART 2!!! Read part one here: How To: Hurt My Feelings

Lucas x Reader (angst // 7.3k words); ft. stepbrother!Johnny

The way the lights reflected off the water brought only distant memories of the Han flowing through the city of Seoul and mirroring the life around it. The bustle of the city, the calm of the river banks. The things that you neighbored so long ago.

You could become so lost in the remnants of the past - that you would forget to lose yourself in the readiness of the moment.

You owed the Garonne. After tirelessly looking over you for months on end, you owed her your presence at the very least. How dare you look at her in all of her beauty and only think of another.

She smiled at you nonetheless. The Garonne sat with you one last night and told you how much she would miss you - how much all of Bordeaux would miss you. She told you that the stone buildings, the ones in the alleyway that you cut through every night as you return to your dorm, didn't know what they were going to do without you. She told you that the little birds that had nested outside of your window had practiced a sadder song to sing after you left. She swore that the lights in the city shone brighter than they ever had before when you landed and that they would fade upon your departure.

She made you promise that you would come back to see all of them: the buildings, the birds, and the lights. On your own accord, you promised you would come back to see her.

The Garonne waved you off that night, sending you to bed and wishing you a restful slumber and a safe flight in the morning.

Tired and stiff, you limp out of the terminal with your laptop clutched to your chest and a yawn escaping your lips. You mindlessly followed the crowd of other travelers to baggage claim and patiently waited for your suitcase to be sorted onto the conveyor belt.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," a familiar voice reached your ears, "I believe a poor boy has been waiting far too long to see you here."

You spun on your heel, a bright smile suddenly overtaking your features. "Lucas," you call quietly as you envelop him in a tight hug. You had barely moved for sixteen hours straight, but once in his arms, every desire for motion ceased. It seemed that he agreed, as he latched onto you and refused to let go.

"I missed you," he admitted before placing a kiss on the top of your head and moving to grab your bag off the belt.

"I missed you more," you answered softly.

He took your hand and kissed it before leading you through the airport and down to the parking garage where your brother was waiting, leaned up against his car, and dusting the cigarette ashes off of his sleeve.

"Hey there, Miss France," he says as he moves to envelop you in a hug of his own. "How was your flight?"

"It was fine," you answer simply. "Long, but fine."

"Well, you have an hour-long car trip to give us the highlights of France, if you're not too tired. We could stop by a late-night diner too if you're hungry."

You nodded along as you climbed into the car, enjoying the banter after your long trip. But as you rode in the passenger seat home (funny, you thought, that you still called it home), you took in things about the city that you never really appreciated.

The locals that ignored the do-not-cross signs, the billboards that were so shrouded in smog that you could barely read them, the stray cats that freely wandered the city like it was their own personal playground. All the things that you used to neighbor.

And when you got to the bridge that you'd longed to see since you left, the Han welcomed you home with as much love for you as it had six months ago. You made it a point to tell him about the Garonne sometime. You think he would enjoy hearing about her.

"The pastries," you say simply. "It was France; of course the pastries were the best."

Johnny dropped you back at your apartment and your boyfriend opted to stay the night, helping you settle back into the space that you could once again call your own.

Another tenant had contracted your apartment for the time you were away - there were a few more cuts and bruises than you remember leaving, but it was nothing you couldn't patch up. The bed wasn't where you had it, the shower knobs had been replaced, and an empty curtain rod rest stretched along your window seal.

"The stuff you left with us, it's still back at the frat," he chuckles awkwardly.

"That's okay." You offer him a small smile and plop down on one of the only four pieces of stand-alone furniture left in the space, the old black sofa in the same spot it's always been. "At least they didn't take my couch."

"Y/N, darling, I don't know if I would lay on that if I were you."

His words took a moment to register, but when they did your eyes shot open and you were out of your seat comically fast. "Oh God, ew..."

He laughed again and pressed a small kiss to your temple. "Let's take a shower and then we'll figure things out, okay? And you know, you don't have to sleep here tonight. There are no sheets on the bed or anything, so you can-"

You cut him off with a quick kiss and lead him to the bathroom, ready for a warm shower to take away all of your travel pains.

"Not really," you answered honestly, rolling your head to the side to look at your boyfriend. You'd been looking at his ceiling for a while, head resting on his thigh while he played with your hair. It felt nice, you thought, to get a chance to live in your memories - specifically the memories you had left with him here in his room, the ones that always waited for you while you were away. "All of my days in France were spent doing something or another. By myself, with the people that I met. So no, it never really got mundane. I didn't think that kind of life existed for anyone over the age of nine." You let out a small but heavy breath. "I guess I had to experience it for myself to understand."

Lucas doesn't say anything for a moment. Instead, he focuses on gently detangling a knot that his fingers had caught on. Your hair was longer now than it was.

"I'm happy for you," he reassures you. He doesn't quite know what he's reassuring, but he reassures you nonetheless.

"Lucas?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" he responds, his gruff voice sounding tired.

"What would you have done if I didn't come back?" His finger stop working in your mess of locks and all of his attention is focused on dissecting what you just asked him.

"I don't know what answer you want me to give you," he says smally, glancing down at you before retraining his gaze on the ceiling, its texture nearly lost in the dark.

"There isn't a certain answer I want. I'm just curious."

"I don't understand the question," he almost interrupts, suddenly a bit tenser than he was only moments ago.

"I don't mean anything by it, Lucas. It's not a loaded question." Your soft voice is enough to lul his hand back to its comforting motions. "Would you have gone after me or would you have let me go?"

"I would have gone after you without a second thought. Definitely, I would have."

"I thought about staying you know."

There's a pause, a small silence of thought on both ends.

"Why didn't you," he asks with genuine curiosity.

"It wasn't home. You weren't there."

A wolf whistle follows you into the kitchen the next morning and you feel the need to suppress your groan.

"If I knew you were staying the night, I would have held a cup against the door."

"Oh, gross, Jaehyun," you sneer, turning to jab your elbow into the older boy's side.

"What? Not everyone gets to tour France." You can't help but dramatically roll your eyes and threaten him with a punch.

"Do you want a cup of coffee? I was about to put on a pot."

"Sure," he smiles gratefully. "And you can tell me about Bordeaux while we wait."

"Oh, it was beautiful," you think back as you prepare the grounds. "As the sun was setting, the sky would turn golden. If there were any clouds that evening, they would turn all different shades of pink. The lights over the water - words wouldn't do it justice."

Jaehyun chuckles before yawning out, "Well, that's a first."

"Jung Jaehyun, if you are trying to say that I talk too much-"

"That's not what I'm saying," he defends. "I mean you always have a way with words. It's your thing, ya' know. Words."

You hum, turning back to your task. "I guess I hadn't thought about it that way - at least not for a while."

The door to the kitchen swings open and another boy ungracefully stumbles into the kitchen. Haechan is clad in a plain T-shirt and dark shorts (if you could call them that). His hair is no longer silver; it's now a dusty brown, curling up into the picture of a sandstorm blowing about his head. He looked healthier, or maybe just more mature since you last saw him. He'd filled out a bit, and grown into those long limbs of his.

"Man, what's will all the commotion in here? It's Saturday and- Y/N?" The boy immediately perks up upon seeing you. "Oh my gosh, Y/N! You're back!" He hugs you and sits down at the island beside his older friend, suddenly as energetic as a child on Christmas morning. "Great, because I made a list of pranks we're gonna pull together. Jaehyun, since you're here, I guess you can help us too. Okay, first of all, we're gonna shove a bag of chocolate powder mix down the shower drain. I'd like to make sure that one gets Mark because he blamed me for breaking Johnny's lamp."

There were things you would have to readjust to in Korea. Things that you didn't think would catch you off guard, yet still managed to turn you around every now and again. The wet bath was one of them; you were going to miss your tub. You also suddenly found bowing a bit more strange than you originally had, as well as keeping personal space when you greeted someone altogether. Most prominently, the language barrier that you weren't so sure you'd ever really overcome in your first life in Korea.

Words were suddenly weird to you again. Ideas that could manifest themselves in one language but not another. At times, there were no proper parallels, nor were there ways in which to express everything going on inside your head.

Though you tried your hardest, what little French you learned simply wouldn't translate properly to English, or the English wouldn't translate to Korean, or the Korean to French, or the French to Korean, or the Korean to the English. The words just never came out the way you wanted them to, and in a way, it was like a piece of you fell away from the rest, lost somewhere between all of your different lives.

Lucas noticed how much quieter you seemed since you'd returned.

You made it a point to generally avoid contact with everyone while you were away. You occasionally checked in with them to let them know that you were alive, but other than that had kept your space. You became more dedicated to learning about yourself and how to care for your well-being. You began making decisions of your own, from what you would eat every night and how early you would wake up every morning to what debacles were worth your time and energy. You decided that most of them weren't. You decided that pondering your life was taking years off of it, and that you didn't like to eat snails. You decided that you weren't so bad after all, and for that matter, no one else was either. You decided to live.

"Hey, can I see something on your Instagram real quick?" you asked softly, setting your bowl of fancy ramen on the coffee table in front of you. "I think one of my friends just had a baby and I wanted to see if she's posted any pictures yet."

Without giving it much thought, Lucas hands you his phone and turns back to his meal. "What happened to your Instagram?" he questioned.

"Deleted it," you quip, pulling up your friend's account. He hears you coo before you shove the device back into his hands, urging him to look at the baby. He thought the child, redfaced and wet, looked like an alien, though he'd never tell you that.

"Why'd you delete it?" he pursues.

You simply shrug and cover more of your legs with the blanket that rested on the both of you. "Didn't need it." He gives you an unsatisfied groan, but you can't think of a better answer. It was simple - while you took plenty of photos to document your life, you no longer found it necessary to post them.

"Okay," he tries, "what about your Kakao Story?"

"Deleted."

"So you no longer use Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Skype, Instagram, or Kakao Story? What if someone needs to contact you?"

"I still have Kakao and Discord."

"Okay, what about my posts? Or your other friends'?"

"If they have something to tell me, they will," you sip your hot tea and lean into his side.

"It’s like she doesn't want to talk to me. She doesn't want to talk to anyone," groans Lucas as he sprawls out on Mark's bed. "She doesn't talk nearly as much as she used to."

Mark's hand didn't stop relaying notes to his journal as he talked with Lucas, translating as many of his lyrical ideas onto paper as he could keep up with.

"She's not the same person she used to be, Lucas."

Lucas had trouble making sense of it, why Mark sounded so sure about that. It almost hurt his pride that one of his roommates was telling him something about you, his girlfriend.

"Who is?" Lucas rubs his eyes. "We've all grown up since then."

Mark's hand halts. "Since then?"

"Since-" he sighs. "Ya' know, since... Since we..."

"Don't hurt yourself," Mark chuckles. "Maybe," he offers, "this chapter of your life is written in a different style. Did you even notice? That your life hasn't been going the same since she got back?"

"Of course it's not the same," the elder defends. "It's infinitely better."

"Spare me. Look, I'm just saying, the less she talks, the more dialog you're putting in your own book. And I think it's better this way. I mean, I can't tell you how to write your life, but I can honestly say I think you're doing better now than you were before. You started using your words instead of acting on impulse. That's not easy, man. Words are hard."

Words: your staple, your foundation, your life. They were your nothing anymore.

And Lucas didn't know how to understand.

He tried not to take it personally, but soon you fell into almost complete silence both with him and his friends. When you joined them for a Smash Bros competition, you didn't exclaim your victories nor mourn your defeats. When you dressed, you didn't ask for his opinions on the color of your lipstick nor the type of heel you should wear. When you laid in bed with him and watched his fan turn above your heads, you refused to humor his desire to hear your voice. And he took the fault upon himself.

He felt guilty asking anything of you anymore because you never opened your mouth to ask for favors in return.

"Y/N, will you come cuddle with me?" he calls with as much endearment as he can shove into his tone.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

You hadn't watched the news in months, and he knew that. You, ever the stickler for meaningful conversation, had devoted large portions of your time to staying up to date before. As of late, however, you preferred "to watch the world crash and burn around you from a first-person point-of-view rather than a third-person point-of-view."

He hoped that sitting you down to watch the news for a while would spark a fire in your opinionated soul. So imagine his reaction when you crawled into his arms and fell asleep, paying absolutely no mind to the colors or words on the screen.

His next plan was to plant your favorite novel in the hands of your favorite philosopher.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

He shoved the book into Doyoung's hands with a stern "fix her." Needless to say, Doyoung had the book read within a couple of days and Lucas invited you over as soon as his friend flipped through the pages for the final time.

"A piece of modern art," he suggests. "A sorrow lost to the sands of time and a meaning forgotten by society."

Lucas watches in amazement as you sit and nod along to everything that Doyoung says. You didn't interject your ideas even once. You just listened.

He was running out of ideas. So his last plot was his last hope that there may be a bit of yourself left inside of you. He would take you on a date - the best date you've ever been on - and thrust so much happiness and gratefulness onto you that you wouldn't be able to contain it so silently. He knew it was a dirty trick, but how else was he to make sure that you were okay if you would no longer tell him anything about yourself.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

Really, he should have asked you out first, before he came barging into your apartment (tidier than he'd ever seen it before and reeking of cleaner) with a bundle of flowers and demanding your attention for the evening.

Surprise.

He was about to push open the door to your bedroom when he heard a soft sniffle from inside. His eyes widened and his shoulders fell. His heart broke when he heard a small sob fall from your lips.

He peeked inside. It was dark, mind the laptop that sat on your desk and illuminating your shaking form. You laid your head on one arm and used your other hand to rake through your stringy hair. Your glasses had been tossed to the shadowy void and your cheeks were wet and sticky.

The header of your philosophy paper stared you down as you unraveled before it. The rest of the blank page was absolutely daunting. Your acceptance of the world around you had drained away your ability to have a coherent cognitive thought about it, forget about writing one.

To some extent, you missed the days when you were confident in your ability to build empires out of words. Now, you couldn't even build a ten-page paper, especially not by 11:59 pm that night.

To a greater extreme, you couldn't understand why you would want to return to your opinionated ways or your charismatic skills that abused fact until it bent to your will. What purpose did fact or, more importantly, idea have anymore, other than to aid your ability to charm others to abide by your purpose?

It felt wrong to write a definitive philosophical thesis, especially when you couldn't bring yourself to definitively believe in anything particular.

"Y/N," you jumped at the sound of your own name and quickly wiped your cheeks with the back of your sleeves, sitting up straighter and making yourself more presentable before you turned around to face him. Lucas saw it all. He watched you put your mask back on right before his eyes, and he realized that you were hurting in ways that he couldn't see until now.

"Lucas," you cursed your shaky voice. "What's up? Why are you here?"

He takes a few quiet steps until he's standing before you and kneels to look into your eyes. There are things that he wants to say, 'you're scaring me' being the most prominent, but he knows he should choose his words more carefully.

"I want to know what's going on. I want to help." He slips his hands into your own and rests them on your knees.

"I just don't think you can," you answer simply.

"Can you tell me what's the matter?"

You shake your head and the tears come rushing back to your eyes. "I don't know what's the matter." It's honest. You don't know why your head can't wrap around your assignments, or your conversations, or your own thoughts as of late.

All that time spent with yourself taught you how to understand yourself and your own needs. You feel that you have exchanged your understanding of the world around you for a simpler version of life. Did that make you selfish? You didn't know.

All Lucas could do was watch you as you fell back into your frustrations. It didn't take long before your brows were knitted back together, your nose was running, and your eyes had glazed over as you retreated back inside of yourself.

"Y/N," he softly called. Your eyes only met his for a second before they were cast somewhere else and your attention ran away from you once again.

"I think," you started, unsure of every word that slipped past your lips. "I think you should go."

You didn't know how to explain to him that you were afraid of what he might think of you at that moment, or that you didn't want to hurt his feelings any more than you guessed you already had.

"I don't want to go. I'm tired of leaving you alone." He stood, gently pulling you to stand with him, and led you to the edge of your bed with a delicate touch. "You don't have to sleep. You don't have to talk. Just lay here with me for a little while and let me be close to you."

"You know," Lucas started as he tossed the noodles in the pan. He'd tucked you into the couch earlier that evening and told you to forget the paper you'd been stressing over. You happily complied. "I don't know how to say this any better." You listened keenly as you pulled a throw pillow into your lap and wrapped yourself around it. "I know that this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, but I did something very wrong to you. I'm still sorry, and I hope you know that. But..." He cast you a quick glance over his shoulder before reaching for the seasoning in your pantry. "I don't think I ever gave you the chance to yell at me. Or like, to be mad at me - ya' know?"

You thought for a moment, front teeth chewing on your thumbnail before you shook your head softly and answered, "I don't want to yell at you. I don't want to be mad at you."

You heard a repressed sound of discouragement before looking to see him dishing your dinner plates. "I wish you would. I wish you would yell at me and tell me what I did was wrong. I wish you would be angry with me for a little while. I wish you would just tell me something about how you feel about it."

He handed you your plate and watched as you ran back inside of your own head. He watched your eyes glaze over as you replayed his words, and yet you made sense of almost none of them. You didn't understand what he was asking of you.

You toyed with your food as you tried to process his request. You didn't even notice when he took his seat beside you, nor did you notice the burning gaze he watched you with.

"Y/N," he called, shaking you out of your trance. "I want you to yell at me." You looked at him like a deer caught in headlights - big black eyes staring down a deadly light. "How did you feel when it happened? Shout something horrific at me about what was going through your head at the time."

You took a small bite and swallowed, training your eyes on the coffee table before you. "I don't remember."

You looked so small, so helpless, and so distant. You were there, right next to him, and yet you were so far away. He was having trouble finding you.

"Yell. Break something. For fuck's sake, please."

The more pressure he applied, the further you seemed to slip away. Before he knew it, you were gone.

"That's not her anymore." He found himself on Mark's bed once again, tucked into the younger boy's covers and pouring out his heart. "She's not all there. She just looks so empty now."

"Dude, I don't know why you come to me for this sort of thing. It's not like I'm just great with girls," the younger quips from his desk chair. "And Johnny would know more about her than I would-"

"No. He absolutely cannot know that I broke his sister."

Mark hummed in thought for a moment before he laid his pen down in his textbook and turned his full body to his friend. "Lucas, be honest with me about something." Lucas nodded. "Did you see anyone else while she was in France?"

Lucas shook his head as he took in his friend's words carefully. He had no right to be mad at the accusation, so he kept his temper in check until a particularly vile thought trotted across his mind. He sat up immediately. "Oh God, do you think that she did? Do you think she considered it a break and she slept with someone else?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying- hey- Lucas, stop." Lucas was already to his feet and out the door before he could finish. "So not my fault," he grumbled to himself.

Finally, it all made sense to him. You couldn't be mad at him if you were also guilty. You couldn't yell at him for committing a sin you'd also committed. He was going to redress the scale. He was going to make you the word again. He was going to be the action.

The solid thuds against your wooden door made you jump up from your floor. Adrenaline spread through your fingertips and you took a step back towards your bedroom.

"We need to talk."

Lucas sounded angry. You pushed and pulled with your memory, but found no trace of experiencing this feeling before: fear of him. You moved against your gut to let him in. You barely opened the door before he pushed his way inside, rattling off accusation after accusation.

"Did you think we were on a break? Because we weren't on a break."

You just listened.

"Did you just forget about me while you were there? Did you just ignore the fact that I was waiting for you? I was stuck here, waiting for you every day while you were in France."

You didn't speak.

"So you just got to do whatever you wanted while I had to sulk here? You just couldn't control yourself, huh? Do you know how hard it was to keep control of myself while you were gone?"

'It was hard?' you thought.

"How about we take another break then? How about this time, I get to sleep with whoever I want? Well? Aren't you even going to open your mouth to defend yourself?"

You didn't.

"Am I wrong?" He prompted. "I didn't think so. Now we're on a break. Now you can fuck around with whoever you want."

Shocked couldn't begin to describe the state he left you in. You stood there, clambering for answers as to what could have sent him on a warpath to your apartment in the first place. His seemingly unprompted fit of jealous rage couldn't really have been sparked without a cause, you figured.

Maybe he'd seen pictures of you with your male friends in France. Maybe a rumor had been spread about you. Maybe he was just tired of you and feeding himself a rotten narrative as an excuse to break up with you.

You didn't want to know. You opted to rather accept his decision, and all of your own emotions that came flooding back with it.

"Hey man, have you talked to Y/N lately? She took one of my classes last year, and I wanted to see if I could get her notes before semester tests." Haechan asks his elder who lay sprawled on the couch.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p.'

"What?" Haechan asked, looking up from his phone. "What do you mean you haven't talked to her?"

Lucas lazily yawned and reached for his soda can beside him. "It's not like she's my girlfriend or something. I'm not her keeper."

"Shit, Lucas, you didn't," Mark groaned, rubbing his temple.

"No, you were right. She was sleeping with other guys while she was in France. She didn't even try to deny it."

"Hang on, I never said that. You conjured that one up all on your own, buddy."

Haechan frowned as his frat members debated. He was focused on a much bigger issue at large.

"When did you break up with her?" he asks cautiously.

"Hey, we're just on a break. Don't go getting any ideas-"

"Jesus fuck, can your ego get any bigger?" Lucas crossed his arms and refocused his attention on the television, jaw clenched tightly. "You're so annoying," Haechan mumbled under his breath, already moving towards the door and shooting your brother a message telling him to meet in front of your apartment.

"Damn, you got called annoying by Haechan. How does that feel?"

"Can it, Lee."

You could feel it all, the swarm of emotions swirling and twirling around inside your chest, and yet you couldn't begin to name any of them. All you knew was that it hurt and you wanted it to stop.

You laid in your bed and watched your ceiling fondly. You liked how it didn't move. You didn't struggle to keep up with it. And it was dependable; it would always be there.

You didn't move when the knock at your front door finally registered in your ears; you were tired of playing doorman in your own residence.

You were just tired actually.

"Y/N," Johnny called, lightly pushing open the door to your bedroom. A strong sense of deja vu winded you. You knew this scene, you'd lived it before. "It's me and Haechan. I'm sorry we didn't call first." You didn't know how they managed to get inside, nor did you care. You just wanted to sleep.

Johnny took a seat next to you on the side of your bed. He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes in an attempt to capture your attention. That's when the smell hit you. The heavy stench of cigarettes washed over all of your senses causing you to retract from his touch. He looked shaken at first, scared that he might have hurt you.

"You didn’t smoke before," you recalled. It was almost a feat in and of itself to remember the bitter past, but the small victory was stifled by the thick, wet air of the bitter present.

His eyes softened before he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack he'd bought just a few days before. "I started a few months ago while you were away. I knew you wouldn't be happy about it."

"I don't care," you answered promptly before slowly pulling yourself to sit up against your headboard.

Haechan watched from the doorway. He wondered if he'd ever seen someone in this state before, or if he ever would again. He looked at you and almost failed to see the human being in front of him. He watched you move like a frightened animal, stiff and weary. He watched your untrained gaze flicker between your brother and your brother's outstretched hand.

This couldn't have just been the work of Lucas, he concluded. There were more deeply rooted implications here. There was an unresolved issue before your idiot boyfriend played to his own role.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I don't know," you answered honestly.

Johnny looked to Haechan for support, but the younger could offer only his presence in this situation.

"That's okay," your brother soothed. "Haechan," he turned to your mutual friend, "can you call Ten and Yuta and see if they've, uh, noticed anything weird lately about..." He gestured to you. Haechan excused himself to place the calls. "Food? Food always helps, right?" he tried with a dry chuckle. You paid absolutely no mind to him.

"I can't take this," Ten muttered to himself, excusing himself from your bedroom. Five boys had soon found themselves huddled in your doorway, watching your every move intently as you resisted every attempt your brother made to move you.

You felt like a lab rat, being looked at from all angles as Johnny poked and prodded to see what would make you tick. It felt humiliating.

"Let's just go for a drive," he tried again, gently pulling your arms away from your chest and trying to guide you out of bed.

"No," you answered again, pulling yourself away from him and settling further back into your bed.

"Maybe we should just let her be for tonight," Jaehyun suggested, moving to stand beside your brother whose head was fallen in defeat.

"I can't just leave her like this, Jae. I still don't understand what's going on."

"Just give her some space," Jaehyun tried again. "This clearly isn't very effective."

Johnny sighed but ended up in compliance as everyone except for Jungwoo moved to your living room. They quietly deliberated as Jungwoo read allowed one of your favorite novels from the end of your bed, hoping against all hope that it would in some way bring you back from the void in which your mind seemed to currently reside.

"Honestly, we had planned to just come and cheer her up," Haechan had said. "We didn't know we'd find her like this. But I can't say it really surprised me, she's been off for months now."

"I thought something seemed weird. She hasn't said much to me in a while."

"Me either."

"Yeah, same."

Everyone generally agreed with Ten's statement.

"Do you guys think something happened in France?" Jaehyun suggests.

"Or maybe things haven't been going so well between her and Lucas for a while?" Yuta offers.

"Everything just feels like it's spinning," you said, cutting off Jungwoo's reading of Mary Shelley's finest work. He was just happy to have heard you say anything at all. "Everything is going so fast around me. I just wanna take a nap, sleep for a while." As you relayed your simple disposition, you found yourself moving to lay on your side, plenty warm but unwilling to relinquish your comforter. "I don't feel like I belong here, so I'm going to sleep instead."

Jungwoo set the book to the side and laid himself down at the end of your bed. "I don't feel like I belong here sometimes either," he relates.

"But you do," you say, looking over his features and seeing every sharp and jagged curve for the first time.

"You do too," he promises.

Hours of hushed worries bled into the night, and you awoke alone in your apartment in the morning. You had no initial intention of getting out of bed. It was the hardcover copy of Frankenstein standing upright on your bedside table that stirred your aching joints into motion.

Then you remembered.

How could you ever even forget?

The Han River smiled when you arrived, taking a seat on his bank. He asked you why you'd been such an unfamiliar face as of late, to which you had no reply. He thanked you for coming to visit him nonetheless and told you about how much Seoul had missed you while you were away. He told you about the alley cats and how they missed the treats you would occasionally leave for them on your way to classes. He told you about how much the sky cried about you spending spring away. He told you that the city lights drowned out the stars while you were gone, but let them peak back into the city when you returned.

You had no beating heart to pour out into his water, so instead, you gave him your soul. The Han understood and sat with you until you bore no more faults on which to complain. He told you he missed you. You told him that you missed him too. You told him about the Garonne and how much you thought he would like her. Then he sent you off into the afternoon bustle of the city with a watchful eye.

You wondered the streets for a while. Not a penny in your pocket, and still you found so many little joys in all the cracks and crevices of Seoul. You pet the stray cats; they'd always been particularly fond of you. You walked around an antique shop making wild guesses about the past lives of every item in sight. You climbed a tree in the park without a damn to spare the onlookers. By sunset, your feet had taken you back to your campus and directly to the front door of your apartment.

"How about some tea?" you ask yourself as you push the door open, not half expecting to be ambushed by a group of concerned young men demanding to know where you were.

"Would you all like some tea too?"

It was still a struggle to hear your voice most of the time, but visible relief settled over those who'd seen you cowering from your brother in your bedroom only days prior. They all continued to check in on you frequently, as they still had difficulties coaxing you away from your apartment.

"Lucas," Johnny had finally caught him lurking in the kitchen around midnight. He was beginning to grow irritable with how troublesome he had become to locate.

Lucas froze, cup ramen clasped in one hand with chopsticks in the other. Busted like a child with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Look, I'm sorry about your sister," he started without really knowing where he was going. "I know that I kinda jumped the gun-"

"I don't want to fight with you again," the elder said. He had kept his calm since the situation had arisen. The last time you and your boyfriend had a falling out, all hell broke loose in their dorms. He had landed a good solid punch on the more-than-deserving idiot and held the belief that he probably deserved a few more. However, he'd rather not have everyone in a frenzy once more, turning against one another. "I just need you to tell me what was going on before you left."

Lucas's shoulders slump and he sets his late-night meal on the countertop. "I was just so frustrated. She always let me into her head before - but when she came back, she just stopped talking to me. She shut me out," he relayed. "I tried everything I could think of. I tried to make her really happy, I tried to make her really mad. She wouldn't talk to me."

"She won't talk to me either," Johnny said, resting a reassuring hand on Lucas's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he responds, taking some measure of the blame upon himself. He felt that maybe if he'd had more patience with you, he could have helped you to get better. Now you were detaching yourself from not only him but your other friends and family as well. "Do you think she would want to see me?"

Your brother shrugged but a small smirk played on his lips. "I dunno. Maybe you should go find out tomorrow."

Needless to say, Lucas felt displaced and burdened by heavy guilt as he stood in your doorway, looking down on your fragile body. The last time he came knocking on your door in the most awful hours of the morning, he begged and cried on his knees for you not to leave him. He felt himself resist the urge to fall to the ground and repeat his mantra of pleas.

You didn't ask him why he was there so early in the morning, nor did you ask him if he wanted to come in. Your stare made his skin feel cold. He cleared his throat to dispel some of the awkward tension that he felt clawing at his airways.

"Can I come in?" Without a word, you moved to the side. "Thank you. Were you asleep?"

"No," you say simply, trailing behind him as he steps into your kitchen.

He lets out a low chuckle as he glances around the room. It looked so surprisingly unhomely and clean. Not a single dish in the sink, nor a potted plant out of place. "I keep messing up pretty badly, don't I?"

He hated the empty way you looked at him. It was as if you didn't know him. It was as if you had just let a complete stranger into your apartment.

"I don't understand, and I'm really trying to. I know that you know that things have changed since you got back. I don't know what that means yet, but I do know that I still love you. And that I'm stupid. I know that too."

You hummed along, a thoughtful expression overtaking your blank features.

"And I know that I’m sorry. I let a stupid idea get into my head and I let it hurt my own feelings. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. Please don't leave me."

You didn't offer an answer, instead opening your arms and inviting him back into your embrace. He placed a small kiss on your lips, something he felt like he hadn't done in ages, and wrapped himself around you in an effort to keep you by his side forever.

"Are you happy here in Seoul?" your boyfriend asked, picking at the grass in front of his crossed legs. He looked at you as you looked down at the water. "I mean, I know you don't want to go back to (country), and I have a feeling that you don't exactly want to go live with my family in China. But like, would you rather be in Bordeaux? Or would you rather stay here?"

"I don't know." He hummed and waited for you to elaborate, but you made no real effort to.

"I know that we're still young and we don't have to make any decisions about where we want to live yet," he cooed, looking up to watch the sun set behind the large city towers, "but would you stay here in Seoul with me for a little while?"

You nodded, reaching over to take his hand in your own before pulling him to lay in the grass with you.

"You know, you're not the same person that you were before you left. I've realized that," he said with a sad smile as he looked over at you and placed a small kiss on your chin, pulling a small giggle from your lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I can't wait to get to know you again."

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sadoeuphemist · 4 years

Text

Human-Sized Hole

“This is a communal hole!” he said. “Come on in! It was made for everyone!”

I stood at the entrance of the hole, squinting into the darkness at the faint silhouette that raised a hand and beckoned me to follow. It was a guy’s voice, relatively young by the sound of it, but I could make out nothing more of him than that. There might have been more people even further down, echoes that sounded distantly like laughter, but at this distance it was impossible to be sure. The hole itself simply went on and on without end, a rectangle of the deepest and most unadulterated black.

“Hey, where does this even go?” I called out to him, and I heard him laugh and I thought I could see the silhouette shrug, the edges of its outline shimmering in a bobbing motion as it grew smaller and smaller and disappeared into the darkness entirely.

I hesitated, thinking about that one Junji Ito comic, and then I followed him in.

Of course, this was nothing like that. The Enigma of Amigara Fault, that was the title. With the holes in the cliffside shaped like people cut-outs, and everyone compelled to find their matching hole and climb in, wriggling their way ever deeper into the all-embracing earth.

No, this was a hole carved into a mountain, human-sized just like in the manga, but that was the extent of it. It was just a normal rectangular hole, probably some industrial use, like maybe a side shaft or something leading into a mine. I’d passed it hundreds of times without ever thinking anything of it. It was just that this was the first time I’d ever seen anyone going into it, and that had been enough for me to pull over for a minute and check it out.

Inside, it was spacious, very roomy, more of a long corridor really, the ceiling a good several feet above my head. The floor was smooth beneath my feet, almost polished, no stray rocks or loose dirt. I remembered what the guy had said, and the words ‘wheelchair accessible’ popped into my head. It got dark quickly the deeper I went in, dark enough that soon I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face, but there was nothing to bump into, no uneven ground, no twists in the path. All you needed to do was keep walking straight ahead, and if you veered off to one side or the other you’d eventually brush against the wall and be able to reorient yourself, or you could just walk with one hand touching a wall at all times, which is what I did eventually. There were no obstacles here. I could turn back any time I wanted.

“Hello?” I called down into the hole, my voice echoing, and from far ahead I could hear maybe the indistinct murmurs of people. It wasn’t quiet, I realized. There was a sort of background hum, like at an airport or something, no one talking to each other at the moment but everyone on their way to someplace else. That was comforting to me. I liked that.

In the darkness I thought I could feel a slight incline to the floor, the sense that we were descending, and I could stretch my hand up and not touch the ceiling and I wondered why I’d ever thought of the hole as ‘human-sized’ to begin with. It was a doorway, that was all it was. Was a doorway a ‘human-sized’ hole? Weren’t they supposed to be bigger than that, to allow for accommodation, for example bringing furniture in and out? But of course, thinking again of wheelchair users, there were also humans who were unusually tall, seven feet, eight feet, nine feet tall, or however tall the tallest person in the world had been, and of course a human-sized hole would have to accommodate them too. How far would they have been able to travel down this passage having to stoop the whole time, having to force themselves to fit? So of course it had to be much larger than me, to take them into account.

I had a thought. Experimentally, I stopped moving, stood firmly in place with my left hand extended for my fingertips to brush against the wall, and I waited. Yes, there it was, the subtle friction between my fingertips and the wall. The floor was inclined and marble-smooth. Even without walking, I was moving gradually downwards.

So even mobility was not necessary. I was thinking in extremes now, of people so morbidly obese that they were confined to their beds or sofas, incapable of carrying themselves under the stress of their own weight. The walls were certainly spaced wide enough. They would not have to exert themselves. Even people incapable of getting around under their own power, all they would need to do was make it past the threshold, and then gravity would do the rest. I bent down and touched my fingertips to the floor. Was it that smooth? I had not felt in any danger of slipping while I walked. Or was the floor like a conveyor belt, carrying me forward imperceptibly? I felt a light vertigo, a seasickness. The sensation of drifting free in space. I was on solid ground. Or was I?

In the darkness, I might have been one of many, a ceaseless crowd of people politely flowing around me, each on their way to work or school or wherever. I wanted to call out, and at the same time felt certain that it would be impolite. We were all just trying to get through this passage, get through our day, and no one particularly wanted to interact with a stranger. In my mind I had populated this hole with all the extremes of humanity, in height and breadth and dimension, accepted how big this hole needed to be for us all to fit. This was a human-sized hole, truly, larger than me, empty as far as I could extend my hands, but I had the sudden premonition that we would all end up here eventually. All the people in the world gradually finding their place in this perfectly accommodating human-sized hole. Deeper down the passage no doubt were all the people who had come down this way before, hallways and corridors full of them, growing more and more populated until people were shuffling heel to toe, brushing gently against each other and yet ferried gently deeper still, all the way down until the end.

I felt the first sensation like panic. I felt that if I turned around, I would see only a mass of silhouettes blocking off the entrance to the hole, a long line formed behind me, and then there would be no way back; I would be obligated to once more turn towards the darkness and continue down the path.

But there was no one there. The hole, though distant, was a rectangle of light calling to me.

I ran. I did not slip or fall. I just ran, hearing my footsteps slap against the stone, hearing my own breath heaving in my chest, until I was outside again, my back pressed against the side of the mountain as I looked up at the sky and the sun. The hole, when I backed away to look at it, was still deep and dark and rectangular and perfectly patient, nothing ominous or compelling about it at all. It was just a doorway in the side of a mountain. A way in.

I got back in my car and started driving.

I checked my dashboard clock. I had somehow been in the hole for almost three-quarters of an hour, and now I was definitely going to miss my first class. I could make up for that though; it was the trig exam in the afternoon that I definitely couldn’t miss. But as I pressed down on the gas I couldn’t help the building panic, the maybe-irrational fear that now my whole schedule had been thrown out of whack. I was disoriented. After the dark of the hole the sun seemed too bright, the world too full of distracting objects. I’d planned to get in a last minute cram session before the exam, and to print out my history paper in the library after finishing off the last few pages, but now it felt like I had knocked over all the dominoes prematurely and I could no longer rearrange them in a sequence that made sense, and on an impulse I made my exit one turnoff too early, just veered right and let the chips fall where they may.

I no longer knew where I was going. I’d never been this way before, but I knew that all the roads and all the highways would all connect together eventually, that everywhere led to everywhere else. I drove for quite a while. There weren’t very many cars on the road at this time of day, and for stretches of time it would be as if I was gliding effortlessly along a wide black stretch of asphalt, the sky open and spacious above me, just a human-sized hole stretching far as the eye could see.

#fiction #repost #junji ito

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the-river-person · 3 years

Text

Confidential Medical File

Patient Name: Sans Admission Date: 21st RESET, Year 2 of New Era. Doctor: Whimsol M.D., D.O. Recording Transcripts from Psychodynamic Therapy Session 8: Doctor Whimsol: You mentioned that you’ve been depressed and somewhat inactive because of it for some time. Sans: Yeah, Papyrus says I used to be more active. But..uh. The whole endless Reset thing kinda made that pointless. Doctor Whimsol: But you’re starting to be more active now? Sans: Its easier than sitting and thinking about everything. And if I’m going fast people don’t have time to treat me like glass or avoid me, I’m just in and out. They gotta get used to me. Doctor Whimsol: You want their company? Even if you don’t like the way they treat you? Sans: They don’t mean any harm, really. All they’re trying to do is show the Judge the proper respect. But... Doctor Whimsol: You don’t want to be the Judge? Sans: I never did want it. But a thing like that? You can’t really say no. Its a great honor to be asked at all. I guess I just wish it hadn’t been my responsibility. That I didn’t have to make a decision about whether or not to ask for help. I either risk everyone’s ignorance by telling them about all the murder and Resets, or just keep dealing with it myself, forever if I have to. And I could do it, I could be the one who judges and fights. If it meant keeping everyone happy despite what was going on, I could do it forever. But... I just... wanted to be normal. I wanted to be me. Doctor Whimsol: But you are you. You’re Sans the Skeleton. Sans: I don’t feel like a Sans. I feel more like a Walbaum or a Scala. Doctor Whimsol: Ah, Fonts. I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the Skeleton Clan’s naming conventions. Can you explain what you mean? Sans: They’re used for newspapers. Big precise lines and practical attitudes. Modern and structured, but they have something of the old days about them too. Sometimes Scala can get a little fancy with the opening letter, I had a great Uncle, don’t remember him much now, but he used to be great at introductions. Got everyone’s attention and sounded really interesting and important. But after that he didn’t waste time and did everything the “right” way even if it was boring. Doctor Whimsol: I see. And Comic Sans? Sans: Supposed to be informal, friendly. A sort of jokey font for relaxed things. Good with kids, good for comics. Heh, I guess that’s why its called “Comic Sans”. Doctor Whimsol: You did mention in a previous session that you were having a harder time making puns. I didn’t realize it was such an important part of how you see yourself. Sans: It’s like all my life I had this knack for seeing all the little things in people’s words that made them unintentionally funny. With just a short quip I could make them see it too, make them laugh. Sometimes I’d prank or troll people, not in a mean way, just to catch ‘em off guard. My brother and I had this thing for doing jokes back and forth all the time. Doctor Whimsol: Really? I thought Papyrus hated your puns. You said he complained loudly every time you made one. Sans: Nah. Its because I purposely made bad jokes to annoy him. The same ones. All the time. For nearly a year. I had some original stuff too, but it was funnier to see him overreacting. He still jokes and puns more than even I do, but people assume its unintentional for some reason, he just likes to be high quality in everything he does. Its his charm. Doctor Whimsol: Overreacting? You don’t think he minds that much? Sans: He finds it a bit annoying, but that’s what older brothers are for. Mostly he’s just overreacting cause that makes it all so much funnier somehow. He does say that I could be less obvious about it though. Doctor Whimsol: And now you feel like you’re losing your sense of humor? That could be a sign of high anxiety or depression. Sans: No, I’m not losing my sense of humor. Exactly. When I hear the jokes or puns its still hilarious to me. But its like I’m losing my ability to come up with them, at least on the spot. Doctor Whimsol: That’s actually not that surprising. Sans: Really? Doctor Whimsol: From all you’ve told me, you and your brother moved to Snowdin the year before the Resets began. Though an adult, you’d just lost your parents to a tragedy at the edge of the Hotlands. Sans: *mumbling* the conveyor belt. Dad got his hand caught in the conveyor belt and mum was trying to help him get out. But the steam vents are on an automatic timer and they... didn’t make it. Doctor Whimsol: So it was just you and your brother. You left your job at the Hotland Labs. Especially since your old employer, ...Gaster! Your old employer, Doctor Gaster hadn’t recovered from his injuries in a few decades, and your coworker had been his replacement. Right? Sans:.... I... Yeah. Sure. Doctor Whimsol: And you just wanted to get away, so you moved out here where nobody knew you. Where you could “Just be you” again for a while. Sans: That didn’t last long. The King called on me, as the Judge. Doctor Whimsol: Before the Reset incident? Sans: He wanted me to judge his sins, to tell him to his face what he really was for caving to the pressure and for going through with his plan. So I did. Doctor Whimsol: That can’t have been easy on top of everything else. And then the human came and the Resets started. You said that it took a long time before you started remembering them, but when you did it was like waking up to a nightmare. Is that right? Sans: Yeah. Is this going anywhere? Or...? Doctor Whimsol: You were trapped in the same few weeks. Making the same jokes and doing the same puns. Not only had you lost your parents but you lost everyone else too multiple times only to have them spring back to life. The physical consequences gone, but not the trauma. In the end you got used to it, just going through the same patterns like a script. Why would you even need new jokes? Nobody would remember them, and you had already fallen into the pattern of repeating bad jokes as a way to cope and interact with your brother. Sans: But when everyone started to remember I could still do some new stuff, and I had the occasional prank that no one had seen during all the Reset stuff. Doctor Whimsol: It would be impossible to go that long without ever thinking up something new. But I doubt you ever really had to come up with anything on the spot. It’s possible that you had somewhat of a backup of interpersonal and general knowledge enough to build some quick ones on the spot. But when that backup ran dry... Sans: I had no more material. No more instant jokes. Doctor Whimsol: When nothing changes for a long time, you start to exhaust the creative material you have. Plus you were using it as a coping mechanism, so its not surprising you burned yourself out. Sans: I guess its only jokes, its not a big deal. Doctor Whimsol: It is if its that big a part of how you see yourself. But you said you don’t really see yourself as Sans anymore. Do you like the Fonts you see in yourself? Sans: I guess I don’t mind being a bit more serious, but I dunno about being all precise and perfect all the time, you know? A little fancy, sure, that might even be fun. But I don’t want to be important. I don’t want to be headline news. Doctor Whimsol: You don’t have to be, if you don’t want to. The person who gets to decide what kind of person you are is you. Think about what it is you want to be. It doesn’t have to be Sans, or Scala, or Walbaum. It can be someone new, someone you feel comfortable being. Sans: I dunno. Doctor Whimsol: Take your time. There’s really no need to answer right away. I’ll check in again at our next session and see if anything has come to mind, but there’s no rush. Just focus on relaxing. Don’t be afraid to lean on your brother or your friends if you’re not feeling up to it. Trying to go it alone can be exhausting. Sans: Right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks Doc. Doctor Whimsol: I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today. But I think we made some progress. At least we helped to clear up a few things. I do want the chance to discuss the memory problems you’ve been mentioning, though. Next time. *End of recording* Notes: I feel that Sans has undergone a great deal of trauma. Despite appearances he is a very strong individual, especially to have held on this long without a breakdown. Most other monsters or humans would have begun to fall apart long before this. But even the strongest people can’t hold out forever. I wish he’d be more open with his brother and friends about his problems. I am sure it would be of great help. Another concern. While most everybody has that sensation of an invisible aura of rainbow color from the Solution, and most of us have grown so used to it that we forget that it’s there, Sans doesn’t seem to have it. I might not have noticed a year ago. I didn’t notice when I saw the trial on screen, and because we don’t have a means to keep the recordings past Resets I don’t have a way to go back and check. But at the time he seemed vibrant enough, the colorful Sans I’d heard about and seen. Serious for the role of Judge, yes. But was he ever as vibrant as everyone else has become? And what is this strange grey palour that seems to fall about him. When I look close there are nothing wrong with his colors. It’s more like he feels grey, like those with an aura feel colorful. It worries me. I want to check his medical records and see if there was anything strange about the Solution dose when he got it.

#sans the skeleton #undertale #undertale au #aeontale #the great papyrus #sans and papyrus #whimsun #whimsalot #whimsol #undertale therapy #patient file #fonts #comic sans

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starkergames · 4 years

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Title: New Years Artists: @lilsoshie (Sketch), @iammagicfishhook (Lineart), @marveling-marvelous (Color) Writer: @darker-soft-starker The years will change and people will change as much as they stay the same. Some changes though, Tony finds, he really doesn’t mind.

Fic below the cut

Some things never change.

Like, being riddled with nerves whilst attending big events.

Or, the little ticks he’s adopted to mitigate the uneasiness, like bouncing his leg up and down, firing off questions to anyone in earshot like, do you think they’ll have sushi at this thing, I have a craving.

Or Pepper singing along to whatever is playing on the car ride over, and Morgan answering his inane questions with things like, ew, sushi.

Some things do change, though.

Like, coming back to life after five years of being dead.

Or being delegated to the backseat next to his daughter, despite the honourable resurrection. Or having his wife remarry in the years following his death.

You know, typical resurrection things, like realizing that the entire world and everyone you knew has changed.

Tony’s got a thing about control. Always has. He likes to know, has to know, all of the variables. He thought he knew all of them before he snapped his fingers and prayed to the stones in his gauntlet.

Here’s the thing about infinity stones: they’re sentient. They like balance.

They’re also assholes with a perverted sense of symmetry.

Somehow, perfect balance and perfect symmetry translated into bringing Tony back to life after five years. Or, being suspended in the ether that was neither life, nor death, the holding cell between worlds.

That was the airy-fairy, hand-wavey way that Strange explained to him. Sparkles and mystery. But Tony doesn’t remember any of it. The not being alive. One moment his heart was giving out, the next he was clawing himself out of the earth.

That was pleasant.

Emerging dirty and naked to find he’d missed five years of his life was also a barrel of laughs. Missing five years of his daughters growth, finding out his wife had moved on? Hilarious. Best cosmic joke to have happened to him yet.

Though, Tony supposes this is how the recovered Snap victims felt, after. Chasing and chasing the years that were missed, feeling as if they will never be completely caught up.

But that was months ago, his resurrection. Reawakening. Whatever. Seven months and three and a half weeks, if he’s counting. He’d say he isn’t, but he definitely is.

He’d used the time mostly caught up on the life of his friends and family, shed his tears. He’s lamented Steve, grieved over Natasha all over again. Wondered why the divine equilibrium didn’t include her sacrifice.

But he’s learned to be okay. He’s living back at the re-built compound with Clint and Wanda and the old-new crowd of super-people that populate the place he used to call home.

He doesn’t don the suit, hasn’t since he came back, worried that the moment he activates the housing unit that it will all be over, and Morgan will lose her father for the second time.

He’s a consultant, now, for the new team. Financier. Benefactor. It’s very boring.

“You sure you want to go to this thing,” Tony says again, stretching his legs so his knees hit the driver's seat in front of him, where Peppers’ new husband sits. “You don’t want a quiet one at home? Ring in New Years with the llamas?”

“Morgan wants to go,” Pepper repeats, peering back to smile at her daughter. “Right, sweetpea?”

Beside Tony, Morgan looks up from her hand-held video game and nods vehemently, smiling brightly. Tony feels betrayed by her enthusiasm.

“Are they paying you to say that?” he leans in, whispering close to her ear. “You can tell me Morgasboard, name your price. I’ll beat it.”

His daughter flicks her gaze between her mother and Tony. She leans into her father and whispers loud enough for the entire car to hear, “Uncle Peter is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Tony sighs exaggeratedly, nodding along, even though he knows she saw him two weeks ago.

“Forever is a long time,” he agrees.

That was another change that Tony feels weird and wonderful about.

Somehow, in the time that he was six-feet-under, his former protege had become something akin to family to his daughter. Which, if he’s honest, in the years after the Snap, was the goal, the dream as he skipped through time with the Avengers, the proverbial what if that drove him to say yes that one, final time.

Happy families, he’d thought. What else could two wayward orphans hope for?

Tony’s at least glad that Peter got that part of the deal. That Morgan got Peter.

Even if Tony didn’t really have either, after.

“Uncle Peter could go back to the compound or the penthouse with us,” Tony offers, nudging his daughter. “You could ask DUM-E to be your new years kiss.”

“You have a speech scheduled, right, babe?” Peppers husband, Greg, cuts in. He was hired as CFO of SI three years ago and it was heart eyes at first sight, Tony is told. He watches as Greg frees one of his grubby hands from the steering wheel to reach across the console and squeeze her knee.

“Sure do,” Pepper smiles, snaking her hand down to clutch his, squeezing their fingers together.

Tony’s not jealous. No, really. He’s adjusted, he’s over it.

But he’s still Tony Stark, so he’s unapologetically petulant. And it’s Pepper, what kind of ex would he be if he didn’t properly field the prospects of the one woman he truly loved?

Feigning a stretch, he kicks his feet out again and jolts the driver's seat, delight welling up when Greg huffs irritatedly. Morgan giggles as if it’s some kind of game, and all the adults pretend that it is to please her.

The unimpressed stare from his ex-wife caught through the rear-view mirror does little to dampen his satisfaction.

It’s the little wins, Tony thinks, as they pull up to the building, paparazzi huddling around the rope barriers that flank the red carpet, flashes firing through the tinted windows as they come to a stop.

Just because some things change, doesn’t mean he has to.

It’s that mentality that gets him through the dreaded, interminable walk from the car to the ballroom entrance. This is old hat, he tells himself as he waves to the crowd. You could do this with your eyes closed. God, he used to be so good at pretending to care about this kind of crap.

Reporters brandish their network-issued microphones at him, at his family. Fans shoulder against security, all of them yelling out in a cacophony of noise he might call white were it not the sound of his own name, in all of its iterations.

Although he’d rather make a beeline straight to the ballroom he stops and greets a few fans, shakes a few hands, high-fives a few kids. After a slew of signings and selfies the comparatively calm interior of the ballroom is blissfully welcomed. The quartet supplying tunes in the far corner is a reprieve.

So is the way that Pepper clutches Greg’s hand and leads him away at the same time Morgan clutches Tony’s. She looks back and says, be good. Tony doesn’t know if she’s directing it to him or their daughter.

Socialites swan around them, but Tony just looks down at his daughter and smiles. He squeezes her tiny fingers.

“You wanna dance, Morgarita?”

Her serious expression turns gleeful as she drags him to the centre of the room to dance without a shred of shyness.

She’s a lot like she was before he died. Smart and mischievous, cute as a button. But she’s markedly different, caught in that pre-teen phase where she’s gaining modicums of independence. Tony’s getting used to not needing to make all her meals or do her hair for her. He kinda misses it.

Little things. It’s always the little things.

She’s taller now, too. That was a change, to have his daughters head rest against his chest when she hugs him. She’s too tall to be picked up, too proud when Tony offers. So she wraps her arms around his midsection and they sway together on the dancefloor.

Only a few couples are dancing. The night is still young. But, like anything in high society, it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Which means most guests are mingling, telling each other how beautiful and fabulous they are, filling the room with so much re-circulated pomp and hot air the room is practically a hotbox.

Of course it’s a business event as much as it is a philanthropic one, so not even Tony can avoid the inevitable schmoozing that comes along with it. When Morgans tired feet demand a break they seek out seats and snacks - and they too, are sought out.

To his ire, associates come and go like a conveyor belt to shake his hand, politicians and socialites thank him for reversing the Snap, the Blip, the Click, the Dusting, all of the stupid names and his daughter is sitting right there, growing more and more morose at each mention of the worst thing that ever happened to her.

So Tony looks down at his daughter, mid conversation with a senator and says, “Hey, sweet child of mine, wanna go to the dessert table?”

She perks up at that and is off like a rocket to the other side of the room where swathes of mouth-watering sweets are spread over an eighteen foot table.

Tony follows her beeline without saying goodbye to the senator, mentally rubbing his hands together at the grub. He’s sure he will pay for directing his daughter to a trove of sugar and hyperactivity. But desperate times.

Who is he kidding. He’s going to need all the sweet stimulation he can possibly consume to get through this shit-show himself.

When he catches up Morgan already has chocolate smeared on her lips. Fancy desserts perch daintily upon gold lined plates, on tiered stands. Thin streams of velvety, liquid chocolate trickle out of apex fountains, flakes of edible gold cover the setting.

She points excitedly with messy fingers to the ones she wants Tony to try. He should resist, right? He’s really isn’t supposed to eat dairy. That, along with his faulty levels of serotonin, was something the all powerful stones failed to fix. Which was really just plain lazy, if you ask him.

But he spies a flamboyant looking fruit-pastry and thinks, fuck it.

Then he sees a yellow-treat that makes his mouth water and thinks, I can work it off tomorrow.

He reaches over and crams an entire portugese egg tart in his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. Morgan laughs, tipping her neck back in unbridled delight.

“Do it again!” she says, bouncing on her feet.

He does. And then again, and again.

Which is how Peter Parker finds him no more than ten minutes later.

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony nearly chokes in his haste to chew and swallow the pastry when Peter swans into view, dressed to the nines and grinning a mile wide. He hears Morgan gasp delightedly beside him, running off to catch up with the younger man while Tony tries not to quietly asphyxiate.

Swallowing roughly, Tony gives him a thumbs up.

Several feet away, Morgan throws her gangly arms around Peter. She buries her head into his chest, just like she does with Tony, brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she embraces him tightly. Peter settles his arms around her neck and leans down to kiss the crown of her head, whispering something to hear that Tony can’t hear.

There’s a weird pang somewhere behind his ribs at the sight.

He swipes his half-empty flute of champagne and downs the remainder in one gulp to cover it.

“Mr. Parker,” Tony greets, rocking on his feet when his daughter and former protege walk back to him hand-in-hand. “Didn’t know you owned a suit in your size.”

The younger man holds his free arm out, twisting it to test the fit. It’s a grey suit with a maroon dress-shirt, tailored to perfection. It looks new.

Peter smiles. The action has creases forming at the corners of his eyes; a small, subtle nod to the years Tony missed. Gone is all of his baby fat, his face angular and defined. He holds himself with more self-assuredness, even now.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, but Peter grew up handsome.

Worse, he grew up to be Tony’s type.

“Oh, this? I didn’t pick it - but it’s nice, right?”

“Yeah. You, uh,” Tony swallows roughly, eyeing the man from head to toe. “You look good. You clean up well, kid.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly at the compliment.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark. You - you too. You look... good. Really good.”

Peter meets his gaze, his cheeks a furious shade of pink.

The motion of the room slows as he watches the sparkle reach Peter’s eyes. Everything in his peripherals becomes dull, unfocused. His own heartbeat jackrabbits against his chest and his sure his face is doing something without his permission.

Tony’s throat clicks when he swallows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, stepping closer.

Now, Tony thinks, staring at Peter’s face, the earnest smile still tugging at his lips. Now is the time he would say something to curdle the mood.

Peter being a full-fledged, rent-paying adult adult is new. Being on an even footing with Tony as a person and a professional is new. There’s so much new about him that Tony still has to learn.

There’s plenty that has stayed the same. His soft-spoken, courteous nature, his ethics.

But Tony can read the unfamiliar in Peter’s posture as much as he does the carefully curated vocabulary, how he stops himself from stammering into subjects he might have stepped into, before. The barely-there lines of age around his eyes, the confident squaring of his shoulders.

And how Tony finds that his imperfect teeth compliment the ever-wayward hairs of his eyebrows - and how all of it, all of Peter, is now somehow charming, rather than awkward.

“How have you been, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling forward

“Good,” Tony says, lips stretching onto the first genuine smile of the night. He’d try to tug those corners down, were it not for the infectious way Peter’s mouth does the same. “You?”

“Good, yeah. Super busy.”

“That’s good. Good to keep busy, as they say.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “It is good. Keeping busy. And how are you? -- Wait, shit, sorry, I already asked that.”

“This one keeps me going,” Tony tugs on a lock of Morgan's hair, taking mercy on him. “You been too busy to see the news about Spider-Man? I know you’re a fan.”

Peter steps closer again, clasping his hands behind his back, smiling coyly as those around them perk up in interest.

“Which news?”

“Taking down Kingpins empire. Fisk behind bars.”

“Oh, I think I heard something about that.”

Tony nods.

“What a guy. New York’s never looked cleaner. Although, take that from a guy who hasn’t seen the city for five years.”

“That’s some high praise,” Peter says, wringing his hands together as he nears.

“He’s a hero,” Tony looks to his daughter. With an affirmative nod of dark hair she concurs.

“I think he’s just a regular guy,” Peter huffs, snorting when Morgan giggles knowingly.

Before Tony can inch closer, maybe to do something impulsive like what his hands have been itching to do and grip the lapels of Peter’s suit jacket, the moment is broken by a nearby cry.

“Peter! There you are!”

Sweat beading along his receding hairline, a heavy arm slung over Peter’s shoulders, Otto Octavius swims into view, nodding politely at Tony and Morgan.

“You’re a slippery one, Parker,” he says, shaking Peter’s shoulders. “Been looking for you.”

“Otto, this is --”

“ -- Got some guys that want to meet you,” Octavius interrupts, thick fingers squeezing Peters bicep. He leans in and and whispers in a way Tony is sure is meant to be discreet, “They’re keen to meet the brains behind the project; come say hi.”

Another change Tony never counted on was the trajectory Peter’s life took after his passing.

Peter never went to MIT like Tony had dreamed for him. He went to Empire State University.

Pepper informed Tony that she in fact had reached out prior to his graduation and offered him a position. But Peter had declined. He hadn’t said why, but he’d chosen to work under Otto Octavius at Octavius Industries instead.

One thing that Tony learned in his short time back in the land of the living was that Otto was infamously proud of his new employee and favoured immensely.

It’s what Tony would have wanted for Peter, really. Doing what he loves, being given the respect his intellect and kind heart deserves. He seems to be happy and all grown up. As if Tony needs the reminder.

It’s just that Otto was always an insufferable do-gooder. Save the trees, save the bees. ALl noble notions that Tony agrees with - but Otto is like the human personification of a PETA ad. He’d never been a fan of Tony’s, even after he reformed, literally.

Still, do-gooder or not. There’s something about him. Something that Tony doesn’t like. Just a vibe he has. He’s got good instincts after all of these years and he knows he’s got a solid hunch. There’s something about that man, he knows it.

It’s got nothing to do with the proprietary hand Otto has on Peters shoulder, like the younger man is just a thing to show off. Or how Tony wanted to be the one doing that.

It’s got nothing to do with the way Peter’s suit perfectly fits his frame, or how the maroon and grey compliments his clear, milky skin.

It’s definitely not related to the way Tony’s heart beats just a little bit faster when Peter is in the room.

Yeah.

“Um, I’ll just be a minute,” Peter smiles apologetically at the Starks, eyes softening at Morgans pout. “I won’t be long, you owe me a dance little miss, remember?”

Tony waves dismissively at him, reaching for another flute of champagne from a passing waiters tray. He swallows another generous mouthful, bubbles burning on their way down.

With Morgan munching on a gold flaked cheesecake at his side, Tony watches as the young hero is led away. Otto’s hand on his back, guiding him to make nice with some university hacks. Five years ago Peter would have fumbled through these introductions. He would have gone bright red and blurted some weird factoid to make conversation.

But he’s polished now, Tony watches. Not perfect, but his posture says confident adult, not awkward teenager, like the last time he wore a suit around Tony. This suit really does fit him like a glove. His handshake looks strong, too. Firm.

Were Peter’s hands always that big?

Tony sips his champagne, observing the girth of his former mentee’s fingers. It’s not until he feels the burn of Morgans stare on the side of his face that he breaks his gaze.

“What,” he says.

She points a chocolate covered finger at his face.

“You know how I feel about people holding up one finger at me. If you’re gonna do it, it should be the middle one.”

“You like him.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course I like him. He’s your Uncle Pete.”

“No, dad, you like like him. You want to be his boyfriend.”

“What -- I do not,” Tony says, casting her an incredulous stare.

“You do. You want to marry him,” she says, scrunching up her face and making kissy noises.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“I --” he huffs, gesturing to the room at large as his words run away from him. “Do not. I’m the adult. You’re the child. I’m right, you’re wrong. Case closed.”

“Dad.”

“Fine, here,” he fishes out his wallet from his back pocket and slips a crumpled fifty out. He waves it in her face. “Take this and never speak about it again.”

“Can I speak about it to mom?”

He slips out another fifty and hands it to her.

“No.”

She smiles, neatly folding the notes and tucking it into her little bag. Tony stuffs another tart down his throat, knowing he’s been played.

She really is his kid.

----

It’s not that Tony doesn’t know.

He knows.

It’s familiar after decades of experience. That weird feeling he gets. The fluttering of his heart, the topsy-turvy motion in his stomach, were he any younger he might call them butterflies.

He just doesn’t get it.

There’s a lot of things that were jarring when he awoke, soil under his fingernails as he tore through the earth in the desperate search for oxygen. He remembers waking up, confused and naked, body restored to the moment before he snapped his fingers. He remembers stumbling onto a rebuilt compound, unable to speak, learning that the entire world had moved on and changed without him.

With FRIDAY as his guide Tony had seen all of the monuments and the altars in his name, fresh bouquets propped against them, even years after his death. The adoration and the glorification immortalised in murals and statues, in grants in his name, in tell-all books.

They’d even made a shitty movie about his life.

The actor who played him was too short and the woman who played Pepper wore a wig. It was funny. Not like, funny haha, but funny in that uncanny, meta photo-within-a-photo kind of way.

But when Peter had come to the compound that first time and they talked after they both finished crying -- it was different. And every time after, it was different.

It was… awkward. At first, they didn’t know how to be around each other, automatically falling into old molds of mentor and protege. It was almost immediately clear that their old roles weren’t going to work -- too much between them had altered to fit back into the old model.

They needed to recalibrate, and quickly.

Their dynamic did change. If Tony thought about it long enough, innocently enough, he might dare to call it a friendship.

He would, but there was that feeling in his chest. Beat, beat, bang.

It was a work in progress, to reconcile the flutter in his stomach with the Peter now, with the Peter that was, before. A man who had lost all his baby fat, who was old enough to have colourful stories and a wealth of life experience, who had remarkably broad shoulders looked damn good holding a wrench.

It was the hands.

They looked very dexterous. Capable.

But that didn’t stop him from spiraling into deep, existential pockets of despair as he wondered if the stones really thought it was best to revive him so he could actively thirst over someone he used to be responsible for.

Peter is barely fifteen years older than his daughter. He’s lost count how many real and missing years are between them now between death and the Snap. Five a piece.

He can’t tell his road-runner heart if that’s better or worse, though.

But, too high on the adrenaline of seeing Peter, he forgets to tell his body to stop, to remind his stupid heart that this one is not available.

----

Sometime after eleven the gala is in full swing. The mood perks right up in anticipation of the New Year.

Most of the remaining guests are pleasantly tipsy by this point, if not outright drunk. All of the stirring speeches have been made, Peppers included.

Tony tried to listen, however got distracted by - well, anything. But the effort was there. Something about giving and starting the year fresh, clean slates.

The relaxed atmosphere has more couples dancing on the floor. The Mayor and his wife stumble over each other, moguls and A-Listers mingle and take selfies against attractive backdrops.

Even Morgan grew tired of Tony’s ornery approach to the evening, departing with a kiss to his cheek to dance with her mother.

Tony forgets, sometimes. That people expect something of him, something more. Like his resurrection was divine intervention, and if the universe intended him to be here, surely it was for a purpose higher than acting like a morose old man, hiding in the corners of ballrooms.

It’s just. He doesn’t know where his place is anymore.

Norman Osborne stops by to crow about his latest achievements, his contract with the NYPD to provide surveillance towers all over the city. Tony’s seen them. They’re hard to miss.

“Design’s a little archaic, don’t you think? Not very discreet. A pettier man would say you were overcompensating for something.”

He’s not really paying attention as he’s speaking, too distracted by the debacle before him.

Harry Osborn and Peter dance together in the centre of the room, leaned in close to one another and snickering at what the other has said.

They look loose and comfortable around one another, as if they were old friends. Or something else.

Peter leans in close to Harry’s ear to whisper something, the flush on his face creeping down his neck. In one swift movement Tony throws back the rest of his champagne, wishing the liquid would drown him, stomach turning to cement.

Whatever Norman says in response goes unheard.

With the crowd dispersed, Peter catches Tony’s eye and waves exuberantly, nearly hitting Harry in the face.

Tony raises his glass, wincing.

At least some things stay the same.

“They roomed together at ESU,” Norman breaks Tony out of his musings.

Clearing his throat, Tony tries his best to appear indifferent. Why should he care? That’s right, he doesn’t. Not even remotely.

“I see.” Play it cool, he thinks. “They look close, are they —?”

Nailed it.

“No. They tried, but it didn’t work out. Harry’s engaged now.”

“Huh.”

“But Peter is always welcome in our home,” Norman drawls. “He’s like a second son, really. Wasn’t he your protege once?”

Osborn is so smarmy. All at once Tony remembers why he hates this man and his dumb, weathered face. His covetous tone makes Tony want to hurl, or send a suit to the nearest Oscorp building and play rain of fire.

“Good god, imagine if he was your son,” Tony says blithely. “As if you need another one of those to mess up.”

Norman huffs.

“You’re hardly the authority on raising well adjusted children, Stark.”

Ire spears up hot to his throat, but before Tony can deliver a withering reply, he’s interrupted by the arrival of Pepper and Greg.

Morgan trails behind, dragging a laughing Peter with her by hand. She weaves her thin body through the crowd, having pulled the man away from his dance wearing identical grins.

He watches his daughter cut through swathes of the elite in a trail of chiffon, delight clear in the laughter that follows her. Tiny heels clack against the polished ballroom floor, and Peter indulges her mischief, catching Tony’s eye and winking as they near him.

It’s the first time he’s seen his whole family look truly carefree since he came back.

And Tony is where he should be. An inscrutable mass against the beige, peeling wallpaper.

The look of distaste on Normans face as he walks away is enough to dampen some of his churlishness as his family form before him. Pepper makes small talk with Peter and Greg smiles awkwardly at a passing senator. Morgan dives for a profiterole before anyone can stop her.

For a moment Tony feels like he’s in a McDonalds playground instead of an upper-class charity event.

Pepper must have had a hand in choosing Morgans dress, Tony thinks, because it has pockets. And, watching her as the adults talk, she sneaks handfuls of tarts and truffles into the grooves of her dress. Tony wants to laugh, to wink at her conspiratorially at the same time he wants to tuck her into bed, new years or not.

Morgan beckons Peter closer to the sweets table. The younger of the two piling her favourite sampled sweets onto a napkin and thrusts them towards Peter, fervently requesting that he try them, they’re so good, Uncle Peter.

“Not everyone wants dessert for dinner, little miss,” Tony reminds her, swiping a napkin off the table and wiping the melted chocolate off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not a baby, dad,” she complains, taking the napkin from him.

He forgets that too, sometimes.

Peter smiles between them, delicately plucking a single strawberry off one of the offered miniature flans and popping it into his mouth.

Lust spears through him so suddenly Tony sways on his feet. Fuck.

His daughter and ex-wife are right there.

“Mr. Stark. Would you - uh,” Peter breaks off to swallow audibly. “Would you like to dance?”

Otto is by the bar. Harry, by the French Ambassador. Tony is in his self-made corner of the room, nibbling on vol-au-vents and sashimi to pass the time.

He can smell Peter’s cologne and his sweat when he steps closer and sheepishly offers his hand and Tony’s entire damn body wants to just reach out and interlock their fingers, to pull Peter close and breathe him in. Never has Tony wanted to bury himself in another body before and not come back out, not like this.

Tony would consume all of what Peter had to give, if Peter let him. The offering look in Peter’s eyes say that he would let him.

“I… uh,” Tony begins, searching for a quip to cover his falter. Smiling at his companions, Tony smooths his hand down his tie, pretending the curious looks of concern are just the alcohol. “I need fresh air.”

“Tony --”

“Mr. Stark --”

He waves them off and smiles apologetically at Peter.

“-- I’ll just be a sec. Is it hot in here? Is anyone else hot? I’m like, sweating here, wow. It’s just pooling under the armpits. I’ll just be a minute, excuse me --”

The crowd parts for him like the red sea as he marches through it in search of the nearest door. But he’s never felt less powerful in his entire life.

Or lives, as it were.

----

Outside, the air is blissfully fresh and cold. The rooftop is far less crowded than indoors, only a few patrons lean against the railing, cigarette smoke curling up from their fingers, some in quiet conversation with another.

There’s a carefully constructed pyramid of wide, vintage wine glasses brimming with champagne. He’s careful not to topple the entire thing over when he goes to reach for one. Overheated, even as the winter wind nips at him, he takes his drink and finds a quiet corner to sulk in.

Perching upon a stone bench away far away from the others, Tony tips his head up at the starless sky and huffs.

What the hell does he think he’s doing?

The New York City skyline is alight before him in all its glory, but the memory of how Peter’s face dropped flashes across Tony’s mind on a loop. He looked taken aback. Hurt even.

Shame wells up low in Tony’s stomach and doggedly stays there.

It’s for the best. Right? It has to be for the best. Peter deserves the best and Tony is not that.

It’s not right for him to want to fit himself into Peter’s life when he seems to be happy and successful without Tony - there’s one thing he knows unequivocally about himself is that he would ruin that. Ruin Peter, one of the few good things he has left.

His heart doesn’t get the memo.

Because when he closes his eyes, all he imagines is the way Peter’s firm body would feel against his. What it would feel like to curl together on the sofa, in bed, under the sheets. How his curls would tickle the underside of Tony’s chin, and what it would be like to trace the lines that branch from his eyes when he smiles, or to stroke the narrow slope of his nose as he sleeps.

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong because Tony doesn’t fit there. Not there, nor in all of the places he used to. He’s not Iron Man or a businessman. He’s not a husband or a full-time father. He’s not even Peter Parker's mentor.

What he is, for all of his resurrected glory, is an afterthought. A spectre, hovering in the fringes of all of the places he used to be the centre of.

He smiles, raising his glass to the smoking couple as they nod politely at him.

It’s fine. He’s happy that everyone is happy.

But it’s been months. He ain't Jesus, but surely by now he’d find some sense of purpose.

“Mr. Stark?”

When Tony opens his eyes Peter stands before him, clutching a perspiring glass of wine.

Tony doesn’t want to notice, but he does anyway. The look of concern written on his face is unmistakable, even in the dim lighting of the rooftop, the nearby flamelight serves to deepen the frown lines on his young face.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark? Sorry to follow you out here, you just seem kind of...”

“Surly?” Tony guess. “I’m fine, kid. Just had a few too many. Didn’t want to hurl all over the drapes. No need to worry.”

“I was gonna say overwhelmed, but yeah,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony’s bent knees hit the top of Peter’s thighs - his stomach swoops, again. “I’m gonna worry anyway.”

“Yeah, well, happy New Year,” Tony says dryly, knocking their glasses together.

Peter taps his smart-watch with a finger.

“Still got five minutes before that. Can’t break into Auld Lang Syne yet, Mr. Stark.”

“We could if we were in Halifax,” Tony counters. The younger man tilts his head agreeably and Tony calls the easing of tension from Peter’s shoulders a win.

“Let’s stick to New York.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “You don’t have somewhere you’d rather be? You got four-something minutes.”

“Right here, actually, if that’s okay with you.”

Tony doesn’t know if that’s frankness or fiction, but he smiles all the same, patting the slab of stone he’s sat upon invitingly.

“Well, come aboard, Mr. Parker.”

Without pause, Peter hoists himself on the bench with a single hand, delicately balancing the glass of champagne with the other. He shuffles to get comfortable, swinging his legs as he settles.

The firelight catches onto the curve of Peter’s curls, slicked down into wilted tendrils from the sweat dotting his hairline.

His heart is positively thunderous in his chest. He raises his hand to soothe it and at once, sickeningly, painfully misses the comforting heat of the arc reactor.

“You wanna talk about it?” Peter asks, after a moment.

Tony smiles wryly, mostly to himself. Of course, there’s nothing that escapes Peters notice.

“Trust me, kid. There’s not much to say.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Peter says, fishing something out of his pocket and handing it to Tony “I, uh, thought you liked those. I took the last one.”

It’s a portugese egg tart, Tony notes, warmed slightly from Peter’s body heat. Fuck. He does like them. They’re his favourite.

Tony pretends like his heart isn’t swelling to the point where it feels it's going to burst and breaks the tart in two, passing over the other half to Peter.

“Thanks, kid. Try some.”

They eat their halves in relative silence, save for the sound of chewing and Peter’s shoes hitting the stone as he swings his legs. But the mood grows quieter, noticeably pensive after they finish eating. It makes Tony’s skin crawl.

“You know,” Peter says softly, as if raising his voice would shatter the moment, “you’re not the only one to come back to find years lost. To find the world different. I know it’s not easy. Especially on nights like this.”

Tony swallows roughly, chasing it with a mouthful of champagne.

“You seem to have managed well.”

Peter huffs. “Oh yeah, real well. God, you don’t even know how --” his voice breaks off, voice wet with emotion. He looks away, throat bobbing as he gathers himself. “You just -- you don’t know.”

The moment feels fraught with enough gravity that it would bring the moon down between them.

“Hey,” Tony chides, trying to diffuse the heavy emotion with what levity he could utter. “Come on now, it’s supposed to be me out here maudlin. Don’t steal my thunder, Charlotte's Web.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, cracking a smile. “I’ll try to pencil in sad hours for later.”

“Appreciated.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. A woman, visibly drunk, passes them and raises her glass to Tony, the liquid sloshing out from the glass and down her arm. She doesn’t seem to notice, smiling and stumbling away.

That would have been Tony ten years ago (in his lived years). On the weekends without Morgan, sometimes it still is.

“Got any resolutions, Mr. Stark?”

Tony snorts. “Shit, kid, I don’t know. Take Morgan to Saturn. Run for president, get back on the Cosmo’s Bachelor of the Year.”

“Most people just join a gym.”

“I didn’t come back to life to break my hip on a treadmill,” Tony says, offended. “What about you, Peter Rabbit?”

Peter takes a sip of his drink as he visibly deliberates. Wayward drops of champagne gather at the corner of his mouth before he scoops them with his tongue, eyes drifting to the glittering skyline.

“Yeah. I’m trying to get this guy that I’m into to take me seriously.”

Tony hums, stomach dropping.

“Some guy, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve known him since I was fifteen and I’m like, super into him, but he still sees me as a child.”

His stomach swoops back up.

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, daring to hope, “this guy’s an idiot if he can’t see you for the man you are. You’re a catch.”

Peter shrugs, inching closer as he adjusts his balance. Their hands are nearly touching and Tony can feel the heat radiating from the man's body and he hates himself for it, just a little bit, he’s too old to feel like a kid with a crush again.

“He’s not an idiot. Well, he is, sometimes. Not all the time.”

“You sure this guy is good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, looking out at the skyline again. “He’s just lost. I can wait.”

“What if he’s not right for you?” Tony says, throat closing unexpectedly. “What if he’s not worth the wait?”

Peter shuffles closer.

“He has been so far,” he says, bravely extending his pinkie so it curls atop Tony’s. In the cool night air the touch of skin against skin is scorching. “Worst case scenario has already happened. I’ve already lost him in the worst possible way. I could do without him calling me kid all the time though.”

“He makes no promises on that.”

“I thought as much.”

“You deserve better than lost, Pete,” Tony says around the lump in his throat. For a moment he can’t speak, the memories of electricity ripping through his body in a moment of love much like the feeling he has now. “You deserve the best.”

But Peter doesn’t say anything. He tugs on their linked pinkies to intertwine their fingers, resting them in the interstice of their pressed thighs. Tony doesn’t miss how Peter’s palms are damp against his, how they tremble ever so slightly. It’s grounding, to know Peter is as nervous as he is.

When he gets brave enough to stroke the back of Peters hand with his thumb some of the mired shame melts away.

“Deserve is subjective,” Peter says, squeezing Tony’s fingers. “And I decide he is the best.”

“What if he wants you back,” Tony whispers, shifting closer on the stone until their sides are entirely flush together. “But he has nothing to offer you. Doesn’t fit in with your life.”

“What about what I can offer him?” Peter clutches his hand tighter, raising it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the back of Tony’s hand. “What if I'm there while he finds his way?”

“Pete.”

“You have time, Mr. Stark. You can figure the rest out as it comes to you.”

“And until then?”

“You go with the flow.”

“How?”

“Like this,” Peter whispers, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss.

Closing his eyes, Tony leans into it and lets himself fall. Peters lips feel soft, pillowy, the kiss chaste and unassuming. When Peter pulls back he looks dazed, which is silly, because that was a tease for Tony.

Eyes on the glistening bow of Peter’s lips, he wants to dive in and tug it between his teeth. So he does.

“That’s -- yeah,” Tony says, sliding their noses together, “Were you -- were you always this confident?”

“I’m not confident,” Peter replies, kissing him again, pulling back to exhale shakily against Tony’s lips. “Holy cow. That was, like, a super big risk for me. Wow. Did I fool you? Are you fooled?”

“Bamboozled,” Tony says, staring at Peter’s lips again. “Just to confirm, I’m the guy, right? Resolution guy?”

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“Good,” Tony says, cupping his cheeks and kissing him again.

Fireworks bathe the couple in an electric array of neons, and crowds can be heard cheering from all around them. Tony pulls away to see Peter illuminated in brilliant colour, lips wet and swollen.

“Is this okay?” Peter reaches his free hand up to cup Tony’s cheek. “Is it weird? It’s a bit weird. Right?”

“It’s weird. But weird-different,” Tony amends. “Good different, right?”

“Right.”

“I should, maybe, keep kissing you to be sure.”

Peter’s answering grin against his lips vivifies the lights exploding around them.

To the soundtrack of waning fireworks, Tony gets lost in learning how Peter kisses, the shape of his lips, how the heat of his tongue feels against his own.

Struck suddenly by a memory Tony pulls away from Peter to groan.

“What?” Peter queries, flushed and panting. “What’s wrong?”

“I literally paid Morgan a hundred bucks to not tell you I was hot for you.”

Peter balks, staring at Tony as if he were stupid.

“Um, I have enhanced hearing, remember? And she told me, like, two months ago.”

Tony squints.

“That little brat.”

——

The knowing smiles when they walk back into the ballroom from their family is a little uncalled for. Morgan is asleep in Peppers lap so she isn’t even awake to crow about her victory.

But the way Otto splutters as his eyes dart between the bruise on Tony’s neck and their joined hands is deeply worth it.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Octavius!” Peter beams, swinging their hands together.

“And - and you. Mr. Parker.”

“Sorry to drop this on you last minute, would you mind if I get another ride home?”

“Well, I --”

“Let me compensate you for the cab,” Tony offers, dropping Peter’s hand to wind his arm around the younger man's waist, pulling their sides flush together. “It’s the least I can do. Don’t worry, Peter’s ride will be very enjoyable.”

“I take it you’re not coming back to the penthouse,” Pepper cuts in, sharing a look with Greg.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, already pulling Peter away. “When Morguna wakes up from her beauty sleep tell her she owes me a cut of the winnings, okay? Good. Happy New whatever.”

They stop by the dessert spread on their way out.

-----

Their taxi driver sends them scalding stares from the front seat.

It’s fine, Tony will compensate him generously in tips. Though, if he were the driver, he’d probably be pissed too.

For all of his stealthyness as Spider-Man, Peter is not quiet right now. He bucks into Tony’s touch, rubbing his crotch against Tony’s hand. He breaks their kiss to moans lewdly into Tony’s mouth, breath hot against his face.

“Oh god,” he exhales shakily, tugging on Tony’s tie to bring their lips together in a filthy kiss.

“Good?” Tony mumbles against his lips, grinding his palm down harder. Peter nods, tilting his head back to groan as Tony’s mouth latches onto his neck. The creamy skin is mottled with teeth marks and barely blooming hickies.

Tony sucks and and laves his tongue over the heated skin to hear how his breath hitches, those high ahh-ahh’s that fall breathlessly out of his mouth, to hear him moan --

“M-Mr. Stark!”

Tony winces, pulling back.

He sighs. “Kid, if we’re doing this, you really gotta call me Tony.”

In an instant Peter’s face turns stony, somehow looking stern despite his swollen lips and wrinkled shirt. He looks like a petulant pitbull.

“If we’re doing this you really gotta stop calling me ‘kid’, Tony.”

Tony undoes the first button of Peter’s dress shirt, then the second, parting the folds of fabric to get a view of his collarbones.

“I suppose I would be amenable to such amendments, Peter,” he nods, “on the condition that you let me take you on a date.”

As Tony snakes a hand over the curves of his clavicle, Peter’s deft fingers undo the knot of Tony’s tie until it lies loose from his neck.

“I would be amenable to that. Conditions accepted.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yeah. I’m going to kiss you again now.”

“Okay. Yeah. Good.”

-----

With a heavy arm slung around his midsection, Tony finds out what Peter’s body feels like curled around his body when he wakes up the next morning.

There are a lot of little discoveries on New Years Day.

Like the feeling of Peter’s morning wood pressed pleasantly against his ass. Or how Peter squints adorably as he wakes up, as if he were confused by his own consciousness, his bedhead a mad nest of curls. Or how much Tony doesn’t mind the humid exchange of morning breath.

“Do you always take your first dates to bed?” Peter queries over breakfast, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face.

“That was not a date,” Tony points his fork at him. Scrambled egg falls from the utensil onto the table. “And we didn’t even have sex. That’s misleading, mister.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tony sniffs.

“You’ll find out when we have our first date, won’t you? Friday at seven. Yes or yes?”

Peter sips his coffee to hide his smile, but Tony still sees it.

“Yes.”

-----

They got their date.

Six months after the New Years festivities comes Morgans eleventh birthday.

Tony’s had a lot of dates with a lot of people, including Peter, but nothing quite trumps this.

It’s a double date. With his ex-wife and her new husband. Plus twelve other kids and their parents at a McDonalds.

All four are seated at a table, Peter to his side, squirming on the terrible, hard chairs while Pepper and Greg sit opposite. Several servings of burgers and fries lay cold between them. Mostly melted McFlurries ooze off the provided plastic spoon when disinterestedly stirred.

It’s terribly romantic.

Morgan wanted McDonalds with her friends for her birthday, and before the big move to middle school. It fell on date night.

The garishly decorated diner is alive with the sounds of yelling and laughing, kids and their siblings running after one another, pushing each other down slides and following each other through narrow, plastic tunnels.

Tony’s never really been a double date kinda guy, particularly when it involves the mother of his child and his new, twenty-something lover. It was stilted in the beginning, made more awkward by Tony’s foursome jokes, but Peter keeps the conversation afloat, dipping the congealed fries into Tony’s melted ice cream.

He rubs Tony’s lower back as he speaks. Soothing, grounding circles that inadvertently keep Tony in the present.

Peter likes being in constant contact, Tony found. Now that he has the permission. Whether its holding hands, a casual grip on Tonys knee, his thigh, his back.

It’s… actually nice. Maybe because he does it too.

It’s not always about comfort though, Tony concedes, as Peter’s hand dips a little lower, brushing over the swell of his ass.

They share a knowing look.

Tony knows now, what that odd twinkle in Peter’s eyes mean. That little pervert. He knows it in the way Peter bites his bottom lip, as if canary feathers are about to flutter out of his guilty mouth. He wants to lean over and kiss the look right off them.

Greg keeps a close eye on the playground, loafers tapping anxiously on the tiles when a kid pulls a daring move and nearly misses their landing.

He’s not the worst, Tony concedes, wearily assessing the other man. He cares for Morgan which is a plus. But he’s greying gracefully and is genuinely so nice and humble that Tony can’t help but test him every now and then. How earnest can he truly be with Tony stealing a fry here and there and knocking his knees ‘accidentally’.

The conversation turns to Morgans transition to middle school. Pepper thinks she’ll outgrow her peers in months and will pursue a more scientific-focused academic curriculum.

It’s one of those rare, transient moments of life that Tony’s here to witness. He’s getting used to feeling like everything is going to be okay, like maybe he wasn’t brought back just to be a part of another fight. But there’s a lingering anxiety, he just doesn’t know how to deal with without a solder or a suit to tinker on.

He’s working on it though.

“Should we manhandle her highness back in for the cake?” Tony asks, hand snaking down to squeeze Peter’s firm thigh.

Peter, not missing a beat, sends him a smirk that says I’ll manhandle you.

It’s only right that Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s thigh, smiling proudly to himself when Peters breath hitches.

A kid knocks into the back of Tony’s chair, screaming as they run towards the playground. Tony winces, the moment broken.

“Need I remind you two that we’re in a family establishment,” Pepper stresses.

“Yes,” Tony rolls his eyes, gesturing to the playground of rambunctious, screaming children. “How could I forget.”

“Tony.”

“You heard her, Pete, keep it safe for work. You’re making people uncomfortable,” Tony says, clamping down tighter on Peter's leg. Speaking to the couple, he gestures to Peter with his thumb. “Real horndog this one. Insatiable.”

“Me?” Peter says accusingly, jaw dropping.

Pepper raises an eyebrow cooly. “Please, Tony. Don’t think Morgan hasn’t told me about the time she walked in on you two. One time you told her you were checking each Peters temperature. With your long thermometer -- honestly, Tony. Try not to traumatise our child.”

Peter visibly colours at the mention.

“Wait,” Tony says. “That little -- I paid her twenty bucks not to tell you that.”

“So did I,” Peter frowns. “And I gave her the rest of my Reeses to seal the deal. Ah, crap.”

“You got played,” Greg snickers. Tony hates him again.

He nods at Pepper.

“She gets that from you.”

Pepper smiles, unbothered, looking every ounce the image of class as she raises her plastic cup of milkshake to them.

Tony sighs, not even mad.

Some things never change.

-- Thank you to our wonderful artists and writer who participated in the first Starker Games! <3 <3 <3 this is fabulous and we hope you enjoyed yourselves!

#Starker #starker games #starker fanart #PeterxTony #TonyxPeter #New Years

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calumcest · 4 years

Note

I thought I was the only one who absolutely loathes the way luke says "regretting it" like honestly any rights he has go out the window every time I hear that. also for ur prompt thingy, how about malum and "why would I ever do that?" -arbor day

its so upsetting its like hes at the dentist and they’ve stuck all those cotton wool things in his mouth and then he’s remembered he has to record an album

It’s pretty much a universal truth that grocery shopping is no fun. Having to take at least an hour out of your day to drive to the shop, find everything you want, inevitably pick up a few extra things that you didn’t want but have been psychologically manipulated into wanting, spend far too much fucking money and realise you forgot your points card at home (again), and then drive back home and spend ages playing an unwanted game of Tetris trying to fit everything into the fridge is, Calum thinks, probably something most people would rather do without.

But, he thinks darkly, nobody else has to contend with Michael while grocery shopping.

“Hey,” he says idly, like he knows he’s on Calum’s mind. He’s holding a jar of pickles, turning it this way and that in his hand. “What d’you think of pickles?”

“We’re not buying pickles,” Calum says, on principle.

“I didn’t say we should,” Michael says. “Just wondered what you think about them.”

“I don’t like them,” Calum says.

“Hmm,” Michael says, and puts them in the shopping trolley. Calum sighs, exasperated, and takes them out again.

“You don’t like them either,” he says, putting them back on the shelf.

“I know,” Michael says, having moved on to the tins of beans. “But they look kind of cool, don’t they?”

“No,” Calum says, half to what Michael’s just said, half to the four tins of beans Michael’s just scooped up.

“We need beans,” Michael says, a little petulantly. “They’re on the list.”

“Not four fucking tins, though,” Calum says. Michael puts one back. “Or three.” Michael rolls his eyes, and puts another one back.

“We should make fajitas tomorrow,” Michael remarks, eyeing a fajita box kit.

“You said two minutes ago that you wanted bolognese tomorrow.”

“Yeah, bolognese for dinner and fajitas for lunch,” Michael says, picking up a box and putting it in the trolley.

“You won’t be able to stomach that,” Calum says knowingly, taking the box back out and putting it back on the shelf.

“I will,” Michael says, putting the box back in the shopping trolley.

“You won’t,” Calum says, taking it out again. “You snack too much.” Michael pouts.

“I snack a normal amount,” he says, making grabby hands for the box that’s still in Calum’s hands. Calum holds it even further out of reach.

“You couldn’t even eat a sandwich for dinner yesterday because you got too impatient and ate four bags of popcorn at five o’clock,” Calum reminds him, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“One time,” he says.

“You ate three big bags of crisps the night before and couldn’t eat dinner,” Calum says, “and last week there was that night you ate all the chocolate in the hou-”

“Alright, fine,” Michael says, a little moodily. “I won’t snack tomorrow.” Calum arches an eyebrow at him, and Michael widens his eyes, all butter-wouldn’t-melt. Calum knows where that mouth has been, though, and he’s not buying it for a minute.

“No,” he says. “I’m not spending our money on food that’s going to go to waste.”

“Fine,” Michael says, and leans over to snatch the box out of Calum’s hands. “I’ll buy it myself.”

“Fine,” Calum says, because Michael can waste his money as he damn well pleases, and pushes the shopping trolley to the end of the aisle. “Is that everything?” Michael glances down at the piece of paper in his hand, and nods.

“Did you remember your points card?” he says, as Calum pushes the trolley in the direction of the checkout, and he groans.

“Fuck,” he says. “I told you to remind me.”

“I just did.”

“What fucking use is it here?”

“Well, in fairness, you never specified where I should remind you,” Michael points out. Calum’s going to kill him.

“I’m going to kill you,” he tells Michael very seriously, as they round the corner to the checkout. Michael grins, tossing a few packs of butter and some milk onto the conveyor belt.

“At least wait until the life insurance papers go through,” he says.

“Did you send them off?”

“I thought you were sending them off?”

“Jesus Chr- Michael, the deadline’s tomorrow,” Calum says, pausing with the carrots in his hand to give Michael a look that’s halfway between disbelief and irritation.

“It’s fine,” Michael says, waving his hand dismissively and almost sending the oranges he’s holding flying. “I’ll go to the post office as soon as we get home.”

“You’re just saying that to get out of putting the groceries away,” Calum says, because he knows Michael, and Michael grins shamelessly. Calum sighs, and shakes his head, but those papers really do need sending off and Michael’s always more of a hindrance than a help when it comes to putting the groceries away, so he lets it slide.

The cashier makes idle small talk with them as he scans their groceries, and Michael throws them haphazardly into bags, ignoring the glares Calum’s sending his way that are very much communicating did you just put the fucking milk on top of the croissants. The fajita box ends up going with the rest of their groceries, as both of them had known it would, but Calum pretends he doesn’t see it, and Michael pretends he doesn’t see the small, fond smile on Calum’s lips when Michael grabs it gleefully and hugs it close to his chest.

“Oh,” Michael says, when they’re almost halfway to the car, like he’s just remembered. “I’m not going to be home for lunch tomorrow. Or dinner, probably.”

“Why not?”

“Luke wants to play golf.” Calum presses the button on the car key, and turns to Michael.

“Golf?” he says sceptically. Michael shrugs and nods, and opens the boot of the car.

“You’ll have to eat the fajitas for me,” Michael says.

“They’ll keep,” Calum says, nodding at the box Michael’s still holding.

“But I’ll forget about them.”

“So set yourself a reminder.” Michael sighs, and blinks up at Calum beseechingly.

“I won’t want them after tomorrow,” he says. “They’re a fleeting craving.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Calum tells him, picking two bags up out of the shopping trolley and placing them in the car.

“Eat them for me,” Michael says pleadingly.

“Why would I ever do that?”

“Because you love me?” Michael tries. Calum rolls his eyes.

“Nope,” he says.

“Please?”

“You’re the one who wanted them,” Calum says. “I don’t even like fajitas.”

“You do,” Michael says.

“Well, not those ones.”

“You’ve never had them,” Michael says. “You’ll have to eat them to find out.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“No,” he says firmly. “You wanted them, you eat them.”

“If you loved me, you’d eat them,” Michael says.

“Good thing I don’t have to eat them, then,” Calum says, and Michael sighs, and chucks the box on top of the rest of their shopping.

(When Michael gets back the next evening, there’s an empty fajita box wedged in the top of the recycling bin.)

#arbor day #malum #drabbles #this fic is brought to you by me getting really frustrated that i cant equalise lock all the doors to hear the vocals properly #i hate when artists do that i dont want to hear your fucking cymbals i want to hear the MELODY #Anonymous #helen answers

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vagrantblvrd · 4 years

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Myan just being dads. Please, I have a craving and there's only like 3 fics about it.

I’m super behind on prompts and the whatnot – Because Reasons – but I’m still working on them. Just like. At a glacial pace. Because me.

I really, really love this?

One night when Michael’s getting off work he gets gets (roughly) a million texts from Gavin who’s his roommate in this AU, right?

Making dinner because he knows Michael will be getting home soonish or resurfacing from whatever work project he’s involved with at the time because hunger?

And Michael, Michael, they’re out of this, and that, and on and on like he’s just going from cabinet to cabinet and fridge compartment to fridge compartment and so on.

Michael doesn’t get a chance to check the messages right away – first he’s driving or dealing with paperwork or whatever before he actually gets to get out of the building and in his car.

Once he does though he’s just like SIGH because Gavin, but also oh, wow, yeah. It’s been a while since neither one of them have done a proper grocery run, hasn’t it?

Work or something else getting in the way of something so exciting, and sometimes it’s just easier to grab fast food on the way home or call a place that will deliver and so on.

But he’s not in the mood for fast food or take out at the moment, and there’s a grocery store on the way home. (Also some of the stuff Gavin texted him about are staples or something they use all the time and would super shitty to wake up the next day and remember they ran out and just. Yeah.)

He calls Gavin and asks him to come up with a list of things they absolutely need Right Now he can get on the way home. The rest will have to wait until they get their shit together and do a grocery run sometime in the next few days.

Gavin tries to tell him they need ALL the things, but he’s being a little shit and they both know it so Michael doesn’t feel guilty about hanging up on him. (Or ignoring the texts Gavin sends him as he drives to the store.)

And then!

He’s at the store – kind of late at night because work and shifts and what is time?

Just a few people there – some college kids, a tired looking guy with a baby in a cart and looking more than a little frazzled, a couple bickering over coupons? And so on.

He doesn’t think much about any of it as he goes through the aisles picking up the things on the revised list Gavin texted him.

And, yeah. There’s some bullshit stuff on there Michael mentally crosses off because Gavin and annoying fuck and Michael can’t be bothered to be annoyed.

When he gets up to the register the guy with the baby’s in front of him, and wow, okay, wow.

The poor bastard looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in pretty much forever.

Tired and scruffy and moving real slow like all his energy is going into not falling over onto his face.

The baby, though?

Adorable as fuck, even if it’s just staring at Michael.

Unblinking.

Little stuffed animal that Michael thinks it might have started life off as a cow, but it’s clearly much loved – or gnawed – and talk about covered in baby drool because yeah.

So Michael’s standing in line behind this poor bastard whose baby who clearly wants to fight Michael with the way it’s staring at him.

The guy doesn’t seem to notice his baby is staring Michael down, which fine. He’s got his hands full not dropping his shit all over the floor as he unloads his cart. (Usual baby stuff – diapers and wipes and formula and other such things. Food for himself – and okay, yeah, guy loves his diet coke? But not like it’s Michael’s place to judge, right?)

He makes faces at the baby and it keeps Staring, which is fine because what was Michael expecting from a baby?

But whatever, the baby’s kind of cute. (For a baby.)

Someone’s phone goes off, this horrifically obnoxious thing that sets the baby off, startles it or whatever and the poor thing bawls its eyes out.

Full-on wailing while the asshole with the shitty ringtone answers their phone and has a Loud Conversation with whoever called them and oblivious to what they’ve done in regards to baby meltdown.

The Tired Guy is like, trying to calm the baby down and not drop the carton of eggs he’s got in his hands and doing a terrible job of both, but eventually he manages to get the eggs down on the conveyor belt-thing and picks the baby up to soothe it and whatnot.

No one notices when the baby drops their stuffed animal between the crying and everything else. (Which, incidentally is Not Helping the baby calm down but everyone assumes it’s just tired baby being tired baby and expressing itself the only way it knows how.)

Tired guy manages to juggle his baby and paying for his groceries before leaving with the still crying baby.

Michael feels bad for the guy – baby’s still crying and they can see him through the front windows trying to calm the poor thing down with no success – but not like he can do anything to help, right?

He moves up and accidentally steps on the baby’s little stuffed toy (cow???) and is like, oh shit, because that would go a long way in explaining why the baby’s still upset?

He picks it up and wipes it off best he can and tucks it under his arm – ewww, baby drool – and pays for his groceries and hurries out of the store before Tired Guy leaves.

Makes it outside just in time to see Tired Guy start to make his way to the parking lot and calls out to him waving the stuffed toy. (Knows he probably comes across as a creep or weirdo and hopes the guy won’t react badly before Michael can explain.)

Tired Guy doesn’t react badly, which is nice.

Seems confused as hell before he realizes what Michael’s holding – the fact the baby stops crying the moment it sees what Michael has is helpful in that regard – and Michael’s like lol because the baby is making grabby hands for their toy.

“Here,” Michael says. “I think the kid dropped this back there.”

The baby’s getting frustrated at not having their toy back Right Now, and Michael looks at Tired Guy for permission to give the baby to little stuffed cow and gives Tired Guy this smile because the guy looks so goddamned relived the baby’s stopped crying?

Michael hands the toy over the baby is instantly happy again, making happy baby noises as they hug the little toy cow and being adorable as hell.

Michael ends up chatting with Tired Guy. (Okay, it’s more like he’s chatting at him because the guy tries, he does, but it’s pretty obvious he’s too tired to keep a conversation going no matter how thrilled he is to be talking to someone who isn’t a baby?)

And, look.

Michael gets it, he does. Has had enough family members and friends with their own kids and that thing where it feels like they’ve not seen someone who isn’t a literal child in forever or talked about anything no child-related for an equal amount of time.

(Also, maybe. On second glance Tired Guy’s kind of not terrible to look at and while he sounds tired and his voice is a little shot, it’s also not terrible to listen to. Michael knows this won’t go anywhere because come on, his life’s not a goddamned romcom, and also the guy’s got a baby. That usually implies a SO of some sort or other relationship and all, but hey, he can still talk to the guy, right?)

Right.

He finds out Tired Guy is actually new in town, staying with a friend of his until he gets his own place and doesn’t know a lot of people here yet. (Works from home or something with computers???)

It goes fine for a bit, but eventually they hit this slightly awkward silence/lull in the conversation.

And then (conveniently) Michael gets a new text from Gavin asking him where he is – Michael told him he’d be thirty, forty minutes late getting home with the grocery stop and it’s well past that by now – and the baby thwacks Tired Guy in the face with the toy cow because it wants attention or just for the hell of it, who the hell knows what a baby’s ever thinking?

They’re both like oh, right, right, better get home, and make their awkward goodbyes. Michael halfway home before he realizes he never got Tired Guy’s name or anything and man, what a shame because he actually liked talking to the guy?

He was funny and nice and Michael’s still kicking himself about not getting his name or number – its not easy being in a new place and not knowing anyone and all that, but nothing he can do about that now.

Until, you know, later.

Because Michael helps his landlord out with handyman projects around their building he gets a percentage off their rent.

Sure, it means he ends up tangled up in repair jobs and such from time to time, but for cheaper rent it’s not a bad trade-off. (Most of the time, anyhow.)

One day the landlord calls Michael and asks him if he could check things out in this one apartment. New tenant and something to do with the wiring or something?

Michael is like SIGH because he’s been pulling doubles at work and was looking forward to a long weekend to do nothing but relax, catch up on sleep and all that.

But, whatever, right?

He garbs his tool belt and heads over to the apartment in question and boy oh boy, is he surprised when the tenant opens the door and it’s Tired Guy.

:O!

It takes a moment for Tired Guy to recognize him, and then it’s the two of them staring at one another like idiots because what are the fucking odds, right?

Tired Guy looks a hell of a lot better than he did when they ran into one another at the grocery store. Still kind of tired, but not the kind that invites worry over his well-being that may or may not require an intervention of sorts.

“Uh, hey,” Michael says, when the staring is getting to be ridiculous. “I’m here about the call you put in to the landlord about a problem you have?”

And then Tired Guy (who, come on, we all know it’s Ryan) is like ??? and then !!! because, oh, yeah, right.

That.

He shows Michael over to where the problem issue is. Turns out to be some dumb problem the tenant before Ryan caused by trying to be a DiY’er or something with regards to rewiring something or other. Botched the whole thing and hid it to avoid having to pay a fine or whatever to the landlord and all that. The apartment’s been empty for a while before Ryan moved in – and Michael is like, huh, because he remembers Gavin chattering on about their new neighbor.

Nice enough guy he ran into in the hallway a few days ago, but Michael kept missing because working longer hours than usual and other typical reasons in this kind of scenario.

Now he’s keenly aware of Ryan as the guy moves about elsewhere once Michael told him the problem he’s having is an easy fix, maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes to deal with and feel free to ignore him while he does.

And Ryan takes him up on that, apologizes because kind of rude? But also he was working on something and he’s just a room away if Michael needs anything and so on.

Ten, fifteen minutes go by before Michael hears a baby crying. The loud, awful full-on baby meltdown and Ryan wanders back into the room holding the baby and doing his best to calm the poor thing down.

Michael glances over when he gets the baby to fall asleep – tired and fighting sleep every step of the way until it couldn’t anymore – and smiles at the picture the two of them make.

Ryan a tired dad and adorable kiddo drooling on his shoulder and just.

Adorable, the both of them.

“Cute kid,” Michael says, because the baby is cute.

Impressive set of lungs and all, but still cute.

And Ryan, tired and on auto-pilot as he rocks the baby he’s holding and murmurs nonsense to it speaks without thinking.

Just goes and says, “Oh, she’s not mine,” and makes another circuit of the room, passing right by Michael who is like.

Huh.

Because Ryan doesn’t seem like a baby-stealing lunatic, but who knows, right?

Watches Ryan wander past again before what he said actually registers and Ryan is like

!!!

“Wait, no. I mean - “

Michael tries not to laugh as Ryan falls over himself reassuring Michael he’s not a baby-stealing lunatic (and incidentally succeeding in making himself look like a general sort of lunatic ).

Tells Michael that friend he was staying with when he first got to town has this whole. Fostering Things going on.

Looks after kids and such whether it be short-term or long-term (They’ve got a couple of kids they’re in the process of adopting because they can’t not have them in their lives for forever after getting to know them and so on but it’s a hell of a process and legal battles and all that going on to complicate things.)

But they’re out of town for something or other and couldn’t take the baby too, and Ryan offered to watch the baby for them. (Not the first time he’s done it and definitely won’t be the last.)

At the end of his explanation he’s watching Michael like he’s expecting him to call the cops or something and looking even more like a lunatic.

Michael just rolls his eyes because yeah, no. He didn’t really think Ryan was a baby-stealing lunatic in the first place, so calm down idiot.

They end up chatting again while Michael works and Ryan sits down on the couch with the baby deep asleep and it’s.

Kind of nice?

When Michael finishes up he remembers to get Ryan’s name – and his number – and a promise from Ryan to give him a call if he needs help. (Handyman projects or baby stuff or whatever, you know?)

He goes back to the apartment he shares with Gavin and Gavin is like. Knows Something Happened and gets the whole story out of Michael. (He knew about Tired Guy and Crying Baby from the grocery store and cannot stop laughing when Michael tells him Tired Guy is actually Ryan, and also their new neighbor?)

Michael is like SIGH because yeah okay. Fair enough because God knows he’d do the same if he was in Gavin’s shoes for something like this.

He doesn’t really expect to hear from Ryan again, but a week later he gets a text from the landlord and surprise, surprise, Ryan’s found another problem in his apartment.

Michael heads over and finds out it’s another botched DiY shitshow from the previous tenant and sets about fixing it while they chat.

The baby’s there again, and Michael is like huh, at the way Ryan is with her. Definitely in love with the tiny baby even if he doesn’t realize it yet (None of his business, but he hopes it works out for Ryan’s sake.)

After that Ryan texts Michael about some random something that made him think of Michael and things kind of snowball from there.

The two of them being all dorks falling in love (and not realizing it) and also there’s a baby?

Like.

The baby features a lot, this sweet little girl with pretty blue eyes named Abigail.

Ryan freaking dotes on her, spoils her, and Michael rolls his eyes and tells him he’s spoiling her even as he brings over new toys or games or whatever to grab her attention or make her laugh.

Ryan is like “Do tell,” and absolutely laughing at Michael the whole time.

One night Ryan asks him over for dinner one night (it’s a thing they do, they’re just friends for fuck’s sake Gavin, stop looking at Michael like that) expecting the usual fast food or take out or something, but no!

No.

There are goddamned enchiladas, clearly homemade because no way any of the places around there could make anything that looked half as good. (Maybe Michael’s biased???)

“Oh, hey,” Michael says, this huge smile on his face. “I thought you were bullshitting me about these.”

Ryan’s all nervous and worked up about something, and just when Michael’s about to ask him what the hell is going on, Ryan blurts out that he’s going to go through with the adoption process for Abigail.

Michael is just like, even bigger smile because he thought Ryan might do something like that sooner or later, given how much he loves her.

“Congratulations,” he says, and laughs. “When I saw the enchiladas I thought you were going to ask me on a date.”

He tries to make it sound like a joke, all ha, ha, hilarious and all that because obviously that would never happen. (They’re friends and all.)

Only.

Ryan’s not laughing.

Ryan, in fact, looks confused as hell.

“I thought I already did?”

Because look.

All this time the two of them have been having dinner and watching movies and all kinds of date-things, but for whatever reason Ryan never officially asked Michael on a date.

So Michael’s been thinking they’re just friends while Ryan is like My Boyfriend is Best Boyfriend :DDDDDDDDDDDIt’s just.

Super Awkward for a moment, and then it’s hilarious as fuck because Ryan?

And also annoying as fuck because all the smooches and ~other things they could have been doing all this time? (Almost a year by that point and Ryan you moron.)

But hey, they’ve just got stuff to catch up on and what better time than now to get started?

Smooches and Michael laughing at Ryan who laughs at himself and Michael and it’s stupid cute -

So of course Abigail chooses that moment to start crying and they break away to laugh about her impeccable sense of timing.

“Jesus,” Michael says, laughing a little as they untangle themselves from the pile of throw blankets and dumb pillows on Ryan’s couch. “Can’t wait for that to get old.”

Because cock-blocking baby that’ll be a toddler and on and on and on and wow, fun? (But also that sweet little girl with the pretty blue eyes that Ryan -and okay, Michael – loves so goddamn much.)

Ryan laughs because same? But then he goes to see what Abigail’s crying about now, and comes back out with her dozing off on his shoulder and just.

Michael’s watching the two of them with this look on his face, all soft and fond and he makes room for them on the couch where he and Ryan watch something on Netflix with a sleeping baby and really, okay, really, there are worse things than this.

(And then happily ever after with shenanigans and occasional enchilada nights and Gavin and all their other friends laughing at their dumb dorkfaces for forever.)

#ragehappy #myan #dorkface dads au #anon #prompt fills #technically not a fic #vagrant fic #Anonymous

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red-pill-blue-pill · 5 years

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Road trip. John Wick. Chapter One.

A/N: It’s been so long I’ve almost forgotten how this website works. Okay, this has been sitting in my drafts for like three months and I’ve only written this part ‘cause I’m terrible at keeping up with stuff BUT I’m going to try to get this done. There won’t be a specific “update day” cause my life’s a mess and when I’m not working I’m doing uni stuff but I’ll try to get some time to write the next chapters (and the requests I have left oh my god I’m so sorry). The next update may come next week or in a couple of months, only God knows. However, I hope you enjoy 💖. This is kind of a shitty chapter too, I don’t know what else to say, don’t expect much from me ‘cause I don’t wanna disappoint you guys.

Summary: Road trip around Italy yay!

Word Count: 2,007

Warnings: None.

“Look at this.” you said with your eyes glued to the laptop screen. The web of AirItalia was on display before you. You pointed at one the cheaper flights while John stood behind you, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look at the screen.

“Mhm, that’s a good one but, baby, you know money isn’t a problem.” He kissed the top of your head and you leaned into the back of the chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I know but you always pay. Makes me feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” You turned your head to look at him pouting your lips and making him laugh lightly. “But you’re not doing it. Just pick the one you like the most. I know you want this to be perfect.” You sighed resuming your task. You knew it was impossible for you to win his fight, it was like talking to a concrete wall when it came to money stuff.

You had been meaning to go on vacation together for a couple of months but every time the plane tickets were booked something came up; family emergencies or last minute work calls, forcing you to postpone your little vacay yet another time. However, this time you took care of everything. You made sure to convince your boss to free your schedule for a month, those years of hard work finally paying off. John called Winston to let him know he was going to take a month off, asking him to let administration know so no contracts were sent his way during that time. It was going to be perfect. You were planning to drive all over Italy, visiting all the important cities and discovering all those little romantic villages you saw in films. The thought of John speaking italian made you squirm on your seat.

He barely kept up with the plans you made, you were the one in control this time. You wanted to take him to cute intimate restaurants, wear summer dresses that you knew would drive him crazy, kiss him under the string lights hung on the streets, get wine drunk and tease him under the table. You also wanted to share with him one of the things you loved the most: art. Going to one of the most artistic countries was like a dream came true for you and, considering the fact that he loved seeing you enjoy things, he was going to be the happiest man ever.

The trip started in Milan, you would go east to Venice, then down to Bologna, Florence, Pisa, Siena, Rome, Napoli, Capri and finishing in Sardegna. It was going to be the perfect vacation. You had made a list with places to visit and restaurants with good reviews that you wouldn’t let him see, saying everything had to be a surprise. Actually, he only got to choose the hotel and the rental car.

Weeks passed by and excitement creeped its way through your body, infecting John each day that passed. The only thought on his mind was the fact that he got to spend the whole month exploring a new country - yes, he had been in Italy before but only for business so it didn’t really count - with the girl he was in love with. For someone like him, who had lacked the presence of an emotional connection with someone and the freedom of doing what he wanted his whole life, this was a big deal. This came to show that even John Wick could have at least a glimpse of what everyone had: a normal life.

“C'mon! We’re gonna be late!” you said from downstairs, your creaking voice eliciting a loud laugh that came from their bedroom. You cleared her throat while suppressing a giggle yourself “You won’t be laughing so hard after I come up there and beat your ass, Mr. Wick!”

He laughed even harder while he walked down the stairs with a couple of suitcases. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” His hair, still wet and in need of a light comb, fell on his face as he put their luggage on the floor.

“Well now I know why it took you so long. Who gave you the right to be this handsome?” You put one arm over his shoulder while you reached with your other hand to pull away some of the strands that were still over his face. His arms snuck around your waist as he pressed you flush against his chest.

“I don’t know I guess they put too much "handsome” in the mix when they made me.“ He smiled cheekily while leaning down to kiss your lips sweetly.

Your heart fluttered, it always did. His soft lips and the light scratch of his beard on her face made you fall in love more and more each time you kissed. You turned the sweet kiss into a more passionate one, lightly biting his lower lip and tangling your hands in his hair. You got a low grunt as an answer. He knew where you were going and if he obliged you would totally miss the plane. He tried to push you away but you held onto his shoulders

"Just a quickie.” you mumbled against his lips as you grabbed the hem of his shirt and started lifting it.

“Baby, we’re going to miss the plane, remember?” He pulled away and looked at your pouting face, chuckling to himself. “Let’s go.” He said as he opened the door and held it for you.

You reluctantly grabbed your suitcase and walked out towards the taxi that was waiting for you.

The ride to the airport was quiet. John knew you were mad. Well, not mad, irritated. You had your arms crossed and was looking out the window, not even bothering to look at him when he put his hand on your thigh. He chuckled earning a quizzical look from you

“What are you laughing about?” You said. Your tone was stern but he knew it was getting hard to keep yourself mad at him.

“I know why you’re mad at me.” His hand started trailing up your leg. You squirmed under his touch. You hated to admit it but the effect he had on you was pretty obvious. You struggled to keep your face straight and your voice steady.

“Then tell me why.” You teased. He leaned closer to you, making sure the driver couldn’t hear what he was about to say

“Trust me when I say there wasn’t anything I wanted to do more than to fuck you against the front door, but then we would’ve missed the plane and that would have made me so, so sad because, you see, I’m really, really looking forward to fuck you all around Italy.” You sucked in a sharp breath, your thighs tensed at the words that left his mouth which was now curled in a mischievous smile as his hand creeped dangerously closer to your crotch, almost gracing it. You gulped, your brain trying to send the signals to make you speak

“Don’t start anything you won’t be able to finish.” You said as you put your hand over his and moved it away. Your eyes looked into his daringly and he looked away while he let out a loud laugh, startling the taxi driver.

“Baby, you’re playing with fire and trust me when I say you’re gonna get burned.” He said breathlessly after the laughter stopped.

The flight was long and dreadful. Your legs were sore, his back hurt like hell and jet lag was a bitch. All you wanted was to arrive at the hotel and sleep for two days straight. Instead you waited and waited for your luggage to come out on the conveyor belt in baggage claim and then you waited a little more to pick up the car you had rented. Finally it was your turn and John walked up to the counter. You could make out some italian words as you heard him speak but you were too tired to think about how sexy it sounded, you just wanted him to end with the talking and to get you both the hell out of there. It was ten o'clock in the morning, the sun was shining bright and you raised your hand to shield your eyes as you regretted packing your sunglasses in your stupid suitcase. Meanwhile, John mocked you and danced around while he put his black rayban on.

“Where did you get all that energy from’” you said as you struggled to drag your suitcase through the parking lot.

“We’re in Milan baby!” He ran to you and kissed you sweetly, his excitement was obvious and, although he had never been so tired, it felt good to be far from home on a new adventure.

It didn’t take you long to get to the hotel. Well, you wouldn’t know since you fell asleep the second your ass was sitting on the car seat. John just chuckled quietly and turned on the radio to have something to listen to so he wouldn’t fall asleep too. He parked in the hotel’s parking and walked around the car to open the passenger’s door. He shook you softly and your eyes opened slowly.

“Baby, wake up, we’re here.” The only response he got was a tired groan as you got out of the car and walked to the trunk to pick up your suitcase, his hand snatching it from you as soon as you grabbed ahold of it. “I got it.” he said as he smiled sweetly at you.

John walked up to the counter, once again, and spoke italian, again. The concierge gave him the key to your room and you wasted no time dragging John behind as you rushed to the elevator. When he opened the door with the magnetic card you eyes widened at the sight before you. There was a huge living-room decorated with ebony furniture that, mixed with the flowery carpeted floor and green sofa, gave it all a forest-like ambiance. A huge bouquet of flowers was placed in the small table in front of the sofa and the enormous windows allowed light to illuminate each corner of the room. To the left there was a huge king sized bed with white silky sheets that screamed for you to take the nap you were so desperately needing. To the right there was a white marble bathroom with a huge bathtub that, although you couldn’t see, you knew it was a jacuzzi. There also was a big window that allowed you to look down at the city (or the city to look up at you) when you were having your lovey-dovey moments in the tub.

You turned to look back at John who had a cheeky grin planted on his face “do you like it?” he asked already knowing the answer.

“Are you kidding? It’s perfect!” You squealed while jumping into his arms and kissing his face all over “You’re the best!”

John giggled as he carried you to the bed and set you down softly, his hair falling to his face as he hovered over you. The laughter stopped and you looked at each other, your gazes full of love and adoration. He leaned down, his lips softly gracing yours and making your heartbeat speed up. You leaned up and smashed your mouth against his. He grunted and returned the kiss with the same passion, tongues meeting and teeth clashing together. Your hands were all over his body, tugging at the soft fabric of his t-shirt and scratching his back. He moaned into your mouth as your hand reached his crotch, rubbing him through his pants. You grinned at the sound and suddenly pulled away brushing your untamed hair with your hands.

“I think I’m gonna get some sleep.” You faked a yawn and scurried out of bed to put on you pajamas. John looked at you incredulously as he stifled a laugh.

“Wanna play nasty? You’ll see.”

____

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#john wick #john wick imagine #john wick fic #john wick oc #john wick x reader #john wick au #keanu reeves x reader #john wick headcanon #road trip #my writing

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theaterdisneynerdsunite · 4 years

Text

A (Controversial) Ranking Of 2010’s 10 Tony Winning Best Musicals

Remember when I thought this blog would be full of original theater content? Oops. Anyways here’s my list. Keep in mind some of these were incredibly close. I kept switching around 7/8, 5/6, and 3/4, but this is what I ultimately settled on. There’s a certain placement that I’m sure a lot of people are going to say is way too low, I’m not saying this is the definitive ranking or “correct”, just my personal opinion based on my individual taste. There are a bunch of musicals from this decade that I love that didn’t win the Tony, but that’s an entirely separate list lol.

10: Memphis

Tbh I know nothing about this show. It could be fantastic, but I’ve never heard the soundtrack, know nothing about it, and am unfortunately unable to listen to the soundtrack until 2020. Nothing against Memphis, I just don’t know anything about it which is why I put it at the bottom

9: Dear Evan Hansen

Put down your pitchforks. This is why I put controversial in the title. I’ve listened to this show multiple times, I’ve read the plot a bunch of times, I’ve had DEH Stan’s try to change my mind, I really, really wanted to like this show. The actors are incredibly talented and have great voices, no complaints there. I have anxiety and other mental health conditions and I was ecstatic at hearing about a show getting popular being about those things. I wanted to like this show. I wanted to connect to Evan, I really did, but the way the story is written makes me deeply uncomfortable with what it says about mental illness, and the music is fine but doesn’t distract from the story for me. It’s sort of generic music wise in my opinion. The way they portray both Connor’s and Evan’s characters makes me actively dislike the show, and it is really, really hard to make me actively dislike a show. I feel ambivalent sometimes, I have mixed feelings sometimes, but I actively dislike this show and that almost never happens. Also NPATGCO1812’s score and staging was phenomenal, Come From Away was sentimental and moving without feeling corny, and Groundhog Day surprised me by being better than I expected. I literally preferred every other show in the category from that year, I know a lot of people love it and that’s great but this is where it falls for me.

8. Once

I love the song Falling Slowly, and I think the actors dancing with instruments on stage was really cool. I think it was one of the first times it was done on Broadway, but I’m not sure. Other than the plot being a bit contrived and flat for me, there’s nothing I really dislike about this show. I just...feel nothing about this show. It’s fine, the music is good background study music, it just didn’t leave much of an impression for me.

7. Book of Mormon

So the songs in this show are absolute bops, and some of the wordplay is fantastic. I can appreciate this show for what it was trying to do. But ultimately, this show comes down to the humor, and you either like this style of humor or you don’t. I never personally found South Park to be my taste in humor. If you like South Park, you’re going to love this show. Even though I don’t find South Park funny, there were parts of this show I laughed at. But there were also parts that I cringed at and the cringe parts increased in hindsight. The songs are my favorite part: Hello, Sal Tlay Ka Siti, Turn it Off, Baptize Me, Mostly Me, I love those songs.

6. Fun Home

This show may have three Alison’s, which are all really good, but it felt like two plots to me. There is the story of Alison and her relationship with her father, and there’s the story of Alison’s self discovery and realizing her identity. These stories intertwine, but I personally find the self discovery and realizing her sexuality story much more interesting and compelling, and I also prefer the songs that are a part of that journey. Ring of Keys and Changing My Major are my favorite songs from the cast album. I read the graphic novel and it seems like it is really true to the spirit of the book. This and Memphis are the only ones I haven’t seen or seen a bootleg of, so I’m not really able to comment on the costumes, acting, choreography, setting etc, but for the most part I like what I’ve heard.

5. Band’s Visit

Another show that really comes down to taste. I liked this show when I saw it, the person who came with me didn’t. Part of the point of the show is rather than go to a big exciting city, they end up in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere in a desert where nothing happens. There are multiple songs dedicated to how nothing happens. And there are a bunch of mini story arcs with varying degrees of focus put on them, the focus shifts to much for anything to really happen. Which is the point, and it’s interesting, you just have to know what you’re in for. It feels like Waiting for Godot set to music, which if you like waiting for Godot like I do is a good thing. The romances are sweet. It feels like it should be in a more intimate off broadway setting, but I like it. The music is hit or miss for me, but the hits nail it out of the park. I like a lot of the songs but I love Omar Sharif, I could listen to it on repeat for hours.

4. Kinky Boots

This show is absolutely fantastic and I love everything about it. The fact that it’s at #4 for me was a shock, because this show is so good. This shows how strong the top of the list is in my opinion, because this show knocks it out of the park. This show has so much heart and sole. The costumes, especially for the drag queens, are stunning, the choreography like the boxing match and the conveyor belt dance are really cool, the acting is phenomenal, and the songs. The songs are so good. If they want to make you laugh they make you laugh, if they want to make you cry they make you cry, if they want to make you dance along belting out at the top of your lungs they are going to make you do that. Seriously, this show is so good.

3. Gentlemen’s Guide to Love and Murder

This just barely edged out Kinky Boots, because I feel like most people like and appreciate Kinky Boots, and I feel like Gentleman’s Guide is severely underrated and ranking it higher is going to let me talk about it even longer. This show isn’t as deep as Kinky Boots but it doesn’t try to be. What this show is, and why I think it’s underrated, is pure comedy. There are a lot of comedic Best Musicals sure, but the comedy is only part of it, but this one is wholeheartedly a comedy, which I feel is kind rare. A lot of things have comedy but it seems like not many are straight up comedy anymore. And the thing is... I’m not usually a fan of straight up comedy, like there are very few straight comedy movies that I enjoy, so the fact that I love this so much when I expected to only like it makes it even better. And as much as I call it a pure comedy, it’s got beautiful love song, great commentary, and a couple of twists that are fun even though you see them coming. The murders are really creative and funny. The characters are great, I love the gag with the Dysquiths where all of the murdered people are played by one actor. The acting, costume quick changes, and everything involved in pulling it off is so cool. I love the songs so much, I don’t think there’s a weak one in the bunch. And one scene may have one of my favorite bits of choreography of all time. It only needs three people, a doorframe and a chair. It’s not flashy or involves a million moving pieces like the costume bit does, but it is ingenious in its simplicity and comedic timing. This show seems largely forgotten by people, maybe because it’s not trying to be deep, but it 100% deserves more love than it gets.

2. Hadestown

If Gentleman’s Guide is one of the funniest shows I’ve ever seen, this is one of my favorite modern cast albums. This also hits a lot of my personal interests, so that definitely helps. I love Greek mythology, I love the anachronistic but also roaring 20’s setting, I love the genres of music they pull from, I love the oral tradition storytelling feel it has, it hits so many of my stylistic favorites that I naturally feel pulled towards it. I love the music, if you asked me to pick my top five, no top ten songs from this show I couldn’t do it. The casting fits the characters perfectly, and the songs match the characters so well. The lyrics are fantastic and the themes are both timeless and incredibly relevant. It feels like it was written in the past year or two, especially the song Why we Build the Wall, but it was written way before ‘Build the wall’ was ever a thing. And the design of the show is so incredibly effective, everything contributes to the feel of the piece and the function of the show. Everything seems so well thought out and crafted, from the costumes to the choreography to the script to the music, there is so much attention to detail and is so intricately tied together even though it feels simple, earnest and straightforward. Which to me is an incredibly difficult needle to thread. Like the famous Dolly Parton quote “it takes a lot of work to look this cheap”, it is such a complex show that looks so simple. And it’s so immersive, you fall into the story. You know how it ends, it tells you from the beginning how it ends, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling exactly what they’re feeling, from believing wholeheartedly that it could end differently despite knowing how it ends, it’s a masterful piece of art.

1. Hamilton

I doubt this comes as a surprise to anyone, even if I did technically make you Wait For It. I feel like calling it a cultural phenomenon is underselling it’s impact. There’s nothing I could possibly say about this show that hasn’t been said hundreds of thousands of times already. This show is a piece of lyrical genius, of musical genius too but a lyrical masterpiece. This show was like Rent was in the 90’s or Wicked in the 00’s, not only an instant classic that permanently affected the modern theater world, but outside of theater as well. I have loved theater long before Hamilton, but this show spoke to so many people outside of theater, made so many people fall in love with theater that wouldn’t have otherwise. It might not be my favorite show by Lin Manuel Miranda, it might not even be my personal favorite one on this list to see live, but nothing else could possibly take the top spot of this list for me. Who would have thought a hip hop inspired rap musical about a relatively ignored founding father would become the juggernaut it is. I don’t know what else to say that other people haven’t said already. It’s Hamilton, what else can I say?

#theater #broadway #top ten list #best musical #memphis #dear evan hansen #deh #once #once musical #book of mormon #fun home #band's visit #kinky boots #gentleman's guide to love and murder #gentleman’s guide #hadestown #hamilton

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eat0crow · 4 years

Text

Party Planning

This fic was Beta read by the lovely @ethelphantom . Go check out her work, she writes so well!

"Having a party?"

Bart blinks, trying his hardest to stop picking the already cracked skin around his nail. It's not like he can help it, he hates having to go to a register. Cashiers make him nervous, Bart just knows they take one look at his cart and judge every single one of his life choices. Especially during his weekly garbage binge.

Of all days for the self-checkouts to be stuck in card only mode.

"Oh," Bart says, looking up at the cashier for the first time since he got in line and—

Bart blinks again, and again, and maybe, just maybe, a third time for good measure. Who gave Walmart permission to hire models? Satan, Bart decides, looking the other boy up and down in what he hopes is a subtle gesture. He's painfully pretty, and it was definitely Satan.

Mr. Cashier is looking at him with unconcealed apathy. Bart's hands are itching to ruffle his messy hair. He doubts Mr-Pretty-Cashier will appreciate it though, so Bart focuses on tapping his foot instead of the baby, blue eyes that are…oh no—

Glaring at him.

"Yes!" Bart says, slightly panicked because what did he just agree to? Can he ask again? How do you phrase 'Sorry, I didn't catch that, I was too busy getting lost in your eyes, any chance you would repeat it? Slowly? You know, in a way my last two brain cells can process,' delicately? "Yup. You caught me. How'd you know?"

Mr. Cashier—Tim! His name tag says Tim— gestures to the conveyor belt like it should be obvious. "Wild guess."

"That obvious, huh?" Bart doesn't think it's obvious, but, then again, he misses a lot of social cues, this is probably just one of them. Before he can stop himself, or even register what he's offering, Bart's mouth is moving, and words are coming out. "You should stop by after your shift. It'll be totally awesome."

Tim's quiet for a moment, a puzzled look that's plain adorable settling over his face for a solid minute as he drags a box of Bart's favorite Pop-Tarts over the scanner. He'll have to remember to hide those, he shares the frosted strawberry ones with no man. Oh, and the creamsicle Twizzlers, those are prime real estate.

"Yeah, sure," Tim says, eyes lingering on the caramel kisses. Bart would usually horde those too, but Tim's pretty enough for him to make an exception. If he's honest, and generally Bart does try to be, Tim's pretty enough to get all the kisses. Even the non-confectionery ones. "I can come over. I get off at ten. What time are you guys starting?"

Ten is one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and God knows how many seconds away, there is no way, not in heaven, or hell, or even West Texas he can round up all his friends, explain his very big mistake, and get everything swinging in that amount of time. "Midnight?"

Midnight, midnight sounded better didn't it? Cooler than admitting to being nineteen and living in a college town with no plans on a Friday night for oh, the ever-expansive, foreseeable future.

"Midnight?" Tim lifts an eyebrow like he doesn't believe for a second that Bart's the type to stay out past the bus turn over, which, fair. Night buses are terrible, and second shift is the absolute last shift anyone should ever use public transportation on.

"Yup." There's no going back now, Bart's dug his own grave and this is his favorite Walmart, or, at least the closest one. He's not going to drive an extra twenty minutes just to escape his shame. No this is much simpler. "It's going to be a rave, so bring your best Kandi."

If possible, Tim's eyebrow goes even higher as he gives Bart a thorough once over, not bothering to pretend to be subtle about it. His expression settles into something that resembles incredulity. Bart understands, he does!

His Nasa pajamas and Gotham University hoodie do little to capture the aesthetic of a true raver. Mostly because he has, in fact, never attended a rave, let alone hosted one. Bart likes raves though, they're fast enough, chaotic enough, to match the pace his brain usually works at.

Bart also likes Kandi. Kandi is cute and making it has just enough sensory stimulation to keep him invested. He's made a lot of Kandi over the years, he's kept it, too. Which will be a blessing when he extorts his friends into coming over and dressing up in the name of getting him a date.

There are so many worse causes than the Single-Twink-Bart-Allen foundation. So many.

Tim rings up his total, then looks over his shoulder, and very deliberately stands in front of the camera, effectively blocking the view of the register with his back. He brings a finger to his lips, the side of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly as he swipes a green card through the reader.

"Wow." The total goes down by thirteen dollars fifty-six cents, and if Tim's looks hadn't already sold Bart, his magical discount card would have. "Wait," Bart says, remembering himself. "Won't you get in trouble for doing that?"

Tim shrugs. "Consider it my contribution to the party you're letting me crash."

"Pretty sure you can't crash a party you're invited to," Bart says, loading his groceries into his cart. He's just about to leave, the lady behind him has sighed no less than three times in the last minute, yes he's counted, and there's a line forming behind her, but, well—"You mind giving me your number? So I can text you the address—my address—for the party."

"I was wondering how you expected me to get there," Tim laughs. It's an unfairly attractive laugh, Bart's poor gay heart really can't take it. "Fortunately." And this time, when Tim reaches out, handing a folded receipt over to Bart, there's a smirk on his lips. "I already wrote my number down. Text me."

"Yeah," Bart says, dumbly, because Tim's smirk firmly killed one of his last two brain cells, and the sole survivor is trying and failing to revive its friend. "Yeah, I'll text you! Come by whenever."

Bart makes it exactly five feet out into the parking lot before he realizes that he never told the pretty cashier his name.

---

He's proud that he makes it a whole two minutes thirty-two seconds before calling Conner.

This might not seem impressive, but he managed to check his mirrors and buckle his seat belt before freaking out. Safety first, crisis later.

Conner picks up on the third ring.

"Conner? Conner! Listen, I know this is crazy, but you know I am a very, very weak gay, and this is nowhere near the most desperate thing I've done in the name of my non-existent love life. I met this cute cashier today, and he's coming over a later, so I need you to call as many of our friends as possible and get them to come over, we're throwing a rave and not above blackmail."

-----

Also! As it stands now this is a completed one shot that will not be added to, like wise, I wont be doing a tag list for this.

#crow writes #hummingbird #Tim Drake/Bart Allen #young justice #yj #impulse #robin #Tim Drake #bart allen #one shot

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falseroar · 5 years

Text

Goretober Day 22: Broken Glass

((Day 22 of @purple-anxiety-blog‘s Goretober prompts. Took a bit of liberty with this one, mainly so I could use it as a follow-up for Day 17: Chains, aka the one where Y/N gets abducted by a serial killer. Hey, remember that one story I wrote where the DA took over for Y/N for a night, because technically they share a same body but have different consciousnesses/memories? Yeah, that kind of comes up. Also, this one is rough, even though I tried to skim over the worst parts.

Warnings: Mainly implications here. Stabbing/threat of knife, torture, person bound against will and drugged, broken bones, attempted murder))

John waited for the scream to end before speaking again. “You’re not going to go quiet on me now, are you Y/N? I’m sure you must know something about Abe and the other man.”

He grabbed you and pulled down again, causing the chains supporting your weight to send a fresh fire down your arms and shoulders. “Or do you want a little taste of what I’m going to do to you first? Because after the hell they put me through, I have so many ideas what to do with Abe’s precious partner before he gets here.”

You could barely string two thoughts together, thanks to whatever the detective had put into your coffee. Despite the pain, despite your fear, it still pressed down on your skull, threatening to pull you back under again. As much as you wanted to escape this nightmare, there might be no waking up again.

You took a breath of the stale, oily air in the dark warehouse and gasped as the blade in John’s hand rasped against your ribs, in time to the fresh spasm of pain lancing through your back with just the effort it took to breathe. Despite the darkness, broken only by a light outside, you could see the black edges of your vision creeping in, threatening to drown out everything else.

“Abe—” You gasped as the blade found you again, unable to finish the thought.

But John was more than willing to pick it up for you. “Will come and save you? Please, I’ve seen his track record. As for the other one, well, I’ve got a few safeguards. Ever heard of a dead man’s switch?”

You didn’t dare speak again, and John didn’t wait long for a response. “Let’s just say, if I were to suddenly stop breathing, well, you won’t live long enough to know what happens next. Not that any of this ends with you walking out of here alive.”

John grabbed your shirt and pulled you closer, the chain overhead rattling in the darkness. “They took everything from me, they tortured me and then left me in the hands of my former colleagues to rot away the rest of my life.”

Were you supposed to feel sorry for him? Exposed for the murderer that he was? He killed one of the other officers, his own partner Sam had spent 72 hours missing and he looked you right in the eye and told you he could have stopped it at any time. And you’d comforted him when he cried to you about it, no clue what he really meant.

The pain began to recede along with everything else around you, even the point of the knife becoming a distant concern as your control and consciousness slipped away. Not to the drugs, not to the pain, but to a deep, bottomless well of anger.

“Thing is, I have nothing to lose,” John said with a laugh, a humorless sound closer to tears or a snarl than an actual laugh. “But they still have so much left to take away, and we only have so much time to do it in. So if you’re not going to play along—”

“…I’ll talk.”

The rasp of a heavy object being dragged across the concrete floor filled the silence before a box of some kind beneath the feet eased the weight on the chains overhead. John stepped up onto his own platform, putting him on the same level as the face before him. If he heard a change in the voice or sensed anything different about the person hanging before him, John made no sign of it. Instead he smiled, teeth and blade catching the little light in the warehouse as he spoke. “What was that?”

Sam had been defiant to the end. Others before them had tried to reason with the killer, to plea for mercy where there was none.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

The District Attorney would speak, and give him a name for everything he would learn to fear.

---

John paused and sighed.

“Again?”

There was no response from the body hanging in front of him, and after a moment’s consideration, he reared back and kicked the box out beneath their feet. A strained gasp erupted from the District Attorney as a fresh wave of pain lanced through their shoulders, feet desperately reaching for anything to take the weight off.

Even these movements were sluggish. Just as John was considering how best to infuse some new, if short, life into this little game, a clang came from a distant corner of the warehouse. He could hear the hushed whisper cut off too soon and knew there was someone else here now.

Finally.

“Didn’t hurry, did you?” he called out, his voice echoing in the large space. “I was starting to think your little friend and I would have the whole time to ourselves. What about you, Y/N?”

The only response from them was a raspy breath. Throat raw and dry from talking for as long as John was willing to listen to their little ghost story, and then after that from all of the screaming. He really should have paced himself better, but they reminded him so much of Sam. It made him want to snap their neck.

The crack of iron striking iron was the response from the darkness, and John chuckled. Planning and setting those traps had been a good use of his time after all.

And then the second trap triggered, the crash of barrels slipping their bonds and banging on every step down from the upper balcony until they spilled their contents all over the floor. The smell of gasoline filled the air, but John saw no sign of a body among those barrels.

He did, however, hear the crash of a steel girder striking the floor, just above the main entrance, and then another trap went off behind him.

Just as John spun around to face the detective, or perhaps the other man, the Host they had called him, there was a snap and crackle of electricity before light flooded the warehouse, temporarily blinding him. Without hesitation, John lashed out and hit the nearby switch that sent the conveyor overhead into life. With a jolt, the chains began to move down the line, taking their burden with them toward the large machine that stood between yourself and the incinerator. After all, scrap metal needed to be condensed down before it reached the fire, hence the metal plates that clanged together at regular intervals. It didn’t take much imagination to consider what it would do to a human body.

With one hand on the waist at roughly eye level, John followed along, waiting for his eyes to adjust even as he called out in a singsong voice, “Oh, A-abe, come out and pla-ay! Or at least say goodbye to one more partner before they go.”

A bullet ricocheted off of the warehouse floor near John’s feet and he looked up at where it came from, in time to see the familiar face ducking behind a crate. Even with his not yet fully adjusted eyes, he could see the detective trying to stealth his way closer, while still sticking out like the fool he was.

“Not sure you want to do that, Abe,” John said. “Shooting me would be so easy, but, well, if my heart rate stops then so does your precious partner’s. The signal connecting me to the device dies, so do they. I let go of this button, and you let go of any chance you have of saving them.”

With that, he raised his hand, showing off the band on his wrist, and the wire running up to his thumb. Its mate was on your back, where even such a small explosive would be enough to finish the rest.

Which is why John could only laugh when another bullet missed his face and uselessly struck the machine behind him. Even accounting for his movement backwards, the shot was awful.

“I don’t know how I could have made that any clearer! Do you want to kill Y/N that badly? Or do you not know how to do anything but shoot at your problems?”

Really, he had expected more, even from Abe.

“Signal acquired.”

John lurched around, sure that he had heard the voice of the Host, but there was no one there.

The body on the chains moved slightly, and behind him John heard the dry, cracked voice, although with the ring of the gun still echoing in his ears it took him a second to recognize the sound.

They were laughing.

John turned back to face them, the stained knife in his other hand turning up to stop that sound, to do it while the worthless detective watched—

Only for his hand to stop short, a grip so tight around his wrist that he felt something snap as the knife fell to the ground. Cold seeped in to his body, starting at the wrist and flooding his veins as the light in the warehouse began to seep away, drained by the growing darkness of the…thing standing behind him.

John could not see what held him, not clearly, but he could hear the whispers, the crack and groan of something not fully contained as the very air strained and flickered with energy.

“Da—” he started, only to scream as the broken wrist twisted behind him.

Over his shuddering breaths, the figure behind him leaned in close and whispered, “If we wanted you dead, we would have brought Wilford. He, at least, knows the meaning of the word mercy. I cannot say the same for myself.”

John screamed again and tried to pull away from the spreading shadows, his thumb feverishly pressing the switch but with no reaction. He glanced at your body, saw Abe lifting you up as another man, much like the monster behind him but so very not, pulled the chains around your wrists off of the hook overhead.

Catching his stare, the android removed the small device taped to your back with a smile. Despite John’s efforts, even as his ripped his switch off with his teeth and let it drop without a contact to keep it going, the light on the small explosive continued to blink, very much armed and ready.

A light that blinked in unison with the ‘G’ on the android’s shirt, as he turned over the device with a professional curiosity. “Crude, but effective. Assuming, of course, the signal to detonate is not hijacked and mimicked.”

“John Booth flails desperately, searching for any escape as Darkiplier’s aura surrounds him, but there is no release from the darkness. There will be no timer to countdown the end of his punishment,” said a voice he was already intimately familiar with, the narration that had mocked and tormented him once before but now sounded empty and tired.

John’s screams continued, but Abe could care less as he held his partner’s body, as his legs gave out beneath him and he sank to the ground, tears streaming freely down his face.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again, barely sensible of the android leaning overhead to scan your injuries.

“Y/N is still alive but has lost a lot of blood. Muscle and nerve damage also detected. Dr. Iplier has been notified and is making preparations for treatment now.”

He could hear the Host and Dark talking, arguing maybe, but if there was any blame to go around Abe had no doubt exactly where it lay as he apologized over and over again.

“Tried to…protect…”

The voice was so faded that Abe was sure he was the only one who heard it, and even then it took a second to register. “Yeah, yeah, we tried to protect you, but we should have told you—”

They shook their head slightly, but even that small movement was enough to make a shudder run through their body. “Thought…could keep them…safe…”

They took a shuddering breath and for the first time their eyes flickered open. Abe saw the sharp edge of broken glass, the brief, painful anger in the District Attorney’s eyes, felt the shard pierce his heart as he realized what had happened. How the District Attorney, the one who remembered, had stepped in to protect you from another memory that could splinter and shatter any mind or soul.

“I was wrong.”

But broken glass was still fragile, could break again just as easily.

He felt the twitch in their shoulders as they tried and failed to reach out with a torn and numb hand as he pulled them closer. Felt the sobs shaking their body as Dark’s aura spread to take everyone back to the house, to the infirmary for help too late in coming, the Host silent as his narration failed to provide comfort.

Felt their tears become yours before the pain and drugs overwhelmed you once again. Felt your breath as you whispered his name.

Felt his heart break.

#markiplier #fanfiction #wkm district attorney #wkm detective #serial killer #torture #blood #broken glass #angst #i'm so sorry

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phantom-soldat · 5 years

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Meeting Sebastian Stan.

This is not an opportunity I ever expected to have, at least not anytime soon. When he was first announced to be a guest at MCM Comic Con (London, May 2019) I had a bunch of people tagging me in the announcement post. Sebastian is an actor that means a lot to me - He’s caring and has struggled with a lot of the same things that I struggle with; from anxiety to depression, and generally being a bit lost in the world. We’ve all seen the posts of him commenting on fan’s posts, giving them advice while simultaneously putting more positivity and support into the world. For this reason, and more, he is incredibly inspiring and important to me. I aspire to be as supportive, caring, loving, goofy and giving as this man.

So, when he was announced, I knew I had to meet him. For me, it wasn’t an option: I had to. It was simply too important for me not to.

One thing I had wanted to do before I met him was get a tattoo of the Winter Soldier, however, due to money issues and time, etc, I had never had the opportunity to get one before comic con. Until comic-con. Another opportunity came up when MCM announced that they were having tattoo artists at the convention, and so I booked in with a lovely lady by the name of Laura, from Empire INK in Edinburgh. Thankfully, I managed to save up enough money for the tattoo - Through both selling possessions and saving up money from my day-job.

She was absolutely lovely and great with communicating the design I had in mind. I wanted something to match the other tattoos on the opposite arm; a portrait, with his signature at the bottom (on my opposite arm I have a Hela portrait). The Bucky tattoo would be on my left inner forearm, covering self-harm scars with something - someone/a character - that means so much to me. Bucky, much like myself, has been through a lot of mental issues. He’s lost, finding his way, but despite all of the issues he’s had? He’s made it through it all, he’s continued fighting despite all of the challenges he’s faced... and that’s something I can remind myself: I can fight and get through the challenges I face. I will survive, and have survived. The significance of this tattoo, and getting Sebastian to sign it, was and is extremely important to me.

Which leads to the first picture.

First picture. So, on the first day of comic-con (the Friday) Sebastian wasn't there. This was the day I booked in for a full-day session for my tattoo. Laura, my artist, was absolutely ecstatic as she’s also a fan of the guy, and was super pumped to find out that Sebastian would be seeing her work. The session lasted for, roughly, seven hours with only one five-minute break for both my artist and I to have something to eat. During the course of the tattoo, the MCM staff came up to view the process of the tattoo; the security were very excited about it, and got the media team to come down to the section of the hall where all of the tattoo artists were. It was all very exciting, talking to them was lovely - They were all so supportive, kind and frequently returned throughout the course of the day to see the process. Alas, the media team turned up and took a few photos: One of which winded up on the MCM social media sites: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter. Both Laura and I freaked out, it was getting a lot of attention.

Second/third picture. Saturday came around fairly quickly. This was the day where I would try to get my autograph - The day I HAD to get it, as to not disturb the healing process of my tattoo. I was dressed as Wakanda Bucky that day, deciding to cosplay something more comfortable due to both the pain from my arm, the hot weather, and the fact that I couldn’t restrict my arm in tight costumes.

Before the convention, I had put together a little gift-box for Sebastian to give back to him the love, care and gratitude he gives to his fans. Inside, there was a Winter Soldier book (Civil War) that I had made him; personalised on the inside to, firstly, look like it held Winter Soldier documents which lead on to messages I had collected from fans. All stories about how he had changed their lives for the better, how he had made a positive impact on the world. I included other gifts, too, like a t-shirt (that says ‘Straight Outta Cryo’, much like his ‘Straight Outta Romania’ shirt), some drawings of mine, a Bucky, Nat and Sam tsum-tsum and a little lego figurine of Bucky.

So, with the box in my arms, I waited for about an hour and a half in the autograph queue. Although I missed his panel, it was worth it, because I knew that if I had attended that I would only spend more time waiting, and less time with my friends later on.

While waiting in the queue, I was alone and full of anxiety. This was a big moment for me. I’d actually see him. Meet him. Something I’d been waiting for years and years to have the opportunity for. People were trying to snag sneaky pictures of him: going on their friends shoulders just to get a peak of the infamous Seb Stan.

Eventually, it was my turn to walk up to the table where he was signing. Due to the sheer amount of people that were there, it was very rushed, for they wanted to get through as many people as possible: I knew this going in, and so I’d been going over and over what I’d say to him in my head. With a smile, he greeted me; it was clear that he was tired, having flown in the previous morning and hadn’t stopped working since. Rumour has it he worked through his breaks to continue meeting fans - between the photo-ops, the panels and the signings he must have been really exhausted, with jet-lag on top of that, and so I felt really bad for the guy.

In brief words I explained my gift to him, and he smiled and let out a laugh upon hearing what the t-shirt said. At the time he didn’t open the box, because it was simply too busy to do so and the convention staff were pushing him to continue going through as many people as he could. In the panel I had missed, or the panel the next day (I can’t remember which one) I believe he referenced this and said how he wished he could spend more time with us all, and talk to us all properly. I still treasure every second I got to spend with him, though, because as previously stated, it was a moment that is extremely close to heart, and I know a lot of people wouldn’t have had this opportunity (this was also why I gathered fan messages, so that I could give him something from them in-case they never do have this opportunity).

The convention staff got me to show him what I wanted signed: Most people brought posters, or pop-vinyls, but I showed him my arm and said I’d like my wrist tattooed. He delicately held my hand and arm as he signed it, and then I was on my way once I had thanked him.

Afterwards, I immediately called up my bestfriend and burst into tears. I had met him. I had thanked him. I had given him a gift and, now, I would have his autograph on me forever, knowing that I have a very personal reminder to myself: I can do this. Whatever ‘this’ is, I can do it.

Due to the overwhelming emotions I was having, the busy crowds, the heat, and the pain and toll the tattoo session the previous day had caused me, I did have quite a big panic-attack. During this time, I had to go outside and get some fresh air, but my best-friend stayed on the phone with me and calmed me down - I am eternally grateful for his friendship and support, and for moments like these when he helps ground me back to reality.

This leads on to the next photo; where, once I’d had some fresh air, a drink and some food, I went back inside to get the signature tattooed. Once again, Laura and I freaked out over it, and I told her all about it excitedly as she finished up tattooing the autograph and shading around it. She even went back over the little red star at the top of my wrist, which Seb had signed over. Laura did an amazing job with the tattoo, and worked the signature into it flawlessly. I can’t thank her enough.

Sunday. This was the day that my photo-op was booked (that was an entire process of its own. Tickets sold out within 2-3 minutes - I am so, SO thankful that I managed to snag one). Much like the autograph process, the MCM staff were trying to get through as many people as possible, and so the entire thing was very ‘click and go’. Generally, this is the case with photo-ops at conventions - It’s less personal, more of a ‘capture the moment’ type of thing.

On this day, I was dressed as Black Widow from The Winter Soldier. It wasn’t the best costume I have ever worn, admittedly, but I was excited for my photo-op none the less. My costume broke on the way to the con, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me, and once again I was waiting in a long line for one last moment with Sebastian.

I knew that he likes Bucky and Natasha’s relationship in the comics, and that he would’ve liked them to be together in the movies. This is a ship that I also sail, along with Stucky, but I thought that being Nat would be a lot better as it’s also something that he enjoys. I actually managed to capture a sneaky video on my phone of me approaching him during the photo-op. They were very strict about no-photos apart from the one you paid for, which I understand, but at the same time, this was too important for me not to try and grab sneaky videos, etc. So I did. Sue me. (Please don’t, I’m going to be a poor student soon).

As I approached him during the photo-op, he looked a lot less tired, which I was thankful to see. He greeted me with a smile once more, and I showed him my finished tattoo - I kind of stood my ground and spoke to him very briefly before the photo-op was taken. Most people were conveyor belted through their sessions with him, but I was determined to show him the finished product. With a smile and an expression somewhat akin to awe, he said that it was amazing. We soon moved onto talking about what I wanted for the photo-op, and it took a split second for us both to get into position.

I wanted to look as if we were dancing romantically, as Natasha has a history of ballet. The final photo in the post was my photo-op, and I couldn’t be happier with it. It was a very full-on weekend, but I enjoyed every second of it.

Thank you MCM for giving me, and others, the opportunity to meet such an amazing man. Thank you Sebastian for flying all the way to London to take the time to meet your fans in England. Thank you Laura, for being an amazing tattoo-artist and for the nerdy talks we had during my tattoo session, and for giving me a piece of work on my art that is very, very treasured to me; and, finally, thank you to all of my friends for supporting and loving me, for continuously encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone and to keep on fighting.

And continue fighting on I will, just like Bucky.

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sabraeal · 5 years

Text

In Plain Sight

Obiyuki AU Bingo Witness Protection AU

The leader of her orientation was an older man, thin but not gaunt, dark hair peppered with gray. He spoke with the sort of firm, no-nonsense tone of her favorite professors: soft-spoken, but not timid; a man who did not have to shout to have his voice heard. His boxy suit hung off his shoulders like a coat hanger, but still he had presence, still commanded the attention of a half dozen people squeezed into a letter-box sized room.

Shirayuki had liked him, as much as she could like a man she’d knew for twelve days, and who had told her within the first hour of their acquaintance that her life, as she knew it, was over. Honestly, she’d been tempted to ask him for lecture tips; her last one had been two steps away from disaster.

The feeling, it seemed, was mutual. The last day of orientation, he called her up to his desk, leveled her with a grim gaze, and said, “Shirayuki.”

A little thrill went through her, like when her elementary school teachers had hung her work up on the wall.

“This is the last time you’ll hear your real name,” he told her. “Don’t trust anyone.”

Don’t trust anyone. An easy thing for someone to say when he could just pick up his laptop and go home to the cozy lake house on his desktop. A little harder here, in the real world, when she’s standing in the middle of the baggage carousel, trying to remember what her new suitcase even looks like.

They hadn’t even allowed her to keep her own; a nice set of travel bags with a floral motif, bought as a graduation gift by her grandparents. The last thing they’d been able to give her, aside from a mound of debt. She’d written her own will right afterwards, even though there was no one to leave anything to.

Or so she’d thought, before a US Marshal showed up at her door. Not that she’d be giving her dad anything besides a whole piece of her mind.

A cheap red suitcase barrels off the conveyor, slamming into one of the metal guards, and Shirayuki knows, with the deep-seeded resignation this whole process has so gently encouraged to bloom, that it must be hers. She reaches out, flipping the case onto it’s back, and there it is, her new initials: CR.

She sighs, lugging it off the belt. Or, at least, she would have, if she was four inches taller and had any upper body definition to speak of. Instead, she stumbles, shocked by its weight -- what did those Marshals even put in here? -- and nearly gets dragged down the belt, but --

But a hand closes around hers, deep bronze against her snowy white, and tugs. The suitcase comes off with hardly a protest, and the momentum of it swings her around, right into a solid wall of muscle wrapped in worn cotton.

“Oh,” she hiccups, staggering back a step. Her savior is -- is big. Or, well, tall, more accurately, having the six inches she so desperately needed to win her baggage struggle and more than enough bicep to spare. “T-thank you.”

Shirayuki can perceive attractiveness; it’s a skill she’s cultivated over many years, trying to feign more than a passing interest in guys her friends had swooned over. Celebrities are easier; they are airbrushed to be perfect, an easy thing to agree on, and if she watches them in enough movies, she can grow fond enough to feel that burgeoning attraction, somewhere far off and safe. But in real life, with real people, it takes a lot more than a glance in the hallway to get her rolling in that direction, and never very far.

But now she’s standing next to -- to him, and she can only assume that the people she’s known just exist somewhere at the middle of the attractive scale. Which is a logarithmic one, if this man is any indication.

It’s -- intimidating, being so close. He’s probably used to a -- a reaction by now, and all she can do is stare fretfully and know this is not the right answer.

There’s something hard in his gaze, a glint that makes his eyes shine like coins in the airport’s harsh light, and don’t trust anyone plays on endless repeat in her head, right along with anti-kidnapping assembly she had in second grade, showing her how to kick out a tail-light and wave for help --

And as quick as she’s seen it, it’s gone, glinting gold melting into amber, and the tense line of his body loosens to -- to something else, to the casual, loose-limbed confidence the jocks on campus always seemed to assume after a semester or two off the bench. His other hand clutches a sign, the name Roos scrawled out in spidery letters.

Roos. That’s her. Or it is now, at least. This man must be her escort, though he doesn’t look like any Marshal she’s ever seen.

He’s not in a suit for one, nor does he look like he’s acquainted with anything more formal than a Men’s Warehouse for weddings, wakes, and funerals. Instead a faded white tee clings to him, dark denim jeans fitted tight to his thighs and -- and thigh-adjacent assets, which feels very, ah, un-governmental this close. Every agent she’s met thus far has been freshly shaven, hair cropped short and close to the scalp, looking every inch like men who spent formative years in bootcamp. This man’s hair is a wild mass of bristle, like he just rolled out of bed and didn’t have time to brush it. Or shave for that matter, if the light five o’clock shadow is any indication.

“Hey, babe,” he says, just a little louder than is natural, slinging an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. Close enough to find out that he smells nice, like Old Spice and fabric softener. “I thought they musta lost you over Kentucky. That took nothing short of forever.”

“The flight got delayed,” she murmurs into his chest, arms stiff against his sternum. Her mind races to catch up, to try to parse this all out, but it keeps tripping over babe. No one -- she’s not -- babe? “We sat on the runway a long time, and they had that no electronics thing up --?”

“It’s all right,” he soothes, hand rubbing down her spine in a way that should feel far more invasive than it actually does. “What matters is that you’re home now.”

You’re home now. For a moment, she’s not here, not in an airport she’s never seen with people she doesn’t know, but standing in a crooked foyer, wrinkled arms wrapping her up as she tries not to trip over her bags. The scent of wood shavings and must is so strong in her nose it stings, and her breath catches, making her board-stiff in his arms.

Oh gosh, this would -- this would be a terrible time to just start bawling her eyes out.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay.” He pulls back, and when their eyes meet, his concern isn’t feigned. She might have though him harsh when she first saw him, but it’s hard to think that when his brows are drawn tight over the bridge of his nose, when his hand comes up to brush away the straggling strands of her hair that always hover at her hairline --

When he leans in, eyes at half-mast, and she -- she just tips her head back to meet him.

Their lips just miss -- his catch her just below her nose and hers just above his chin, and he inhales quick against her, surprised, and -- and, oh, he had probably not meant this, just a kiss on the forehead like an actual, concerned boyfriend would have done, and god, she is so dumb --

She jerks back, flustered, cheeks burning, but --

But she doesn’t get far.

His hand slips back, cupping the curve of her head, and for a moment she’s distracted, unable to shake the odd sensation of her hair being too short as his fingers run through it. With a move so subtle it’d seem natural if it wasn’t her head he was moving, he angles her slightly, then drags his nose over her cheek, and --

Oh.

Shirayuki has been kissed before; more often than she’d honestly care to recount. For the number of times she’s been cornered -- sometimes with a shy smile and ducked chin, sometimes with a smug smirk and unearned confidence -- she half expects she’s going around with kiss me written on her forehead. They haven’t all been bad -- not everyone’s opening maneuver is to come at her face, mouth open, like they want to eat her -- but it’s not an experience she’s sought out, not something she’s felt was necessary to put herself through, not when her feelings have been so clear to her without.

But she might have had another opinion if everyone kissed like this.

He holds her, firm enough make her confident that this is all purposeful, that she isn’t making another mistake about his intentions, but gentle enough that she knows she could pull away, put space between them. Strangely, she doesn’t feel the urge.

Instead, she leans into it, hands pressed against the worn cotton over his chest, and -- and they must be really selling this cover. It’s not just a quick press of lips, not like some of the older couples she’d seen at the baggage claim, but their mouths meet and part, not making out but -- passionate. The sort of kiss couple give when they’ve been separated for a long time.

Which -- well, if anyone of Umihebi’s goons are watching, that’s exactly what they’ll see. Just another young couple who have clearly not been in the same zip code enough.

Something quivers in her belly, makes her skin tingle where he touches, and -- oh, that’s...that’s not as hard a stretch to pretend with him than she thought it would be.

He pulls away, and for a stupid moment, her mouth chases his. He laughs, a low rumble she feels under her hands, and her eyes flutter open, meeting the mirrored lenses of his Aviators.

“I’ve missed you too,” he rasps wryly, but it’s far too quiet for any casual observer to hear.

He steps away, hefting up her bag, and grins. “C’mon.” His other arm wraps around her shoulders, steering her away from the carousel. “Let’s get you home.”

She nods, cleaving close to him, trying not to be so -- so wide-eyed, not when he’s clearly trying to seem like her boyfriend. If she’s supposed to be the kind of girl that kisses a man like that in the middle of the airport, she shouldn’t stare too.

Though maybe girls do, when guys look like him. She’s sort of new to this whole concept.

He guides her out, right into the parking garage’s artificial night, leading her to a Jeep nestled in the corner of the structure. He tosses her bag in the back, swinging in under the bars to slide into the driver’s seat, and she finally manages, “I take it you’re my, um, handler.”

His eyebrows arch over the lenses as she climbs in, using the door, and he says with a grin bordering on dangerous, “That’s really something you should have checked before you got into my car.”

Oh. Oh.

Trust no one. Agent Anda will be so disappointed.

“Relax,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Check the glove compartment.”

She does, pulling the handle down until a leather wallet falls into her lap, a much more official looking photo staring up at her. Obi Jiang.

“Oh.” The breathe whooshes out of her in relief. “Good.”

“Yeah, good. Also, for the record,” Obi says, throwing the car into gear and pulling out with a screech. “I cannot believe they let you keep the hair.”

#obiyukibingo2019 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #witness protection AU #my fic #ans #i had a ton planned for this #and then Obi TOOK OVER #and i had to keep paring down my outline to THIS #but i'm not dumb kids #i know what people will be requesting down the road #i was never going to get away with this being a one shot

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peachymhaechan · 5 years

Text

“You know, you have pretty good taste.”

Genre: fluff, a tiny bit of angst I suppose, travel!au

Pairing: Hyuck x reader

Warnings: language, my guy

A/N: i’m uploading this after junior year is finished, hell yeah!! also, happy birthday my full sun, we all love you so much!! unrelated but im trying something other than bullet point scenarios for once?? who IS she

It was four in the morning, the sun wasn’t out and the birds were not chirping. Instead, the sun was in the process of rising and all that could be heard was shitty airport music and the overpowering sound of airplanes taking off. The people passing by you were an odd mix: some passing layover time by getting drunk off their asses, some hustling to the next gate, some excited to go on vacations (Example that everyone has seen before: that middle class family of four headed to Disney World with matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse T-shirts with their names on the back) or see their families. You, however, happened to be in the group of people who had just finished vacation and were now back home, and dreadfully so. Who would want to go back to the boring and mundane after being at the beach with a group of friends for two weeks?

Taking your time to pick up your luggage, you stopped in the bathroom to pass time, as you wanted to avoid the initial rush to at the baggage claim. The first ten to fifteen minutes at the baggage claim were the worst because you had to deal with cranky tourists, crying babies, and overly loud people talking on the phone. After it felt like enough time had passed, you went to the baggage claim for your flight and waited to pick up your suitcase. It was black, with a hard exterior and no really notable qualities other than a yellow tag with your personal information written on it.

The bags all went around the conveyor belt a few times and you finally spotted your bag. Well, what you assumed to be yours; it was the exact same suitcase with a yellow tag, so there was no real need to be suspicious of anything or doublecheck the tag. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a boy who appeared to be your age grabbing a suitcase that matched yours to a T. He looked tired, like he had been running nonstop and was extremely exhausted, so you thought of complimenting his choice of travelling bags but stopped yourself. Just as you were about to leave, you felt a pair of eyes on you so you turned and found the boy with the same suitcase staring at you. He blushed at being caught but still gave you a small smile and bowing his head in a sleepy greeting. You did the same to him, giving him a small wave and saying, “You know, you have pretty good taste,” and gesturing to the bag.

He chuckled cutely, the noise making you blush immediately, and said, “You too.” With that, you both went on your merry ways, not thinking anything of the encounter or the fact that neither of you checked the damn tags to see if you took the other’s bag. Plot twist: you grabbed the wrong bag.

About one hour later you closed your apartment door behind you, slipping off your shoes and collapsing onto the couch. You threw your phone onto the charger and placed it onto the coffee table and as soon as your head hit your pillow, your eyes shut and you fell into a deep slumber, your body trying to get rid of the major jet lag.

The sun shining through the window and warming your skin woke you in the middle of the afternoon. Deciding that the amount of sleep you had gotten after getting home would be substantial enough for the time being, you got up and started to unpack. Laying the suitcase on your bed, you opened it up and it took you a second to realize it, but boy oh boy were you shocked.

That was not your suitcase.

How did you know? Well, because the last time you checked, you didn’t wear boxer briefs, especially not ones with lipstick kisses all over them.

“Fuck. Shit. Ass. Piss,” was all you could say as you closed it back up and went to check the tag tied around the handle. Lee Donghyuck, the name read, with a phone number scribbled next to it. You went into the living room to go and text the ever mysterious Lee Donghyuck, when the screen was illuminated with a text message from an unsaved number.

Hey Y/N, this is Lee Donghyuck from the airport. We had the same bag, remember? Well, I think you’ll find out pretty soon if you haven’t already that we have each other’s bags. Let me know when you’re free so we can swap, please!

Sighing a breath of relief at the fact that at least the boy was polite and respectful about this awful situation, your fingers started moving over the keyboard to send a message back.

Hi Donghyuck, this is Y/N! I’m free all day, where would you like to meet up? We can go to a coffee shop by my house if that is okay with you. If it’s too far, no worries! We can just find somewhere else to go :)

Not even seconds after you sent the message, Donghyuck sent a response asking which coffee shop you had in mind, and to send him the address. You happily obliged, wanting nothing more than to sort out this mess and get your stuff back.

Alright sounds good, I’ll see you there in about an hour !!

It had almost been time to meet up when you started to head to the coffee shop you guys planned on. It was a little hole in the wall, mom and pop place that had stolen your heart (and money) ever since you moved to that little neighborhood. The best drink on the menu was their caramel macchiatos, the warmth from the beverage warming you to the core on the coldest winter days, and the ice in the cold version cooling you on the hottest summer afternoons.

The little bell above the door rang when you walked in, and the barista at the counter gave you a warm hello. “Y/N, how was your trip?” Jaehyun, the fulltime sweetheart and halftime barista, asked you, immediately making you your usual. Taking a seat at your normal spot by the window, you flashed him a grin and said, “Amazing. It felt so good to get away and worry about nothing other than putting on more sunscreen.” The tall boy handed you a steaming cup and before he could say anything else, the bell rang again.

Your eyes drifted to the door and you found yourself staring into the same eyes you had stared into earlier. Donghyuck stood in the doorway, not as recognizable, having changed from that morning. Rather than wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, he donned ripped jeans, a loose sweater, and clean sneakers. Rolling your suitcase right behind him, his eyes scanned the room for you, and you could pinpoint the exact moment he saw you.

“Y/N?” he hesitantly called, walking towards you. Jaehyun retreated to behind the counter, leaving you two to it. “Yes, hi, hello!” you confirmed, waving hello to the boy and finding yourself in shock when your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him running a hand through his faux golden locks.

“Ah, I’m sorry we had to meet like this,” he sheepishly told you, rubbing the back of his neck. He took a seat across from you, changing the view you normally got in your spot. Never in all your experiences at the shop had something or someone changed the view you had: the window to the outside, showing the little alleyway and any locals walking to some of the other shops. It came to you, then, that maybe you didn’t mind a bit of change if it was that cute.

“Oh, I don’t mind, really. I’m glad it happened with someone as respectful as you, though. You never know how people can be nowadays,” you said, taking a sip from your drink. “Would you like something to drink? Jaehyun is really good at what he does,” you said, nodding over to the barista who stood behind the bar, seeming bored out of his mind.

“Hmmmm…. what would you recommend?” he asked, stealing a glance at the bit of froth that gathered above your lip.

“The caramel macchiato is what I normally get. Both iced and warm, its great,” you said, gesturing to the beverage in your cup, a small smile on your face.

“Alright, then. I trust you. I’ll take a large caramel macchiato...”

Once Jaehyun had made the drink and refused any payment (and gave you a wink from behind Donghyuck, thank God he couldn’t see that), you two chatted for hours. The sun was starting to set before it dawned on you that you had been there for almost three hours, stomach sore from laughter and cheeks burning from smiling. Talking to Donghyuck felt like talking to an old friend, despite knowing him for less than twenty-four hours. In the short time you had spent together, you gathered that he was a sweet and caring boy, as he took care of his younger friends and his younger siblings, but that didn’t stop his whip-like tongue from throwing out witty remarks any time an opportunity arose. His sense of humor was very similar to yours, and his interests were the same as yours, so you two had endless topics to discuss.

“Oh my God, what time is it?” you asked, falling out of your stupor and dragging your gaze away from the boy’s beautiful curled lashes and the way they rested upon his cheekbones. You heard Jaehyun dramatically yawn behind the counter, causing you to roll your eyes as Donghyuck checked his watch and said, “It’s almost nine o’clock, I’m about to miss the next bus to get back to my house.”

“Well, I guess we should be leaving, then. Good night, Jaehyun, thank you for everything! The macchiato was great, as always.” You both stood up and gathered your things, switching suitcases and checking the tags this time just to be safe. You both shuffled out of the shop, sending a smile and a wave over your shoulder to the barista before standing in the middle of the doorway.

Standing there, you weren’t sure what to do or say, but then Donghyuck spoke up. “Thank you for agreeing to meet up with me, I appreciate it. A lot of people nowadays would have just mailed it to me or something, so I’m pretty grateful that you met up with me right away. Oh, and you’re pretty nice, too, so, um... maybe we can meet here again? If that’s okay with you, of course.” There was a crimson tint to his cheeks and you found it outright adorable that the boy blushed at the thought of seeing you again.

“I’d love that, Donghyuck! Thank you for not being a serial killer or something and recommending your house instead,” you told him, trying to lighten the atmosphere around you two and succeeding when you heard a little giggle escape his lips. “You really should be going now if you don’t want to miss that bus,” you said, giving him a smile.

“Yeah, you’re right... text me when you get home safe, okay? I feel terrible that I can’t walk you home.” He kicked at a rock on the ground, a small pout forming on his cherry red lips.

“I will, don’t feel bad! Have a nice night!” you exclaimed and, feeling particularly bold, leaned up to place a feather-light kiss on his already dusted cheeks. The seemingly outgoing boy froze on the spot, skin heating up and eyes widening and watching you pivot and wheel your suitcase away with energy in your step.

As soon as you got home, you flung yourself down on the bed and let your actions sink in finally. The memory of kissing his cheek made you all giddy and start giggling, before inevitably squealing into your pillow. Remembering what he told you before you were ever so adventurous, you pulled out your phone and sent him a quick text.

Okay, I’m glad you made it home safely! :)

A few seconds later, you received another text, not giving you any time to recover form the first one.

Would you like to hangout tomorrow? If you’re available, that is!

Fingers flying over the keyboard and heart leaping out of your chest, you sent a reply right away.

I’d like that a lot, Hyuck

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 years

Text

Doesn’t Really Matter

Summary: Taylor Mae Miller has been friends with Adam since they were in high school and a musician in he own right and has known Queen for just about the same time he’s been touring with them. Their bond strong and growing ever stronger, Mae decides to move across the pond not only to be closer to her new found friends but to get away from her volatile and toxic relationship thrust on her by her mother. Will her new found family be enough to reassure her that she is loved?

Warning and Disclaimer: I own nothing!! Lewd content mentioning.

“Roger’s gonna kill you,” Adam, your best and longest friend said with a laugh as he enveloped an equally happy Mae in a hug that lifted her up off the ground.

“I know, but I’m not in the mood to celebrate or be celebrated on,” she said with a physically tired and emotionally strained grin.

His eyes fell concern blinking through them, “What did she do?”

Mae shrugged with a wet chuckle and weak shrug as she said, “What hasn’t she done you mean.”

Adam’s eyes dimmed as concern and pulled her to him in a side hug as they made their way to the conveyor belt to pick up her suitcase.

Bags in hand the couple made their way to the car where Adam with a kind smile said, “We’re going to lunch to talk and relax. You’re in this whole new world just waiting to be explored,”

Mae nodded still not believing it.

“Taylor Mae!” He called with a small laugh, “Your ma is not here to tell you what or who to do!”

Mae nodded with her own small smile, “You’re right. But I can’t help but feel like something bad’s gonna happen.”

“If I were anyone else I’d say you’re paranoid,” Adam said conversationally, “But I have the insight of knowing your ma so...”

Mae nodded, “Not to mention Sean...”

“Don’t tell me she’s still pushing you to be with him,” Adam said exasperatedly.

Mae rolled her eyes as her answer.

“Thank God we’re at a red light,” Adam retorted to the eye roll.

“Dude no joke, she’s been trying to shove him down or up any hole that’s open in my body. The fact that I tour hasn’t make her give up on that one effing bit,” Mae said finally opening up about how bad her relationship with her mother had gotten over the past two to three years, “Ever since I’ve hit the big leagues in music and started working more between writing, concerts and music videos she’s really been on my case about how he’s the only man who will take me working as much as I can, the only one that this, the only one that that. It drove me and still drives me up a wall.”

“You mean to tell me your mother’s been selling you to Sean and viceversa?” He said in shock.

Mae nods with an exasperated sigh.

“I’d marry you in heartbeat if your ma didn’t know I’m gay,” Adam said with a small laugh.

“I know but that would be too much like marrying my brother so thanks but no thanks,” Mae said laughing.

The friends laughed giving Mae the taste of freedom she had been looking (longing) for from the moment she set foot on the plane for the UK.

“Speaking of dear mother, does she know where you are?” Adam asked as he pulled into the garage of what will be her new apartment.

“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she showed up here in the next few days,” Mae said honestly.

“Is that why you told me to buy door locks?” Adam asked with a knowing look.

“Yep...and why I’m letting her have her show so the door man knows who not to let into the complex,” Mae said with a weary sigh.

“How do you think your ma will find you if you straight up just picked up and left?” Adam asked curiously.

“According to her, Sean knows people. I can guess that these ‘people’ will tell him I’ve left the country other wise they’re going to need to go through my agent who’s under strict instructions that he doesn’t for any reason unless necessary have to interact at all with my mother. He made it clear that he’d any call to me from her that made it’s way to his voicemail would be forwarded to me,” Mae said with a sigh, “As for where I am? She’s going to be bugging Jesse for that information.”

“I thought Jesse—”

“Jesse found ma and Sean...um, in the heat of the moment if you get my drift,” Mae said with an uncomfortable look on her face, “Now I’m all for age is a number but when you ma sleeps with her daughter’s attacker...?”

Mae got green just thinking about it.

Adam nodded a sick look on his face.

“Meaning he went to Clair about the trial and has been apologizing for being an ass ever since,” Mae said a sad smile on her face, “Last time we talked, he said he was promoted and had saved up enough to move out of ma’s place finally.”

Adam gave his friend and happy grin at that and parked the car in the first available space.

“So...food?” Mae asked when she stepped out of the car bag in hand.

“Don’t worry about it and let me do all the work ok?” Adam asked with a laugh as he pulled her along.

While in Harrods, Adam got a call from Roger.

“Around what time should we be at the airport for Mae?” The drummer asked.

“Well...here’s the thing...” Adam went to tell him how he’d gotten a call from Mae. He explained as little as he could while still being thorough, some parts weren’t his story to tell.

“You mean to tell me—”

Adam heard as Roger was called out by someone probably Sarina but shook his head and made rash decision as he saw Mae approach him, “I gotta go ma.”

“You’ve got to be joking! You’re bloody well not hanging up!” Roger practically yelled into the receiver.

“Yea I’ll tell Mae you send your love, love you to ma!!” Adam said quickly before hanging up.

“Don—”

Adam hung up and plastered a smile on his face, “Mom sends her love.”

Mae gave him an odd look but shook it off as jet lag fatigue. She let Adam take her to a nearby cafe for tea and something light before heading to her new home.

Adam dropped Mae off and went on the hunt for an air mattress and bedding swearing up a storm that your things weren’t going to get there till the end of the week.

“You are the maddest and most infuriating woman I have ever met,” Roger said as he walked into the still empty apartment exasperation and annoyance dripping from every word.

“Coming from the great Roger Taylor that is complement,” Mae said with a smirk as she moved over to let Roger in fully, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Didn't Bri tell you we were going to pick you up at the airport?” He asked incredulously.

Mae shook her head and went to close the door when Adam decided it was a good idea, and good timing, to burst in bags of food, an air mattress and bedding in hand followed by Bri, his wife Anita and Roger’s wife Sarina.

“It wasn’t a problem to get a cab Rog!” Mae called to Roger between hugs and kisses, “Or call Adam.”

“Nearly gave him a heart attack,” Sarina said with a giggle, “He was looking forward to picking you up to go for lunch.”

“Yeah...no,” Mae said with a small laugh as Brian pulled her to his side as Adam and Anita set up the kitchen island with the plates that came with the take away as Roger took the containers of food out of the bags.

“Why not it wouldn’t have been that bad,” Rog said as he rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink.

“Yes it would have been because you’d have done what my mother didn’t and doesn’t do,” Mae said with a laugh.

“And what’s that little May?” Rog said cockily.

“Mother me Rogerina,” Mae said with just as much heat as him before sighing deeply, “Plus...there were things I needed about talk with Adam.”

Anita knew that look and pulled Mae away from her husband and to the end of the hall away from prying eyes where Mae practically fell into the older woman’s embrace in a heap of sobs.

“It’s alright love let it out,” she said soothingly as she ran her fingers through Mae’s loose hair.

Sarina caught the boys about to go see what was going on but stopped them, “You two can’t be that thick, don’t you remember what she told us about her mother?”

Brian’s eyes widened and looked to Adam who stood a little ways away from them a sad and surprisingly guarded on his usually open and happy features.

“What happened when she called you Adam?” Brian asked quietly as he approached the younger man.

Adam sighed and told him all that Mae had told him on the way from the airport to Harrods and how quiet she got on their way to the apartment.

Sarina and Roger listened intently and frowned at the audacity of some parents. Now they knew why Mae didn’t speak of home often, if at all, and why the subject of her mother is such a sensitive one.

“All we can do is be there for her,” Adam said honestly.

“We’ve known each other for almost a year, you’d think we’d be able to tell when one of ours is in trouble,” Roger commented almost to himself.

Adam shook his head in the negative, “She’s very guarded about it. Its not about trust, she’s scared that the truth will chase away any and all support she finds either through friends or even potential partners. I’ve met her mother and she is more than a little intense.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Roger said in awe.

“Oh it can believe me,” Adam said with an exasperated sigh, “We lived in the same town but on opposite sides. She grew up in the conservative side where high society thrived and prejudice lingered.”

“What do you mean?” Brian asked curiously.

“Mae was partly raised by her grandparents, her ma had even then history of being a bit...um...more than just strict with her family,” Adam said scratching his head uncomfortably.

Brian gave a nod and went in search of his two girls.

“I can’t go back,” Mae said as she took deep breaths to calm herself down.

“And you don’t have to,” Anita said as she held her.

Mae nodded and let Anita pull away to get a better look at her.

“You are not alone in this Mae and most importantly you have family here and support, do not be afraid to ask any of us for help should you need it,” Anita said fiercely.

Mae felt tears fall again but this time they were tears of joy.

Anita pulled her in for another hug.

“Is there room for one more?” Brian asked as he approached the hugging women.

The pair let out wet chuckles and nodded.

Brian didn’t waste any time gathering them up in a warm hug.

“Alright?” He asked looking at Mae.

“No but getting there,” Mae said honestly.

“Come on Bug lets go eat before Roger its it all,” Brian said using her pet name.

Mae chuckled and leaned into his frame as they walked out.

Once out Sarina wasted no time in enveloping Mae in a Mama Bear hug.

“Sar I’m ok,” Mae said with a laugh.

“No your not, but you will be after I have a friendly chat with your mum,” Roger said seriously.

“No you won’t,” Mae said with feeling.

The group went to the kitchen and proceeded to eat their food.

“Adam said you were raised by your grandparents,” Roger said lightly, or as lightly as one could start a conversation like this.

Adam coughed and concentrated on eating.

“Don’t worry Adam, they deserve to know about why I am how I am,” Mae said reassuring her oldest friend, “And to answer your question, yes I was. Still am to some point I don’t really know where’d I’d be if it weren’t for them. And as I’m pretty sure Adam has told you, I grew up on the ‘nicer’ part of town where status and money spoke for the character of a person instead of their character doing the actual talking.”

The group quieted down and waited for Mae to continue with her story.

“My grams and babo were, well are hippies. Go with the flow and take everything one step at a time, even goin as far as to jumping head first for somethings,” Mae said with a fond smile, “According to my uncle, Grams was ecstatic about having another girl to dote on. The only problem was that my mother was going through some things both legally and in her personal life where she couldn’t keep me. Depending on who you ask in my family, one person will say that my mother was looking to not having me. Someone else will say that she just needed me taken care of in the meantime and then there’s her explanation.”

“Which is?” Sarina asked seriously.

“That with my conception she was promised more time to get her affairs in order before my father left her,” Mae said face blank, “She says that it was having me was a blessing and that she loves me very much.”

Mae gave a mirthless laugh, “I honestly believe she loves me in her own way because I gave her time to settle her child and spousal support. Any way, my grandparents took me basically from the time I was born. I remember growing up to the sound of Elvis and The Beatles as I ran from one corner of the house to the other. Queen and Bowie when it was just my Grams and I,” She said fondly.

“Your gramps didnt like Queen did he?” Adam said a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You child you promised you werent going to bring it up!” Mae said with a laugh as she threw a balled up napkin at him.

“Bring what up?” Roger asked curiously the rest of the group mirroring what he had asked.

“Nothing,” Mae said trying to change the subject.

“Bring her name up,” Adam said taking drink.

“What about her name? Her name’s Mae right?” Brian said after eating a bite of his own plate.

Mae nods with a groan letting her head fall forward, “Mae is my middle name.”

“What’s your first name then?” Roger asked.

“Babo didnt like Queen because Gram’s crushes are a part of it,” Mae hinted.

Sarina was the first to get it and gave Anita a nudge. The elder of the two nodded with a knowing smile.

“I don’t get it,” Roger said sending Brian questioning looks.

Brian in turn looked as lost as his best friend.

Mae let out a groan and said, “Grams crushed on five artist. David Bowie and all members of Queen. My name isn’t Bowie so I was not named after Ziggy.”

The group laughed at that.

“Grams always fawns that she named me after her favorites,” she said a hint of a smile that carried affection not only for her parents but her namesakes.

Anita and Sarina shared a laugh as Brian came too first.

Mae nodded at his silent question.

“Ok...we all know you were named after the Poodle but what’s your first name?” Roger asked getting antsy.

“I was named after a dentist,” Mae with a knowing smile as she took a bite out of her plate.

Roger coughed as the drink he was taking went down the wrong pipe.

Mae laughed and said, “My name is Taylor Mae Miller.”

(Do you all want a Part 2?)

Tag List: @queenattheopera, @ramibaby, @theborhapboysawakenedmywhatever

#Brian May #Roger Taylor #Queen band #Adam Lambert #Adam is a good pseudo brother

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