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c-optimistic · 4 years

Note

Soulmate au?

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Kara asks suddenly one day. They’re in Lena’s office, having a rather late lunch, and had lapsed into a rather awkward silence when Kara blurts out her question.

(Mending friendships is slow, tedious work.

But much like all her other goals, Lena doggedly pursues it, determined to see it through.)

“No, I’m a scientist,” Lena laughs, putting her fork down. “Why do you ask? Do you think you found your soulmate?”

She doesn’t know why she asks. She doesn’t want the answer to that. She doesn’t want to hear about Kara’s dating life. Ask her why, and she’d vehemently deny knowing the reason, but the truth is that the thought of Kara with someone else sends poisonous shards through Lena’s chest, twists her all up inside, and leaves her feeling like her world has crashed around her.

(It’s not dramatic at all.)

“What? No!” Kara says to Lena’s ultimate relief. “No, it’s for an article.”

“You’re writing about soulmates?”

“Well, not exactly. There’s this woman here in National City who claims she can find your soulmate.”

“Oh?” Lena says, raising an eyebrow. Kara nods.

“Apparently, she can see the three ‘Marks’ of soulmates.” When Lena just eyes Kara skeptically, Kara grins and shrugs. “I’m serious! She claims there’s the Mark of Pain, the Mark of Skin, and the Mark of String.”

“...right,” Lena says, stretching out the word and smiling when Kara laughs. “So how does it work?”

“Well, I’ve only talked to her on the phone. But she says soulmates are attached in different ways. And she can sense it. Even if we ordinary people can’t. Like, her string theory—”

“—I don’t think that’s what the string theory is, Kara,” Lena interrupts, but Kara’s on a roll.

“I know, I know. But she says she can see it. Red thread, tied from one person to another. Or tattoos on people’s skin that matches in some way, and only she can see.” Kara shrugs. “She has a pretty good Yelp rating. Everyone says she’s gotten it right.”

“That seems more like confirmation bias than anything. And of course she’s making money off this.”

Kara smiles warmly at her, her eyes soft behind the glasses she didn’t technically need. She looks at Lena in a way that makes Lena heart skip a beat or two, that makes her momentarily forget about the past year of difficulty between them. Suddenly, she’s only looking at her best friend, and she’s a little bit in love.

“So you don’t believe in soulmates?” Kara confirms, her smile turning wistful.

“Why? Do you?” She doesn’t know why she asks. She doesn’t really want to know the answer, sure that any response Kara gives will just be a kick to the chest. Another crack in her heart.

She really wishes she hadn’t asked.

“I don’t know,” Kara responds after a short pause, clearly giving it a lot of thought. “But I hope soulmates do exist.” Kara lets out a laugh. “Maybe this woman can lead me to mine.”

(And there it is, that kick to the chest and crack in her heart she expected.)

Lena looks away, pretends to be startled by the time, but even as Kara gathers her things to leave, she secures Lena’s promise to look into this mystical soulmate finder together.

It’s a promise Lena is sure she’s going to regret.

ii. pain

“So, it’s weird that she refuses to see us in person, right?” Lena asks, looking to Alex for some support, which the elder Danvers is only too happy to give. “It’s odd. Why doesn’t she meet us in person?”

Kara shoots them both an impatient look, clearly not impressed with their negativity. “She doesn’t want to be affected by our energies while she’s working,” she explains, checking her phone before looking up and making sure they are at the right place.

“Our energies?” Alex asks dubiously, making a face at Lena behind Kara’s back. She times it poorly; before she can school her features into a neutral expression, Kara has turned to look at them again, her eyes narrowing.

“Being skeptical and being dismissive are two very different things,” Kara scolds them, sounding just a bit testy. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping an open mind, even about things you don’t or can’t understand.”

Alex opens her mouth, clearly about to start a debate, but Lena butts in, silencing Alex with a hand on her shoulder and giving Kara a small, placating smile. “You’re right, we’re sorry. We’ll behave,” she says, squeezing Alex’s shoulder until she lets out a grunt in the affirmative. When Kara is seemingly satisfied, nodding at them briskly, she continues leading them down the street, eyes on the storefronts. Alex, however, elbowed Lena hard the second Kara’s back was turned.

“What’s wrong with you?” she hisses, elbowing Lena again. “We’ll behave?”

“She’s right, there’s plenty we don’t understand, plenty out there in the universe we can’t make sense of, so maybe keeping an open mind isn’t the worst thing—”

“—oh, shut up, you know very well you’re only taking her side for one reason, and—”

“I can hear you two, you know,” Kara says loudly, interrupting their hushed argument. “Also, we’re here.”

She stops and looks up at the rundown tea shop, nestled between an old record store that had clearly seen better days, and a very busy video game and comic book store. Lena tugs on her coat when a few kids eye her as they enter the store, ducking their heads together and beginning to whisper.

“All right, well explain where here is,” Alex says, stepping closer to her sister. “You haven’t actually explained anything.”

Kara nods, gesturing for them to enter the tea shop, the three of them finding an empty table and huddling around it, perching on tiny, uncomfortable chairs. The tea shop is, for the most part, a place Lena would never have entered on her own volition. It’s frilly and pink, photos of cats everywhere, with sticky tables and stifling heat. Yet, there’s also an odd comfort to the place: it smells heavenly, the aroma of freshly brewed tea mixing with a variety of sweets, all neatly arranged at the display next to the register. The customers also look like they’re at home, nestled in corners reading books, tapping away on computers, and even on what looks to be a very engaging date.

It’s nice. Even if she’s skeptical of the reason they came here, she’s glad she’s come across this place. She thinks she may even come by again, especially if their tea is any good.

“So apparently, there are two people who work here who are soulmates,” Kara explains, motioning for Alex and Lena to lean towards her. Lena finds herself swallowing a little when the aroma of the tea shop is mixed with Kara’s heavenly scent. Her mind goes a little fuzzy, and she knows she has a silly expression on her face because Alex is smirking at her. Kara, of course, focused on work and on her explanation, notices nothing. “They have the Mark of Pain. We’re here to observe, see if they actually can feel each other’s pain.”

“I don’t know if I’d like that one,” Alex says conversationally, leaning back in her rickety chair and eyeing the register and the zoned-out employee behind it. “I mean, can you imagine? In my line of work? Kelly would always be in pain.”

“You think Kelly is your soulmate?” Lena asks, a little surprised by the easy way Alex has said it. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s just true. “What about Maggie? How do you know?”

“Who says you have to have one soulmate?” Alex shoots back, shrugging. “Kara’s my soulmate too. Platonically, of course. You, even.” She grins when Lena’s eyes widen, when she opens and closes her mouth wordlessly, confused and overwhelmed and unsure. “What? Just because I don’t believe in this mystic lady doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the concept of soulmates. But who says it has to be romantic? Or that it’s just one person?”

“So what is it?”

“People in your life who enter it and just...stay. Your found family. Chosen family.” She looks away from the employee at the register and smiles at Kara. “Kara agrees. Right?”

Kara, who has pulled out her notebook and has taken a few notes down about the employee at the register, nods distractedly. “We were drunk when we came up with this,” she explains, meeting Lena’s eyes and blushing slightly for whatever reason. “But it just seems—well, it seems silly to think that in the entire universe there’s one person who’d be your perfect partner. That’s also really sad,” she mumbles. “If that were true, who’s to say my soulmate didn’t die with Krypton?” She shrugs awkwardly. “I think sometimes people are just connected. Meant to be in each other’s life. In whatever form that may be.” Kara looks at Lena carefully, her mouth opening and her cheeks reddening further. “Like—” But Lena doesn’t get to hear what Kara wants to say. At that moment, another employee comes in from the back entrance, looking slightly distracted, eyes on the employee behind the register.

“Look,” Alex says suddenly, sitting up straighter as the employee walks by, bumping into a table roughly. “Whoa,” she says, and Lena silently agrees.

Because just as the employee mumbles a curse and rubs their side, blushing furiously and looking embarrassed, the zoned-out employee at the register winces in pain, rubbing that same spot.

A point, Lena thinks, in the strange mystic woman’s favor.

iii. skin

Lena begins researching the strange mystic woman in earnest.

(In her free time, far away from Kara’s eyes or Alex’s judgment.)

Everything about her is frustratingly perfect—perfect enough that Lena is suspicious. The woman’s website is well-made and professional, littered with testimonials and photos of weddings. There are a range of services with a range of prices, and no matter how much Lena digs, she doesn’t see a single bad thing about the woman.

It’s the internet, she thinks as she scrolls through Google reviews, grimacing at the emojis that filled each comment. Surely someone, somewhere would use the anonymity to their advantage to say something less than complimentary.

No one is perfect, Lena thinks to herself. Which means one of two things: this woman is a fraud (more likely) or she has some sort of ability to force people to write nice things about her on the internet (Lena’s had a few drinks when this becomes a plausible option to her).

She doesn’t remember dialing the number on the website, but the next thing she knows, someone with an airy voice is on the other end, asking her if she’s ready to meet her soulmate.

“You’re a fraud, did you know that?” Lena asks. “It’s cruel what you’re doing, really. Telling people there’s someone perfect out there who loves them for them. That’s unkind.”

“Oh, Lena!” the woman says, the airy tone dropping for a moment. “I mean,” she continues, the affectation back, “I’ve been expecting a call from you, Lena Luthor.”

“Oh, have you? Can you see the future as well as the red string connecting people?”

The woman chuckles, and she sounds vaguely familiar. Lena’s drunk mind chalks it up to being drunk. “I can’t see the future,” she says, sounding amused. “I just knew you would contact me after Kara Danvers began her article on my business.”

“Oh?” Lena mutters sarcastically.

“The answer to your question is yes,” she says, and Lena chokes on nothing.

“I didn’t ask a question. The ‘oh’ was rhetorical.”

“No, Lena Luthor, the question you called me to ask. I’ll give it to you, free of charge: yes.”

“I don’t have a question,” Lena denies, not liking the way the woman on the other end of the phone laughs. “Is this how you tricked the others? Tell them what they want to hear, and they write you obnoxiously positive reviews?”

“So you admit it’s what you wanted to hear,” the woman shoots back with glee, that stupid tone gone, and for the second time, Lena swears she knows this voice. “I mean,” she clears her throat, “I haven’t tricked anyone. I just tell people what I see. Didn’t you see the truth at the tea shop?”

“I think there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Lena argues. “Phantom pains, an old bruise, sympathetic—”

“—okay, you’re skeptical,” the woman interrupts, “I understand. What if I show you a second example?”

Lena thinks about it for a moment. “Fine. But on my terms. I want you to find Jess’s soulmate.” She’s just drunk enough that this seems like a wonderful idea. On the other end of the phone, the woman sounds like she’s hacking up a lung.

“Your secretary?” she asks incredulously, once again sounding familiar.

“How did you—”

“—okay, I will do this,” the woman interrupts, rushing to speak. “In two days, you will be able to see her Mark as well as the Mark of her soulmate, just like I do.”

“That makes no sense, what are you—” But she never finishes her sentence. The woman hangs up, leaving Lena looking at her phone, trying to blink away her shock.

By the time she wakes up the following morning, groaning at her hangover and nearly telling Kara she loves her when the reporter shows up to her apartment with coffee and pastries, Lena’s forgotten all about the call.

///

Jess lingers every time she steps into Lena’s office. She eyes Lena oddly, stares at her hands, and shifts awkwardly on her feet. After the third time, Lena rolls her eyes, sets her pen down, and gives Jess her full attention.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No!” Jess says immediately, then grimaces. “Well, yes. But nothing bad. Not really.” Lena waits her out, knowing Jess will get to the point eventually. “My partner and I, well, we had plans this weekend. We’re supposed to leave straight from work, so I was—”

“—oh, right. Your time off. Yes, of course, feel free to leave early.” She picks up her pen, thinking this is the end of the conversation.

“Um, actually Ms. Luthor, I was wondering if you’d be willing to meet him.”

“Meet who?” Lena asks distractedly.

“My partner.” Something must show on Lena’s face when she drops her pen a second time and looks up at Jess, because she hurries to explain. “He’s a huge fan of your work. And he’s a big part of my life. I’d like you to meet him. If you can.” She tacks on the last three words almost as an afterthought, not quite meeting Lena’s eyes.

“Yes, of course. We can—”

“—wonderful, he’s right outside,” Jess says, smiling wide, rushing out of Lena’s office. A moment later, she returns, a tall, charming looking man following close behind.

She introduces them, and for the next hour, they chat amicably, discussing Lena’s work and Jess’s exceptionalism, and the weekend getaway plans. Except, Lena’s not quite sure she retains any of the information she gleans from the conversation—in fact, if you asked her, she couldn’t even remember if Jess had ever mentioned where she and her partner were even going.

Because when Jess’s partner reaches out to shake Lena’s hand, his sleeve rides up just slightly, revealing a small tattoo with Jess’s name on the inside of his wrist.

Lena doesn’t need to see a similar tattoo, with Jess’s partner’s name, on the inside of Jess’s wrist for her to realize what she’s come across.

“Those tattoos are quite nice,” Lena says when they get up to leave, Jess’s partner leaving her office first. “The artist who did them is quite talented.”

Jess gives Lena an odd look. “I’m sorry, Ms. Luthor,” she says, “what tattoo?”

Lena gestures to Jess’s wrist, but when she looks down, the mark is gone.

And that is a second point in the mystic woman’s favor.

iv. string

Lena absolutely, positively, without a single shred of doubt, does not believe in soulmates. The concept is ludicrous. To think that in a massive and constantly expanding universe, the atoms that make her are somehow destined to be near the atoms that make up someone else is an entirely ridiculous conclusion. She does not believe in the concept of a perfect partner, of someone she is meant to be with, of an individual to whom she is forever connected.

(And to be quite frank, there’s a bit of fear too. She doesn’t want soulmates to exist. For one, she’s worried about the prospect that the universe would pay back her family’s misdeeds by forever ensuring Lena does not have a soulmate. And for another, the far more terrifying option, she does have a soulmate, and that poor soul is bound to her of all people.

What an awful, horrible fate—nothing she’d wish on her worst enemy, least of all the person she’s supposedly destined to be with.)

Lena does not believe in soulmates. She doesn’t.

What she does believe in is Kara.

(Kara, who had her back from the day they met. Kara, who had saved her life more than once. Kara, who made mistakes—just like Lena—but had met Lena halfway and worked hard to fix things between them. Kara, who for all her flaws and missteps, is Lena’s best friend in the world, the one person who has seen Lena for Lena, from the moment they first locked eyes.

Kara, who Lena is hopelessly in love with; Kara, who has never shown interest in women; Kara, who has recently taken up the really rather unfortunate habit of telling Lena she loves her every chance she gets.

And then there’s Lena, who swallows down what she wants to say and instead smiles bitterly as she intones, “I love you too, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”)

Lena is pretty smart. She can say so without sounding obnoxious about it, because it’s a generally accepted fact. She’s pretty smart, and she was dumb enough to fall in love with someone who could never love her back the same way. She rather thinks that if soulmates are indeed real, then that wouldn’t have been possible. Then again, perhaps that’s not entirely true.

(She thinks about Alex’s notion of what soulmates are or could be, of Kara’s thoughts on connection, and she thinks that maybe—even if she wants it to—she isn’t meant to be with Kara romantically. If there’s anyone in her life who is her family, anyone Lena has chosen, anyone she has picked again and again and again, it’s Kara.

It will always, romantically or not, be Kara.

And if that’s not the definition of a soulmate, Lena’s not quite sure what is.)

For the second time in less than a week, Lena finds herself dialing a number from a well-maintained website.

“Lena Luthor,” the airy voice says as soon as she picks up. “I admit I’m surprised you’re calling. I gave you proof and your answer. What more can you need?”

“These soulmates you find,” Lena says, trying not to let her disappointment seep into her tone too much, “have you ever thought maybe you’re matching people who aren’t meant to be together romantically?”

The mystical woman makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a snort of disbelief and a huff of amusement. “You’re—wow,” she says, dropping the silly tone, and if her voice was just a tiny bit higher, Lena would swear it was— “Listen. Yes, platonic soulmates are a thing. They’re great. We love them. Some people only have platonic soulmates. But you are not platonic soulmates with—”

“—yes but how do you know something like that, that seems hard to—”

“—it’s like talking to a brick wall,” the woman interrupts, and Lena can hear some sort of scuffle from the other end, as if someone is trying to pull the phone out of the woman’s grasp. “Look,” the woman says after a second, sounding a bit out of breath, “I’m going to tell you something I have never told anyone else. Of the three Marks, the most clear and obvious sign of two people belonging romantically together is the Mark of String.” The woman pauses, and Lena would almost swear that there’s someone else speaking to her. “Here’s what you should do. And I do this free of charge for you, because I’m highly invested in this,” she chuckles as if this is a great joke and then barrels on, “so listen carefully. Tonight, go see the woman you love. Spend the night. If you wake up with a red string tied from your pinky to hers, then you can rest assured she’s the one.”

“I don’t know if—”

“—Lena,” the woman admonishes, and Lena frowns, finally recognizing the voice. “Trust me on this.”

She goes through with it, trusting the not-so-mystical woman.

Except, when Kara sneaks towards the bed she gallantly gave up for Lena, a piece of red thread hanging from her hand, Lena sits up and clicks on the bedside table light.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Lena tells Kara.

They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, Kara sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, and Lena trying hard (and failing) to act relaxed.

“So?” she prods, gesturing to the red thread still tied to Kara’s pinky finger. “Want to explain your practical joke?”

“Joke?” Kara says in shock, shaking her head immediately. “No, Lena, it’s not a joke. Not even a little bit.”

Lena’s heart skips a few beats at that, but she maintains an impassive expression. “I don’t understand then. Why would you—”

“—remember a few months back, when I told you I loved you for the first time?” Kara interrupts, jumping to her feet and pacing in front of the couch. She doesn’t wait for Lena to respond. “It took me weeks to gather the courage to tell you. And I’d memorized the whole speech, and at the end you just looked at me like I was speaking to someone else. You told me you loved me as a friend.”

“Right, because you meant it as friends, you…” Lena trails off. “Wait.”

An odd look passes over Kara’s face, something like amusement and exasperation. “Alex told me that I needed to be direct with you. But I—even when I tried, it was like you didn’t hear me.”

(Lena thinks back to all the times Kara had said I love you and she wonders if she’s just heard what she expected to hear and not what Kara was actually trying to say.

Her heart begins to pound in her chest at the very possibility.

Did Kara really....?)

“So what? You decided to recruit Nia to pretend to be a mystical woman? To prove what exactly?”

Kara, surprisingly, looks smug. “You recognized her. I knew it. She was way off script on the phone call, and I tried to get her off the phone but she—”

“—Kara, focus. So the whole soulmate thing was fake?”

Kara winces at that. “Well. Yes, technically.” She stills, coming to a stop several feet in front of Lena. “I asked a few people to help out.”

“Wait, so the two people in the tea shop…” Lena trails off, eyes wide.

“Right, two DEO agents. They should definitely look into acting as a career, I mean they had me convinced, and I knew it was fake—”

“—and Jess?” Lena asks, feeling vaguely overwhelmed.

“Special temporary tattoos made by the DEO, easy to rub off, for both her and her partner.” When Lena is silent a touch too long, Kara rushes to explain. “I mean, it was very hard to convince her to do it. She’s incredibly protective of you, she deserves some kind of raise.”

“She does,” Lena agrees absently, getting to her feet and gesturing towards the red string in Kara’s hand. “And this?”

“We weren’t supposed to get to this. I’d hoped the first two would convince you Nia could honestly see soulmates. I was going to tie it to your pinky. The other end would be connected to me, of course,” she raises her hand with an awkward wave. “But you, um. Caught me.”

Lena bites her lip, marvelling at the sheer amount of work Kara and the others put into this. “Who made the websites? They were perfect.”

“Brainy made them,” Kara explains, a frown appearing on her lips and a crease forming between her brows. “Though I guess he made it too well, since you were suspicious of it.”

“Kara, I—” Lena’s not sure what she wants to say, and she’s glad when Kara interrupts her, taking a step closer, looking at her with an earnest expression.

“Listen,” she says, determination etched onto her features. “I love you. In a romantic way. And if there are soulmates out there, then you’re mine. That’s all this was.”

Lena feels tears well up in her eyes, blurring her vision, and she wants to duck her head, to hide, but Kara is there and saying everything she’s ever wanted to hear, and so instead she just closes the last of the distance between them and wraps her arms around Kara, holding her close, face burrowing into Kara’s neck. “All of this just to say I love you seems a bit dramatic,” she whispers, feeling Kara’s arms go around her waist, clutching her tighter.

“I figured you’d need something dramatic to believe it’s true,” Kara jokes, loosening her hold just a bit so that she can pull back and look at Lena.

“You’re my soulmate too, you know. If there are things like that out there. It was always just you.”

Kara grins brilliantly at her, pressing their foreheads together. “Finally,” she whispers.

#supercorp #fanfic #new #kara danvers #lena luthor

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ahankar1610 · 3 years

Text

Hello there, people of Romione. Nah, second fic. It's inspired by 'a walk to remember', the novel coz the movie did not give book the justice.🙄🙂

I hope you people will like my romione version, and thank you to everyone who gave their time to 'The Trojan Princess', update is not far away on that one 😉😉.

A Tale of Ron and Hermione.

FFNET: 👇

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13926524/1/A-Tale-of-Ron-and-Hermione

AO3: 👇

The first chapter is here 👇.

English is not my first language so I hope, you people can adjust. Coz if I didn't have my sister to help me, you all would have been suffering my disheveled English 😅😅.

Please read and review and visit it on ao3 and ffnet. Thank you. 😊😊

Chapter-1

(President Granger) Hermione Granger sighs as she sat on the bench outside the office of professor McGonagall's office. She is frustrated because of the upcoming bloody Halloween Ball. She had to be present at the ball, not because she is the Head girl, it is because she is the president of the Student Council which was officially created by the Ministry of Magic to find the best upcoming talents who are capable of leading Britain as the best magical country of the Wizarding World. She was one of the first student who was selected for the group, because of her habit of being at the top of the class in the last six academic years of her. Though it was a surprise for her when professor McGonagall called her and informed her that she wants her to be candidate from Gryffindor who will compete against the other candidates from the other three houses for the post of the president. To be honest, she never expected herself to win as she was never the popular student, but as Merlin have blessed her that she got Harry Potter as her best friend. Harry is unofficially, the most popular student of Hogwarts. His wonder of securing place in the quidditch team when he was just a firstie, and being the youngest seeker of the century was a huge endorsement for his famousness. Then in no less a time Gryffindor team became unbeatable and he was the best seeker of the Gryffindor team after Charlie Weasley left and being James Potter's son, one of the most wealthy and successful businessman of the Wizarding World, has its own perks as he was showered with high class quidditch material by his quidditch enthusiast father. Harry was one of the first ever person to befriend her. It was her first year and she had asked the way to the Platform 9¾ from the Potters and from there her friendship with Harry started and she believed that it is because of Harry, she had made friends in their year. She had Lavender and Parvati, who at first did not liked her much but warmed later and they created a great bond together. Seamus and Dean are no exception as they were there for her before she befriended any female from Gryffindor house. She had asked Harry for his help in the campaign for the voting and he had enthusiastically took part in her campaign for everyone's glee and her embarrassment as he once created a wall sized poster of her, with bold words engraved on it. VOTE FOR HERMIONE GRANGER THE FUTURE OF THE WIZARDING WORLD She still receives teasing for that incident. She surprisingly won the voting defeating the candidates of the other houses. Though it was hard work regarding the other candidates of the other houses were brilliant in themselves too. Daphne Greengrass was the Slytherin candidate, she has the honorary title of the Hogwarts' ice queen but is respected by many because of her unbiased views on everyone, even on the Gryffindors. She also received the best prefect award in their fifth year and she also beaten her to the top in the fifth class as she received one mark more than her in their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s, though she and Greengrass never had a real conversation, there is a unspoken mutual respect between them. Terry Boot was the Ravenclaw candidate and he was also one of the best students academically in their year, but he is not much of a person of interacting and perhaps it was the reason he lost. She blessed Harry as he was the one who forced her to put her book down once and introduced her to the thing called fun or she would have faced the same fate as Boot. Zacharias Smith, she laughed as Smith came into her mind, after all Smith was one of the main causes which made her the winner of the voting. Smith, though good in the academics, is not in the good graces of many people around Hogwarts, including his own house fellows. Sweet Professor Sprout, certainly made a mistake choosing Smith as her house's candidate. Perhaps she never heard of Smith's infamousness between the students. He was disliked even in his own house by many and that is the reason they choose to vote for her as they didn't know

much about Boot and Greengrass must have faced the consequences of Professor Snape's biasness toward the other houses. "President," said a soft voice, she turned her head and a fourth year Hufflepuff girl was standing there and the door of Professor McGonagall's office is opened. "Professor McGonagall has called you inside," said the girl, Hermione nodded and stood up. She walked inside the office closing the door behind and noticed the girl has gone now. "Miss Granger," said a stern voice in greetings. Professor Minerva McGonagall is sitting behind her desk with a stern expression and her cat like eyes scanning her whole features. Professor McGonagall had given her the responsibility speech when she chosen her, the Gryffindor candidate. She had made sure Hermione fills the both responsibilities of Head Girl and President of Student Council decently. "Good afternoon professor," Hermione greeted back. Professor McGonagall nodded and motioned her to take a seat while she rummaged through some papers spread on her desk. It was something surprising to see, for Hermione at least as she had always noticed from their first year that there is no messiness you can expect from Professor McGonagall. Though Hermione don't eighter blame the old professor as there are at least fifty different sheets of papers around the table. Some of the sheets are the grading papers which are thrust into a register, and there are is a huge poster covering the whole table and everything present at the table is doing the work of hiding it. She can figure out the color of poster, it is dark blue reminiscing the color of night. "So," said Professor McGonagall a little firmly, indicating that whatever is going to discuss between them now means business. Hermione straightens her spine unconsciously. "You must be busy with the preparation of the Halloween Ball nowadays, Miss Granger?" asked Professor McGonagall. Hermione nodded stiffly, as the reminder that she, the Head Girl and the President of The Student Council, is dateless two days before the ball came into her mind. "Then you must be also informed that even after upcoming the ball, you're not going to have much free time," Professor McGonagall said, and Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. Noticing her expression, the professor sighed and dragged a poster up, which was hidden under the mess on the table until now. The poster is large, a size of a huge television. And in the center of it, in huge bold words, there was written 'THE DRAMA FESTIVAL'. Hermione looked at the poster with a frown appearing on her face, but she suddenly turned into the expression of indifference. Professor McGonagall rolled the poster and put it on the side of the table, not very tenderly. Which told Hermione, that the professor also isn't pleased with this, whatever Drama activity it is. "The Headmaster," a frown of frustration appeared on Professor's face, "had accepted the request of Professor Lockhart's permission of hosting the Drama Festival this time at Hogwarts." Professor Lockhart? When in the hell did that man became a professor. Gilderoy Lockhart was famously known for his roles in Wizarding Dramas since he passed from Hogwarts. He was also known for the famous plays he had acted and directed himself, they were regarded as special because they were inspired from the old tales of Wizarding World. She had a stupid crush on him when she was twelve, Parvati had shown her his photo and she always blessed merlin that she soon recovered from that crush, because Harry had made her life hell when he got the wind of her crush back then. "Any questions, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall asked, breaking her musing. She stared at her for a moment, Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrow. She blinked a little and realizing that she had been staring at the Transfiguration Professor's face for five minutes. "Uh-Ah, yes exactly," she said awkwardly and mentally slapped herself realizing how dumbly she is speaking now. "Yes, professor. I mean when will Hogwarts is going to host this event?" "It is going

to be held this December. On 19th of December before the start of Christmas holidays," McGonagall said with her voice a little softer as she is going to inform her everything about the upcoming event. "The Drama as I have informed is based on the famous 'Tales of Beedle and Bard'," said Professor McGonagall. "There will be five plays, which are based on the five stories of the book and the five stories will be played by the students of different years." "The third year students will start with the first play and other plays will be played by the students of following years in the chronological order," McGonagall sighed a little which made Hermione feel that something horrible is coming. "And," the professor drawled a little, "all the arrangement of the festivals are the responsibility of The Student Council." "What? Why!?" she asked a little loudly and flinched when McGonagall sent a pierce glare on her volume. "I mean, why!?" she asked softly. "Because," said Professor McGonagall softly, "Student Council's work is to help students in increasing their skills, and by skill we didn't only meant their academic skill but also their extracurricular skills which not only includes sports but other activities like drama too." Though the points her head of the house gave her are reasonable and adequate, but it still did not take the ridiculousness from the situation she's stuck in. "I know you are not pleased with the events but you must realize that it all is your responsibility as the President of the Council and I don't want the Boards of Directors feel disappointed from the choice of the Hogwarts, now please go and rest Miss Granger. The ball is day after the tomorrow and might need some rest because the tomorrow is going to be a hectic day for you." Professor's words indicated that she's not in a mood of a debate and is really tired. "You're dismissed." Hermione stood up and after wishing the professor a good night she turned and left the professor's office and strolled directly towards Gryffindor common room, where she thinks she might find her friends. She nearly ran towards the seventh floor. Her mind is full of thoughts of the stupid Drama Festival which she had to prepare for nearly two months. Wasn't the bloody Halloween Ball enough!? Her mind is screaming to itself and with the thought of Ball she got the reminder of the absence of a date and it will be pretty embarrassing if the president of the Council turned up alone for the Ball. She huffed, she didn't sign up for any stupid ball and drama fests. "Hippogriffe feathers!" she said the password rather loudly as the portraits around the entrance startled on the loud voice of hers. Entering the common room, she noticed that there are not many students present but the group of her friends was still present on the couches near the fireplace. Dean was the one to notice her, "Hiya President!" he said cheerfully and everyone's head turned towards her. They repeated Dean's words as chipperly, "HIYA PRESIDENT!", umm well too chipperly. She walked and collapsed at the empty space beside Lavender and leaned on her, "Hectic day, I guess," Lavender mused. "Don't even ask," she muttered. "Why does your voice sound so dull, deary?" asked Seamus teasingly, "Is it because our dear President still doesn't have a date?" he laughed. Hermione flipped the small cushion on Seamus's face. Bullseye. "You still didn't find a date?" Lavender asked, a little disappointed as Hermione promised her that she will find a date by evening. "I was so busy, first the preparation and all of the arrangement of the food which I had to arranged with the elves," she closed her eyes and said tiredly, "I really didn't got the time." "Too bad, because nearly everyone is booked now and you're going to turn up alone," Harry chipped in. "Even Neville?" she asked. "Yup! Didn't we told you, Mister Longbottom is getting pretty cozy with certain Hufflepuff name Hannah Abbott." Parvati said. "Arrgh! What in the name of Merlin am I going to do now?" she asked desperately to her friends. "You

can spend the whole night talking to Luna though. She'll be delighted to spend the Halloween night with you," Harry sniggered, Hermione's closed eyes shot wide open at the aspect of spending a whole night in the party with Luna. Everyone laughed at her expression and she started to run her mind to at least find one date, so she will be spared having a night just of controlling the students and conversing about Luna's antique. "Well Hermione," said Seamus loudly. "I would not have done it for someone else but after all you had a special place in my heart." He forwarded a thick book to her which she is encountering for the first time. "What's this?" she asked. "It's the yearbook, I stole it from McGonagall's office," she gasped and Harry shushed her, "So you might get some ideas from it." Seamus said smugly, looking proud of himself on stealing the book from the office of keen-eyed Professor McGonagall. The subject quickly diverted to the quidditch matches, leaving her and the yearbook alone. Though she was little uncomfortable as after all her 'great' friend had to steal it for her. She closed her eyes and started rummaging through pages and after a great search her eyes landed on one name, she knew who probably not had a date by now, Ronald Weasley.

#romione #romione fanfic #romione fanfiction #ron weasley #hermione granger #ron x hermione #a walk to remember #au fic #no voldemort au #jily lives

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

for reasons wretched & divine

summary: unfit: unfit for duty, unfit for a proper teaching position, unfit for you.

word count: ~14k

warnings: ~inappropriate~ student/teacher relations, age gap (27 & 19), war related topics, mental illness related topics, some suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), angst, innuendo, language

a/n: what can i say? i’m a hoe for period pieces. i have been laboring over this for an embarrassingly long time so i’m pleased to finally share it with you all! would love to hear your thoughts. also: big big thank you to @joemazzmatazz for being an extra set of eyeballs on this one and listening to me ramble about my insecurities every other day! love you long time, sis. xoxo.

(photo: @consumedbygwirst)

snowshill, gloucestershire, england. 1917.

a deaf ear, that’s why they wouldn’t take him; a deaf ear. he’d tried—god, he’d tried—to convince someone on the medical board that he was fit for duty. he’d come dangerously close to offering a bribe; something, anything, to be able to go and fight alongside his kinsman. but in the end, they’d still slapped his file with a rejection stamp.

gwilym james lee: unfit for duty by reason of physical impairment necessary for proper military response.

the words are engraved on his very heart now. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

his hands shake as he gathers the papers littered across his desk. the tremor has plagued him since he left his review with the medical board. why he can’t say for certain, and he doesn’t like to probe the issue too deep, but it’s always there, fluctuating in intensity. a slight waver in his fingers one moment and a full-scale trembling the next. it makes him feel like an old man, his deaf ear, his shaking hands. he’s twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, not eighty.

it’s sunday, and the mid-afternoon sun warms him through the window. he’s been in snowshill for a fortnight now yet his students—all twelve of them—remain a mystery. it’s clear they miss their former schoolteacher, but, like most, jefferson lewis has gone to serve his country. the vicar, bless him, had proven to be of more harm than good during his brief tenure as schoolmaster for the last four months, hence, gwilym’s new post: a stone, one-room schoolhouse on the edge of a vast field; a community away from civilized society, away from his father, away from any place he could soil the family name with his failures.

materials gathered, he slips out the front door. he considers locking the place up, but if anyone does break in, there isn’t much to steal. he’d come by this afternoon on a whim. lodging with an elderly woman and her six cats is one of the many things about snowshill that grates on his nerves, and the quiet air of the schoolhouse is a welcome respite from constance’s inane titterings. it’s nearly time for afternoon tea, though, and she’ll be cross if he doesn’t show, so he heads down the dirt lane, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

his steps slow, but do not stop, when the sound of his name reaches his ears. it sounds muffled, far away, as most things do. still, it’s loud enough to give him pause. he throws a glance over his shoulder. two pupils—maryanne clouder and you—walk down the lane. you stroll arm in arm with maryanne, your hair tied back in a long braid. maryanne’s arm is raised in a motion meant to flag him down. begrudgingly, he stops.

“mr. lee!” maryanne is not coy in the way she grabs your wrist and drags you across the road. her cheeks are flushed when she reaches his side, her elbow still circled around yours. “we didn’t see in you sunday service this morning.”

he shifts on his feet, fingers curling around the strap of his satchel. “no, i didn’t attend.”

“any reason?” maryanne’s head tilts to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. he stifles a sigh. the girl is young, merely fifteen. she’s cute in a girlish sort of way; one might see her as a pesky sister. still, she tries to catch his attention each day, her eyelashes batting against her sun-chapped cheeks, her legs swinging back and forth at her desk.

“i... overslept,” he lies.

his eyes flick to your face, which struggles to remain unamused. you’re the eldest of his pupils, nineteen and itching to capture whatever semblance of freedom is left in the world. maryanne is your closest classmate in age, and he rarely sees you without her on your tail. to your credit, you never complain, never seem to mind. he admires that. there had once been a day he’d been like maryanne—so eager to please whoever would give him the time of day—but those days are long gone.

“well, mother asked after you,” maryanne continues. “she’d like to invite you over for supper sunday next—as a proper welcome to snowshill.”

he’s quick to turn her down, as he has two other families since his arrival. “that’s very kind, maryanne, but i’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

“nonsense, sir!” he hopes his eyebrows don’t rise too much in surprise when you jump to maryanne’s aid. “i’ll be there with my niece and my grandfather, and mrs. coulder makes the best roast you’ve had this side of london. you must come.”

from behind his circular, wire-rimmed glasses, he wonders if you can see the way his eyes widen. since arriving at the schoolhouse, he’s known you only as the eldest, wisest, and least rambunctious of his class. you’re quiet, but well-spoken; authoritative, but not domineering. the way you carry yourself—shoulders held straight, chin extended outward, eyes soft yet purposeful—he could easily mistake you for a woman. but you’re not. you’re a girl, his student, and just because you insist he attend sunday supper does not mean you look at him as anything other than your teacher. certainly, he doesn’t look at you as anything other than his student.

he clears his throat. it’s been a long day. he’s tired, on edge. he shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

forcing a tight smile, he gives a nod. “it seems i have no choice.” maryanne claps her hands together as he says, “tell your mother i’ll be there.”

“oh, goody! you won’t regret it, sir, i promise. i’ll be sure to tell hastings not to pester you too much.”

a groan nearly surfaces as he remembers the previous week’s antics of maryanne’s brother. he bites his tongue to keep from retracting his acceptance. “hastings doesn’t bother me, maryanne.”

her grin turns sly, and she pushes his arm in a playful gesture. “you don’t have to lie, mr. lee.” her tone is slow, drawling, and he has the integrity to blush. his ears feel hot, uncomfortable—and not at all pleasurable.

you tug on maryanne’s arm. “come on, mary.” stepping away, you jerk your head toward town, a measure of concern hidden beneath your smooth features. “we should leave mr. lee be. we’ve bothered him enough already.”

he doesn’t refute your statement. even if he jogs the rest of the way, he’ll still be late for afternoon tea, and he’ll still bear the brunt of constance’s wrath. in truth, you have bothered him enough already. so he lets you steer maryanne away without another word. at the last moment, he thinks he’s imagined it when you twist to look over your shoulder, your eyes running over him with a modicum of interest. he shakes the feeling off; it must have been his untoward imagination.

by the time he reaches contance’s cottage, a light drizzle has wet the shoulders of his suit jacket. his hair is damp, his glasses foggy. he ducks to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe as he enters. the cottage smells of tea and scones, both fresh, both warm.

from the kitchen, constance’s shrill voice meets his ears. no matter his hearing loss, her voice will never be one he can ignore. “is that you, gwilym?” she putters to the kitchen arch, wrapped tight in her pink robe, tea kettle in hand. when she sees him standing in the doorway, she frowns. “you’re late.”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry.” he sheds his jacket and places it on the wooden banister. rolling up his shirt sleeves, he makes his way to the kitchen. “i was accosted by some of my students.”

constance laughs, her fleshy cheeks taut with a smile. “oh, child, you make it sound like you loathe those students.”

he says nothing, simply brushes a few crumbs away from his place at the table. a fat cat jumps to take his seat before he can settle, and he sighs. constance chuckles at his misfortune, placing the tea kettle in the center of the table. she shoos the cat for him, and he sits.

“pour for us, won’t you?” she says, turning to gather the scones.

gwilym hesitates. his hand flexes on his thigh, but there’s no point in arguing with constance, so he lifts the kettle. heavy with hot water, the pot wavers in his hand. as he pours, his tremor grows stronger, the pot shaking so violently water makes it everywhere but the teacup.

“dammit,” he mutters. he puts the kettle down with more force than is strictly necessary; enough that he can feel constance’s eyes slide to his back as he rises to mop up the spilled water. it’s hot as it drenches the napkin, and he takes the moment of pain as punishment. he uses both hands to pour on the second go around. there’s still an unnatural rhythm to the stream of liquid as it descends to the teacups, but it hasn’t ruined the tablecloth, and he supposes that’s all that matters.

“there we are.” constance places a scone—blueberry iced with cream; she always makes his favorites—before him, and she does not mention the spilled water. “who were the rascals that accosted you this time?”

between bites of scone and sips of tea, he answers. “maryanne coulder and [y/n] [y/l/n].”

constance replaces her teacup on its saucer with a knowing nod. “ah, i know the coulder family. good bunch, except for that son of theirs.” her smile widens as his face blanches. “it seems you know him too.”

“he put tacks on my stool this thursday.”

“did you sit on them?”

he shakes his head. “no, but i might’ve.”

“and it would have given all the children a royal laugh.” she takes another sip, challenging him over the rim of her cup. “[y/n] i don’t know so well.”

“she’s in her last year. bright girl.” he doesn’t know why he feels to need to say such a thing. he’s barely given constance any information about his students thus far, but there’s something about the way she’s watching him that makes him speak and speak fast. “she could go on to university if she put her mind to it.”

“nineteen, i think, yes?”

he shrugs. “i think so.” constance hums and reaches over to pet an orange tabby cat. “they’ve wrangled me into sunday dinner next week. the coulders, i mean,” he adds.

“oh?”

“it was impossible to say no.”

“well, i believe it’s about time you show your face around town.” constance lifts a barely visible brow. “you really much try and engage your students more, gwilym. no one likes a sour puss.”

heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. she’s right, of course. he hasn’t always been this way, but since the war broke out and his subsequent service denial, he’s been nothing but a gray cloud in every room. he can’t help it.

constance changes the subject as her eyes move to the window at the back of the cottage. “did you know michael livingston went and shot a fox at four o’clock this morning?” she tuts her tongue. “that man! he really is the bane of my existence. a horrid excuse for a neighbor.”

gwilym’s gaze drops to his teacup, and he filters out what he can of constance’s prattle. she’s right. he should work on connecting with his students more. his father is a master at that. he has every student at the university eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first term week. gwilym thought he might have the capacity to do the same, but it seems he had been wrong. his students are respectful enough, but aside from maryanne and her silly crush, they are largely unattached. though, it isn’t as if he wants their affection or even their approval...

he’s fine without it. really, he is.

still, it wouldn’t hurt to at least seem approachable. he’s in snowshill for the foreseeable future. he might as well face it and try to appear like he gives a damn.

at four o’clock sharp the following sunday, he stands outside the coulder household, his fist poised ready to knock on the dark green front door. only he can’t seem to bring himself make his arrival known.

if he knocks, he has to be sociable. if he doesn’t knock, he can retreat to his attic room and spend the rest of his sunday in peace.

if he knocks, he might begin to chip away at the three-foot-thick barrier he’s placed around himself. if he doesn’t knock, he remains hidden, but protected.

his fist trembles in front of the door.

“mr. lee, are you alright?”

he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice. dropping his hand and readjusting his hold on the plate of muffins constance sent along with him, he turns away from the door. you stand halfway down the stone path leading to the home, one hand holding the chubby fingers of a toddler he doesn’t recognize. your other hand is pressed against the back of an old man, his shoulders bent with age, hands wobbling as he uses a cane.

gwilym swallows and looks away. “oh, hello. i just...” he can’t think of an excuse, so he, lamely, settles for the truth. “well, if i can be frank with you, miss [y/l/n], i was—am—feeling a bit apprehensive.”

you just smile and lift the toddler from the ground. with the girl on your hip, you come to stand by his side. he shifts when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. you glance up at him, your smile lifting, before knocking on the front door yourself.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, sir,” you whisper in the lull between your knock and the door opening. “’s just maryanne.”

he isn’t certain, but he thinks you’re teasing him. the possibility makes his skin crawl in more ways than one. he hates that.

saved the duty of response, he pulls his mouth into a tight smile as the door opens. mrs. coulder, flanked by her daughter, stands in the threshold, brightly patterned apron snug around her waist.

“oh, mr. lee!” she stretches out her hand, and he shakes it, the plate of muffins tipping precariously in his opposite palm. “we’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“thank you for the invitation, mrs. coulder.” he waits until you’ve passed with your grandfather to cross the threshold.

“please, call me vivianne. can i take that for you?” she nods to the plate of muffins, eyes sparkling all the while.

“yes, thank you. from constance pruder,” he adds. “she told me to tell you hello.”

“how kind of her!” vivianne takes the muffins from his arms and gestures toward the back of the house with her chin. “my husband, john, is out back. why don’t you go and chat until supper’s ready. he is ever so eager to meet you.”

gwilym fights to hold back his cringe. fathers—he doesn’t do well with them. not his own, not anyone else’s. it’s just another item on his long list of dislikes and annoyances.

but he’s a guest, and he really does want to try. so he fixes his tie and follows vivianne’s directions to the back garden.

john is sat on a wrought-iron chair, his hands braced against the arms, round face pulled tight in a frown as he watches maryanne play with the toddler on the grass. he stands when gwilym ducks to step outside. he extends a hand, his grip painful.

“lee,” he barks in greeting before dropping back to his seat.

the old man—gwilym assumes he’s your grandfather—twists from his place in a similar chair. “forgive me if i don’t get up, son.” the way his fingers waver in the air makes gwilym’s stomach clench; his own hand shakes slightly as he touches the old man’s palm. “name’s richard.”

“sit down.” john points to a bench against the house. “i’ve got questions for you.”

gwilym hesitates, caught bent at the waist as he goes to sit. his hands are firm on his thighs, and unwittingly, his eyes flick to yours. he’s surprised to see you already watching him, your fingers twirling in the blades of grass around your legs. when the moment has stretched far too long, he sits and smooths his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“i hope easy questions, sir,” he says. his tone is light, but his teeth are gritted.

“easy enough if you tell the truth.” john withdraws a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket. jamming a butt between his teeth, he offers the case to gwilym, who declines with a shake of his head. john puffs on the cigarette for a moment before saying, “why aren’t you off fighting, lee? all the other lads from gloucestershire are doing their part. what makes you special enough to stay away from the battle?”

to say gwilym is shocked by john’s pointed question would be an understatement. the force of the query, spoken in harsh, biting tones, is enough to tilt him sideways in his chair. he’s sure his face is red, his chest tight from forgetting to release the breath he holds in his lungs. his hands curl against his trousers, his knuckles gone white with rage.

“well, sir,” he drawls, careful to keep his tone even. more than anything, he wants to stand, leave, and slam the door on his way out for good measure. his ears burn with embarrassment. “i would certainly be fighting if i could.”

it’s an honest answer, the truth if ever he’s spoken it. what he wouldn’t give to be away from snowshill, rushing the battle field with his brothers-at-arms. what he wouldn’t give to be worthy of a moment’s notice when he returned from war.

but he’s not worthy and he’s not fighting. he’s stuck in the back garden of his most precocious and love-sick student, the sun beating down on his brow with an undue heat, his muscles twitching with the restraint it takes to keep from decking snowshill’s most prominent lawyer.

john narrows his eyes across the cobblestone patio. “if you could? what’s wrong with you?”

gwilym says nothing. red—the color of blood, ambulance sirens, and fire—flashes before his eyes.

“in my day,” john continues. “we fought no matter our delicate sensibilities.” he huffs around his cigarette, his chest ballooning like a baboon. “i’d say that i—”

“mr. coulder!” your voice is sharp, though not unkind, when you break into coulder’s soliloquy. gwilym’s eyes snap from john’s throbbing forehead muscle to you. you stand beside your grandfather, your skirt tangled around your legs in your apparent haste to stand. there’s grass pressed against your knees, and a faint tinge of red on your cheeks. “i believe i heard mrs. coulder calling for your just now,” you say, sweetening the blow of your interruption with a smile.

john looks to the open door, a pucker forming between his brows. “oh,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. “i’d better go see what that’s about.” he ambles on bowed legs into the house, and gwilym is left to pick of the pieces of his fractured dignity.

he dares glance at you. your eyes lift from the ground slowly, your fingers curling along the hem of your cardigan. when you meet his gaze, you look away first, as if you’re scared—scared to look at him, scared to admit you had to rescue him like a drowning puppy. he swallows hard and stands, though he isn’t sure why. he just can’t stay sitting anymore.

vivianne pops her head around the frame of the back door. “come come, everyone. supper is ready! mr. lee, you sit beside john. he has so much he wishes to discuss with you.” she grins and waves him inside, and who is he to refuse her?

later that night, when his back is pressed against his firm mattress, moonlight washing through the attic room, gwilym feels the overwhelming urge to cry. he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. after his mother’s passing—god rest her soul—tears have seemed... pointless. they didn’t bring his mother back; they won’t cure his deaf ear or his tremor, won’t stop people like john coulder from asking questions.

still, his chest aches. there’s something in his lungs scratching to get out. it rises in his throat like a lump and bubbles forth in a broken sob. he presses his hand to his mouth, feels a hot tear slide down his cheekbone.

god, he hates it here.

really, he hates it everywhere. there’s nowhere he can go to escape from himself.

class on monday is disjointed.

he didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning the whole night long, his dreams plagued with images of his mother, the war, you staring at him like a broken man. he woke several times in a cold sweat, his bedclothes drenched and sticky.

his students bear the brunt of his poor night’s rest. he is tired to the very core of his being, and it shows in the way he waves hastings away after one-too-many attempts at the same arithmetic problem. it shows in the way he sits at his desk before the class, rubbing at this throbbing temples, the echo of the previous night’s supper ringing in his ears. though the sentiment is there most days, today he truly does not care if his students learn or not. he just wants a stiff drink, maybe a quick shag, something to take his mind off it all.

shifting in his seat, he withdraws the pocket watch snug in his trouser pocket. the gold around the clasp is worn with decades of use, and when he unlocks the face, the watch within is slightly obscured by a thin crack over the number five. still, despite its flaws, the clock ticks on. there’s a metaphor there, he knows, about himself: worn, broken, but still working. he’s too jaded to believe it.

he rises from his chair. the legs scrape against the floor. “it’s lunch,” he announces, breaking the heavy silence of the classroom with his deep voice. “take your things and go home. class is dismissed for the rest of the day.”

from her place in the front row, maryanne bats her eyelashes in confusion. “what’s the occasion, sir?” she sits straight at her desk, eager to please, panting for some drip of his attention.

gwilym doesn’t have any attention to spare for maryanne, for any of his students, really. his eyes flick from maryanne to the open window to you. he clears his throat and looks away. “it’s a nice day out, maryanne,” he says. “we shouldn’t waste it inside. don’t you agree?”

she grins and nods as she hastily gathers her things together. “oh, yes, of course!”

his jaw goes tight as he says, “thank your mother again for inviting me to supper yesterday. it was very kind of her.”

scarlet blush crawls over maryanne’s cheeks. she holds her books snug against her chest, her shoes dancing back and forth in nerves across the hardwood floor. “you are more than welcome any time, sir.”

he nods once, glancing toward the open schoolhouse door. she gets the picture; their conversation is through. grabbing hastings hand, she drags her brother out of the building and into the sunshine, leaving gwilym in blessed silence. he drops to his chair with a groan, cradling his forehead between his pointer finger and thumb. outside he can here his pupils laughing in the field. he removes his hands from his face and looks out the window-lined wall. hands crossed in his lap, he watches the children play, wonders what it feels like to live so carefree.

had he ever been like that as a child: wild, uninhibited? he must’ve been—surely. his long-term memory is poor, brought on by a hard tumble he’d taken from a horse at an early age, but memory impairment aside, he wasn’t always this sullen, this removed. surely.

“mr. lee?”

he jolts at the sound of your voice, twisting in his chair to see you standing before his desk, a crease of worry between your brows. he frowns. “miss [y/l/n]? have you been there long?”

you shake your head, and a lock of hair falls out from behind your ear. you tuck it back, your eyes falling momentarily to the floor before you say, “no. well, yes. i was gathering my things, and you looked... pensive.”

he sits upright, and the urge to smooth his hair works its way to his fingers. he adjusts his glasses instead. “pensive? that doesn’t bode well.”

at his half-hearted attempt at levity, the corner of your mouth lifts. you step closer to his desk. “i wanted to be sure you were alright after supper last evening.”

his gut clenches at the memory, the shame of john coulder’s interrogation, at having to be saved by his own student, at that student being you. “i’m fine, truly,” he says, an edge to his voice he doesn’t mean.

still, you push further. “it’s just that mr. coulder... he’s not very diplomatic when it comes to asking questions. i thought maybe you—”

for the second time, gwilym stands from his chair with the intention of ending the conversation. he will not discuss sunday’s supper with you. the memory is still too raw, and his dream of you coming to his rescue is thoroughly and completely humiliating. yet when he stretches to his full height and sees you standing there, the most earnest expression of concern he’s ever seen on another face, he is powerless to stop himself from admitting the truth. he shoves his hands in his pockets, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“your concern is kind. mr. coulder’s questions were ill-phrased but not unwarranted. the men of this country hold a heavy duty right now. i suspect he was only asking out of patriotism.”

you blink, lips pressed together. he’d thought you’d be satisfied with his answer, but it appears you are not. the crease in your brow deepens. “sir, he was very unkind to you.” you speak as if he didn’t realize, as if he didn’t wet his pillow with tears of shame and hurt.

he nods. “perhaps.”

“it’s not fair, though. i’m sure whatever your reasons are for staying away from the front are valid.”

“again, your kindness does you credit.”

“i’m not trying to flatter you, mr. lee. i’m only speaking the truth.”

gwilym hesitates before saying, “i did not assume you were the flattering type.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

he’s not sure if it’s just the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window, but the air feels heavier than it did moments before. his eyes search yours. searching for what he can’t say, but he searches nonetheless. you hold his gaze until the faintest of blushes rises to your cheekbones.

“i must thank you, though, miss [y/l/n], for coming to my aid last evening.” he’s surprised by his confession. it should drive him to his knees in embarrassment that he must concede to his student after they help him with a man twice his age. he is embarrassed, but something—manners, the desire to replicate your honesty, your doe eyes—makes him say it. “i am not sure i would have answered mr. coulder’s questions with a cool head, but you showed great tact. i’m indebted to you for that.”

he bites his tongue. too far, perhaps. a teacher should never be indebted to his student. least of all his oldest, brightest, and yes, he will admit it: most attractive student.

your chest lifts as you draw in a breath through your teeth. “well, i know a way you can repay me.”

his eyes widen, his throat seizing around his adam’s apple. he removes his hands from his pockets and shuffles a stack of unmarked papers on his desk. his hand wavers as he moves, though he’s not sure if it’s due to his tremor or an unwarranted image of you in his arms flashing through his mind.

too far. too far. you’re just a student. he’s just your teacher.

“what would you have me do?” it’s stupid to ask, to play along, but he can’t help it when your hands are clasped behind your back, the ribbon at the end of your braid falling over your shoulder.

“there’s a benefit next week,” you say, and your face eases into a smile. “it’s for the wounded soldiers, and i’m in charge of the bake sale. my grandfather is too old to help and my niece is too young, so i thought perhaps you might like to help me? i’m sure more people will stop by if you’re there. everyone’s still curious about the new schoolmaster.”

gwilym stills, his eyes falling on you. not for the first time, he wonders if there’s something beneath your gaze, beneath your question. there can’t be; there isn’t. just like he is not interested in you, you are not interested in him.

unless...

he clears his throat and looks down at his desk. he brushes a stray pencil to the side. it rolls, rolls, rolls, stops against a heavy book. “i suppose i can make the time to assist.” he meets your eyes despite his gut telling him not to entertain this foolishness any longer. “for you, miss [y/l/n].”

your face clears in something akin to shock. you blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against your freckled cheekbones. for a moment, gwilym imagines maryanne in the moments past, batting her own eyes. it hadn’t made his gut twist like this.

“it’s not for me,” you whisper, and the breathy sound of your voice sends a rush of blood from his head to his manhood. “it’s for the soldiers.”

“yes,” he replies. your gaze is locked on his, deep and probing. “the soldiers.”

a pebble hits the window with a sharp ting, and you both startle—you with a gasp, he with a muttered curse. turning, he stares out the window long enough to see a few of his male students playing a game of stickball with pebbles. a sigh shudders through his chest. no one had seen, had felt the thick tension in the room. thank heaven.

when he turns back to ask you how he can help before the benefit, you are gone.

the day of the benefit dawns bright and clear. it’s warm despite the month. april is generally cool and balmy, but gwilym breaks a sweat as he carries arrangement after arrangement of flowers to a little red wagon outside the cottage. constance sits perched on her portable stool, a cane between her legs as she watches him work.

“be careful with those, gwilym james,” she chides. “i spent all week and won’t have you breaking a single one.”

“i’m being careful, constance.” he huffs as he lowers a bouquet of blue hydrangeas to the wagon. the glass rattles as it squeezes between the dozens of other vases. the wagon is full to bursting of flowers of all kinds and where constance unearthed such of a treasure trove of flowers, he cannot be sure. “you truly expect to sell all these in one afternoon?”

constance draws in a sharp breath and whacks the butt of her cane against his shin. “how dare you!” he yelps, clutching his offended leg, but for once finds it easy to match her sly smile. “my flowers are sought after in the next three counties!”

“i’m sure they are,” he says, chuckling at her twisted features.

she stands, snapping her stool shut with ease. with her chin tilted, she gestures with her cane to the road. “we’ll be late. you know i detest being late.”

rolling his eyes, gwilym grabs the wagon handle from the ground and gently maneuvers the vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the center of the village. the flowers jostle and clang as the wagon dips with the unevenness of the road, but the arrangements hold steady. constance’s steps are slow and small, so he shrinks his stride to match hers. a whisper of a breeze cools the sweat lingering on the back of his neck, and he glances at the cloudless sky. no one could have asked for better weather.

“i hear you are to assist miss [y/l/n] in her confection sale today?”

gwilym nearly trips over a rut in the road, but catches himself at the last moment. he adjusts his hold on the wagon handle, his hand trembling even curled against the cool metal. “yes—she had no one else to help her.”

constance’s eyebrows lift. “ah.”

“you did tell me to be more kindly with my pupils.”

“that i did.”

“then why do you look so displeased?”

“i’m far from displeased, child,” she says with a laugh. “merely cataloging this moment for later.”

gwilym doesn’t ask for further explanation. he doesn’t want to know. it’s bad enough that he spent the entire morning primping and preening over his own reflection. god, he’d felt like such an idiot.

but he couldn’t deny the urge to at least try and put some effort into his appearance. he would be spending the day by your side, after all. not that it mattered...

by the time he rolls constance’s wagon into the village square, the benefit is well under way. snowshill is a small parish; only one-hundred-twenty-three residents, yet it seems every soul has turned out for the event. colorful streamers whip through the mid-morning breeze. a gaggle of musicians sitting underneath a shade tree amble through a litany of well-known tunes. the baker twins, annie and joy, race past gwilym, hand in hand as they head for the dunking booth. he pauses in his study of the square. there’s happiness here. despite it all—the war, the fathers and brothers and husbands so far away, the uncertainty of the future—the villagers have still found a reason to smile. surely, he can to.

“i’ll take this.” constance pulls gwilym from his thoughts as she pries the wagon handle from his hand. “you go over there,” she adds, nodding to a booth on his left. “miss [y/l/n] is waiting.”

he ignores the telling sparkle in her eyes. she can see right through him, the old bat, see straight to the part of his heart he so desperately wants—no, needs—to ignore.

chasing the thoughts away, he turns to locate the corner set aside for the bake sale. it isn’t hard. in an uncomfortable but familiar sort of way, he’s drawn to you, and he finds you easily. at the base of the church gardens, you’re already hard a work. your hair is loose around your shoulders, and the sun glints off a pearl barrette clipping a portion of the strands back. stepping forward, he allows his eyes, for the briefest of moments, to run over your frame. your forest green dress is cinched at the waist with a wide gold band, accentuating your curves. the sleeves of the dress, which fall to your elbows, are sheer, and he can see your skin glistening beneath the sway of shadows and sun. you’re lovely, breathtaking even. he hates the way his heart gallops in his chest at the sight, like he’s a love-struck schoolboy. in reality, he is your teacher and a grown man. the thought alone makes him advert his eyes from the picture of you, dressed well and elegantly, smiling as you speak to a customer.

“there you are!” you twist away from the pie, cake, and cookie laden table to grace him with a brilliant smile. knowing you first and foremost as the level-headed student who rarely speaks save to impart pearls of wisdom, the sight of your wide smile is near blinding. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

he shakes his head. “never.”

“good.” you point up the hill to the church. “the rest of the pies are in the kitchen. bring them down, won’t you?”

he does so without complaint, returning to the booth with a cherry pie in one hand and a rhubarb pie in the other. he places them on the table with care before asking, “who made all these?”

you shrug and straighten the sign hanging from the makeshift portico attached to the table. “mostly the older ladies of the parish. though,” you say, your eyes sliding to his with mischief. “i did make those.” you point to a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. “you can steal one if you like. i won’t tell.”

gwilym narrows his eyes. “how do i know if i can trust you?”

you laugh—a clear, bell-like laugh—and it goes straight to his gut. “try it and you’ll just have to find out.”

you sit, your attention caught by the toddler scooting about on the a picnic blanket behind the table. gwilym hesitates before taking one of the cookies. it snaps in his hands, and he nudges your arm with his knuckles. you look over your shoulder, glancing at the half of a cookie melting between his fingers.

“take the other half,” he says. “that way we both get in trouble. if i’m going to go down, i’ll take you with me.”

your cheeks color, and he wonders where your mind has gone, but then you take the cookie and your fingers brush his palm. a jolt shoot through his arm, but he ignores it, sitting in the seat beside you.

“it’s very good,” he says after swallowing the dessert. “chocolatey.”

you smile in thanks then reach out, your thumb nearing his cheek. he stills, uncertain if he should move back and risk offense or lean in and risk it all. you swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, your touch fleeting but like fire all the same. sitting back, your grin widens.

“you had a bit of chocolate on your lip,” you explain.

“oh.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks the opposite direction.

few villagers have meandered over to the bake sale booth, but the day is early yet. he dares relax and lean back in his chair. he unbuttons his suit-jacket, letting the breeze waft through his sleeves and around his torso. when he turns his head to look at you, he finds you already watching, your eyes trained against his chest which strains against his snug waistcoat. all thoughts evaporate until your eyes lift to his and you blush.

he clears his throat. “uh—the child?” he questions, pointing to the toddler on the ground. she’s chubby, her legs stumpy beneath a yellow day dress and bloomers. “who does she belong to?”

you lift the baby and set her on your knee. the little girl smiles at him and leans against your shoulder, her mouth gnawing around her fist. “my sister,” you say. “she’s away, so grandfather and i are left to take care of eliza.”

“and where is your grandfather?”

“he’s with his mates. they’ve set up shop outside the pub and are more than likely pestering anyone who will listen with their own war stories.”

“he seems like a kind man.”

“oh, he is!” you grin and return eliza to her spot in the shade. “after my parents died, he took me and peggy—that’s my sister—in without a moment’s hesitation.”

before gwilym can question you any further, a familiar voice hits his ears. he rises alongside you as vivianne coulder draws close to the booth.

“oh, look how darling! [y/n], you’ve really outdone yourself!” vivianne eyes the sweets with interest. “however am i to make such a choice? there’s simply too many good things here to choose from.”

“you can always buy multiples, mrs. coulder.” you press your palms against the table, leaning forward to watch as vivianne surveys the array of food. gwilym’s eyes stray toward your backside, which is pushed out, until vivianne breaks his train of thought.

“mr. lee, how did you get mixed up in a bake sale?” she asks, dropping a few coins in your palm as she makes her purchase. “i might have thought you’d participate in the dunk tank like my john.”

as if to punctuate her question, a bell across the square rings followed by a cheer and a splash. someone hit the bullseye.

“mr. lee owed me a favor,” you say. “i had to watch the class one afternoon while he tended to a feral dog in the yard.”

the story isn’t a falsehood, but it’s certainly not why he stands beside you now. he’d almost forgotten about that dog, but perhaps the mangy mutt had been a godsend after all. it certainly kept you from having to admit the real reason for his appearance at the bake sale.

vivianne giggles behind her gloved hand. “how brave!”

your hand, ungloved and warm, lands on his arm. your fingertips squeeze the flesh of his bicep nearly imperceptibility but he feels the gentle pressure like a vice around his skin. “yes,” you continue, seemingly oblivious to the way your touch wrecks him. “he was quite brave.”

vivianne chats with you a moment more—something about maryanne and her sixteenth birthday celebration—but he can barely focus. he’s unnaturally hot under his jacket, despite the cover of shade protecting the table of sweets. he wants to shake your hand from his arm, loosen your hold around his gut, but he doesn’t want to appear rude. he doesn’t want to push you away.

so he stands still. he lives with your fingers against the curve of his shoulder like a man readying himself for execution. his jaw is tight, his eyes focused on the people milling about the square.

when vivianne finally ambles away, he feels free enough to step out of your grasp. he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. his eyes dart from the ground to your face. you stare at him, your own eyes wide and lips parted ever-so slightly. god, he could kiss you. maybe it would quell the fire in his stomach and get you out of his head. maybe the simple touch would fix all the worn-out and tired thought swirling through his head. he would give into his desire but there’s too many people around and maybe that’s a good thing. he’s not sure he could stop himself if he started.

blessedly, a trio of older women approach the table. he jerks his attention away from you and finds a modicum of solace in auctioning off the bake sale items to whomever will purchase them. the faster the table is clear, the sooner he can go home and take a cold shower.

fate, it seems, has other plans for him because it is not until past-dusk that the charity benefit ends. the last of the pies have been sold off, your niece dragged home by your grandfather when the hour gets too late. gwilym helps you break down the table in silence, the only sound a bird twittering in its nest overhead and the rumble of the dunk tank being hauled away. you look tired, and he’s sure he does too. on the whole, he enjoyed himself. you are pleasant company and skilled at carrying on conversation. in truth, he finds himself wondering if he could spend every waking moment simply sitting by your side. the busy-bodies and children who came by the booth brought him small smiles, as well. the occasional woman called him handsome, even though her age well surpassed his own, and it buoyed his neglected heart. mothers thanked him profusely for his work at the school. he had not realized how much his students seemed to appreciate his efforts in the classroom. on more than one occasion, he’d left the schoolhouse under the impression the vast majority of his pupils were plotting his demise for being so sullen and boring. but perhaps not...

with your aid, he carries the booth’s table to the basement of the church. it is cool in the dark hallway of the building. his shoes sound against the stone floor as he searches for a light switch with nothing but his gaze. he hears a sharp bang followed by a muffled curse.

“you alright?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder. he can barely make out your form what with the dim hall and your form covered by night.

you adjust your hold on the end of the table. “yes, i’m fine. i bumped into the doorframe ‘s all.”

“where do we put this table then?”

“the vicar got it out for me early this morning. i suppose we could simply leave it by the pantry in the kitchen.”

“i’m afraid i don’t know where that is.”

he swears he can see you smile despite the low light. “perhaps i should have led the way.”

he mirrors your grin. “perhaps you should have.”

nodding to the left, you say, “that way. down the hall and first door on the right. i left it open.”

with some trouble, he manages to make it to the kitchen, though he too runs into the doorframe of the hallway and you giggle at his misfortune. together, you lower the table against the kitchen wall and step back. you brush your hands together with an air of finality.

“well,” you say with a sigh. “nothing like a good day’s work.”

gwilym turns to look at you in the darkness of the kitchen. a beam of moonlight filters through a single window in the corner of the room. it falls agains the back of your head, shrouding you in a halo of yellowy light. you’re looking at him, too; he can feel it. you look soft, and you stand close enough to touch. he keeps his hands at his sides; they tremble against the creases of his trousers.

“thank you, miss [y/l/n],” he whispers. “i needed a day like today.”

silence reigns supreme for the longest of moments. universes are born and wither in the space between his confession and your response.

but then your lips are on his.

your hands grasp the material around his shoulders, your nails pressing through the fabric in earnest. he can think of nothing else to do—nothing else he should do—other than remain planted firm on the stone floor of the church kitchen. he itches to hold you, to weave his fingers through your hair, and move his mouth over yours. you taste sweet, like cookies, for the brief moment you claim him as your own. still, he is level-headed enough, rational enough, scared enough, to not react—no matter how much he wants to.

you pull back, swallowing hard. your fingertips skim over your mouth. you stare at him, starlight caught in your eyelashes, then run from the basement before he can say a word.

you do not come to class for several days. he calculates that it must be three days you’ve skipped out on him—no, on school. really, he can’t be certain how long you’ve been gone. since he felt the touch of your lips on his, he has thought of little else. the memory consumes him, threatening to swallow him whole. it distracts him when he turns around from the blackboard to see your seat empty and when he dismisses class at the end of the day and does not see you gathering your belongings with your elegant movements. he has lost track of time and of order. at night, he lays awake and stares at his ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. he runs the moment over and over again, replaying and reframing how it could have gone different.

he could have pushed you away the second you moved closer. at least then he would be able to claim he tried to be a professional, that he tried to distance himself from his interest in his own student.

he could have kissed you back. he’d wanted to. he’d wanted to so badly. he’d wanted to so badly the mere thought of how he’d kept his hands still at his sides makes his brain clench with discomfort.

the thursday after the benefit, after yet another day without your presence in the cramped schoolhouse, he drags his feet to your home. he’s reluctant to go, knowing he should allow you to come back on your own time. whatever it was that possessed you to kiss him, he knows you probably regret the action as much as he regrets not seizing the moment for himself.

you live on the outskirts of snowshill on your grandfather’s sheep farm. the dirt road leading to the white farmhouse is clogged with tufts of fresh grass, revealing its lack of traffic. a handful of hens peck the ground beneath a sprawling oak tree. a flat swing hanging from a thick branch sways back and forth with the afternoon breeze. it’s idyllic—removed from the rest of the world, even as far as snowshill goes, but idyllic.

he’s out of breath from the walk by the time he reaches the front door, but gwilym is self-aware enough to know he would out of breath regardless of his mode of transportation. he’s nervous. his hands shake, and there’s an incessant ringing in his deaf ear. he waits, unsure if anyone on the other side of the bright red door has heard his knock.

“mr. lee?”

the sound, garbled by the blood rushing to his ears and the tilt of his head, comes from his right. he twists to see you standing at the corner of the house. there’s a basket in your hand; it’s empty, save for a pair of small scissors which catch the sun. your blue-checkered dress is faded, the sleeves bunched around your elbows. one of the pockets on either hip seems weighed down with an invisible object. he stops his perusal and notes the clear frown on your face.

he steps forward, huffing out a rushed “miss [y/l/n]”, and nearly topples off the rail-less stoop. he catches himself at the last moment, his hand darting out to press against the frame of the farmhouse.

you gasp, dropping your basket, and rush forward, but when you see he’s righted himself, you stop. “goodness,” you say. “that would’ve been a bad tumble. i’ve told grandfather dozens of times that we need a railing.”

gwilym chuckles in a lame attempt to save face. he takes the three steps to the safety of solid earth and crosses to stand before you. you blink up at him, your lips pinched. there’s a mysterious lack of sparkle in your gaze, and he wonders if he’s the cause of its disappearance.

“you’ve not been to school,” he says.

you shake your head as you turn to pick your discarded basket. “no.”

“why?”

you lift a slim brow. “isn’t the answer obvious, sir?”

“no.”

you hold his stare, and he is the one to look away first. a chill settles around his spine despite the warmth of the day. he wrings his hands together as he looks over the field.

“if that’s all, sir—”

his eyes snap back to yours. “no!” he winces at the desperation in his tone and tries again. “no. i think we should talk, miss [y/l/n], about what happened at the benefit.”

this time you do look away, your cheeks tinged with blush. you gesture toward the meadow behind your home. “i was going to walk down to the river. i need to replenish our herb stock. you may join me if you like.”

“that’s fine,” he says, nodding. “you lead the way.”

the beginning of your walk is spent in silence. the meadow grass tangles around the hem of his trousers, staining them green with leftover dew. you trail ahead of him, your basket skimming over the weeds and grasses like a sailboat in an ocean of nature. he realizes you are without shoes, and the sight of your bare calves and ankles sends his thoughts elsewhere.

you lead him into a grove of cherry and birch trees. pink petals cover the ground and obscure the sky. it’s a haze of color here—cherry blossoms and green leaves, the flutter of an anxious bird’s wings, the clear but rushing waters of the creek. he stops when you do and inhales deeply. strangely, tears prick the corners of his eyes. he could stay here, he thinks, in this picturesque place—no one to bother him or question him or loathe his very existence.

“i never knew snowshill boasted such a beautiful spot,” he admits.

from your place crouched against the ground, your voice is muffled. “yes. i keep it secret”—your voice is clearer when you rise and look over your shoulder—“from nearly everyone. it’s too special to share with the world.”

you lean down again and use your small pair of scissors to snip at a collection of herbs growing along the creekbed. gwilym dares take a step closer, and he points to the herbs in your hand.

“what are those?”

“mint. it grows well by the water.” you lift the bundle. “would you like some?”

instead of taking the offer, he squats beside you. his knee, bent as it is, almost brushes your elbow. he plucks a small leaf of the mint and puts it on his tongue.

you watch as he allows the herb’s flavor to coat his tongue. “my mother used to make very good lemonade with mint.”

“my mother too.” he clears his throat, glances at the trickling stream, then back at you. “miss [y/l/n], about the benefit...”

to your credit, you do not shy away from his pointed gaze. your jaw tightens, but you maintain eye-contact, and he wonders if you can see all the thoughts racing through his head as he looks at you.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood my gratefulness for our interactions at the coulder dinner and at the benefit. my intention was not to give you any untoward thoughts or—”

“why are you not fighting? in the war?” you interrupt with ease and do not blink as you question him.

despite his initial shock at the change of topic, he finds himself rushing to answer, to explain himself—though to anyone else, he would balk and turn away. “my right ear is deaf.”

“oh.”

“has been for a long time,” he continues. “apparently, good hearing is the mark of a good soldier.”

“and your hands?”

“my hands?”

“why do they tremble?”

at this, gwilym does balk. he stands, running the hands in question through his hair as he turns his back to you. “my hands do not tremble,” he says, his tone close to seething.

you stand to your full height, which isn’t much next to him. “yes they do. i’ve seen them—in class, at the benefit. were you denied service because of that, too?”

he openly glares at you, but he answers truthfully. “no. it developed after my denial.”

“oh,” you say again.

“really, miss [y/l/n], this is not why i wanted to speak with you.”

“i know. you wanted to talk about us.”

“there is no us. there can be no us.”

“i disagree.”

“yes, you would because you are a child, and you don’t understand that you and i giving in to whatever is between us would mean disaster.”

the slap that lands across his cheek echoes in the small grove of trees. he whirls, clutching his face as he stares at you in disbelief. his ear is ringing again, and it’s painful this time, but he knows he deserves it.

your chest heaves when you next speak. “i’m not a child.”

he knows this. he’s seen you as a woman—dreamt of you as a woman—too many times to count.

dropping his hand from his face, he nods. “i know. forgive me.”

you’re quiet, thinking, then you open your mouth to speak.

“i don’t think you realize, gwilym, how good you are for this community.” the sound of his name on your lips is sinful, threatening to tear his focus away from your words. “in the short time you’ve been here, i’ve seen the children in that schoolhouse learn more than they ever did before you came. you’re truly teaching them about the world, not just maths and reading and science. why, even last week hastings actually apologized for pulling on my braids in the past. he told me that you taught him that.”

gwilym frowns. “how? i never told—”

“they watch you. he told me you apologized to mark after you were short with him one afternoon. he told me he wanted to be like you—not his father, you.”

“miss [y/l/n]—”

“and my grandfather? he so admires you. i think he sees himself in you, after he came home from the way. he told me you’re very brave. and constance swears you have the gentlest soul built for caring for others. you may hide it, but she knows that you—”

“that’s enough—please.”

you fall silent, unshed tears washing over your eyes before you say, “don’t you see, gwilym? you walk around with such a weight on your shoulders, but all anyone wants to do—all i want to do—is ease the load. you’re worth that.”

he shakes his head and swallows hard. your speech all but shatters his heart. more than anything, he wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s good for something. but the pesky thoughts in the back of his mind grip him hard. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

“i kissed you that night because i think you are wonderful.” your face cracks into a smile, vibrant and gut-wrenching. “wonderful and smart and handsome and—”

he puts a stop to your words. winding his arms around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest, his mouth lowering to capture yours. you’re stiff at first, in shock by his sudden change of heart, but then you relax, your arms lifting to circle his neck, drawing him ever closer. his lips explore yours with desperation, the weeks he’s spent pining after you crashing to the surface in an explosion of want and need. he moves his hands to cradle your face, and your hands skim to his shoulder blades, your fingers pressed into the skin beneath his waistcoat and shirt. you taste like fresh mint. it’s all he can do to not lower you to the bed of blossom petals on the ground and ravish you until the sun dips below the horizon.

he pulls away, breathing heavy, his forehead rolling against yours. “[y/n]...” you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s spoken your name aloud in your presence. “[y/n],” he whispers again. “we can’t.”

you fist your hands in his shirtsleeves. “don’t say that. you feel it as much as i do.”

nodding, he moves to hold your waist. the feel of your body under his hands is heaven. you are divine, like an goddess escaped from la primavera. “i do,” he admits. “i feel it.”

he bends his head to kiss you again. the touch is softer this time, more hesitant, but when he gathers the nerve to pull you closer, your hips against his, you whimper into his mouth, and the sound pulls him back to reality. he practically trips backward, breathing labored, thoughts muddled, and body rigid.

the space between you swims with lust and desire and yearning. your lips are plump, your cheeks flushed. your eyelids flutter, seemingly dazed, but not at all confused. you know what you want; he knows what he wants.

“we must keep it secret,” he says.

you nod.

“i won’t be able to touch you or—or be with you in public.”

“i know.”

“i could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out.”

you flinch at this, briefly looking to the side. “i know.”

shaking his head, he mutters “god help me, it would be worth it even if i did” as he crosses the space between you and crashes his lips to yours once more.

there is no hesitation now. he moves with purpose and you follow his lead. gently, he guides you to the blossom-strewn floor, his fingertips discovering the valleys and contours of your body with ease. his lips graze the curve of your neck, a feather’s touch, a butterfly’s kiss. you shift beneath him and pull his face level with yours. you glance between his eyes, chest brushing against his with the labor of your breathing.

he removes a twig from your hair, flicking it away. “do you want this?” he asks.

“always.” you smile, and it sends his heart tumbling in his chest.

you reach down and lift the hand pressed against the ground beside your hip. it leaves him in an awkward hunch overtop of you, only his left elbow propping him up, but he’s curious at your movements. holding his wrist, you touch your left palm to his.

“your hand isn’t shaking,” you whisper.

he looks at your joined flesh, at the way his fingers stand straight against yours. there isn’t the slightest waver in his hand. dropping his palm from your grasp, he melds his body against yours beneath the cherry tree as the sun inches toward the horizon.

it goes on like this for some time: you and he stealing moments throughout the week, in whatever privacy is available. for the first time in years, he is happy. he’d grown so used to his sullen state he forgot what joy felt like, but you’ve given it back to him in bundles.

he’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so. perhaps it is your whole being.

you are intelligent, easily tutoring your classmates when they fall behind. you are generous, often sharing your meals with the neediest of students. you are witty and lively in your silliest of moods and gentle and serene at your most centered. you listen to him when he speaks—truly listen—and you challenge him with your observations and questions.

he enjoys holding you, caressing your soft skin, kissing your lips. the cherry blossom grove is where he holds you most. it is a safe place amidst an unsafe world. beneath the shade of the birch trees, he is untouchable. he is free to speak as he wishes, love you as he pleases. he is open and honest and everything he feels he cannot be in town.

and, yes, he thinks he loves you—even after such a short time. he would be a fool not to have fallen for you by now. despite the years between you, despite the complexities of his position, he knows he would chose you again.

the weeks bleed into months. spring edges into the beginning of summer. you will finish school soon and be out from under his tutelage, released to the frayed fragments of freedom to which britain still clings. neither of you have spoken on the topic. though it looms overhead, it’s still far yet. you have time.

you are cradled against his chest, the aftermath of your most recent lovemaking still lingering on your bodies and in the air. you hum into the crook of his neck, and your fingers swirl around the hair peppering his chest.

“gwilym?” you press a kiss to his shoulder before adjusting yourself to lean on your elbow, looking down on him.

he opens one eye. “hmm?”

“what do you think will happen after the war ends?”

he opens both eyes at this and moves his head to meet your questioning gaze. the blanket beneath him rustles, and the branches overhead sway with the warm breeze. he isn’t sure what question he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you posed. you surprise him every day in that way—always curious, always searching for answers.

“i’m not sure,” he says. “provided we win, i suppose germany will be forced to make reparations. with the americans in the fight now it won’t be long before the kaiser gives up.”

“will you leave us then? once everything’s back to normal?”

he answers quickly and honestly, surprised at the passion in his own voice. “no, never.”

your brow creases. “but you came here running from the war. won’t you go home when it’s done?”

he blinks and considers. months ago, he would have said yes. given the chance, he would have fled back to london without a moment of hesitation. now... now he’s not so sure.

“home is wherever you are.” the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them, but once they hang in the air, he knows they are the truth. wherever you go, he will follow. he would forsake his entire past if it meant he could stay by your side.

your lips tug into a small smile, and you sit straighter, turning your face away. “you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

he runs a fingertip over the curve of your exposed shoulder, down the rise and fall of your spine. if anyone were to break through the line of trees, they would see you both and have no issue filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle, naked as you both are. still, he’s comfortable; he always is around you.

“i mean what i say, [y/n]. i’m not a flatterer.”

your head whips around, and your eyes twinkle with mirth. “don’t steal my words, gwilym,” you say with a laugh, pushing at his chest.

sitting up, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his side. “i can steal whatever i please. like this,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss on the mouth. “or this.” he kisses the flesh beneath your collarbone. “or—”

you press a finger to his lips. “not everything.” your grin turns sly, and you coquettishly bat your eyelashes. “i’m a virgin, after all, and must remain so for my future husband.”

gwilym laughs, tossing his head back. “is that so?”

you nod. “my maidenhood is the most sacred thing about me.”

“oh, we’ll see about that!”

with an easy maneuver, gwilym has you on your back. your giggles—girlish but edged with desire—circle his head like a drug. you swat at his shoulders when he braces himself over you, his mouth like a tattoo on your skin. he could stay like this forever—just you and him, the cherry blossom trees, and the endless sky. he would stay, too, but after your picnic dinner and an argument over the smartest literary character of all time (he insists sherlock holmes; you insist portia from the merchant of venice), he must walk you home before your grandfather begins to worry.

he wonders if the old man suspects anything. he comes to your house multiple afternoons a week under the guise of preparing you for university should you choose to go further with your education. that study time always floats from the kitchen table to the back garden to the grove of trees, and you’re gone for hours. you always return looking rumbled, your dress askew, his tie undone, but the old man never says a word if he does know the truth. for that, gwilym is thankful.

tonight, he leaves you at the backdoor. the sky is a blanket of stars, and the moon shines bright overhead. standing as you are on the lowest stair leading to the door, you can meet his eyes with ease, and you seem to appreciate the change in perspective. you run your hands through his hair, your fingernails grazing his scalp. his eyes flutter shut at the feeling, his grip on your hip tightening.

“don’t do that, [y/n],” he breathes.

you smirk. “why? do you like it?”

he grits his teeth and opens his eyes to level you a dark stare. “you know i do.”

grinning, you kiss him hard, enough to leave him breathless when you pull away. “tomorrow? same place?”

“i have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the vicar. i’ll come by afterwards.”

you shake your head and smooth your hands against his shoulders. the action is so domestic, so wifely, he can’t help but picture you as his wife, sending him away for a day of work. “don’t bother. i think i’ll pop around for tea with constance. perhaps i’ll run into you then?”

gwilym audibly groans at the idea of seeing you in his own home, sat across from his landlady, smiling and laughing, all the while making eyes at him from across the table. he shivers—but not because of the cold. “you’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

you touch his cheek with such tenderness it makes his knees weak. “i hope so.”

maryanne is the one who ultimately discovers and reveals your affair. even so, gwilym blames himself and himself alone. he got too comfortable. months of loving you in secret—months of tasting you and knowing you and cherishing you—cannot be hid behind a sullen face. and his face is not longer sullen.

he finds himself smiling more, asking his students about their lives instead of their assignments. he grades easier, waves his hand at forgotten homework, prolongs lunch break so he can eat with you. perhaps the change in his demeanor was what sent maryanne on the hunt. that—or the fact she caught him kissing you amongst constance’s prized hydrangea bushes.

he hadn’t been positive if the flash of pink fabric and yellow hair was maryanne, so he’d never mentioned it to you. he’d just kept kissing you, though his attention had slipped and his movements turned distracted when he heard the rustle of a bush. he’d opened his eyes long enough to see the out-of-place pink nestled within the green bushes and blue flowers, but then the color was gone and you were whispering something filthy in his ear and it made him laugh. he’d forgotten; he’d gotten comfortable.

now he wishes he’d grabbed maryanne and forced her to keep her mouth shut. with two weeks until your graduation, time is of the essence. he’d lose you if anyone found out, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

he hadn’t caught maryanne, though, and she’d rushed home to tell her mother who had promptly told the idiot john coulder who had informed the vicar and the vicar had come to relive gwilym of his teaching duties—no questions asked.

“you do realize what a mess you’ve made, haven’t you?” the vicar had said upon his arrival. “there will have to be an investigation. we don’t stand for this sort of thing in snowshill.”

gwilym hadn’t said anything. he’d simply loomed over the squat man and summoned as much of a glower as he could. it wasn’t very hard, not with his entire world crashing down around him.

he lies down that night and wonders what will become of him. he will be a social pariah, an outcast, the man who seduced a child, the teacher who coerced a student. it isn’t like that; he knows it and you do too. he loves you, though he hasn’t said as much. he suspects you love him too.

he could take you away from here. you could both start over somewhere new, where no one knows your names. the idea is tantalizing, and it wouldn’t be hard, but he knows you won’t leave your grandfather and niece behind.

there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and he sits up, hitting his head on the slope of the attic ceiling. rubbing the offended area, he frowns.

“who is it?”

“who do you think?” constance says, her tone as unamused as his.

“i’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

he knows she knows. he knows she stood in the front parlor and listened to every word the vicar spat at his feet. he just didn’t have the guts to look her in the eyes before he fled to his room.

“you missed supper, child. i’ve brought you a bowl of soup.”

reluctantly, gwilym slides from bed and goes to open the door. constance stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a purple robe, the neck lined with feathers. she pushes him a bowl of split-pea soup and swishes into the room to drop in the single, hard-backed chair. it creaks beneath her weight. he turns to look at her; the heat of the bowl burns his hands, and his palms tremble.

“constance, i—”

“i must admit that i’d hoped you would find a friend in [y/n] [y/l/n], perhaps even something more.”

his jaw slackens. “i’m sorry?”

“when you mentioned you were going to the coulder house for supper and she would be there, i knew she would do you well. i knew her mother before she died, and that girl has her mother’s tender heart. both could heal even the sternest of wounds.”

he blinks, looks away. yes, you could. you healed him, after all.

“i simply wished you would have been more careful. my hydrangea bushes are not the most secretive spot in the world.”

“you knew?”

she nods, her painted lips tight. “mhm. ever since you came home that first afternoon smelling too much like women’s perfume and sheep’s wool.”

gwilym drops to his bedside, the soup in his bowl sloshing with the movement. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she laughs as if she’s taken offense by his query. “i may concern myself with everyone’s business, gwilym, but it is not my business to go about spreading the business which i know.”

“you are a strange woman.”

“you are a man in love.”

he looks down at the rapidly-cooling food in his lap.

“i shouldn’t tell you this,” constance continues. “it will only make you hope, but i know what it is you’re feeling.”

he scoffs. “do you?” somehow he doubted that. constance, having never been married, knew more of felines than she did feelings. at least, any of the feelings roiling through his person now.

“when i was seventeen i had an affair with my teacher. he was young and handsome and charming, and i was happy. but we were found out, and he was run out of town. i never saw him again.”

“how is this supposed to give me hope?”

“my xavier was not given the chance to explain himself before his accusers. you are being afforded that opportunity. use it.”

“they’ve taken my position already. they can do nothing more. this hearing is a farce, and you know it.”

constance smooths the wrinkles of her dressing gown and flicks away a spot of imaginary dust as she shrugs. “prides goeth before the fall. remember that come thursday.” she rises. “you have the chance to keep her, gwilym. she turns twenty next month and will graduate in a fortnight. even if you leave snowshill together, will you be able to live with yourself knowing you did not defend her honor before the people who know her best? sleep on that, won’t you?”

she exits the room before he can respond, and he falls asleep to growing pit of desperation in his stomach.

there’s a ping against his window some time late wednesday night. it startles him out of his uneasy sleep, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. when it happens again, he turns to look out the window over his head. nothing but the black, starless night sky and open meadow beyond constance’s gardens. he huffs. perhaps it had been a bird or—

another ping.

teeth gritted, gwilym flings his window open and peers into the darkness, straining his eyes to see. what he doesn’t see, he hears, despite his deafness.

“gwilym!” the whisper is harsh and frantic, but a beautiful melody nonetheless. somewhere in the darkness, you stand, looking up at him. “gwilym, come down here!”

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

forgoing his shoes, he tumbles down the stairs and into the back garden. the night is brisk, chilly, a precursor of what is to come at dawn. he finds you in the darkness, or maybe you find him, but you’re there, in his arms, and that’s all that matters. you cling to him, your hands fisted in his bedshirt, ear pressed against his chest. he hasn’t seen you since maryanne revealed your relationship to the world; you feel like heaven amidst hell.

“i don’t have much time,” you whisper. “mrs. coulder is at the farm, watching over me to make sure i don’t come to find you.”

gwilym draws back. he holds your face in his hands and is struck by how large his palms are against the side of your head. your hair feels soft under his shaking fingers. the tremor is back; it has been since his world collapsed.

“are you alright? have they done anything to you?”

“i’m fine. the vicar questioned me yesterday, tried to make me confess that you’d pressured me into being with you, but i only told the truth.”

“the fucker,” he mutters. “i’m sorry you had to do that. the blame lies entirely with me.”

“don’t worry about me. you have to speak before everyone tomorrow.”

“and it’ll be fine.”

“will it?” tears sparkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “no one will accept us even if—”

he silences you with a kiss to the forehead. “hush, [y/n]. whatever happens will happen. so long as you are well cared for, it will all be fine.”

“you sound as if you’re prepared to go away.”

“if they ask me—”

“gwilym, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

he looks down at you. god, he loves you. with every fiber of his being, he longs to make you his. but he’s reminded of constance’s story every time he thinks of you now, and he’s been imagining a new sort of life by your side. one filled with dirty looks and whispers around every corner; of evenings alone, no friends to call on, no family to worry over; of a job in a far off village which takes him on the road and leaves you to yourself in that overly large farmhouse; friendless children; lonely in old age.

can he subject you to such a life? a life so similar to the one you’d pulled him from? he’s not sure he can—and he’s begun to wonder if constance’s xavier did the right thing by leaving her, by giving her a second chance.

“i know i did,” he finally says.

“then why are you talking like this? like you want to go?”

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and feels his gut wrench. “that’s the last thing i want.”

you chin quivers beneath his fingers, and he removes his hand from your face. “then tell me what it is you’re planning to do. please, gwilym. don’t you owe me that?”

in lieu of answering you, he wraps his arms around your back, lifting you so your feet merely brush the carpet of grass. he kisses you softly, savoring the touch and tucking it away in his heart for a future moment. he wants to memorize the map of your skin beneath his fingers and the feel of your mouth on his. he wants to commit the smell of your hair and the contours of your body and the feeling of love that crashes over him to memory. he’s not sure if he’ll have a moment like this again, so he prolongs the touch until he can barely breathe. he returns you to solid ground and pulls away.

“gwilym—” you’re crying, and he wonders how he didn’t taste your tears.

“don’t come tomorrow. i don’t want you to hear what they say.”

you set your jaw. “i’ll be there. i won’t leave you.”

he knows you’re bating him to reveal his plan, but he won’t. until his dying day, he will protect you from harm. tonight, he must protect you from himself.

because he can’t help it, he grabs your elbow and pulls you in for a last bruising kiss. you circle your arms around his neck and cling to him, even as he tries to pull away.

“let me go, [y/n],” he whispers.

you hold tighter, your eyes screwed shut as you shake your head. “no.”

“let me go, angel.” with some amount of effort, he pries you from his body. a rush of cold fills the spot where you’d stood, pressed against him.

he turns away, returning to the cottage, but not before he sees you hide your face behind your hands and hears you sob softly into the darkness.

you arrive at the hearing dressed in red. the sight of you flanked by your grandfather, wearing your boldest, brightest red dress, almost makes him laugh. you’re nothing if not brave.

standing in the doorway of the church, you survey the room, which is full to bursting. everyone has turned out for the event of the year, and the air is hot with sweat and summer and scandal. when your eyes meet his from across the room, he can’t help but offer a smile. you smile in return, and the softness around your eyes is a balm to his soul. you point to an empty pew in the back of the hall and take your seat. though your face is obscured, he can make out the shoulders of your bright dress from his place in a chair on the dais.

he sits before the entirety of snowshill, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. he feels close to vomiting, but he knows what he must do. he’s ready.

when the vicar begins the proceedings, outlining your entire affair in torrid detail, gwilym keeps his face set firm. his hand bunches the fabric at his thighs and his teeth press against his tongue but he’s calm to the untrained eye. it’s only when the vicar asks him to say his piece that his facade begins to crumble.

he stands too rapidly, and his chair crashes to the floor. he leaves it lying against the cobblestone. he opens his mouth and releases a squeak. heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat. from her place in the front pew, constance leans forward, her brows knit tight in concern. his gaze skips to you and, standing now, he can see your face.

you’re beautiful.

gwilym opens his mouth to speak. “everything you have said about me here today is true, vicar.” there’s a muffled gasp throughout the crowd, but he continues. “i did enjoy an illicit affair with my own pupil and, though i admit i should have perhaps waited to court the girl in question until after her graduation, i will not concede that what we did was wrong.”

the vicar’s hands curl around the pulpit, his face ashen. “have you no shame, sir?”

“no shame in partaking in what the lord intended us for: communion and fellowship with one another.”

“how dare you!”

gwilym ignores him and returns his eyes to yours amidst the crowd. “if i am guilty of anything, i am guilty of doing as the lord commands us: loving my fellow man—or, in this case, woman. the greatest of these is love, i believe, yes? so yes, i am guilty, but guilty only of loving a woman whole-heartedly.” he pauses and feels the overwhelming urge to laugh bubble in his chest. “i love you, [y/n], and that is the truth. if that is my crime, i will bear it with honor.”

tears blur his vision as he extends his hand to you. a beat of silence and then—

you stand, your red dress a spotlight among the sea of browns and greens and grays. you step into the aisle, smile, and he notes as you walk forward that his hand does not shake as he waits for you to reach his side.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #prof!gwil #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes

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hockeylvr59 · 4 years

Text

It Started with a DM || Jake Debrusk

Requested: [ ] yes [x] no

Authors Note: Just another little something that demanded to be written. I was honestly debating on whether or not to write it and then JD went live today and obviously it was a sign.

Warnings: features quarantine as a setting, some cursing.

Word Count: 3,828

~~~~~~~~~

Being quarantined alone was well, to put it simply, lonely. As a freelance photographer, you were for the most part out of work. You didn’t have a significant other to keep you company, there wasn’t space at your parents’ for you to go home, and your apartment didn’t allow pets. On top of all of that, sports were canceled. Specifically hockey.

The combination of all of this left an empty hole in your heart and lots of time on your hands. Missing hockey was the whole reason you started watching twitch streams. If you couldn’t have hockey at least you could have hockey players playing video games. You’d started with Zach Hyman and Mitch Marner because Toronto was on a shortlist of teams you were fairly indifferent about. But after a week or so you found yourself watching David Pastrnak because he was on almost daily around dinnertime and it gave you something to listen to while you cooked. Watching Pasta’s streams had led to your introduction to Jake Debrusk and it was silly how the sound of his voice and his laugh brought a smile to your face. It was even sillier because you were absolutely not a Boston fan. Especially not after they knocked your Hurricanes out of the playoffs last season.

Still, each time that your phone received a notification that Jake had come online you immediately stopped whatever you were doing to watch. You weren’t part of the group that regularly played with him and Pasta, nor did you even really participate in the chats, you just watched. And for a couple hours each time, you felt a little less alone. For weeks this continued, with you only popping in to chat to wish Jake’s sister a happy birthday when he let her take over his stream for a little bit. To be honest you were just grateful for something to do. Never did you expect to log on one day to find a whisper sitting in your inbox.

Jdebrusk: Hey. Saw you’ve watched quite a few of my streams. Just wanted to reach out and say thanks.

You weren’t shocked by the fact that he could see a list of viewers, you kind of expected that. What shocked you was the fact that he actually cared enough to reach out to some stranger who he had never actually interacted with before. You weren’t sure what had pushed you to respond, maybe it was the Southern friendliness or maybe it was something else but after typing and deleting a response multiple times you finally pressed send and then immediately closed your browser in a failed attempt to not freak out.

Yourusername: Pretty sure I should be thanking you for sharing your time with us and making things a little easier.

____

With no one you followed coming online to stream for a few days, you didn’t even check the site to see if Jake had responded. But when you next logged on and saw a message notification once again you found yourself getting nervous for no reason as you opened it.

Jdebrusk: Well you’re welcome. Feel free to join in the chat anytime. Streaming has helped keep my family from driving me insane.

Yourusername: I’m more of a lurker. It’s just easier. And family can be a lot but be grateful you aren’t just staring at 4 walls every day.

Stepping away from your computer you grabbed your camera and attempted to go for a walk to take some aesthetic shots. As you slipped your memory card into the computer a while later, you noticed another notification.

Jdebrusk: Fair enough. You quarantining alone?

Yourusername: yep. But I guess it could be worse. I could live where it’s snowing in May.

Jdebrusk: Can I ask where you’re at?

For a split second you debated giving up this information but it didn’t seem like giving away your state could hurt.

Yourusername: North Carolina.

Jdebrusk: Nice! Cool state. Been there a few times.

Yourusername: I’m aware. No need to rub in sweeping my team, Debrusk.

Jdebrusk: And she’s got a sense of humor ladies and gentlemen. Well, or he...I guess I don’t even know that. AWKWARD.

Yourusername: She works.

Jdebrusk: Cool cool. So a hurricanes fan huh?

Yourusername: Yeah. My family would probably disown me if they knew I was talking to a Bruin.

Jdebrusk: Yowza.

Yourusername: So if anyone asks I’m only here for Rocky appearances. ;)

Jdebrusk: She’s only here for my cat. Got it.

You couldn’t explain why talking with Jake felt so easy but it did. When he came on to stream next you chirped him through whispers the entire time and seeing his reaction in real-time as he read them had you giggling uncontrollably. By the time he got off, you were just waiting for his comments to come streaming your way. Instead of some long-winded rant brushing off all your jabs you just got a single comment in response.

Jdebrusk: It’s not fair that you can chirp me and I don’t know anything about you.

Yourusername: What do you want to know?

Jdebrusk: I mean your name would be a good start. Age might also be important...you’re not like 12 right?

Yourusername: Would I be quarantining alone if I was 12? I’m 24. Y/N.

Jdebrusk: right. Right. Y/N from Carolina. Who likes cats. Got it. Are you a student or…?

Yourusername: Freelance Photographer.

Jdebrusk: Alright. Nice. Do you do like weddings or nature stuff or what?

Yourusername: A little bit of everything. @wildflowerphotography is my company name if you want to go on insta and see some of my work.

No reply followed and you tried not to dwell on it. Instead you poured a glass of wine, lit a few candles, and settled into your bathtub, trying to relax for bed. Still nagging thoughts lingered in your brain. Was sharing your company page too much? He probably wasn’t asking for you to promote yourself, he was just being polite right? Though you hated yourself for letting it bother you, you were the type of person who overthought everything...which thinking about it was probably why you were still single.

Your anxious thoughts lingered and you tossed and turned all night before finally pulling yourself out of bed the next morning. It was only as you dug through your company dms, responding to a few potential clients that wanted you to take socially distant photos for them that you stumbled upon a familiar username.

Jdebrusk: You took all of those? Holy shit that’s talent.

The timestamp showed the message was sent only twenty minutes after you gave him the username and you sighed to yourself before chuckling at the fact that Jake was too lazy to switch back to twitch to respond.

Wildflowerphotography: Thanks. I’m really proud of them all.

It was still early in the morning so there was no way he was awake with the two hour time difference so after making yourself some breakfast you took another short walk, trying anything to get your mind off of the loneliness that felt worse today than most days. Your mood had definitely been a rollercoaster recently with higher peaks and lower lows than normal. It was something you were trying to manage the best you could but sometimes it was just hard.

With the rest of your afternoon spent binging a random tv show you didn’t even look at your phone until dinner time, but waiting for you was another dm from the Canadian hockey player.

Jdebrusk: You should be.

Jdebrusk: So listen...this is probably weird but can I get your number so I can stop wading through a bunch of dms and whispers I don’t care about and just talk to you?

It was a fair question but to be blunt, today was probably the worst day for him to ask because your anxiety-riddled brain kept wanting to know why he even cared about talking to you. You didn’t know what he was looking for from all of this but your mind immediately assumed the worst. So instead of just being open with him, you blew him off, completely ignoring his message. And when he logged onto twitch next, though you wanted to watch, you forced yourself to avoid that as well.

Three days passed before another message appeared.

Jdebrusk: You okay? You didn’t watch the last stream. I’m sorry if I fucked up. I’ll back off if you want...I just want to know that you’re okay.

The concern he was expressing was honestly something you didn’t expect and you found yourself crying as you read it over and over. Jake was nothing but a joyous person and the last thing you wanted was to bring him down with the mess of your own mind.

Wildflowerphotography: you didn’t fuck up. I just...this is all on me okay.

With your phone left open to your message string with him you watched as little dots appeared before vanishing repeatedly. Eventually a new message appeared simply containing a string of numbers composing a phone number. Jake was putting the ball in your court and a few minutes later the part of you that was aching to hear his voice won the mental war and you found yourself dialing the number.

“Y/N?” Jake questioned the second he answered and a shaky sob slipped from your throat at the sound of him speaking your name for the first time. “What’s going on?” He murmured and by his tone you could tell he was both confused and concerned. You wanted to speak, wanted to pretend everything was fine but you’d already gone over the edge and it was too late for that now. Another sob spilled through your body and you faintly heard Jake mumble a curse. “Do you want me to just talk to you? I’ll just keep talking okay and you can hang up if you want.” He offered. And talk he did, you weren’t even sure what he was telling you, you were more focused on the grounding sound of his voice itself rather than the content of the words he was speaking. Eventually your breathing steadied out and the elephant sitting on your chest lessened allowing you to murmur his name.

The second he heard your voice he paused mid-story.

“Thank you.” You whispered into the phone.

“Are you okay?” He inquired, his voice tentative like he was worried anything he said would push you back over the edge.

“Better.” You admitted. “Not great but better.”

“I’ll take better.” He insisted. “It’s nice to actually hear your voice.” He added, causing your cheeks to flame up unconsciously. You opened your mouth to apologize again for your breakdown only to be stopped as he insisted you not do so. “But really...are you okay?” He repeated his question and you sighed.

“It’s been a rough few days mentally for me.” You admitted. “But I will be okay.” You added.

“Okay enough to stop ignoring me?” He teased and when you let out another shaky breath he backtracked. “It’s okay, I get it. I was just worried. You don’t have to talk to me ever again if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to.” You breathed. “Talk to you that is.” As if he sensed you had more to say, Jake remained quiet, only the sound of his breathing coming through the phone.

“I guess...you should probably know that I tend to overthink things. I want to talk to you. Hearing your voice makes my entire day. I just...I guess I’m just confused on why you want to talk to me. What your intentions are, etc. And you...you don’t have to answer that just...that’s where my head is at.”

Jake was silent for a minute before his voice reached back through the phone.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t know what this is either. But I’m intrigued by you and I guess my intention is just to get to know you better if you’ll let me.” Jake’s honesty was refreshing and you nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “And if I can make your day just by talking...well that’s a pretty sweet bonus.”

______

Quarantine continued to drag on, paused only by some carefully planned photo sessions with your distance lenses getting extra abuse. You continued talking to Jake, mostly through text but with the occasional phone call. He’d whine about the crap he was getting from his sister when he’d disappear to talk to you but he’d insist that it was worth it in the next breath. Between the streams, the phone calls, the texts and the memes he’d send you, suddenly you felt a lot less alone, at least emotionally.

A month since your first phone call had passed before Jake sent you a text that made your heart stop.

JD: So how come I send you pictures all the time and yet I still don’t know what you look like?

For weeks he had been sending you photos of him snuggling with Rocky or hanging with Jordyn and there had even been a shirtless workout pic or two which had left you debating whether a cold shower was appropriate. At the same time, you hadn’t worked up the courage to send him any photos in return other than ones you took of nature on your walks or snippets from photoshoots you’d done. Trying to downplay it all you sent back a teasing response.

YN: What can I say I’m a behind the lens person.

JD: Y/N...c’mon I just wanna see how beautiful you are.

Leaving him on ‘read’ you sighed and bit your lip not sure how to respond. You were afraid if he knew what you looked like that he wouldn’t want to talk to you anymore and you weren’t sure what you’d do if you lost something that had sort of become a saving grace in this crazy time.

JD: Is this one of those insecurity things? Is that why I haven’t seen you yet?

It was starting to amaze you how well Jake could read you. It had been a long time since anyone was able to see through the walls you put up, see behind the camera that you hid behind, but it had only been a month or so and already Jake was starting to read the silences between the words.

JD: Do you want me to get Jordyn to pump you up? A picture isn’t going to change what I think of you…

YN: You don’t know that.

JD: C’mon YN give me a little more credit than that. You know I’m not that shallow. I like you okay. I like the woman that chirps me. I like the woman that listens to me and always knows what to say. I like the woman that sees me as Jake and not Boston Bruin Jake Debrusk. And since none of that is based on your physical appearance I’m going to like you no matter what you look like.

YN: Promise?

JD: Yeah Y/N, I promise.

Scrolling through your camera roll you attempted to decide on which of the few photos of yourself made you look at least somewhat pretty before biting the bullet and attaching it to the text conversation. The moment you hit send you winced and your anxiety didn’t ebb until your phone rang in your hand.

“You’re stunning.” Jake’s voice breathed lowly the second the line connected. “Just as beautiful outside as you are inside which I wasn’t sure was even possible.” By now you knew when Jake was trying to play something up versus when he was being genuine and his voice now was 100% the latter. But taking compliments about your body was never something you’d been good at so you didn’t know what to say in response.

“I hope you believe me.” He added. “I knew you wouldn’t believe a text even if I sent it 100 times so I hope you can believe me, hearing me say it.”

“I...thanks Jake.” You finally mumbled. You did believe that he was being honest, he had no reason not to be with you living thousands of miles apart, but at the same time, you still felt uneasy about it for reasons you’d never fully be able to explain.

___

Tearing down the last barrier of anonymity seemed to open up a new world between you and Jake. If it was even possible you communicated more frequently, adding facetime calls to your usual methods. Seeing the way he looked at you while you talked sent heat flooding through your body and you quickly came to the realization that you were falling hard for him.

That knowledge was terrifying and once again you wanted to pull away, protect yourself from getting hurt. But then Jordyn stole her brother’s phone and called you, raving about how when all of this was over you had to agree to meet her brother in person because she had never seen him like this over anyone. Talking with Jordyn reminded you that Jake didn’t have to go to all of this work, didn’t have to deal with your crazy emotions if he didn’t think you were worth the time and effort. It may be a pandemic but surely there were women in Edmonton willing to break social distancing rules if it meant scoring someone as wonderful as Jake. But yet each and every night he was on the phone with you, taking the time to get to know all of the things that make you tick, your likes and dislikes, your hopes and dreams.

And it wasn’t just Jordyn that knew about you. You’d been on the phone with Jake when both of his parents came outside and when he’d asked them to come back in a minute because he was talking to you, they just called out your name in greeting and waved.

“Your parents know my name?” You’d asked and Jake ducked his head shyly before replying. “I mean yeah…” He stated. “My mom can’t wait to meet you.” You were sure from Jake’s point of view that it was probably comical how wide your eyes went at his statement.

“Jake what...what is this...are we just friends or…?” It wasn’t a question that you ever anticipated asking but it was out there now. From the other side of the screen, you watched Jake adjust his ball cap over his overly long hair.

“Fuck...Y/N…” Jake started and you opened your mouth to assure him that friends was fine, that it was what you wanted too because if you didn’t put your heart out there than you couldn’t get hurt. Before you could speak though Jake continued. “No...we’re not just friends. I think you know that as well as I do.” He admitted. “I don’t know exactly what we are. I...I was hoping to meet you in person when I asked if you wanted to be my girlfriend. I know...I know that none of this is ideal because even when this is over there’s going to be the whole long-distance thing but...I can’t deny that I have feelings for you y/n. I don’t want to deny it.”

“I don’t want to deny it either.” You said softly, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean...if you’re willing to put up with my emotional baggage…” You shrugged.

“You have feelings for me too?” Jake questioned, his normal confidence suppressed. “I have no problems supporting you through dealing with your baggage if you’re willing to do the same with mine. I know I’ve fucked up in the past as a boyfriend and I don’t want to do that to you.”

“I think I’m kinda sorta falling for you.” You stated anxiously, unable to meet Jake’s gaze through the screen until he breathed your name.

“So can we agree we’re something more than friends and that we’ll figure out the details as part of returning to the new normal?”

“Yeah...we can agree to that.” You nodded.

_______

The new normal had finally arrived and that meant that you were going to see Jake in person for the first time. The two of you had been “more than friends” for what felt like forever now but had realistically been a few months but with each passing day you knew you wanted more. You still didn’t know how it would all work with him playing in Boston and you owning a company in North Carolina but you were ready to figure it out together if it meant that you could finally have him for real.

Jake’s plane was scheduled to land in ten minutes and you were running so far behind. Your senior picture photoshoot had run over and traffic was a mess. You’d texted Jake apologizing but upon getting your text he’d quickly waved your concerns off declaring that he’d just get an uber and meet you at your apartment. It would be a better first meeting anyway because you wouldn’t be time-restricted by parking or pick up zone rules.

When you finally pulled into your parking lot you checked your phone to see if Jake had arrived yet. It wasn’t until you reached the front steps of your building that you noticed someone sitting there, bags beside them. He looked up at the same time that your brain processed that it was him and he was really there and tears instantly prickled in your eyes. As you rushed to close the distance, Jake stood to catch you as you threw yourself at him.

No words needed to be said as you tugged his mouth down to your own, kissing him for the very first time. It was nothing like you had expected but at the same time it was everything and at that moment you knew that this was it, you were in love. It had been such a long wait, but the feeling of his arms wrapped around you, his lips against yours was well worth it. It was cheesy but you knew that the physical chemistry was only this strong because you already knew each other inside and out and now that he was here, now that he was finally yours, things could only get better.

Being with Jake despite the distance wouldn’t be easy but now that you knew the way he felt, the way he tasted, the scent of his cologne, you were willing to do whatever it took to make it. If you could fall in love during a global pandemic, you could do anything and it would make a great story to tell the grandkids one day about how they only came to exist because of a direct message on a streaming site while the world was quarantined.

#jake debrusk #jake debrusk imagine #boston bruins #boston bruins imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #bbruins #030 #tw: quarantine

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solar3lunar · 3 years

Text

1.𝔹𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙☼︎

Ayama POV

My alarm starts going off. I groan at it then shut it off. It's was a Sunday. I was wondering why I turned it on. I lied in my bed for a bit then it hit me. I wanted to torture myself today. By going on a walk on the beach.

I felt four paws on my thigh. "Morning, Nebula." I said. "Meow" "I'll get up." I told her. I stretched a bit. I took my bonnet off and got out the bed.

Once my feet hit the carpet. I walk towards my closest and pick out something simple and plain. I then went in the bathroom and set my clothes down on the counter and closed the door.

I got undress and put my shower cap on. And got in the shower. Once I was done in the bathroom. I walk out wearing a black tank top, a black crop top hoodie that I could only wear if I have a tank top under it. And black leggings.

I walked back into my room and went straight back to sleep. I woke up about 10 minutes later. Leo woke me up this time. "Okay, Okay." I sighed.

Knowing my dad already went out the house to help the other pro heroes with the exam that coming up tomorrow. I turn on the TV in my room, but all I found was news channel or ads talking about the exam.

I turned it off and went downstairs to get cereal not wanting to make pancakes or french toast. I pass a picture of my mother and father.

I stopped to look at it for awhile. I've seen some pictures of my mother. The rest are kept somewhere in my father's room.

She's Afro-Asian. She passed away when I was 3. I never met my grandpa or my grandmother from my mother side. They're villians after all.

I seen my mother's family members in Texas and some in California. We visit them sometimes whenever it's a holiday like Christmas or Thanksgiving. I've also seen my dad's family members other than his sister. He never told me why she not in my life. And tellsl me it best if I don't meet her.

Anyways, my mother's hair is natural black(or very very dark brown that looks black). Her hair was long and wavy in the first picture. Our hair same the same features. Our hair type can and it grows fast after a week or two. Her eyes were like mine, but her eyes colorare lavender and mines lilac.

Her skin is dark brown and it's very beautiful. I can't help but admire her. She also has some yellow sparkle across her face. They looked like stars. It's apart of one of her Quirks. Her eyes color and lavender.

She had four dark brown gazelle horns on her head and her gazelle ears were showing. Her body was well mature. I guess like mine though I never really care about my shape really. She has two of her horns wavy and the other two curly wrapping around the other white horns.

Her costume in the third was her in a long sleeve black crop top and black pants with gold medal plates around the rims of them. Her high combat boots were black. And finally she had a gold medal choker around her neck with the sun symbol in the middle of it.

(Considering her Quirks she doesn't really need a bold hero outfit.)

In the second picture her hair is long and was in a kinky fro she didn't show her horns. Despite her time being alive she was one of the top number ten heroes. I walked away from the picture to go eat.

"Leo! Nebula!" I watch the two come into the kitchen and go to their bowls. Turns out it was already filled. They just wanted me with them.

From what my Dad told me. He got them for my mom when it was her birthday. So the cats been in my life the moment they brought me home.

I keep thinking about the exam tomorrow. I wonder who I would see. Once I was done eating I decided to clean the house. I did every room but my dad's.

I decided to go down to the beach, because I don't want to stay in the house all day and game. I text my dad and inform him about my whereabouts.

I put 20 dollar into my phone case and put my phone in my pocket. And went near the door to put my shoes on.

Now that I'm here. I'm just going walk along the shore. Although it strange to be wearing this on a hot day. I honestly don't really care. I have my reasons.

I walk towards the beach and decided to walk along the shore. While doing that I saw Izuku jogging along the shore. Geeze he grown a lot. "Izuku!" I shouted. It doesn't seem like he can hear me so I tried calling out to him one more time. He didn't so I followed him.

I see him almost out of breath. "I finish what you asked." He said while breathing heavily. I look up to see he was talking to. I saw Uncle All Might, but I didn't say anything, because I didn't want to say about me being relate to my dad.

"Oh hey n-Ayama!" And that was a close call. "Wait?... Ayama!" Izuku shouts. "I been calling your name for the last minute." I spoke. I saw him blush a bit, but I ignore it. Not really sure why.

"Wait is it okay for her to see you like this?" He ask my uncle All Might. "Oh yeah. Before you I had told her about it, but she turned it down saying I should give to someone who doesn't have a quirk." He told him.

"Oh so that means you also know about 'The one for all' Right?" Izuku ask me. "That right, freckles." I giggled. "Freckles? BAHAHA!" Uncle All Might laugh blood coming out of his mouth.

Izuku was freaking out about it. I seen this before but I was just gross out. "Alright you can take a break. Oh by the way can you me a popsicle?" He asked me. "Sure."

"Come on Izuku! We have a lot of catching up to do." I shouted. He rush up to me as we went to the small market near the beach. Which lead you back to the roads and sidewalks.

We were talking about what the news were talking about. "I wish I could've been with you guys. Mostly to tell Katsuki to stop." I said with guilt.

"It's nothing to be guilty about." He said reassuring me. "To make it up to you can get what ever you want from the market just try not to go overboard." I said.

"Ayama you don't have to." He said waving his hands. "I insist." I tell him. "Your kindness never change a bit Ayama." He said. He right and that was a bad thing in middle school, but it not like it ever left me. I got myself a soda, Izuku got a chocolate mint ice cream bar, and I got uncle All Might a ice pop of himself.

"That would be 4 dollars, Ms." The cashier tells me. I paid her. She gave me my chain back. I thank her we both left walking back towards my uncle.

"So I'm guessing after today your finally getting your quirk."I said. He nodded while holding the bag in his hand.

"Oh I'd never asked you what are your quirk?" He asked me. "I have two of them, but their both complicated." I said. "Oh I see." He said. "Don't worry you'll get to see me in action at the exams." I cheer him up. Once we got the spot again.

"I want to be surprised that you're eating a popsicle of your self, but I'm not." I sighed. "It a hot day. I have every right." My uncle said. Leaving me and Izuku giggling and snickering. "Hey! What's so funny?!"

They went back to training and I decided to help uncle out with training. The fun part was Midoriya going on his back while doing push up. "I'm sorry Midoriya." I muttered. I spent almost the whole day with them. It was about 7:00pm

"Welp I better get going." I said. Me grabbing my soda bottle. "I'm guessing I'll see you at the exam?" I asked him. My uncle interrupt him "Oh yeah definitely!" I just sighed. "See you later Midoriya!" I shouted waving at them both.

I while walking towards my house I notice a teenager with ash blond hair that was spiky but looked soft. "I wonder if that could be... No. I doubt he would even remember me."

{Brain and Heart♡Melanie Martinez}

‘Help me when I'm at a loss for words. Bring up all of my memories for the please and the temporal.’ "There's that melody again."

'Well that was a fast walk.' Dad's Car was park in the driveway, so that meant he has came back. I open the door and then lock it behind me. I took my shoes off and left them at the door. "Lyric." My dad spoke. I jumped a bit. "Oh hey Dad." I said. "You seem lost in thought." He said.

"Oh yeah just a song came in my head. Although the melody was a bit strange." I spoke. "But who's know when I'll be using it." I shrugged my shoulders while walking towards the kitchen to go sit at the dinner table. It's was quite, but comfortable. I was just lost in my mind.

I got up from the dinner table and went towards the kitchen sink. That melody it sounded familiar, but I never heard it before.

I felt a hit on my hand. "Ouch, Dad!" I whined. "Next time, pay attention." He sighed. "What do you- Oh." I saw the dish I washing now broken in half.

"My bad." I mutter throwing it away in the trash. "Alright what was the lyric this time?" He ask. This isn't the first time this has happened. "Help me when I'm at a loss for words. Bring up all of my memories for the please and the temporal." I said.

"Don't give it too much though. If you go to sleep You'll have nothing to worry about." He said. He always does that. Brushes it off like it's nothing. "Alright, night Dad." I said.

"Good night and good luck tomorrow." He said. That right he won't be here when I wake up. I took a quick shower got into my PJs setting an alarm on my phone to wake up at 6:00am.

"I'm going to get a new bonnet. I can't stand this one. It's always falling off." I muttered.

The moment I closed my eyes. I saw someone with long wavy natural black hair and two gazelle brown horns and ears. I woke up and got out of bed and went straight downstairs to look at my mom's photos.

"I thought I told you to go to bed." My dad said. "Technically, you suggested it." I said. I'm still looking at my mother pictures.

"Bed. And I mean it." He said strictly. "Alright, alright." I said. Going straight to bed this time got it. I look at the clock it was 8:30pm.

"Just one question. Why do I have to go to bed this early?" [Ayama]

"Because you'll end up like me if you don't." [Aizawa]

~Wishlist~

~Luna Lyric~

~Universe navi~

#supanova

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tilbageidanmark · 3 years

Photo

Movies I watched this week - 37

Robert Bresson’s philosophical Pickpocket, inspired both by Raskolnikov from ‘Crime and Punishment’ and by Camus ‘The Stranger’. And in turn it inspired Paul Schrader, the other conflicted Christian filmmaker. Austere and mysterious.

✴️

And so 3 by Paul Schrader (all starring Willem Dafoe):

✳️✳️✳️ The Card Counter, Schrader’s new masterpiece. A tortured soul seeking redemption in a ‘ballet of violence’, just like in many of his previous films. The part of the torture program in Abu Ghraib is tailored a bit too close to the real Mitchell / Jessen psychopaths. But OK. 8+ / 10

✳️✳️✳️ Affliction, a completely different set up: Nick Nolte’s turns into his drunk, abusive father in a cold New Hampshire winter. A sad story of how a family curse is passed through generations, without redemption. His poor daughter...

✳️✳️✳️ Auto Focus, atypical light Schrader pastiche about murdered actor Bob Crane’s friendship with John Henry Carpenter. Crane’s sexual obsession must have been the appeal to Schrader. Told as an uncanny pastel joke, that hides a dark and disturbed core.

✴️

First watch: Sergei Parajanov’s homoerotic The Color of Pomegranates (1969), a stunning visual poem of nearly-ethnographic Armenian tableaux. Reminds me of Jodorowsky. The inspiration to Tarsem’s music video for R.E.M.'s ‘Losing My Religion’.

(Photo above)

✴️

In 1965-66 American-backed anti-communist militias tortured and executed up to a million ‘enemies of the state’ in mass killings in Indonesia.

The Act of Killing is a 2012 terrifying Danish documentary where a group of these now-old death-squad leaders recreate and reenact their actions from that time.

Indonesia, it seems, is not a very enlightened country.

The most original film of the week.

✴️

Sofia Coppola’s Somewhere, a privileged father-daughter drama. A new superstar actor lives at the Chateau Marmont, and spends some time with his 11 year old daughter. Contemplative with Coppola’s usual slow, long shots style, but pointless and bland. The parent-daughter part was OK, but the Hollywood-fame portion was uninteresting. Even the hot pole-dancing Playboy twins were not exiting.

✴️

“Ah, the smell of goulash!”

First watch: Lubitsch’s That uncertain feeling, 1941 erotic comedy, full of sexual innuendos and double entendres that the Hays Code didn’t catch.

“Phooy!”

✴️

Truffaut’s 4th film, The Soft Skin, with Catherine Deneuve’s dead sister, Françoise Dorléac. A married man falls in love with a young stewardess. After 3 New Wave originals, this was derided as a “bourgeois melodrama” and was a commercial failure.

Always with Georges Delerue’s music.

✴️

Orson Welles’s existentialist The Trial, based on Kafka’s novel. Starring unconvincing and too young-looking Anthony Perkins as a man accused of a crime he didn’t commit and which he doesn’t understand. Also with Jeanne Moreau. One literary bad dream with lots of absurdist going-ons. It all hinges on K’s feelings of guilt.

✴️

A different kind of a bad dream, the ultimate Orange County, CA very black “comedy” Very Bad Things. Like ‘The Hangover’, but worst-case-scenario bad.

✴️

Recommended by my mom:

The Hundred Foot Journey, a predictable restaurant-porn about the second Michelin star in a “little, quaint French village”. By Lasse Hallström, who specializes in this kind of international fairy tales, and Oprah Winfrey. Commercial clichés and stereotypical tropes. 2/10

✴️

"You're a cookie full of arsenic"...

Sweet Smell of Success - 2 slimy operators, “publicist” Tony Curtis and influential gossip columnist Burt Lancaster unethically conspire to destroy a jazz musician in a gritty Manhattan Noir. Another sizzling Ernest Lehman manuscript.

✴️

Barry Levinson paid tribute to ‘Sweet Smell of Success’ in his debut feature Diner, with one of the kids wandering around saying nothing but lines from the film. So I watched it again. What a wonderful piece of triple nostalgia (1959-1982-2021). Perfect in every sense, especially when showing unexpected sides to each character: Boogie doing hair, Billy playing the piano, Eddie dancing at the strip club.

“You’re gonna finish this?”

Best film of the week!

✴️

Best Sellers, the new Michael Caine vehicle. He’s a cranky, washed-up, bitter author, who’s drunk the whole time. His orange cat is the only other good thing in this lame “comedy”. With a horrible Aubrey Plaza. 2/10

✴️

2 X Vanya’s:

✳️✳️✳️ The 2020 British stage adaptation of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, with Toby Jones as Vanya, and Roger Allam as the professor. It deals with purposeful life, beauty, money, and one of the first discussions of ecological problems in world literature.

✳️✳️✳️ I’m glad I waited to watch Louis Malle’s last film, Vanya on 42nd Street, after the BBC version. Even though it was filmed 26 years earlier, it was much more contemporary. The combined talents of David Mamet, Andre Gregory and Malle modernized the play into a brilliant whole. Wallace Shawn was great! 8/10

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Chaplin’s delightful 1922 Pay Day, first (?) tramp film where he has a (nasty, harping) wife.

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U Turn, Oliver Stone’s sadistic, disgusting and pointless mess. Sean Penn is a permanently unlucky schmuck, who “pulls up to a tiny no place in the Arizona desert”. Bad Tarantino clone.

Thanks a lot for the recommendation, Sammy! 1/10

✴️

Because Norm Macdonald died today, I watched his Dirty Work. A grave mistake! His dry humor was good for a few sardonic one liners, but not for this stupid, sophomoric loser. 0/10

✴️

42 enjoyable minutes of a crash course on fromage, how to cut it and how to serve it.

- - - - -

(My complete movie list is here)

#movies

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dreaminpeaches · 3 years

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Humble Pie Concept: Give the boy a cat

Anyways, I got this idea from an interview video featuring Darce (the dude who plays Billy in Stranger Things) and he was talking about how one time he and the actress who plays Max were walking somewhere and came across a cat, Darce started to gush about how cute the cat looked and I just imagine him being a total dork over this cat and like following it or whatever while still being dressed as BILLY ( I would freaking pay to see that OOC moment)

(TW: injuried animal, mention of eating habits)

So that got me this me thinking to give Beau a cat, I was going to have him have a dog at the start was like "nah". Beau's dad was the type of dad that thought his son was too dumb to take care of anything, that and his dad didn't want another mouth to feed.

Anyways how he gets this cat starts when his step dad notices that Beau seems to be struggling with something because Beau's around the house alot and not hanging out with his friends like he used to. His step dad advise Beau maybe he should take up another hobby (beside reading, and fixing cars), and suggests fishing. Fishing was an activity Beau wanted to try but his "friends" would always say something like "dude, that's old people s@#$", and they always made it seem lame.

But now having nothing else better to do, he might as well give it a try. His step dad tells Beau about a fishing spot that one of his buddies set up a tackle shop nearby.

The fishing spot is nestled in an area on the outskirts of town, it's kind of hidden. There's a bunch of greenery, so much so that the Tackle shop is kind of engulfed by it, but the owner is not bother by it he welcomes it, so the shop as kind of mystic ghibli vibe to it (if you know what I mean)

The fishing area has a handful of cats roaming about, they mostly hang around the tackle shop since the owner takes pretty good care of them. Also the owner sells grilled fish and other seafood dishes on the side.

When Beau visits the fishing spot for the first time, The owner (who's an old man) tells Beau that his step dad told him he was coming, The owner refers to Beau as "Mr. James Dean" as a nickname because his good looks

Beau has a hard time fishing at first since the owner explains why he likes fishing is because it gives you time to slow down and think, until the moment you catch something it's just you and your thoughts. Fishing doesn't only teaches patience but how you can quiet your mind and how to focus on what's really important.

After Beau understands that fishing gets much easier for him and its actual relaxing. (This is after a few visits)

During his fishing trips the owner teaches Beau a few life lessons and also how to cook fish. A skill that Beau didn't really find important because he didnt really like fish as a food. The owner tells Beau fish tastes 100x better when you fish it and cook it yourself, during this visit the owner teaches Beau how to clean fish, and de bone fish, and Beau ends up really liking fish, and even starts taking fish home for his mom to cook.

Okay here's where the cat comes in, At first Beau just try to ignored the cats around the pond and the shack, not because he didn't like cats, he was just trying to focus (and part of him felt like the cats were judging him), once he becomes more comfortable with fishing, he start to be comfortable with the cats as well. When he would make grilled fish at tackle shop, he would give some to the cats that would hang around. One cat in particular took a liking to Beau, it was a cat the owner rescued after finding it nearby in the more woodsy area of lake, the cat looked like it was attacked by a bigger animal leaving the kitten with a few scars on its back and face. Despite this, the little kitten seem to be the most feisty of the bunch being the first one to grab for grilled fish and always was pawing at the bucket of fish Beau would catch.

Other fishing, Beau would spend time with this cat, playing with it and petting it when he thought no one was looking.

Also just wanted to add that Beau becomes so comfortable with being at tackle shop that he kind of starts working there as a secondary job (other that working at the gas station), he's a bit more comfortable working at the tackle shop because there more outsiders than locals since it's so far out. The owner does pay Beau for his time there, he even Beau feels like he doesn't need to be, but the owner insists...

Anyways back to the cat there's comes a point where Carrie wants to go with Beau to the fishing spot despite Beau telling her it will be super boring, Carrie says she really wants to go because likes looking at the fishies in the aquarium at preschool and the dentist office.

Giving into Carrie's cute nativity, Beau let's her join, like Beau predicts Carrie gets bored pretty quick, she asks Beau when the fish is gonna show up, Beau says he doesn't know, you just gotta wait. Carrie tries to lean lower on the deck towards the pond to get a better look at the fish but Beau tell her to stop because its making him nervous and worried that she'll fall into the deep pond water.

Just when Carrie is reaching maximum boredom, the feisty kitty shows up and manages to entertain Carrie for the whole time Beau is fishing and he able to catch a few.

Beau returns the tackle shop and gives some of the fish he caught to the owner. Carrie ask the owner what he's gonna do with the fish, the owner response with that he's gonna cook the fish for him and some of the cat to eat. Carrie thinks it's weird that owner likes to eat fish, Carrie doesn't really like fish. Just at that moment, Carrie notices a stray tray of what looks like "chicken" and fries, Carrie ask whose food is that, the owner says it was a customer's order but they left suddenly before they could eat it, since the person has come back, Carrie was free to have it.

Carrie: "Mr. Fisher man who's chicken is that?"

Beau: " Um, Carrie that's not--"

Owner:" Oh, it's a customer's order but they left in a hurry before I could give it to them. Don't think they're coming back for it, you can have it, if you like "

Carrie: " Really? Thank you"

Carrie's more than happy to have something to eat since she was pretty hungry. Carrie seemed to really like the "chicken" since she didn't even do her usual eating habit of giving every other bit to Beau, kind of leaving his mouth opened both in waiting for food and being surprised that his little sister finish a whole meal by herself.

Owner: "Why is your mouth opened like that?"

Beau: " I-It's just this thing we do, w-where we like--um--nevermind"

The owner tells Carrie that wasn't chicken, it was fish and chips, Carrie is shocked by this fact (in the most adorable way possible), but quickly ask for seconds, which the owner gladly makes.

Carrie and Beau walk back to the car with a bag of fish and chips and a half a buck of fish, unbeknownst to them they're being followed by the kitten from earlier.

Beau buckles Carrie into the backseat, but he suddenly realizes he forgot something at the shop, while Beau goes back to get whatever he forgot leaving the car door open, the kitten hops in the backseat with Carrie, who's more than happy to see them.

Beau returns quickly closes the back door (without looking) and Beau apologizes for leaving the door open and turns back to make sure Carrie is okay, Carrie nods as she tries to hide the small kitten behind the large bucket of fish.

Beau relieved heads home, the kitten stays quiet for the whole ride, Carrie pets the kitten most of the way home, the kitten's purring being muffled by the car's noises.

It wasn't until they got back home, Beau was aware of the little stowaway. Carrie begs that they keep the kitty, not wanting to be the one to tells his little sister "no" he just still her to ask mom and Dav-- I mean dad.

Their parents actually accepts the new kitten into their home, and Beau's mother said that she always wanted her kids to have a pet, but Beau's bio dad always shot down the idea.

The kitty ends up sleeping in Carrie's room, in the kitty own bed and the kitten if not out and about around the neighborhood would play with Carrie the most. When Beau was home alone the kitty would sometimes chill in his room, and snuggle with him when he was reading or having one of his episodes, the kitty seem to always know when Beau was in a bad mood and would try to distract him by doing something cute.

The kitty would also seem to know when Beau was going to the fishing spot and would follow him to the car and hopped in the backseat, and basically being Beau's fishing buddy.

Bonnie likes to play with the kitten too when she comes over and gushes every time she sees Beau interacting with the kitten.

She may or may not have photos of him sleeping with the kitten snuggled up next to him

TL;DR: Beau's new favorite hobby is fishing and he has an yet-to be named kitten as a pet now because cute, thank you for coming to my ted talk...

#paraportal #immersive daydreaming #paracosm #paracosm: humble pie #para: beau #id

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buckevantommy · 3 years

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'(Un)Happiest Season' review

Simply put, it wasn't enjoyable as a romance or a comedy or a Christmas flick. It failed on many fronts, but this reviewer from Salon.com puts the thing into words for Happiest Season's main failings:

What's bad: There were two main criticisms of "Happiest Season." The first being: Can't LGBTQ audiences have a holiday movie where the main plot isn't about mining the anxiety and trauma associated with coming out, being closeted and casual homophobia? Then there's the fact that Harper really is just kind of the worst. After pushing Abby back in the closet, Harper ditches her in a town where she doesn't know anyone to go drink with her ex-boyfriend until two in the morning, then proceeds to call Abby "suffocating" when called on it. It's a pattern of s**ty behavior that is pervasive and present throughout the movie, so her redemption arc doesn't feel super genuine.

Why can't we have main queer characters in Christmas movies without their presence being all about their queerness? We want fluffy festiveness, dammit! They could've made Harper less selfish and more attentive while still playing into the *I'm not out yet Because Reasons so we need to hide our gay relationship* trope, but they didn't. Who knows why, but what a waste. 🎄👩‍❤️‍👩☃️

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^ Look at that trailer and tell me you don't expect Misunderstandings with fun and tropey antics + Domestic Christmas Shenanigans + Comfort for Hurt! You will be sorely disappointed. 😞

NOTE: The flick does have a few good moments. And it's probably worth the watch just to see what's missing/mishandled when it comes to queer characters and queer romances in mainstream movies.

But it's not really fun or funny or heart-warming - where are the snowball fights? Insightful conversations? Christmas elements like eggnog/spiced wine, candycanes, mistletoe? Where are the many colourful side characters and the hungover brunches? We get one scene of ice-skating for a few minutes and it's wasted on sibling rivalry bs rather than, say.. Abby and Harper skating together but not being aloud to touch—omg the tension!! 😍

There's just not enough comfort for the hurt Abby (Kstew) goes through; the film wholly lacks those warm-n-fuzzy Christmas vibes; there's just way more wrong with it than is right with it - which sucks, because this had the potential to be such a great movie if only Harper was written as less ignorant/selfish and we'd gotten more enjoyable family interactions and more festive fun - like a celebration in town. Instead we get a few limited shots of the adorable town, a crappy bar, and an OTT fancy Christmas party for performative rich white folk on a career path for power and "perfection" (ie. wholesome family values).

The story they went with was definitely better suited for a dramatic film, so in a romcom setting it really didn't work. Plus the side-characters were flat; we needed more depth from the supporting characters, more meaningful interactions.

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^ Look at those intro credits!! Look at all the domestic happy moments and tell me you don't want to see a movie filled with such fluffy festive goodness!! Well, if you don't want to see such moments, don't worry because you won't. I naturally thought we were going to get this kind of romantic-and-non-romantic happiness dispersed throughout the entire film, but no. Not a one. There's 5 minutes of Happy Couple at the start, and that's it 📸☹️ (unless you count a photo collage of the happy ending and year that follows stuffed into the end credits).

BTW: That intro song is the most Christmasy song in the whole movie. The soundtrack features modern pop songs which 1) don't help set the festive vibe and 2) are really fucking annoying; the song choices are grating, not pleasant, not enjoyable, and they overpower the scenes with a whole lotta noise. I really wish we'd gotten more tunes like the one above. 🎶

About the image below—Abby is actually miserable the entire time, getting worse by the day, barely a smile seen on her.. while Harper is the one schmoozing her family and contacts with teeth bared, so.. this image isn't what you'll get, just fyi:

(also: the only POC actors they had were the perfectionist-stone-faced-bitch's husband and his girlfriend - wife + hubby being secretly separated.)

The things that the Salon reviewer liked are the same things I did (see below), but imho even those elements weren't enough to save this film from being:

an infuriating 102 minute-comedy of errors buoyed by a healthy dose of gaslighting

More cons of the flick are pointed out by denofgeek.com:

Some of its issues come from the structure of the film, which shoehorns very real queer struggles into wacky rom-com tropes too fluffy to contain the stakes at hand. Meanwhile the choice to have one half of the lead couple be so aggressively and repeatedly cruel—while her high school ex Riley, played by the ever-perfect Aubrey Plaza was standing right there having all the chemistry in the world with the other romantic lead—was a fatal one.

It really was a dramatic plot idea crammed into a fluffy narrative. You can see the conflicting genres fighting to stay alive and they both die a slow, agonisingly dull death throughout the film. The whole *Abby being converted to loving Christmas by Harper inviting her to spend the holidays with her family* thing, only to have Harper force their relationship + Abby into the closet. Straight conversion much? I'm 100% sick of heteronormative bs in my queer Christmas films.

For the most part, when you're not feeling for Abby's harsh treatment by her would-be fiance and everyone but Riley ignoring her completely, you will be bored af from the lack of festive cheer - not just twinkle lights and boisterous seasonal music, but those good ol' homey family Christmas vibes. With the Harper house + family members, everything's a performance, so that lack of sincerity and warmth makes for a depressing viewing experience:

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^ Jane (one of Harper's 2 sisters) is the only character allowed to be consistently genuine in the narrative (aside from John, but he's restricted mostly to phonecalls, and Riley - but even she's keeping Harper's secrets). Jane is the only character who is naturally vibrant and reminds us of some of the reasons we get excited about Christmas movies: to feel joy and to enjoy the company around us during the holiday season! 🎄☃️🥳 But rather than give us a fun day out with Jane + Abby, we get Abby + the second sister (i don't even remember her name, just BitchFace) which leads to more bad treatment of Abby - this time by two spoiled af no-smile rich kids. *le sigh* Jane carries the spark of honest joy for the entire Harper clan and that is TOO MUCH to expect of one character, let alone a side-character. 😪

There are so many ways the story could've been tweaked to make more sense and be somewhat enjoyable, including:

The orphan!Abby thing is just bad. Rather than give Abby a voice, chances to let her personality shine, almost everyone interacts with her to merely briefly express their condolences for her long-dead parents 🙄

Abby is a pet-minder, ie. she's an animal lover, yet at no point do we see her interact with animals! Not a dog or cat or hamster, no reindeer at the petting zoo, nothing. 🐕🐈🦎🦜🐠

Riley + Abby getting together (even just a kiss) 👄

Abby + Harper separating so Harper can get her shit together - and then we get several flashforward shots of them separately living their lives (Harper especially), and then meeting back up again - maybe the next holiday season, after some much-needed time apart 🏃‍♀️🤸‍♀️

side characters who engage with Abby in a sincere, meaningful way instead of ignoring her (again, we got Riley, but she was outside of the family dynamic) 😊

MORE FESTIVE CHEER! where were all the staple Christmassy passtimes, the smile-inducing season-specific experiences??? 🎉

More from denofgeek:

Where the script gets into trouble is that it doesn’t distinguish between Harper being closeted and her poor treatment of Abby. The two are separate issues and treating them as one does no favors to Harper, nor others struggling with the closet. As Dan Levy’s beautiful monologue late in the movie alludes to, the closet is a safety mechanism—but it’s not a free pass to treat people like garbage. [...] 😟🏳️‍🌈

Even a brief conversation teasing out that being in the closet doesn’t justify how Harper acted, and that plenty of people in the closet don’t treat others like trash, would have been important. Instead once Harper is out (which the movie takes pains to make clear only happened because Harper’s sister Sloane outed her), and a gesture so small it could never credibly be called grand is made, all bad behavior is washed away. [...] 😤🙅‍♀️

The jarring underlying issue is that 'Happiest Season' attempts to apply the standard rom-com and made-for-TV-holiday-movie tropes to queer life. So Abby having to go back into the closet isn’t framed as a painful regression or being forced to deny an essential part of herself, but rather a fun twist, in the vein of “but the guy she insulted on the plane is the owner of the ornament factory she has to impress to win the Christmas contest!”🚪😒

All of Harper’s behavior adds up to making her feel like something the audience wants Abby to be free of, not someone Abby should be fighting for. Once Riley tells Abby about Harper’s cruelty in high school, where Harper outed Riley and mocked her rather than standing up for her or finding an excuse that protected them both, it becomes incredibly difficult to root for the lead couple to get back together, or for Harper at all. 👏💃

With this information, Harper’s other transgressions go from frustrating to part of a larger pattern. Sadly, it’s a pattern Harper repeats when her sister outs her and she throws Abby under the (lesbian) bus. 🤬

FAVE THINGS:

all interactions between John (Dan Levy) + Abby (he's witty, honest, and 100% the most entertaining element of the entire film; i wish we'd gotten more of him) 😆

Riley (Aubrey Plaza, Harper's ex) + Abby's scenes together because CHEMISTRY, both between the characters and the actors 👩‍❤️‍👩

Notable between Abby + Riley scenes include 3 instances of Riley comforting Abby's hurt: outside at the fancy party (Abby feeling excluded/ignored/not worth anyone's time due to the way they treat her even though they don't know she's gay), at a gay bar in town (sandwiched by scenes where Abby's made to feel like crap by Harper), and at the fancy home Christmas party where Riley gets Abby something stronger to drink after hearing Abby was going to propose to Harper (but it's been a helluva shitty week and those plans are dead) 👭

Every scene with Riley was blessed relief from the hurt and discomfort and boredom of the rest of the time with Harper's family. 🤩

Sister Jane, for being a genuinely fun character 🤗 who was written starkly different to her family and treated somewhat like an outcast

Aubrey + Kstew killin it in various pantsuits 👀

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In contrast, Riley connects Abby to queerness, bringing her to an LGBTQ bar to decompress and enjoy a Christmas-themed drag performance. It’s the most relaxed and comfortable Abby is on screen since the opening scenes, a chance to glimpse Abby’s authentic self before Harper summons her back to heterosexuality, and where she once again ignores and disappoints her. Riley actually talks to Abby at the various holiday parties whereas Harper keeps leaving her to please her family, especially her father. It’s not hard for the natural chemistry between Plaza and Stewart to take over

I wouldn't watch this film again. For a hopeful Christmasy love story I'd just watch all Abby + Riley's scenes:

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In closing, here's a batshit article title from observer.com that just makes you go, huh? 🧐:

‘Happiest Season’ Isn’t Happy, But That Doesn’t Make It a Bad Rom-Com

Um.. yes, yes it does.

Rom-Coms are supposed to be fun, light-hearted stories about love even when the plot deals with lying - The Proposal, Sweet Home Alabama - so a movie that leaves you hurting more than comforted in sympathy with one of the main characters because the (apparent) love of their life is treating them like shit, then it doesn't deserve to be in the genre of Rom-Com. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨💞🎬

In summary, Abby and Harper got 5 minutes of happiness in the beginning, and an eventual happy ending after a super rocky middle. The journey was painful and unenjoyable, and it made their happy ending unbelievable and, for Harper, undeserved because of her behaviour through 90% of the story.

In short: it was not, in fact, the happiest season. 😕👎

#happiest season #review #unhappiest season #queer cinema #queer characters #christmas #lgbtqia #romcom #movies #watchnotes #we deserve better

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marinetteplztakeabreak · 4 years

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snake!Nino AU

this is a bullet fic rewrite of Desperada featuring my love for Nino (I’m not anti-Luka by the way I just like the potential softness of this AU, I have like.... I have like... twenty-fi... 25,913 different takes on Desperada and this is just my newest one)

—Nino is on board the Liberty with everyone else just chilling and vibing with Luka because he loves music too; he plays the violin because I said so and he’s just in the background tuning it and looking low-key sad while the whole “Luka flirts with Marinette and teaches her guitar” thing happens.

—When Kagami and Adrien show up, Nino is just absolutely ecstatic that Adrien was finally able to get out of the house, and he LIGHTS UP and is like “omg!!! You’re here!!! Is this Kagami!!! It’s so nice to finally meet you, you’re my sibling now, no take-backs.”

—And Alya is like “hey Adrien can I talk to you for a second,” so he stays there while Nino just drags Kagami off to show her his instrument and talk to her and she’s like “omg this guy is A LOT” but you can tell she’s happy that someone is paying attention to her

—Meanwhile, Alya is just trying so hard to get Adrien to talk to Marinette, and she’s just like “hmmm is someone a little jealous of Luka?” And Adrien is just like “no lol I’m fine with just playing piano, different people have different skills, I’m happy for him that he knows how to play the guitar.” And Alya is like “facepalms”

—Meanwhile, Marinette is still just panicking as she frantically glances back and forth between Luka and Adrien and Kagami and is just internally keysmashing

—so at this point, we’re only like 2 minutes into the episode, it all happened fast and Marinette hasn’t had time to react

—All of a sudden they’re interrupted by the sound of arguing above deck

—Which is, of course, Jagged Stone begging Anarka to play guitar for him

—She refuses, and Jagged sees Marinette and asks her if she knows any guitar players

—Marinette’s still just panicking and Nino is like “oh no my girl is having an anxiety” and so he just kinda gently steps in like “hey Jagged, I don’t play guitar but I can DJ and help mix music together if that helps”

—and Jagged’s like “you know what, what the heck, sure, I’ll take it, you can be my new partner” and Marinette is still just trying to cool down and stop panicking

—When, whoops, Desperada shows up out of nowhere, and is like “Jagged Stone!!! I can’t believe you’re trying to replace me!!” And she tries to zap Nino into dust, but Kagami, being an idiot who bonded with him already, just leaps in front of him and gets turned to dust instead.

—Cue the chaos where she tries to zap everyone who has an instrument, including Luka and Anarka, while also specifically going after Nino

—and Nino being a dumb self-sacrificial idiot sees Desperada almost get Alya (who’s trying to get footage of the Akuma battle of course) so Nino just starts playing his violin to get Desperada’s attention

—she almost gets him, but Adrien tackles Nino to the ground at the last second (the violin breaks and it’s very sad) and then helps him up and pulls him behind a corner, Alya sees them and starts sneaking around and shows up beside them a few seconds later

—Ladybug, who just transformed, spots them and hurries over, helping them make their way safely to the sewers, but Alya’s an idiot and is like “gotta stay and film” so it ends up being just Nino and Adrien down there

—Ladybug calls up her Lucky Charm and it goes like canon, she realizes she needs extra help so she runs over to Fu and picks up the snake miraculous (though she does seriously consider the turtle for a second because a shield would be nice, she’s not sure if 5 minutes would be enough time to figure out how to defeat Desperada, and then they’d be out of luck

—meanwhile, Adrien is like “hey Nino you should hide in here I’ll totally hide for real too” and Nino’s like “are you stupid I’m not going to hide in a locker, Alya’s in danger up there, they got Kagami who’s my sister now, I don’t make the rules”

—but the thing is, Ladybug just went get a miraculous for backup, and Nino is also trying to avoid suspicion and be like “Hey Adrien, you should hide down here though, it’d be a good idea if you were out of the way and safe and I was alone with Ladybug for a brief amount of time for NO REASON don’t ask questions”

—so they’re still just having a very dodgy argument in the locker room when Ladybug shows up and is like “screw it I’m not gonna come up with an excuse. Adrien, here’s the snake miraculous, congratulations”

—And Nino is like “aaaaAaaAaA oh my gosh!!! Adrien, you’re a superhero now!!! This is so cool!!!” And just fanboys his little heart out and Adrien is like “haha yay” but like it’s hard to be panicking about this when Nino is so happy

—Plagg doesn’t even get a chance to argue because everyone is in the room at the same time; Adrien just transforms into Aspik and they start going

—and things go similar to canon BUT Nino keeps being dumb and trying to sacrifice himself for Adrien because he’s stupid like that and I love him, and also, Nino’s presence gives Marinette something else to think about so she’s slightly less flustered because Nino is at least a normal person, (also it stops Adrien from flirting with Ladybug as much because not only is he like “Ladybug stop dying” he’s also like “Nino ST OP” because Nino just gets disintegrated every time he takes his eyes off of him

—so because Marinette is panicking less she’s also spending a lot more time being like “where the H E C K is my dumb kitty cat, where I S he?”

—So Adrien’s still suffering (TM) but he realizes a lot sooner that this isn’t working and he needs to just detransform to talk to Plagg because he’s having anxiety because so many things are happening all at once (oh also Alya shows up in a couple of loops and gets vaporized a couple of times too)

—So anyways he finally restarts the loop and is like “I’m done, I can’t do this, being a hero is Too Much Stress for me I guess,”

—and of course, he hands the miraculous off to Nino, because 1) it’s Nino 2) Adrien feels like Nino’s been doing a better job of paying attention to Desperada and protecting them during time loops than Adrien has (which isn’t necessarily true but Adrien is a self-deprecating idiot) 3) Nino is the only other person there

—So Nino is like trying to hug Adrien and tell him it’s going to be okay because Adrien is crying actual tears but Adrien’s like “nope gotta go be elsewhere whoops”

—Marinette’s like “hey Nino I guess you can be the snake, your FIRST MIRACULOUS EVER WINK WINK and Nino’s like HAHA YEP NEVER SEEN ONE OF THESE BEFORE IN MY LIFE

—Adrien runs off and apologizes to Plagg and Chat Noir shows up a moment later

—Nino notices how much less flustered Ladybug is by Chat Noir than by Adrien and is like "oh worm?" and probably brings it up with Adrien at the end of the episode

—they all fight side by side

—Nino realizes that he needs to provide a distraction so Ladybug and Chat Noir can take Desperada by surprise, so he uses his DJing skills to start blasting music over the liberty’s speakers

—They win,

—Ladybug is like “I couldn’t have done it without you Chat Noir I love you I mean haha nothing”

—Chat Noir fanboys over snake!Nino and is like “you’re my hero omg”

—epic three-sided “pound it”

—Marinette uses the miracle cure to put everything back to norma

—Adrien shows up soon and Nino just RUSHES over to him to say that he definitely did amazing and just showers him with love and support and Adrien just showers compliments back at Nino and asks for his autograph

—Kagami shows up again a few minutes later and is super awkwardly like “what do I do now” and Nino is like “come over here you’re one of the bros” and they just chill and have fun and Nino just starts showing them his SoundCloud

—Marinette still feels guilty for panicking earlier in the morning and is like “I gotta fix this” so she talks to Jagged and is like “btw Luka is a very good guitar player, you should talk to him”

—Vivica (aka desperada) gets her job with Jagged back and she and Luka end up talking because of it and they start bonding over their love for guitars and Vivica offers to let Luka be a guest in their performance and to give him more professional guitar lessons and he’s like “holy hecking yes”

—Marinette is like “problem solved I guess but now what do I do? Oh no, Adrien and Kagami are being happy together over there”

—Alya is like “go talk to them” and Marinette’s like “I can’t what if I panic” and Alya’s like “fine I’ll talk to them first” and she just flops down next to Nino and starts joking along with them

—Marinette follows a little bit later and immediately Kagami is like “Marinette you’re so amazing, I didn’t know you were friends with Jagged Stone? Adrien was telling me you designed his album cover? That’s incredible I wish I could be as talented as you” and Marinette’s just like “omg Kagami is not evil?? Who knew??”

—The episode ends with Marinette trying to act as normal as she can around Adrien and then Alya’s like “hey Kagami I gotta show you the photos I took of the Akuma fight. Nino, you should come too” and she just winks at Marinette and Marinette’s like “oh no I am alone with Adrien”

—but then Adrien is just like, “I wish I could be part of the Ladyblog, Ladybug is so cool *dreamy face* and Marinette just dies immediately

—they're all happy and everyone gets love and support; the end

#miraculous ladybug #ml #desperada #nino lahiffe #adrien agreste #kagami tsurugi #alya cesaire #marinette dupain cheng #fic tag #i guess this counts as a fic lol

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deadontheinsidebut · 4 years

Text

✨Birthday Wishes✨

This is a Birthday Fic dedicated to my one and only @kenmakodzu !! You have become so important to me in such a period of time and I hope this fic shows even a tiny fraction of that. Happy Birthday Gab!! To a better year with great health and successes mwah 💕✨(○’ω’○)✨💕

Pairing: Gabma x Angelshima

Word Count: 1.6k

Gab awoke to the sound of the neighbourhood crows squawking and pushed two pillows to her ears to block out the noise, but after staying up until 3am to talk to Angel about which mazesoba place is the best, the pillows did nothing for her sour mood. She groaned into her bed before a gentle hand caressed her hair.

She turned to see Kenma’s soft features looking at her until the meekest whisper of “happy birthday” escaped his lips. Gab couldn’t help but smile at her boyfriend. She knew he had been up just as late as she had, hearing her and Angel bickering about the stupidest of things and appreciated how much he put up with.

It was time to start the day with neither of them able to fall back to sleep. Kenma’s hair was never messy like Kuroo’s but he always managed to have a tuft of hair out of place that Gab loved to brush out for him. To be honest, mornings are slow at the Gabma house with each of the introverted lovers preferring their alone time until the morning grogg is gone.

Kenma offered to make Gab her breakfast and she was pleased as she watched her boyfriend prance around the kitchen with eggs in one hand and spatula in the other. Gab drummed her fingers on the table patiently before hearing the familiar ring of her phone. The caller ID read Angel and she answered it to hear a very loud “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” blare through the phone. Gab’s ears were practically bleeding as she answered Angel.

“Could you save the noise for… you know… not the morning?” Gab joked.

“What else are sisters for if not to ruin their sister’s mornings?” Angel countered, adding a devious giggle for emphasis.

Gab sighed into the phone before starting a back and forth banter with Angel. Kenma brought over the eggs and toast, seating across from Gab, munching on his own breakfast as he listened in on his girlfriend’s conversation.

After a couple minutes, Kenma outstretched his hand, motioning for her to hand over the phone and mouthing Tsukki’s name. Gab asks Angel if Tsukki was there and after some passing of the phones, the boys were now able to start a conversation of their own.

Kenma scuttled away and Gab eyed him suspiciously but continued to eat her meal, simply content with just having food. Ah yes, we love ignorant Gab.

When Kenma returned, the phone no longer displayed Angel’s name and Gab pouted because she had not yet finished her conversation with her stupid sister. As Kenma cleared the plates, he brought up some activities the couple could do today and Gab was mildly surprised at his sudden urge to want to go out.

They decided on a mini shopping spree. The two of them deserved it after spending the previous months of quarantine in nothing but kitty onesies. The stores were pretty much empty and the sales were high. Discounts were basically Gab’s last name and when Kenma urged her to buy the pretty lavender dress that was 60% off, she was on it.

She slipped into the dress and it was a perfect fit. The dress attenuated every one of her curves but flared at the bottom to give off a classier look. The final thing that made her realize that this was the dress were Kenma’s cat-like eyes trailing every part of her, taking in the beauty that Gab radiated by just being her. He was truly looking at her like she was a video game that had just been released.

She decided to stay in the dress with a little encouragement from Kenma and pecked his cheek for his efforts today. This honestly would’ve been enough, but Kenma slipped his hand into hers and began to guide her to their next destination.

As simple as it was, she had always wanted to just explore the city as the sun explodes into a million different shades of red. What more can you ask for than seeing the sunset with the love of your life… is what you thought until you were led to one and only mazesoba shop you were talking about yesterday on the phone.

Gab gasped because of how beautiful the restaurant was. The light from the sunset shone in through the huge glass windows and created the most romantic of all atmospheres. But what was inside surprised her most of all.

As Angel leapt into Gab’s arms, squishing her cheek to Gab’s, she knew her birthday was complete.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” Angel exclaimed, “lavender is your colour!”

Angel adorned a baby blue dress and Tsukki in a dress shirt of his own. All that was left was Kenma and he excused himself to go change, admitting that he also bought himself something while shopping.

“So this is what my boyfriend and yours were discussing over the phone this morning?” Gab inquired, raising an eyebrow at both Angel and Tsukishima.

Tsukki shrugged slyly before guiding the both of the girls to their table. Kenma came back in a matching lavender dress shirt and Angel shrieked as she suggested the group take pictures to commemorate the occasion.

The waitress volunteered to take the pictures for the four of you and to be honest, they were the most instagram-worthy photos the four of them had ever seen with the sunset shining in as the background and the four of them wearing their fancy-wear. It was definitely going on Angel’s instagram at least.

After they seated themselves at the table and the waitress took their orders, conversation sparked with everyone practically bouncing in their seats.

“We’ve been planning your birthday for months,” Angel started, beaming at herself for being so responsible.

“It wasn’t easy getting a booking for this place, you know,” Tsukki added, wrapping an arm around Angel, “you have expensive taste, Gab.”

Gab chuckled at Tsukki’s comment, realizing the bickering from last night was simply a ploy to find out what her favourite mazesoba place was. She looked to her boyfriend who had remained quiet all this time.

“Thank you for everything!” Gab said to Kenma.

“No, thank you for coming into my life and being what I needed,” Kenma blurted, “thank you for being a million blessings in one.”

The deep blush on Gab’s face was priceless and she moved her hands to cover her face. Tears pricked her eyes, the few words her boyfriend offered having a bigger impact than anything she’s ever heard.

“I second that!” Angel agreed with Kenma.

“Me too I guess,” Tsukki finished, turning away.

At this point, Gab was no longer holding her emotions in and the tears rushed out.

“GROUP HUG!!!” Angel screamed out before pulling everyone into a pile over the table.

“I don’t think I can handle any more love, guys!” Gab whined through the tears, giggling in the process.

“We’re not done yet!” The other three chorused.

It was now time for the gifts and they lined up to present Gab her gifts. Tsukki was first and handed her an aromatherapy gift set. It contained a bunch of essential oils with lavender being one because Gab loves it of course, a diffuser, therapeutic body washes, and more!

“This is for you and Kenma but mostly Kenma because only God knows how he’s able to handle your chaotic ass,” Tsukki explained, “I can barely handle my own,” he adds while resting an elbow on an irritated Angel’s head.

Gab had to cover her mouth as she tried to process the gift. It was both funny and generous considering how expensive these setes go for and she thanked him while stifling a laugh.

Angel was next and she was giddy as she watched Gab unwrap her gift. The first one was a scrapbook that held little mementos from fun times they’ve had in the past. There was even a picture of them piled on each other at the ice rink (refer to the double date drabble I wrote MWAHAH) which Gab stared longingly at until moving onto the next gift.

When she unwrapped it, she gasped deeply. It was a body pillow of Kenma and Angel was bent-over laughing.

“OH MY FREAKING-- WHAT THE HELL IS THIS??” Gab shrieked and even Tsukki was snickering despite knowing Angel’s special little gift.

Kenma was blushing madly and scratched the back of his head before commenting “why use the pillow when you have the real thing?”

This whole day was a serotonin booster and Gab hugged the pillow to her chest. The mazesoba had finally arrived and Angel and Tsukishima were sharing their food with each when Kenma dragged Gab to the corner to present her with his own gift.

It was a small little box and he opened it to reveal a beautiful golden necklace with a heart charm. It was clearly intricately made with Gab’s initials ingrained onto the necklace with diamonds.

“Open it.”

And she opened the heart locket to see a picture of the four of them inside, looking at the camera with the most genuine smiles. This was the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given her. And Gab will cherish it, just like the promise she’s made to cherish her friends until the end of time.

BONUS: They went to the Gabma house for a sleepover afterwards and after everyone changed into their onesies, they started making mochi donuts. Unfortunately, the house burned down The End.

Happy Birthday Gab! I hope you have an amazing day. And I promise I won’t burn your house down when we meet irl hehe

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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 4 years

Text

10. Simon’s Deal

3878 Words. Trigger Warnings for self harm and inappropriate sexual joke content. I think that’s all in this one, actually.

I feel like I need to clarify something - I am continuing this story until I finish it. But, the chapters will no longer be standalone pieces. The rest of it will be directly a sequential story that would need the previous chapters in order to make the story coherent. Thanks for understanding. Happy reading, and please, if you like what you read, let me know. If you don’t, keep it moving, Shawty. Because, I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit.

Simon got up fairly early every day. He fed Samantha and let her out. She came and went as she pleased, and in the times that she returned, she would come to his window and yell. He… was probably going to have to bring her with him when he left home for good. He hated to do it. He never wanted a cat, but they had bonded over having the worst mom in common and it wasn’t her fault that the person who purchased her did so on a whim.

He had a very strict exercise regimen, breakfast schedule, and things that he did every morning before starting on his day. Whenever he left home, he usually packed what he needed, and tended to use his mother’s old car. Was he legally supposed to be driving? No. Was he teaching himself how to anyway, because he knew he would need that skill and nobody else was gonna teach him? Absolutely.

His summer had a lot of things packed into it, but he had everything plotted out in such a way that if he followed his schedule, he would still have plenty of time to rest well and even to keep up with Grace.

She was having a blast. "I asked Ghairrisahn if I could smell her hair to tell my friend how it smells and she gave me a piece of it! I collected YOU a gift, this time!"

"You… have… some of her hair for me???" He asked excitedly.

"She pulled it out of her hairbrush! She says that it isn't even the first time. Her hair and her feet are apparently people's favorite parts." Grace held up a little baggy with curly hair in it. "I'll keep it safe for you. In the meantime, she smells like… geranium, bergamot, frankincense and myrrh."

"I… what?"

"Geranium, bergamot, frankincense and myrrh. Those are her go to essential oils, so everything she wears is one or a combination of those and no other scents, ever, so that she doesn't smell TOO strong. But, it's nice. I actually smell her hair for myself, now. Since she’s got all these oils on her body, I just say that I’m doing it for wellness."

"So jealous," he said, with a smile. “I saw that you gave her a lipstick print. She’s Apex now!”

“She said that she’s been a fan of my videos!” She sighed, "I wish you were here."

"Me too. I miss you."

"Are you holding up okay?"

Actually, my mom had the most violent outburst whenever I tried to get her into my grandmother's car and Samantha has been gone for far longer than usual. I don't know if she's coming back, I don’t even know if she’s alive…

"I'm fine," he said and saw an incoming call… from Mr. Monroe? "I...I've gotta go."

"I'm calling you tomorrow!"

"Yes, Ma'am." she hung up and he smiled, "Mr. Monroe! I didn't plan on hearing from you..."

Simon was at his journalism workshop whenever Shana sat next to him. He raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. "Problem?" She asked, turning to look right at him.

"Girl, leave me alone."

"Why are you so rude? Have I ever actually done you something, or do you just hate everybody that doesn't worship your girlfriend?"

"What difference does it make?" He and Grace never corrected people on the girlfriend bit. It was easier that way. They'd have to explain why they're so close and always together and never dating anyone else… like they couldn't JUST be friends?

"You stole from me. I'd like to know why."

"I've never stolen anything in my life. Your dad, on the other hand…"

She gasped and he could tell from the look on her face that was a low blow. She looked like she was going to cry. "Wow. You're just as ugly as she is. I actually thought you were the nice one."

"You are the only person who's said that. Therefore, I'm going to presume that you're lying," he said, with a slight blush. People didn't often say that he was nice at all, and especially not when choices were between him and Grace - the professional people pleaser and part time peacekeeper. The number of times that she had to keep him from cracking something over somebody’s head alone was enough to warrant at least a collective “unfriendly.”

"Doesn't matter now. You're a complete asshole." He laughed at the bold declaration. It had been a while since someone dared to insult him, much less straight up call him out of his name. He didn't know if he had ever really noticed Shana before this moment. But… she and Grace had similar features. He'd heard her referred to as "Chemical Grace" before, because she straightened her hair and wore a lot of makeup and stuff (and was the only other Black girl besides a a handful of biracial ones).

But, honestly… if Grace contoured her face, had straight hair, maybe less full lips and high cheekbones, the two of them looked a lot the same… to the point that Simon's imagination insisted that they were related.

Oooh… what if Mr. Monroe had a torrid affair once upon a time and had this daughter some months before Grace? That would explain their enmity too!

"What are you looking at?" She asked, annoyed.

"You and Grace look like you could be sisters."

She glared at him, "I don't know if you think that we all look alike or if you just miss that dragon for whatever reason, (because you're a weirdo for genuinely liking her in the first place), but if you ever say anything that insulting to me again, all bets are off. I'm going to fuck you up, Simon."

"It was a compliment. Grace is the prettiest girl in school and you're like… a close second, on the grounds that you look like less organic her.."

"Please shut up. Why are you talking to me? Are you even allowed to do that?" She rolled her eyes, but he noticed that her skin tone changed just a little bit. He knew that look too. She was blushing. He caught Grace doing so a time or two. It didn’t look the same as whenever he did, for sure, but he definitely noticed. He smirked and texted Grace. She would be in rehearsals, but she’d see it afterwards.

“Chemical Grace thinks I’m cute. (Smirk emoji)”

A few short minutes later she replied, “Nothing else to do. Gotta set yourself on fire, bruh.”

He laughed and Shana looked over, but he just gave her a hard stare until she looked away, annoyed that she had even turned towards him.

They were going to have to work together in journalism club, but he had always been surrounded by people he didn’t too much care for. At the time, he couldn’t imagine the amount of time that they might have to work together, with her being the managing editor and him being the copy editor (and photo/graphics editor, until someone else stepped up for that).

"I still can't figure out if she's lucky or cursed to have you, but I'm sure hoping for the latter," Shana said as they walked out of the workshop, practically shoulder to shoulder. He just smirked. Her insults were… kinda fun for him.

He had a couple of weeks between his engagements. Grace wanted him to fly out to meet her and fly back in a couple of weeks. She just needed him to agree and she would make sure that the tickets were purchased. He never minded accepting things from her before, but since she’d left him, things felt off for him.

He wasn’t sure if it was because he was still a little bit hurt that she decided to go on the tour. It was a chance of a lifetime. He wouldn’t have wanted her to turn it down… but he did want that. He wanted her to be nearby and available, so that when he wasn't busy, he could have her to himself to recover from everything.

That was no reason that he couldn’t go meet Ghairrisahn and see her shows for free for two weeks, though. So, he went!

Grace danced backup for some numbers and under the spotlight a couple of times too. Ghairrisahn praised her on the mic, hyped her up during her performances, thanked her by name at the end of each show, with the band and other important creators, and seemed to genuinely appreciate her.

For Simon, it was like watching a shooting star go in reverse. Like… when he met her, she was beautiful, but just sitting in a crater, and he dug her out and she shot up and was flying into the night's sky. Beautiful to behold, but also… he doesn't know why he's not with her - Why they weren't one anymore. He doesn't know why she's so out of his reach now.

They clung to that old dynamic, for a few years that it wasn't working, and now, they were shooting in different directions. Where could he possibly want to go if Grace wasn't going with him? Why was it so easy for her now to go where she was going, without him? She used to… she used to wait for him. She used to shine a little less, if only to give him a moment to catch up. She used to care…

That's unfair. She still cares. She's just having fun and she deserves some fun… even if she never would have made it this far without your support. You built her a fan base from a bunch of snobby kids who wanted high school cool points into a public figure with a massive Internet presence. You took the photos that landed her a lucrative business deal at age 14. You turned her parents' heads in her direction every chance you got, just so she could be noticed by them and get a sparkle in her eyes. She owes you everything… and she won't even look at you as anything other than her favorite accessory. Something she never wants to leave home without, but if she does, she could just smile and keep dancing…

He didn't realize that he was shaking until one of Grace's team members asked him if he was okay. He nodded and then went to find some place to be alone. He took off his hoodie and pulled a dull pen from his pocket. His thoughts were racing and his emotions were such an overwhelming cluster of negativity rushing about that he almost felt immobilized by the onslaught. He sat down, lifted his arm and began to sketch. The pen scratched him, lifting the line on his skin, with minimal blood, but a few specks. He drew tally marks. There were a few older faded ones that he had counted.

Whenever he felt hurt or weak or scared… things he couldn't say he felt. Whenever those feelings became too much. Grace had told him, "You just have gotta try to count up the good things about stuff."

"And how am I supposed to do that whenever my mind can't focus on anything but the bad stuff I'm going through?"

She made an "I don't know" sound, with the shrug of her shoulders, closed her compact mirror, looked at him with the warmest smile and said, "But, you're the smartest guy I know. You'll figure out a way to get on the path to thinking positive when your brain is mean to you." She smiled and a bird landed on her shoulder. She was petrified. "Oh my God… get… get this thing off of me Simon!" He swatted it and when it began to fly, she screamed, dropped her bag and ran. He laughed at the image as he picked up her stuff, but for that brief moment that she smiled, with an agent of nature perched on her shoulder, he got his moment of clarity. He found his way. It was her. It had been her.

Whenever he felt this way, he would center himself with a little bit of pain and just make a little mark of the good things about her that he could think of.

He hadn't done this (over her) in a while. Usually, she was the alternative medicine for hurt that his mom caused. Grace didn't hurt him very often, and the times that she did, he always made a tally to represent that she would never try to hurt him on purpose.

That's where he began his new tally of marks. 1 She's not hurting me on purpose. 2 She doesn't know that I'm hurt and I'm not going to tell her because she needs this. 3 I'm proud of her. 4 At least I get to come along. 5 She tried to bring me with her and I had to decline. 6 She never would have left me behind on purpose. 7 It was my choice and she respected that. 8 She still loves me because she wanted me here as soon as I had time. 9 We're still the Apex…

"Simon, are you in here? They told me that you rushed off and you didn't look too good?" 10 She came to check on me as soon as she heard I wasn't okay…

"Yeah. I just got overheated…" he said, pulling his hoodie back over himself.

"That's why I don't understand why you always wear a hoodie! It's summer and you sweat a lot! You're gonna make the bus musty."

"I'm gonna get washed up!" He opened the door and there she was, sweaty and musty herself, with full concern on her glowing features. She glanced at the pen and he put it away. "Fell outta my pocket," he said and covered the back of his neck with his hand, laughing nervously.

She doubted him for a moment. He saw the flicker of it in her eyes, but she smiled anyway, wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him along with her, "Come on, Your Ripeness." Simon wrapped an arm around her as well. He didn't feel any more distress. He wasn't overwhelmed or sad or angry. He had gotten “back on his positive path after his brain was mean to him.” He kissed her on the temple and she smiled and blushed. "What was that for?"

"For always being my best friend."

She tugged him down to kiss his temple too… since that's what they were doing tonight, she guessed. She winked at him and mused, "Back at cha, Gray Eyes." He melted against her and rested his head on the top of hers. Grace was… confused, but she just stood there, with his arms tightly wrapped around her. She didn't understand his sudden need to be affectionate, but she didn't want to interrupt it either.

His last night on the tour, after everyone was asleep, they snuck away, just to explore and spend time alone.

"So, guess what your dad and me discussed…"

"Ugh. You've been talking to my dad, still?"

"Um.. of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I'm not even there. What could you two possibly have to even talk about?"

"We have a lot to talk about! I'm very mature for my age and I have a good head on my shoulders."

"You head-butted someone yesterday," she reminded him.

"And I barely flinched. My head is that good...Wait…" she was already laughing at the slip of the tongue. He groaned. She was never gonna let him live that one down. "Let me finish!" He whined, laughing at himself.

"You gotta stop chillin' with my dad, Dude. He's not just an adult, but he's one of the ones that we know can't be trusted."

Mr. Monroe had been very helpful to Simon during the time while Grace was away and his parents were out of reach. Bit like a mentor, but not as warm. They did discuss Grace at times, but mostly the man had been getting him in contact with the right people to help him sort out getting emancipated and for assistance with the home front while there weren't other adults there. They didn't have heart to hearts and stuff, but he was definitely an ally, in Simon's eyes. "He's… not so bad, I think. He just doesn't understand you. But, he loves you. I mean.. I think he does. The way you made them sound is worse than they are. At least they aren't like my parents…"

She frowned. "I don't like it. It's weird that you're taking up for him, too. What have you got a crush on my dad or something?"

"… Did you seriously ask me that?"

"You're going on about how great and misunderstood he is, and I've never seen you date anybody. Maybe that's what you like. Old rich dudes that can be your sugar daddy." She stuck her tongue out and twerked a little.

He laughed, "I am by no means above doing what I gotta do with your dad, if it gets me ahead, but I think your mom would kill me."

Grace laughed, "I would help her!"

"Help her? How dead do you think I would need to be? Shouldn't one of you kill him too? He's the adult in this scenario! Besides, your mom wouldn't need any help. That woman could probably kill a gorilla with her bare hands."

"Well, she's always said that she can do anything she sets her mind to with the right pair of shoes." They both laughed about the image of Mrs. Monroe killing a gorilla with a pair of pumps on. Grace thought, she's WEARING the shoes, not using them and Simon thought that she definitely had in her to stab a beast to death with a high heel.

"Talk about red bottoms," Simon said, trying to stop laughing at all of their add-ons.

"What's wrong with us? We're making jokes about my dad molesting you for money and my mom killing gorillas while staying fashionable."

"I think it poses the question, what's wrong with them?"

"Hmph. According to you, nothing."

"Not nothing, Grayyeeece… they just aren't as bad as a lot of other parents. Some of them never should have had kids."

The tone was uncomfortable for her. Like, him talking about his parents never having kids made her feel like he was indirectly saying that he didn't like being alive and that couldn't be discussed. She wouldn't be able to handle a conversation like that.

She smiled and said, "Anyways, what did you and your sugar daddy discuss?"

Now, Simon's face lit up again and he smiled, "Okay, so get this… We were discussing my busy schedule and everything I have ahead of me next year and he started to candidly speak about your social media and the tour…" she groaned. She knew that her father didn't consider what she did real art. "And somehow, he got it into his mind that you'll need a man to take care of you, a hard-working one with more realistic goals…" she fumed.

Need? A man? To take care?? Of me???

"Long story short, your dad offered to pay my college tuition, to any school that I want to go to in exchange for wooing you and being your stable man."

She stared at him, expecting some type of twist. The gotcha or whatever. He laughed, but seemed serious. "My dad wants to pay you to try to be my boyfriend?"

"Technically, his word was to 'tame' you."

"TAME???"

"He thinks that you've blindly rushed into wild dreams and that you need a smart, strong boy to help you stabilize."

"Ugh!!! You know, he ruined my mom's career with that same line of thinking! And she had to live vicariously through me. I can't BELIEVE that he'd pay YOU for that job!" She was furious.

Simon looked offended, "Why'd you say it like that?"

"You're my friend. He expects you to just screw me over and play with my mind for some money."

"It's not THAT simple. For… an education that I work really hard to get, but still may have to settle on a scholarship that might not cover everything. An education that, if I had it, I could finally make something of myself in this world. It wasn't like he offered me a cartoon bag of cash. He offered me a future that I deeply want and need. Nothing cheap or meaningless.."

She intertwined their fingers, "Okay. Then… you'll get that."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants to give you college in exchange for making me your girlfriend, then he's about to pay for your college."

"Are you suggesting that we officially openly pretend to be a couple instead of leaving it to mystery?"

"I'm suggesting that my father deserves for you to take every dime he's willing to pay you to manipulate me."

"I don't think that you realize that what he wants me to do is change you, and even if we could get one over on him, the act would have to last through my college career…"

"We've unofficially been a couple in people's eyes for almost that long already."

"No we haven't!"

"I am making you a counter offer. It's the very same deal as my dad's, but in this one, we stay the same, but he pays you anyway! So… be my partner, already." She held out her hand to him and he tentatively accepted it and shook it. She smiled. "We'll have to pace it, if he's expecting you to woo me. Gonna have to be a soft entrance and he'll have to notice a gradual shift."

He nodded in agreement. He knew that they were speaking about a fake relationship, but he still felt butterflies fluttering in his gut thinking about it. Being Grace's boyfriend… even if pretend… for years… There was no way that they could pull that off… but, what if it led to something? What if he could woo her, for real? Have her for real?

"Let's go be seen," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm an internet personality. If people spot us out and about this time of night, they'll talk about it. If we seem like we're trying to be secretive, they'll post about it." She took his hand and pulled him along.

"We'll have to set some ground rules for this couple project…" he said.

She laughed, "You can set whatever rules you want. I'm doing everything that I've normally done, but I'll be letting my parents think you're my boyfriend so that you can go to school or whatever."

"It's risky. What about affection? What about if one of us finds somebody else that we like?"

"You like somebody?"

"No. I'm just thinking about the complications to this ruse."

"You're a war buff… Just think about it like a secret identity that you have to commit to for an espionage assignment. The fate of your future depends on it, so in a way, it's a mission of life and death." His eyes twinkled at her and she smirked. He loved when she began to try to speak his language.

"I understand now," he said.

#If They Didn't Get on the Train #AU Infinity Train #Infinity Train #Nesha Fanfiction #Infinity Train Fanfiction #fics

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