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darling-cas · 3 years

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Hoax (an original story)

I amaze myself sometimes.

My therapist says I need to go back to things that bring me joy, says I need to find happiest in life again. During one specific session, I was asked to name a time when I was truly at peace, a time I felt moments of pure joy outside of my partner and friends. The first thing that came to mind was a time years ago, when I would post stories here, on this website, for you all to see.

This surprised me honestly, because if you knew me personally (*cough* hi @ilikebigbooks-and-icannotlie *cough*) you would know the amount of stress and pressure I put myself under when it came to writing We Are Young, Whatever It Takes, etc, etc, etc. But despite all the negative emotions, the moments that always stand out to me is sitting on my laptop after I clicked post, watching all the love and adoration pure in from each and every one of you.

I say this monthly but, I really do want to get back into writing. Thanks to my therapist and business major partner, I’ve been dipping my toes into editing for others as a side job. But I want to make my way back to writing my own stories and sharing them with even the smallest corner of the world. This story, Hoax, I wrote actually one year ago, when I first started therapy and after a hard heartbreak. It helped me feel like myself again and lifted me out of the darkness.

I hope, for even the smallest number of you, it does the same. I hope you can feel the same magic that I felt when I wrote it. Take this as a thank you for, years ago, bringing me such joy and happiness.

Until next time...

Cas.

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The air was midsummer sweet.

It was an Indian summer of blue sky dreams and late evening tears, with the weather shifting moods in the blink of an eye. Grey clouds would eclipse the setting sun with their mighty fists, soaking up the colour of the earth like ink drenching a cotton ball.

And with the continuous alternating weather came the busty smell of sunblock and wet grass. Summer scents combined with the salty air and pungent fish that cling to Jake’s senses from the moment he started his journey along the coastal towns.

His mountain travels started just mere days ago. The task of hiking the grand peak was something he was finally going to cross off his bucket list. Dipping into his savings and requesting a week or two off work was a small price to pay when it came to the tranquility and beauty laid bare before him.

Born and raised on the outskirts of the city, there hadn't been much nature for him to appreciate and admire growing up. But from the moment Jake entered the first small, close-knit fishing town, all he could seem to do was appreciate and stare in outright awe.

The land laid undisturbed all around; the mountains, the trees, the ocean, they had all planted their roots, dug in their heels, and refused to surrender. Cities had been conquered, the vast expansion of country fields and towering summits were placed in chains, forced to give themselves to man. But here, on the coast of fishing villages, it seems as if Land and Man came to an agreement, a compromise, an understanding, to live in peace as one.

Roads of all kinds swerved, twisted, curled up and down along the coast, between the trees. Houses of unnaturally charming bright blues, yellows, oranges, and greens sat gracefully against the mountain rocks, climbing up the forest-speckled cliffs. Homes and buildings of sea-weathered colour rested on the broken shoreline. Boats bobbed in the water, their docks reaching out towards the horizon like fingers longing to reach and touch a disappearing lover.

In the coastal towns, driving along the sunset stained ocean, Jake swore he would never see true beauty again.

Even now, when the sky wept tears of sorrow, its beauty never vanished.

The weather came on suddenly, as he passed the welcoming sign for Higdon's Harbour. The roads became slick, a ghostly fog settled in, and the colours were muted a few shades darker by the clouds above. Rivers trickled down the mountain side, disappearing into shallow ditches. Waves started to leap and jump to catch the increasing wind. All while the sky cried on and on.

Jake drove on through the town. Classic rock thumped softly in the background and raindrops tapped on the roof of the car. He had planned not to stop for the night until the next town over. He had driven through several rain storms since the start of his trip, and this was nothing.

But the cracks in the sky's broken heart continued to grow with exceptional pain. Tears of despair quickly turned to tears of anger. The beating on the car became more aggressive as the wind wailed daunting threats and the ocean frantically waved its arms.

It became too much, too quick. Jake was used to driving through bad weather, but not seaside storms. Not gusting winds and sideways rain. Plus, he decided, he was already making good time. So when the flashing green neon sign reading Beaumont Motel came into view, he didn’t hesitate to pull off the road, into the parking lot, and turn off his car.

A bell jingled above as Jake pushed open the door. He stepped into the warmth of the lobby, drenched through his clothes and soaking the carpet under his feet.

“Turned nasty out there real quick, didn’t it?”

Jake threw off his hood, shaking out his damp, blonde hair as he caught sight of an older woman with long grey hair smiling at him from behind a wooden desk.

She pulled her beige cardigan closer around her, brown eyes crinkling in the corners. “Looking for a room, hun?”

“If you happen to have one available,” Jake replied, walking towards the desk and setting down his backpack. Judging by the lack of cars in the parking lot, he was more than confident there were plenty of empty rooms. Still, he glanced at the woman’s name tag and flashed her a smile. “Vera.”

“Oh, hun,” Vera chuckled. Her fingers tapped away on the computer that looked too new to be in the small, tacky, lobby with flower-patterned wallpaper. A lobby that was decorated with simply a small sitting area off to the side, a dusty fireplace warming the room, a dark wooden desk, rouge carpet, and outdated lighting fixtures. “I think I have one or two available. For how long will we be seeing your handsome face around?”

“Only a night,” Jake said. “I’m just passing through.”

“Storm pushed you off the road, huh?” Vera turned around and grabbed a key off one of the hooks on the wall. “It should only last the night. Nightly storms are common for us during this time of year. Here you go, hun.”

“Thank you!” Jake took the key before picking up his bag once more, throwing it over his shoulder.

“If you’re looking to warm up a bit, Kay & Elle, the pub next door, is open for a few more hours,” Vera informed him, fixing her wool cardigan on her shoulders. “A lot of the locals inhabit the place, but we’re friendly folks here. I’m sure they’ll keep you entertained for a bit.”

“Thank you for the suggestion!” Jake pulled his hood back over his head. “Have a good night, Vera.”

She waved him off with a dazzling smile. “Enjoy your short time at Higdon’s Harbour.”

Rain beat down around Jake as the lobby door closed behind him. The sticky air promised an onslaught of thunder and lightning, but it had yet to develop. With a glance at the metal key in his hand, Jake made out a marked 9 engraved at the top. His toes were cold as he quickly made it to the door and inserted the key before pushing the door open and stepping into the musty smelling room.

It was just as drab as the lobby. The double-bed was dressed in off-white coverings. Cream walls, dark carpet, and tacky seaside pictures. Along with two side tables by the bed, a small TV on top of a mini fridge, and a bathroom door on the far wall.

It wasn’t the nicest looking room he’d ever stayed in, but he would also be lying if he said he hadn’t stayed in worse before.

With a tired and uncomfortable sigh, Jake tossed his bag onto the bed, peeled off his wet coat, and padded off into the bathroom.

He never really thought of going to the pub Vera had mentioned. His only plans that evening consisted of taking a scalding shower before crawling into bed. Maybe watching some TV or reading the book at the bottom of his bag to spice up the night.

Yet, once the two former items on his agenda were checked off, an uneasiness fell over him. Neither the TV nor his book could hold his attention. The bedsheets itched his legs. His heart thumped in his chest, just fast enough to be noticeable. He couldn’t sit still.

Lightning flashed outside and Jake’s head whipped in the direction of the window. The pub came into view; the two porch lights twinkled in the dark and laughter sounded in time to the pounding storm. It shimmered in the lightning’s afterglow, the rain creating a silver mist of magic around the stone building.

Jake tossed off the sheets and threw on some clothes and his damp jacket. The pull in the pit of his stomach pushed him towards the front door without Jake even really realizing what he was doing. But he chalked it up to boredom and the anxiety of being knocked off his schedule.

He left the warmth of his room behind, almost crashing into a figure as he gently closed his door. An apology was on the tip of his tip tongue when a feeling of nausea washed over him. He felt dizzy, stomach turning. But it was gone between one blink and the next, along with the person. Jake got a glimpse of red hair out of the corner of his eye followed by bells and laughter as the door to room 8 snapped closed.

The thunderous weather started to overload Jake's senses and the urge to get to the pub was greater. With his head down, the figure fading from his memory, Jake made his way across the parking lot.

A drink or two would kill some time, he thought to himself. At least it would help settle the uneasiness and put him to sleep.

The mist around the pub seemed to glow as Jake drew closer, but he was too busy keeping the rain out of his eyes to pay much mind to it. Warmth shot up his arm as he pushed the door open, a jingle filling the room.

The smell of liquor and smoke tainted with the slight scent of sweat greeted Jake as he stepped over the threshold of Kay & Elle. The low rumble of a banjo filled the space, bouncing off the wooden rafters, mixing with the low mumbles and chuckles of the clusters of people scattered around the room. It wasn’t a full house, but crowded enough given the storm outside.

With his footsteps sounding off the wood floors, Jake made his way to the dark-oak bar. He received a few stares and nods of acknowledgment as he walked by men and women alike, sitting at tables and standing by pool tables. As he walked past, he took in the stone walls, the empty stage in the back, the shimmering yellow lights, and the photos of fishermen, smiling ladies, and vast landscapes littered throughout the walls.

He took off his jacket, his heart having settled from the moment he entered the pub. Jake wasn’t a man who believed in faith, but in his bones, deep in his marrow, he knew this was where he was meant to be, for whatever reason.

“Well ain’t you a fresh face,” the elder man behind the bar remarked as Jake sat in one of the barstools, just a few seats down from a hunched over figure nursing a glass of whiskey.

Jake placed his wet jaket on the chair beside him as he chuckled. “Hard to be a stranger in this town.”

“Small-town life, my boy. Everyone knows everyone.” The man threw a towel over his shoulder, his dark hair pulled back in a low pony-tail, causing the wrinkles on his slim, tan face to be on full display. His green eyes sparkled in welcome and his smile pulled at the faded scar on his left cheek. “Passing through?”

The dim lights jumped and danced off the many bottles lining the wall behind the bar. A muted glow hugged the bar, the music changing to the beat of a fiddle.

“I am, but the storm took me off the road for the night,” Jake explained.

“You staying at the Beaumont?”

Jake nodded. “The woman, Vera, recommended I stop by for a drink.”

The words tasted bitter, full of half-truths and false tales. But Jake wasn’t sure why, just as he wasn’t sure how to explain his need to be sitting in the pub at that particular moment.

“That woman,” the elder man chuckled with a shake of his head. “She sends more business this way than any billboard ad ever could. Well, have a drink while you’re here…"

“Jake.”

The music skipped a beat as the fiddle played a harsh note. The air turned bitter and cold. Jake’s limbs urged him to run, screamed that he made a mistake, scolded him for giving his name so willingly. But it was a reflex; the word leaving his lips before he understood what was happening. An impulse came over him, the same one that pulled him to obey the man's demand and order a drink.

No one seemed to notice the odd behaviour, aside from the hunched over figure a few seats down. His depthless brown eyes flashed to Jake, grey hair falling across his pale, sweaty forehead. There was a look of pain and madness in those eyes. Jake opened his mouth to say something when a draft of beer appeared in front of him. And suddenly he couldn’t remember why his limbs felt tense or why there was a cold sweat on the back on his neck.

“Nice to meet ya, Jake,” the bartender smiled with a gleam in his bottle-green eyes. “Name’s Murphy.”

“Likewise,” Jake raised his drink before bringing the glass to his lips, downing half of it in a few gulps.

The hunched man tipped back the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass hard on the bartop.

“Murphy,” he spoke in a husky voice, like the sound of asphalt and gravel.

A flash of irritation, with just a hint of sadness, came over Murphy's face. He didn’t say a word as he quickly prepared another glass, sliding it gently in front of the stranger.

“Take it easy, Harold. That’s your third now.”

Harold grunted, shooting back half the glass without a word.

Murphy sighed, every other emotion but worry washing from his face for the smallest moment, before he turned back to Jake with a smile on his lips.

“So, where were you headed before the rain knocked you off track?”

After another smaller sip of beer, Jake explained his mountain travel plans and his desire to reach the great peak that waited for him at the end.

“Good on ya. Do it all now while you’re still young and can move about,” Murphy said with a chuckle. “This a solo trip? Or are you with someone special? Perhaps they’re waiting for you back in your room?”

“No,” Jake chuckled, ignoring the grunt of clear annoyance from the man a few seats down from him. “Just me.”

A glimmer appeared in the old man's eye. “So no one speical then? No sweetheart waiting for ya?”

Glass rattled as Harold slammed his empty drink back down on the bar.

Jake cast a sideways glance at the stranger. Restlessness rushed through him as he slowly sat up straighter. Tension gripped his limbs as Harold turned to look at him. Those unnaturally dark eyes shined with intensity. They held so much knowledge, so much pain, so much fury that Jake couldn’t look away.

“Don’t waste your time with such things, boy,” Harold grumbled, voice rough and firm. His brows were pulled together so tight they were touching, as the bar cast his face in shadows of back and grey. “Love is pointless.”

He said the word love with such hatred, Jake felt as if the stone structure surrounding them would cave in and collapse.

Murphy, for his part, looked just as on edge. It was a fact that did little to calm Jake's sudden nervousness.

“Harold,” he sighed. “Let’s take a moment-”

“There is one thing that is certain when it comes to love,” Harold continued, eyes gazing unblinkingly at Jake. “It is nothing but pain. Love is made up of pain and heartbreak and bitter ends. It is a useless and pointless part of the whole damn human existence.”

A hush fell over the bar, as if even the other guests could sense the mood Harold had brought about. The upbeat tone of the fiddle suddenly switched to a soulless wail. . A shiver ran up Jake’s spine and he begged his body to turn away, to dismiss the man and be done with it. But he couldn’t. His unmerciful gaze pulled him in and suddenly Jake was drowning in the scent of liquor and smoke and dead leaves and depthless seas.

“You fight so hard." Harold gripped his glass, and a crack started to appear. “You fight with all you have and give yourself completely and it's no good. It doesn’t matter. Nothing you do is good enough. Love is about fighting a losing battle and in the end, only one person suffers the consequences. And it's usually the one who fought the hardest.”

“Harold.”

Murphy’s voice was firm, loud, booming over the music as Jake jumped back in his seat. He didn’t realize how intently he’d been listening to Harold. How he was hanging on to every word like it was air. Or how, while talking to the terrifying man, for the first time since entering the town, Higdon’s Harbour glowed with colour.

An angry, remorseless, pulsating red colour.

Harold held Jake's gaze for a moment longer, intense eyes cast in complete shadow, before turning back to the bar.

“Thanks for the advice,” Jake found himself saying, voice shaking more than he'd like to admit. He didn’t mean to speak, the words simply rushed out of him with an aftertaste of smoke.

Clearing his throat, Jake downed the last of his beer before pushing the glass towards Murphy for a refill.

A hush fell around them for just a few moments, the tension already starting to subside. Jake felt his shoulders drop as he slowly sipped his beer and Murphy slid Harold a glass of water. After some small talk with the old bartender, Jake felt himself able to breathe once more. His body started to relax, the fog lifting from his head. He was breaking the surface and forgetting all about the darkness of the ocean and the murdered limbs of the trees on the forest floor.

While on his third drink, Murphy started to get busy with the other parties of the bar. Tables started to ask for refills, and drenched couples walked through the door, the wind roaring behind them. He drifted more and more between the bar and the tables. And it was about that time that Jake decided he would soon be calling it a night.

“You shouldn’t have stopped, boy.”

Ice crawled up Jake’s spine at the sound of that sandpaper voice. Murphy was off to some seemingly remote corner of the bar. Jake couldn’t help but notice that every new body who walked in stayed far away from the bar, from him, and from Harold.

Jake gripped the tall draft in his hand, foam and condensation running through his numb fingers.

He turned to face Harold, those black soulless eyes dragging him into the abyss. He was in a freefall, too much rushed through him all at once. A thumping started at his left temple and his heart dropped to his stomach as he fell and fell and fell from the bowels of the sky through the open arms of the corpse-like trees.

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” Harold spat, teeth clenched and head hung low. “You should get out of this cursed town before they get you too. They know you’re here. They knew you’d be here before you knew you’d be here. They got to the rest of this damned town. They got her. Get out before they get you too, boy.”

Fear rooted Jake in place. Fear for what, he couldn’t tell. But in the back of his mind, in the depth of his soul, he knew Harold was right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have stopped. Yet, the thought of leaving caused his heart to clench and spots to form behind his eyes. Without his control, he found his lips forming the words -

“Who are they?”

The lights flickered with the time of the thunder clashing outside. The fiddle faded out and the haunting strings of a violin floated through the room, accompanied by a soulful woman's wail.

He knew he shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t provoke this man. He should just pay his tab, get up, and leave. But it was unexplainable, much like the whole night had been. He simply couldn’t help himself.

Harold completely turned to Jake. The harsh lines on his face caught the glow of the dim lights. His eyes burned with unattainable wisdom and passion. Jake's heart started to race, limbs locking into place as he noticed the music slowed. Along with, somehow, every other body and soul in the bar. A haze filled the room, a mist blurring and engulfing everything that was not Jake and was not Harold. Even the storm seemed to hush, with only the woman's cry continuing on.

“Let me tell you a story, son.” Harold’s voice turned mystical, the words floating in the air between the two. “Cause I’ve lost my friends, my family, this whole damn town, and yet no one will believe me. They think I’m a nut-case, a man full of grief. But I ain’t, you hear? And maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe you won’t. But they took my wife-”

“Your wife is missing?”

Jake’s pulse jumped as Harold leaned in close, his blood-shot eyes burning crimson red. “For years now. Cause they took her.”

“They?” Jake repeated, feeling physically ill.

Harold nodded. “The fairies.”

He should have laughed. He should have backed off. His mind should have been yelling at him that the man was senile, crazy, insane. He should have bid him goodbye, called over Murphy, and been done with this place, this man. This man who was staring at him with all the earnestness in the world.

Fairies.

The word danced around in his head, bells and whistles suddenly joining in with the escalating violin. Suddenly, the whole town made all the sense in the world and yet, none at all.

“Fairies?” Jake spoke slow and steady. “They’re just folklore. A myth.”

Even as he said it, the words turned to dust on his tongue. He wanted to wash the taste out with his beer, but found he genuinely couldn’t move.

“The Harbour Fairies,” Harold whispered. “Nasty creatures. And if you believe they’re just a myth, you’re as foolish as the rest of them. If you believe there isn’t more to this world, that we’re the only beings here, you’re blin. These aren’t just some little buggers who pick your berries and sprinkle dust. They are savage, mischievous demons.”

Jake started to shake his head, mostly to clear the fog that had started to form. “I don’t-”

“We here grew up wearing our clothes inside out and carrying bread in our pockets to stop the little people from leading us astray,” Harold spoke with more urgency than Jake had heard all night, “But little good it did. Everyone was blinded by what was right in front of them. These creatures play tricks. Oh, they love tricks. And not the fun kind. No, the kind that leads you over a cliff or dead at the bottom of the sea. They are unpredictable forces of nature who lead you in the woods, and suddenly you're never heard of again.”

“And they got your wife.”

“They stole her,” Harold spat the words into the air. His gaze flicked towards the red-head who walked past them, beer in hand, before he spoke again. “They took her from me. Everyone here believes she ran away, but I know. I caught them you see, I saw it with my own two eyes. One day she was in the garden, the next…”

… she walked into the woods, never to be seen again. Jake knew because he saw it himself. He watched it play out in Harold’s aged eyes. And suddenly he was inserted into a story that was not his. He didn’t feel right; too tight in his skin, eyes unable to properly focus on the greys, blacks, and whites of the world. But he still watched.

A grass-stained seven year old boy cradled the arm of a pretty girl with messy blonde hair. They sat in a treehouse, feet dangling over the edge, kicking at the clouds. The girl had tear-tracks running down her cheeks and dead flowers stuck in her hair. She was biting her lip, nodding as the boy spoke.

“I told you not to make your papa mad,” he whispered sternly.

“I didn’t mean to,” her lips trembled, gaze moving to anything but the boy before her. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The boy shook his head as he ran his hand over the forming bruise. “You gotta be more careful Cathy. What if something were to happen to ya?”

“Then let's get out of this town, Harry,” a seventeen-year old girl twirled in the headlights of an old pick-up truck. The waves crashed against the shore in the distance, the sun tenderly kissing the horizon goodbye. The girl’s blonde, messy braids whipped around her shoulder, dress bunched at her ankles. She stood before a brown haired boy, grass-stains on his jeans, leaning against the red truck. “Let’s pack up and leave after graduation next week.”

“And go where, Cathy?” The boy shook his head. “I have a job lined up on the boat and you have-”

“Nothing! I have nothing!” She threw her hands in the air. “I ain’t got nothing lined up. Just my next shift at the diner. I want to go to school, you know I do. But papa-”

“Don’t worry about your father,” the boy grabbed at the girls skirts, pulling her so close their hips touched. “I told you, I’ll protect you from your papa.”

The girl bit her lips, forest green eyes glancing over the boy's shoulder. Her face was tender but the look of caution never left. As if she wanted to believe the boy holding her but her heart refused to pay heed. “Promise?”

“I do.”

Applause thundered across the crowd, the waves beating against the rocky cliffs. The man lifted the woman's veil, tucking a piece of messy blonde hair behind her ear before gripping the back of her neck. He leaned in and placed a kiss on his lips. Whistles and wails filled the air, a screaming violin starting to play as the newly-weds walked down the aisle.

She held on her husband’s arm like a life-line, biting her lip as her father clapped the bride-groom on the shoulder. Her eyes darted around the crowd, the same look of caution from five years ago still masked her face.

It was a look that never left her face, a look that was forever present in the back on her eyes. It was the only thought Jake found he was able to form; the look of a woman who was scared. The look of a woman who was holding a secret.

And maybe she was, for that look stayed with her for all the years to come, Jake noticed. He watched Harold's and Catherine’s life play out before him, just as Harold described. The twenty plus years together. The moments of tender love, the moments of bitter fights. The squealing laughter and howling sobs. The funerals and the weddings, The slamming bottles and doors leading to nights together and alone. It wasn’t the best marriage, but what marriage is, Harold said.

They never had kids, their life centred around just the two of them, their fading love and the growing tension. Every second leading up to that moment, in a garden of muted yellows, reds, and oranges.

Flowers in her messy hair, a near fifty year old Catherine knelt before a bed of dirt. Sunglasses covered her eyes, dirt stained her knees, finger nails, and cheeks. She was silent as she worked.

A door slammed in the distance. “Catherine!”

The tension became electricity in the air. Catherine’s head snapped up as footsteps made their way to the backyard.

Jake noticed it at the exact moment she did. The wind switched directions, bells jingled off the tree tops, mystical laughter floated out from the forest on the other side of the garden.

Catherine turned slowly. The flower fell out of her hair. She tossed the sunglasses onto the ground and her bruised, deep green eyes glowed against the muted world. She walked towards the tree line, footfalls light. Laughter bubbled past her own lips and, between one step and the next, she was gone.

“... the forest swallowed her up and I knew they got to her.”

Jack was back in the bar. Everything rested as it had, and he himself wasn’t even sure if what he had just witnessed was real. Surely not, but the description and details felt real, tangible. As if, for a moment, he truly stood in Harold's memories.

“The forest was the only way out,” Harold’s eyes were wide, urgent, and the brightest things in the whole bar. “It was either through the house or the forest. And she’d been acting out for years. Always in the garden, out on her own. They got her, it's the only answer. But,” a pause, eyes shifting. “I know where she is.”

Jake swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper. “You do?”

“An island just a few miles out in sea. A rocky cliff, that's where they stay,” Harold nodded, talking more to himself than Jake. “She's there, with them. I’m taking my boat out tomorrow morning. I’m going to get her and-”

“Harold.”

Murphy’s voice was enough to make Jake jump back. He never noticed how close he had been leaning towards the old man. Just as he never realized how tightly he was holding his warm, untouched third glass of beer. He pulled his hand back, wiping it on his jeans as the pulsing in his left temple grew stronger.

As he looked around the pub, Jake took in all the faces looking his way. Eyes bounced between him and Harold, whispers and murmurs accompanying the flute and violin pair. It was only when Murphy loudly, purposely, cleared his throat that the inhabitants of the bar started to look as if they weren’t listening.

“Harold,” Murphy spoke softly, placing a hand on Harold’s tense shoulder. “I think it's time to head home, friend.”

There was a fight in Harold’s eyes, Jake could see it. That bloodshot, haunting, soulless gaze held a fire and life to them, ignited by the hatred for creatures that couldn’t exist. But the moment Murphy spoke, the moment Harold looked around the pub and saw all the eyes on him, the fire vashined. It was as quick as releasing a breath, there one minute and gone the next.

Harold held Jake’s gaze. There was still so much left unsaid, unanswered, and Jake found he didn’t want him to go. His mind and soul craved to know more about fairies and their secret world.

A laughter echoed off the rafters, and Jake realized for the first time that night how terrified and exposed he truly was.

“Tomorrow morning,” Harold grunted as he stood, the invitation loud and clear. Jake didn’t understand why Harold was inviting him along but it somehow made all the sense in the world.

With no other parting words, with not so much as a glance at any other living soul in the pub, Harold walked out. Back hunched as he disappeared over the threshold, rain and wind howling as they swallowed him whole.

A hush carried on throughout the pub for a few heartbeats. Until the flute faded back into the plucking of a guitar. Someone cheered, laughter followed, and soon the lively atmosphere of the bar was back once more. As if the haunted man with an implausible story wasn’t present a few moments before.

“Is it true?” Jake found himself asking, tongue sliding across his chapped lips. He turned in his chair, facing Murphy, who now stood behind the bar. He hoped his shaking hand wasn't noticeable as he raised his beer to his lips. “About those… about the fairies.”

The word tasted like strawberries and metal on his lips.

Murphy glanced up for the glass he was cleaning, scar strained across his cheek as he pursed his lips. “They’re urban folktales. Myths passed down through all the generations of the Harbour.”

“And his wife?”

Murphy paused. He let out a sign, placed the glass under the bar before turning to Jake. Worry and concern shinned in his eyes.

“She left him,” he explained softly, mindful of the ears around. “Packed up and left, just like that.”

“Just like that?” Jake raised an eyebrow at Murphy’s hesitation.

“There were… rumours about cheating and drunken fights but…” Murphy took a breath, crossing his arms on the bartop as he leaned in close. “Look, Harry's a good guy, difficult but good. Our families know each other well. And Cathy… well she had a hard life with her father. She wasn’t all there before she left and Harold took it hard. He still won't get help and has himself convinced the Harbour Fairies are behind it. Says he’s seen things with his own eyes that explains it.”

Jake swallowed, leg bouncing restlessly. “He’s going out tomorrow morning-”

“Yeah,” Murphy nodded solemnly. “We’ve tried to stop him, talk sense. But he won’t listen. And he’s at the age and point now where we've given up - what can ya do.”

A lot. Jake glanced around the pub, taking in the numerous people laughing, chatting, drinking. He didn’t know these people, he shouldn’t judge, but they could be doing something to help that man. He may be talking crazy but… was he?

The more Jake studied the bar, the more it felt like a fog was lifting. The pieces were falling into place. The math was suddenly starting to make sense. And Jake refused to acknowledge the answers that were before him.

“Where is she then?” Jake asked, breathing through his nose to calm his racing heart. “His wife. Catherine.”

“No one knows,” Murphy admitted. “She got out of this town, that's for sure. And no one has heard from her since.”

“No one checks in?” Jake couldn’t hide the disbelief from his voice. “No one’s tried to find out where she is or what happened.”

Murphy watched Jake for an uncomfortable moment. His eyes looked him over, mouth twisting as if to say something. But then his lips shut, he blinked, and he shrugged before pointing to the still full glass in front of Jake. “You want another?”

Jake's breath caught in his throat. Claws bit into his spine. His skin felt too tight as a breeze brushed the back of his neck, red flashing in his vision. The room was too small and too big all at once. He didn’t know why he was feeling such a way or what had brought it on. But his gut knew it was because of this town.

And he knew he wanted to get out.

The door to the pub shut as a couple walked out, but the noise still rattled against Jake’s bones as he shook his head.

“No,” he stood up, hand shaking as he pulled out some bills and tossed them on the bar. “I think I’ll call it a night actually.”

Murphy picked up the money, either not noticing the odd behaviour or choosing to ignore it as he smiled. “Well, Mr. Jake, I hope you enjoy the rest of your short stay. Maybe someday we’ll get to see you passing through the Harbour again.”

“Who knows,” Jake gave a nervous chuckle, “It seems anything is possible.”

He left the pub in shambles. The smell of ashes and fowl fish followed Jake as he made his way to the door. Tables were knocked off centre, chairs were tipped over. The banjo played too loud and slightly off key. Men and women alike stumbled over one another, drinks spilled onto the floor. Even Murphy’s slicked back pony was a mess, falling into his dark, sweat covered face.

The illusion was breaking, the corners being pulled back to show something ugly and monstrous. Something those who inhabited Higdon’s Harbour refused to acknowledge.

Jake stepped over the threshold, blood pounding through his veins. He welcomed the rain beating down on his face, the wind biting through his damp jacket and nipping at his icy skin. The door to Kay & Elle closed with a thunderous bang. The banjo and hysterical laughter was replaced by sorrowful wind and wailing rain.

He stood there for a moment, face turned towards the sky as he tried to will air into his lungs.

He needed to get out of this town.

Whatever force pulled Jake towards the pub earlier was controlled by a demon. He didn’t know what purpose it served him, to hear about Harold and the fairies… fairies that shouldn’t, didn’t, couldn’t exist…

Someone squealed and giggled across the parking lot. With a jump, heart in his throat, Jake started to make his way back to the safety of his room.

And he was almost there, just a mere few steps away, when his body suddenly felt as if it were stretched too thin. Nausea overcame him and his head spun. The rain pierced his skin like devilish needles and the wind sang a woman's lullaby in his ear. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, thunder crashing as someone bumped into his shoulder.

It was an innocent tap, the woman clearly too captivated by the lady on her arm to notice him. But it did all the damage in the world.

“Oh!” She gasped, the sound like a thousand bells. She grabbed his arm, full-lips pulled back in an apologetic smile as all the air vanished from Jake's chest. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn't breath, the pulsing in his left temple was suddenly magnified by ten. The warmth of her hand on his arm spread through his whole body. He no longer felt the wind and rain beating against him, he was too allured by her auburn curls, high-cheekbones, and hazel eyes that glistened like moss coated in morning dew.

She was the most hauntingly beautiful creature he had ever beheld. And every part of his being begged him to run.

“Are you okay, Jake?” Her partner spoke up. They were holding one another so close, arms locked tight, it was as if they were one. Gravity pulled them together; where one moved the other followed. A simple stranger such as himself could not doubt their adoration and love.

Jake ripped his gaze away from the red-headed woman and looked at her partner. He took in her slim face, the dirty dress, and messy blonde hair pinned back with a flower.

It was then that Jake noticed that both women were completely dry.

It was then that Jake realized they knew his name.

It was then that his eyes met the blonde’s green ones, and he saw it all.

“I told you not to make your papa mad,” a seven year old boy with grass stains on his knees told the six year old girl with a bruised arm.

“I didn’t mean to,” she trembled, and Jake realized she wasn’t avoiding the boys gaze. She was looking at someone else. She was looking at the young auburn haired creature standing a few feet away, invisible to the boy and eyes tense with worry. “It wasn't my fault.”

Be more careful, the boy told her at the exact moment the creature met the girl's gaze and said, I know. I’ll protect you.

“I told you,” said a seventeen year old boy as he gripped a sixteenth year old's skirts. “I’ll protect you from your papa.”

You know he can’t, Cathy, The auburn creature said, standing over the boy's shoulder as she held the girl’s green-eyed gaze. I’ll protect you from them both.

The blonde trembled. “Promise?”

With all the power of the forest and the sea. I promise.

She was there, always there. She did all she could to keep her promise. But it seemed even she was limited in her abilities.

Jake watched Harold and Catherine's life play out once more. As the twenty plus years faded together, the moments of tender love vanished. The fights were more frequent, more aggressive than Harold let on. He stumbled home in the dark more than once, eyes bloodshot and words slurred. There were many years of fights and screams. Fists were thrown and bones were broken. And the red-head was there through it all, helping as best as she could. She cared for Cathy, tried to protect her, but it wasn’t enough.

Run away with me, Cathy. It's the only way.

And run she did.

It wasn’t a laugh that called Catherine to the forest that day in the garden as Harold’s raging voice bellowed off the walls of the house. No, it was not a laugh at all, but her name, spoken in bells and chimes, love and warmth.

Catherine stepped over the threshold of the forest, laughter on her lips, as she jumped into the arms of the beautiful red-headed fairy.

She didn’t leave, wasn’t taken. She willingly left her delusional old life for one of magic and wonder and respect.

Jake stumbled back a step, shaking off the hand of the creature before him. His head was spinning, his stomach turned and his vision blurred as he truly saw the two ladies before him. As he noticed the glow around them, the electricity that danced in their wake.

This town, these people… how could anyone let a woman suffer as Catherine did and not do anything? How could they not see what was right in front of them?

And these creatures, the fairies, Harold painted them as the demons and yet, this fairy was Catherine’s saving grace, her lover, her protector...

They shared a look, the two lovers, before turning back to him. They didn’t say another word as the fairy smiled at Jake, white teeth flashing, and blew him a kiss. They turned to leave, Catherine giving him a wink over her shoulder, before disappearing into their hotel room. Right next door to his.

Jake stumbled as fast as he could to his room, slamming the door behind him as he tried to catch his breath and will his mind to understand what the hell was going on.

It took him a few moments to realize, for the first time all night, he was completely dry.

----------

Light had yet to transform the morning sky when Jake sped out of the Beaumont Motel parking lot. The rain had stopped and the winds were whisked away. Grey clouds lingered in the sky, suffocating the rising sun on the horizon.

What was once a piece of art to Jake was now the ugliest thing he had ever seen.

The mountain reached its claws to the sky, holding all the trees and buildings in the palm of its hand. The roads swerved in and out of its fingers, weather-worn homes running up the forest-speckled hills, trying to escape. The ocean leaped for joy as it played with the rocky cliffs, trying to capture and destroy anything it could reach. The boats bobbed in the water, begging to be let free, while the docks pointed their fingers to the open sea, luring in any desperate and lonely souls to the corrupt town.

The ocean was painted an angry blue against the grey light. The white-capped waves pounded against anything in their way. What Jake once thought was a place of harmony, he realized now, was an illusion.

The image had been shattered, broken beyond repair.

The land had won after all, he realized now. It had conquered Higdon’s Harbour and all within it. There was no agreement, no compromise to live in peace. For nothing could truly defeat nature.

The land cackled against the last remains of the raging storm winds. For it knew the game it was playing; it knew who truly ruled the town. And it was not man.

Jake made it out before the first kitchen light flickered on. Before the inhabitants of Higdon’s Harbour woke and started about their delusional lives. His heart pounded in his chest the whole way, hands shaking as they gripped his steering wheel. Even when he passed the city line, his body refused to relax. Not as the sound of chimes echoed on and on and on in his head.

By the time Jake remembered Harold, he was long gone. And he was too far out to turn back. Too far out to hear the news, or see the headline of the Higdon’s Harbour newspaper that morning. And to hear the otherworldly laugh that accompanied it.

Man Crashes Boat Off Rocky Cliffs In Desperate Search Of His Wife.

#oringinal character #original writing #original story #fairies #tog #acotar #fanfiction #tog fanfic #tog fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #cas writing #personal

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mattmaesonnatural · 3 years

Text

Okay imagine this is how we get canon buddie:

Season 5 season premiere. And the major catastrophe this time is based around simple mistakes people keep making. Therefore creating a domino effect of more and more disasters.

it starts small with some man getting electrocuted by putting a metal fork in a toaster. or a woman who left her straightener on on top of a a towel, causing a small fire in her apartment. To a teenager who left the hose running and flooded his parents basement (his little sister is trapped down there and they have to save her) then it’s a car accident and everyone’s okay but the guy’s who fault it was just says “i didn’t look. It was a stupid mistake. I’ll never make it again.”

This continues until its a tech company where we see this guy looking at his computer screen with narrowed eyes, he takes some pills. a woman walks up behind him and says “still have that headache Roy?” he nods in pain but brushes her off. Suddenly there’s yelling and people saying “ma’am you cant be in here!” and she fights them off to come up to this mans desk “ROY ARE YOU CHEATING ON ME?” “what no i would never” They’re husband and wife they argue “who’s tiffany?! huh?!? and why is she texting you to come to the mall on saturday?!?” it gets heated to the point and he says the wrong thing “you’re being paranoid” as he tries to hug her she pushes a chair in front of her and he trips and hits his head. “it was a stupid mistake. I didn’t mean to.”

911 call. gang arrives. We find out later that Roy had a tumor but they caught it early thanks to their mistake. and Tiffany is actually the famous Tiffany’s jewelry store where Roy got a custom necklace done for his wife for their anniversary. a beautiful mistake.

Now throughout all these disasters we kind of get a hint and that’s some kind of something going on between Buck and Eddie. There’s something off between them. Catching each others gaze across carrying people on backboard and blushing. Buck brushes his arm on Eddies and Eddie pressing into it. Buck talking to some young women and Eddie fitting himself into the convo making up some lie to get Buck away from her. Buck sliding to fit next to Eddie on the couch that’s too close for platonic. Buck getting a call from Chris about where he put his red jacket and Bucks saying its in the laundry room (Hen and Chim catching wind of this convo and looking at each other)

When we get to the end of the episode it ends with a montage of everyone they helped with their mistakes, and how they’re okay but learnt from them. The song Beautiful Mistakes By Maroon 5 and Megan Thee Stallion plays and we get a shot of a bedroom with covers pulled over. muffled but giggling voices. camera pans forward and on the beat we get a full shot of Buck and Eddie kissing in white linens, bare chested. Buck smiling into the kiss and saying “who knew you getting shot would lead to this...” Eddie shrugging saying “let’s chalk it up to a beautiful mistake.” before sinking back under the covers.

season 5 we slowly find out over the last few months that they’ve gotten together after eddie got shot. Buck moved in to help with Eddie’s recovery. they slowly figuring this whole thing out one day at a time. And as we find out so does everyone else. But no one is surprised in the the slightest.

#911 #buddie #Buck x Eddie #Buddie Ficlet #Eddie Diaz #Buck Buckley #.txt #this got kinda long but I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS #if you read this you have my whole heart

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barberzbunny · 3 years

Text

His Little Lies

Professor!Kylo x Reader

**Read on wattpad**

Word count: 4.8k

Dom!Kylo, Teasing, Instructional Masturbation, Voyeur & exhibitionism, Pleasure denial, Hatefucking, Sex in the classroom, Spanking, Nearly caught, Degradation and praising, Possessiveness, Older man-younger woman, no aftercare.

The forenoon sun bestowed warm, golden rays of hospitality upon the dormer window of the elevated walls of the classroom. Birds chirped in harmony, as they jestled with the lengths of their feathers, and rhymed in benign song.

Students nimbly scribbled down notes, compacted and smushed in rows and rows of conjoined desks— listening attentively, or contrarily not obtaining a word, that Mr. Ren hollered over the clank of the thermostat, and the boisterous whir of the rustic heater kicking on.

Conveniently, your assigned seat was in the center of the narrow row at the bottom of the classroom; offering you a tempting view, of the dubious Mr. Ren, as he avoided your sultry, liquidated gaze of yearning, and instead directed his wavering attention to the tarnished chalk board mounted to the scalloped brick wall.

Every time those honey-speckled orbs drifted in your direction with reluctance and vain, you found that your dainty fingers had grown dangerous, salacious minds of their own; as they subconsciously, leisurely hiked up the plaid hem of your skirt, and grazed the flesh of you inner thighs.

His inclination was tactile, at the tip of your tongue, as you mimicked the candied, pearly grin of a nymphet, swiping your slithering tongue along the scarlet path of lip gloss tainting your puckering lips, observing the way he adjusted the bulge stimulating in his pants with prudence.

"Over the course of the past few weeks, we've studied numerous capabilities of Gods and Goddesses that originated from Greece," his voice was velvety and mundane; and only you saw the hiccup of his breath when his eyes loitered on you for a moment longer than configuratively appropriate.

"With winter break just around the corner, and me, being the generous professor that I am," he paused and smirked astutely, as snickers erupted from the enclosed corners of the classroom, "I decided that to end off the semester, we will be doing a project that I think you'll find manageable."

One of the bashful boys, with swooping, sandy hair, waved his hand around, and you blatantly rolled your eyes as he directed Mr. Rens attention to him, as opposed to you.

"Yes, Nate?" He accounted him with the point of his ink pen, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"Does that mean no exam?" Nate chirped, wiggling his eyebrows and flashing Mr. Ren a witty smile, as Ren chuckled monotonously and pursed his deliciously plump, rouge lips.

"No—" His snicker was hoarse, and keen, like lethal acid, as his hazel eyes darted to you, and back to Nate. "It means you have a project, and an exam due before winter break."

The class groaned in response, and you barked out a poised laugh, as Mr. Ren narrowed his eyes at you in a subtle warning. You would pay for that, and your titillating greed was devouring the thoughts of your punishment lusciously— your panties were soaked, and they had been, since the moment you sauntered into class ten minutes late, with a skirt that was just the perfect amount of short to drive Mr. Ren despicably, and ultimately wild.

He vocally disregarded your shifty cackle, pivoting back to his chalkboard, that had sequences of scrambled words in his ornate cursive handwriting, that were clouded with an ivory abyss of chalk dust.

"The project will be simple." He assured, crossing his bulky arms, as the complexion of his sculpted muscles peaked through the restricting material of his blue button-up shirt; glaring at you pretentiously. "You will each be assigned a God or Goddess to do detailed research on." He plucked off his black margin glasses, raking in the sight of tedious students.

"A one page paper would've sufficed, if you all hadn't decided to collectively groan about it," he grinned diabolically, eyes training on each individual attentively as they murmured curses, before his gaze locked on yours— the satin flesh encompassing his undereye twitching agilely, when he noticed the way your hand dipped past the surface of your desk, and rested virtuously on your thigh.

"I want three full pages. Complete sentences, proper grammar, the usual." He rambled, rounding his mahogany desk, and plopping down into his squelching office chair. "I'll give you the remainder of class to begin your research. Check your emails, I've forwarded each of you credible sources that may help."

Everyone clamored for their notebooks and untucked their laptops, arduously slamming their digits into their keyboards. But not you. You stared at Mr. Ren, with a lecherous stare, that was palpable on his tantalized end. His veiny, calloused hand twitched, his pen faltering in his grasp, as he clenched his jaw and peered up at you through the vail of his dark eyelashes.

You batted your own eyelashes, purity etched into your mechanisms, as you traced raunchy designs into your thigh softly; smiling innocently, as his eyes followed your hand, as it slithered closer and closer to that wildfire of amatory blazing your core.

He briskly shook his head, to shuck the erogenous visions of you away; those lustrous thoughts that were articulating in his mind, that was once stone; and was now infatuated mush, being molded by the hands of his persistent student, that he had claimed as his muse without piecing the consequences together.

He blinked exuberantly, as if the luminescent white lights beaming down on him from the buttressed ceilings were scorning his quarrying retinas. He slipped his glasses back on, and typed methodically into the flat keyboard of his desktop computer.

You opened your own laptop, browsing your email folder. The majority of it was just a collection of junk and advertisements— except a few unopened reports from infuriated professors— and then one, fresh email, from Mr. Ren.

Ren | just now — Nov. 17 |

I'm assigning you Aphrodite.

Open the tabloid for credible sources.

Now behave yourself.

You nibbled on your bottom to suppress a judicious smile, glimpsing him over the barrier of your computer screen; he was staring at you, with that competent, flamboyant arch in his brow, and that scolding curl of his upper lip.

You typed your response tediously, systematically, feeling that heartbeat pulse in your panties as his hooded eyes watched the way your fingers skimmed over the keyboard like it was the plushest of silk.

You | just now — Nov.17 |

Yes, sir.

I'll be good for you.

Until after class.

You successfully sent the reply without revealing your candor through a mischievous smirk. You feigned the endeavorment that you were researching the Goddess he had assigned you; and that he had assigned you, due to the relativity that her abilities were based off of lust and fertility.

Mr. Ren's whiskey-hazel eyes drank in the diligently poured words of your email; his irises fogged with lust, as he glanced at you diminutively, rolling his shoulders and emailing you back.

Ren | just now — Nov.17 |

Theres my good girl.

Blood rushed to your face, scorning your cheeks a sheepish pink— the diabolic tug of his alluring lips doused your arousal in lecherous gasoline. You scrambled for your mechanical pencil, swallowing your abrupt trepidation, and scribbled down notes from the credible sources he provided you in your journal.

If Aphrodite would've been less flamboyant and custodious over her tempting reputation; Mr. Ren would've compared the two of you. You were an aphrodisiac, to the artistry of his electrifying veins— the equivalent to the libido of Cupid's arching arrow, that pierced his clad soul, and pumped his heart full of affixless toxins.

Time ticked tediously, as it always seemed to when you were anticipating the venereal exploits to come, once that boisterous bell chimed and all of the other students filed out of the classroom.

When the screech of chalk emitted from the slender white stick in Mr. Rens grip, you grimaced, and glanced up at the board. The tendons in his back muscles expanded and strained, his shoulder blades jeering softly, as he briskly scrawled down jumbled notes— presumably for the next course he would be teaching in a couple of hours— for he knew that with you on his hands, he wouldn't be able to get any of his complex work done.

The bell dinged, the irksome chime reverberating around the dull bricks margining the classroom, as students mumbled their farewells and spilled out of the room. A few students stranded behind the mass of people to ask Mr. Ren questions, and you were prolongingly bunching your belongings together and slipping them into your bag, so you had a feasible excuse for being the last to leave.

It was routine, now, blending in with the scenery of other curious students, just to be ladled by the hands of your professor. Both of you had adapted to this endeavoring ploy; watching the clock strike tortuously, itching for the moment it would dismiss the platoon of college kids and leave you with the promiscuous Mr. Ren.

"Have a great day," he said, and you could hear his feigned smile as he waved the last bushel of kids off. They scampered out of the dome constructed classroom— and shivers lined the expanse of your skin when the brawny corridor latched shut.

There was a beat of silence, as Mr. Ren strokes his jaw in contemplation, and blinks down at the scuffle of papers sprawling his desk— that was stained, with the remnants of last weeks events, that accumulated on the surface and was never affixed.

"You were late," his voice was hoarse with vexed mundaneness, as he interlocked his fingers together, and rested his chiseled chin on his thick knuckles. "For the third time this week." He hissed, narrowing his eyes at you provocatively.

"Was I?" You feigned bewilderment, smoothing the rippling fabric of your plaid skirt as you strutted to his desk with tantalizing strides.

"Mhm," he narrowed his eyes into smaller slits, as you slipped into the mahogany seat perched on the opposite end of his desk, batting your eyelashes virtuously. "What has gotten into you?"

He leisurely ascended from his swiveling chair, the clack of his oxfords ricocheting off of the vacant walls of the elevated classroom, as he rounded his desk tediously, until he was merely two feet away from you.

His brawny aroma was intoxicating, pumping the blood that flowed to your brain with infatuation, and salacious greed. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, professor." You mused, nibbling on your bottom lip lewdly and meeting his murky irises, that were fogged with lust.

He caresses your jaw, with the serpentine stroke of his calloused finger, tracing the supple skin until he reached the tip of your chin. He nudged your chin upward, forcing you to peer up at him, as he hovered above your frame, that was compact into the chair.

"You used to be such a good girl," he murmured, his ravenous eyes like a kaleidoscope of disdain and sapience. You purred at the warmth of his caresses, grinning coyly at him, nuzzling into his touch.

"Always on time. Sweet, open-minded," he listed the amiable features, that you once portrayed and coaxed your peers with, his fingers slithering up your chin. "Innocent." He breathed, just as his long, rough fingers slipped past your lips, pressing firmly on your tongue, as you sealed your lips around his knuckles.

"And you used to dress appropriately." He chuckled prudently, thrusting his fingers into your mouth, as you swirled your tongue around his fingertips and sucked eagerly. His other hand ghosted the fringy hem of your skirt, "I'm not going to complain about these little skirts you love to tease me with, though. Because I know your ass is mine."

He spanked your thigh, and you mewled around his fingers, your eyebrows knitting together as the flesh tingled and pulsated.

"Is that right?" He seethed, slowly slipping his fingers out of your mouth, as a ribbon of saliva attached your lips to his fingertips.

"Yes, professor." You mumbled bashfully. "All of me, is yours."

His tempting smirk deepened. His fingers latched onto a chunk of your hair, and you bleated, wincing as he jerked your head forward and growled in your face with minty breaths, "Then who the fuck do you think you are, dressing like my little slut, where every other man can see you?"

He craned your neck backwards sharply, with his fingers intertwined with a clump of your tousled hair. "Hm?" He breathed, his clad chest swelling with contempt, and possession. "Those pathetic dogs were practically salivating at the sight of you in that skimpy skirt."

He spat down on you, his drool dripping down the valley of your perky, unswathed breasts. "And these breasts, bouncing and begging to be groped," he seethed, cupping them in his large, veiny hands, kneading them with precision as you mewled at the friction of his thumb caressing your hardening nipple.

"All of them wish this were them," he whispered monotonously, cocking a brow at you and massaging your breasts harder, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a strained moan. "But only who gets to touch you, baby?" He murmured in his menacing, husky voice. "Is it me?"

You nodded vigorously, a whine of pleasure crackling past your lips, as you arched your back and shoved your breasts deeper into his tantalizing grasp. "Yes, sir. Only you." You rasped, your eyebrows woven together with salacious desire, as your blood runs thin with a hounding, animalistic craving for professor Ren.

"Good." He mused, snickering lewdly. The bronze face of his pristine watch reflected the nimble white rays of the dull sun emitting from the window, as he released the cluster of your unruly hair, and propped his calloused palms on the rigid surface of his desk. "Now, go sit in your seat."

Your eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment, but you complied to his demands regardless of the lethargic aptitude of your dull trudge. You plopped down in your assigned seat, glaring at him audaciously, with a sassy side-smirk.

Those raven, silky tendrils of wavy hair that you loved to skim your fingers through, were framing his brooding face in perfectly ornate ways, that kindled a flame of scorching desire and lechery in your core. He pawed a loose coil out of his stoic face, his plump lips pursed and twisted into a frown.

"Hike the hem of your skirt up," he demanded, and you obliged, your cheeks blemished with sheepishness, as you leisurely lifted the fringy hem of your skirt, revealing the supple flesh of your thighs.

"Mm," he hummed navally, nodding curtly, as he watched the way you shimmied the hem of your skirt higher and higher— up until the point the dampness accumulating in your panties was visible.

"Trace your inner thigh," he commanded, a ripple surfacing in his brow when you relented. "Do it. Put on a show for me, like you were so eager to do as I taught."

You reluctantly swallowed your saliva, that was thick and hefty like molasses with self-revolution, and supply kneaded one of your thighs. Your fingertips carved soft rivers of lethargy into your flesh, as you met his attentive stare, and guided your own fingers towards the bundle of heat accumulating between yours spreading legs.

"Good," he acknowledged huskily, nodding appreciatively in response to your eager compliance. "Now, slowly slip your hand into your panties, just like I do."

He squared his shoulders, applying the pressure of his weight to his palms, crossing his legs and furrowing his brows, as you obeyed his demands and dipped your hand into your panties.

Your fingers ghosted your mound, and your breath hitches, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a mewl, your fingertips creeping down your slit.

"Mmm," he groaned, and you perked up when your eyes darted to his twinging bulge, being restrained by the tight dress pants cladding his long legs, "Theres my pretty girl."

A sugary whine escaped your pouty lips, as you shuddered, your fingers stroking a line up your wet slit. The sweet, velvety sounds that emerged from your parted lips doused Mr. Ren in a divine, succulent trance, as he devoured every gasp, and mewl, and whimper. As he inhaled the debauchery emitting from your body, and thrived off of your tactile libido.

"Play with yourself," he clicked his tongue, voice gruff with domination and intemperance, "I can see how wet you are from here, you're practically dripping at the sound of my voice, aren't you?"

You nodded, failing to stifle the prolonged, strained moan of contempt that reverberated around the depths of your throat. Your fingers brushed your clit, and a jolt of electricity zapped the tendons in your thighs, as you winced at your own touch.

Rubbing precise, calculated circles into your clit, your toes curled salaciously in your boots, as you choked on a bleat of pleasure.

"Dirty slut," Mr. Ren barked, seething the words through gritted teeth, as he clasped his veiny hands behind his back and deliberately paced the mosaic-tiled floor. "So desperate and needy for your professor."

You kneaded swifter, choppy circles, as your core tingled with the carnal craving to be filled. All of that prudence that filtered your system just moments ago had evaporated, as you crumbled under the penetrative stare of Mr. Ren.

You massaged your clit in concupiscent, wanton ways, pinching and plucking, flicking and kneading, up until your legs were shaking with each strum of your damp fingers, your pussy pulsating and drenched in your wetness, and your untamable whines and sputters of gratitude echoed around the confined walls of the exuberant classroom.

Even without the assistance of being stuffed, your peak was ascending the latter of raunch, as your fingers cramped up and your chest swelled with each laboring breath.

"Sir, I-I'm—" Your babbles were intervened by the crude snarl contorting Mr. Rens face.

"Stop," he demanded mundanely, and you whined in protest, only for him to ball his hand into a fist and clench it at his side, "I said stop!" He scowled bitterly, and your breath hitched in denial as you ripped your tense fingers away from your panties.

"Now get on your fucking knees, and crawl to me." He aggressively pointed towards the floor encompassing his black leather oxfords.

You obliged, blinking sheepishly, as your breath quivered with disdain. Dropping to your knees with deceleration, you withheld his grueling gaze, wiggling your hips as you slowly meandered towards him, knees scuffled from the grimy tile.

The black, glimmering surface of his oxfords articulated your coy, submissive reflection, and you only grinned sardonically at yourself before biting your bottom lip and peering up at him, anticipating directions.

"Hi." He cooed, in his velvety, monotonous tone, a supple smirk tugging at his lips as he caressed a strand of your hair. "Is my little girl ready to take her punishment now?"

You only nodded. The words were hot and agile at the tip of your tongue, words that were laced with sin and an abundance of immorality. You choked these venereal words down, silently itching for his touch.

His wrist twisted arduously, as he clambered a chunk of your hair in his vice grasp, and hoisted you off of the floor with a disgusted grunt. His upper lip was curled pruriently, as he eyed you sensually from head to toe, and proceeded to methodically exchange positions with you, pivoting you in his merciless grasp.

He bucked his hips into your backside, and you croaked out a moan, as the force of his brawny build sent you toppling over the desk. Your breasts were smushed into the cold surface, your body squirming under his, as your back arched in response to his licentious yank of your hair.

Your neck was craned, chin tilted towards the elevated ceiling, as he folded at the waist, his broad chest swelling against your back.

"You're mine," he sneered, his jaw barred as his strained voice dripped like poignant vexation in his acidic tone, his breath hot and callous in your ear. His fingers were feathered through your hair, nails embedding crescents into your scalp, as you suppressed a rasp. "Isn't that right?"

The tantalizing skewer of his bulge jeering your ass was fogging your brain with lust. His long digits tampered with the clamp of his belt. Your wrists were voluntarily latched onto your sides. Your flushed cheek was sapping to his desk, papers matting to your clammy skin.

"Yes, sir." You heaved in inclination.

The clank of his belt colliding with the glacial floor, stirred the kindling warmth in your lower belly, and you sighed in relief when his hands slid up your skirt and groped the backs of your thighs, rounding the curve of your ass, protruding your flesh with his rough fingertips.

His calloused hand snapped with greed, as he embarked his palm into your ass. You jerked forward, moaning in anguish, as he kneaded the reddening flesh, only to slap the spot repeatedly.

You clawed at the mahogany surface of his desk, flakes of chipped wood embedding into the pooch beneath your nails, as you grimaced and moaned croakily, thrashing with the force of his ruthless palm.

Just as he alleviated you by smoothing his hand over your puffy skin, the warm tip of his swollen cock ghosted your slit, and you mewled, pushing your hips back into him.

His hands slithered higher up your skirt, grasping your hips, as he teased your clit with the head of his cock, humming gruffly under his breath. You could hear his smirk as he exhaled richly, swirling his tip around the pool of wetness surfacing at your entrance.

"Please, just fuck me." You breathed, your voice high-pitched with yearning, as you spread your legs wider. "Please."

He paused, his fingers threading through your hair and yanking your head back, cracking the muscles in your neck, "Shh, baby." He mused brashly, and your limbs tingled at the grittiness lacing his tone.

In one slick motion, his thick, pulsating shaft sheathed your entrance. He hissed in pleasure, as your walls embraced his dick with the grip of a vice, as if your stability relied on it. You gasped, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, as he flagrantly pounded into you.

"Oh," you rasped, the forceful slap of his hips ramming into your ass ricocheting off of the walls, as the desk creaked and belched beneath you. "Fuck, Kylo—"

He loomed over you then, one hand crushing your windpipes with his ginormous hand, the other coasting your hip as he thrusted into you with deep, rough plucks of his cock, that collided with your cervix brutally.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" He growled maliciously, spit sputtering from his barred teeth and splattering all over the desk, as his pelvis rocked in savage, perfectly tormenting rhythm with the bucks of your hips.

"I-I mean," you moaned lewdly as he removed his hand from your throat and slammed his palm into your head, smushing your blubbering face into the desk, as drool spilled from your flapping lips. "Professor!"

He huffed throatily in amusement, his breaths quipped and raspy, as he plowed straight into you and blowed a strand of coiled hair out of his face, "That's right."

He snickered, as he observed you thrash in pleasure underneath him, melting and molding into his body with howling whines and guttural moans. The thought of a student sauntering past the unlocked threshold only spurred Mr. Ren and his sardonic needs beyond moral adequate, as he gritted his teeth and enraptured himself deep within your dripping core.

"Mr. R-Ren, I'm going to c-cum," you bleated, as the warmth plateaued in your gut, and the inevitable euphoria of your climax teetered towards its edge.

"Do it," he glowered, sweat accumulating in the crevices of your snapping bodies. "Cum on my cock."

And you did. You clamored and clenched around him, shrilling out wanton moans, coating his cock in your juices as you spasmed and latched onto the desk. Your brain was scattered and discombobulated, as you raked in breaths by the lungful, limply rocking with his hefty thrusts.

Just as he was prepared to finish inside of you, there was a quaint, subdued knock at the door. His reaction was ravenous, compared to the heedful response you thought he would conjure. Instead of relenting, and scrambling to slip out of you and button up his pants— he paused, mid-stroke, before chuckling ominously— and fully slipping out of you, just to slam into you again.

You harbored your breath in your lungs apprehensively, stifling the croaky moan crawling its way up your throat, as he rolled his hips into you, fucking you with calculated precision, plucking your sensitive sweet spot.

Apparently, Mr. Ren would grant any student or bypassing professor the motives they needed to report him to the counsel, just to fill you with his seed. It was as if his demeanor was to captivate any lingering persons attention, to declare his ownership over his prized, delicate student to the entire bustling campus.

He craved everything about you, with an infatuation so sensual and scrutinizing, his barbaric soul was beginning to believe that his intoxicating, kaleidoscope of emotions for you could stray beyond excruciating lust. No. No, he loved claiming you as his possession, because you were young, naive, and brittle. Simple to break, even easier to piece back together.

"Stay quiet, little one..." He warned prudently, the slick fapping of his cock inserting and emerging from your quaking core quiet and sinful in your buzzing ears.

You sloppily pushed your hips back into him, just as another knock, that was louder and earnest, rattled the carcass of the doorframe. Mr. Ren pawed a sweaty gland of raven hair out of his dewy face, glimpsing the heavy corridor in his peripherals, as the silhouette of an antsy student bounced beyond the foggy, rectangular window.

"It feels so good..." You whispered drearily, soft, hitched gasps passing through your trembling lips, as you succumbed to his uncharitable thrusts.

"Mhm," he drawled, his head lulling back, as his breaths shallowed and his cock twitched deep inside of you, "Fuck, you're so tight."

He leisurely slipped in and out now, his jaw trembling as he stifled a pleasured grunt, and pumped his hot jets of cum deep into your core. Small, guttural sounds harboring in his chest, as he exhaled through flared nostrils.

Without a proper warning, he eased out of you brashly with a hefty sigh, and you whimpered at the emptiness, as cum drizzled from the tip of his cock and coated the floor.

Another boisterous knock. "Mr. Ren?"

He glared at the threshold, tucking himself away, and twining the buttons of his pants together with steady digits. Your body was convulsing, as cum leaked down your thighs, jerking your soiled panties back up.

Mr. Ren smoothed out your skirt, giving you a soft, nimble pat on the bum, his fingers ghosting your hip as he aids you in removing yourself from his desk.

He swiveled you around sensually, his hand briskly cupping your cheek, as the other brushed your hipbone. "You have to go," he whispered breathily, his lips latching onto yours in a swift, passionate kiss.

"Yeah," you rasped, raking your fingers through your unruly hair. He smirked at you benignly as he adjusted the collar of his button-up shirt, and you cracked a candied grin, reaching on your tiptoes to press another hasty kiss to his lips.

"Finish doing your research for me, okay?" He cocked an inculpating brow, his smirk lingering, as he tightened his tie.

"Yes, sir." You batted your eyelashes, winking at him coyly as he chuckled and scuffled with his wavy hair.

As you collected your bag from your seat, you hoisted it over your shoulder, preparing to shuffle out of the classroom, only for Mr. Ren to interject you.

"Make sure you wear a coat, it's freezing out there," his eyes darted up and down your frame attentively, maternally. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You smiled, your Doc's trudging over to the door, "Maybe. Expect me thirty minutes late though." You teased, circling the silver handle, glimpsing him from over your shoulder with a wry smirk.

He smirked bleakly himself, as he shuffled the scattered papers on his desk around, "I wouldn't expect anything less, from you, my dear." He mused, not lifting his gaze.

You peeled the door open, being greeted with the irritated face of a random student. You grinned at him amiably, waving at him with the wiggle of your fingers, hopping down the foyer with a limp in your left leg.

With one sock higher than the other, a loose, dangling bra strap, rouge lip gloss smeared all along your cheeks, and the creamy liquid glistening on your thighs— you skipped through campus, flashing your legs to strangers, blatantly showcasing your disfigurement.

If only they all knew that professor Ren was the instigator of this walking disaster.

**Authors note: I had to narrow the post down a bit to fit everything, so if the format appears a bit wonky, that’s why!**

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo imagine #ben solo x reader #kylo x reader #kylo trash #star wars fanfiction #star wars #adam driver fandom

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 years

Note

Okay so I have this idea of the boys in the modern world! Like what kind of profession/ college course would Azul, Malleus, Leona, Lilia, and Idia would take? Some modern au headcanons with them please!

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Idia Shroud...

...would be an e-girl Twitch streamer that sells his bath water a famous video game let’s player or streamer, maybe even a professional gamer.

But the type that doesn’t show his face, or uses some kind of prop to censor his face whenever he happens to be on camera.

His online personality and his real life personality are so different...! Idia turns down invitations to conventions and fan meets because he worries about how his followers and fellow content creators. will perceive those very different sides to him.

He still makes bank off of his merch though.

I can see him taking college courses for tech-related things so he always has an excuse to hole up in his room and avoid normies. Computer science, video game design, etc.

He does well in school, but if he ever needs to give a speech/presentation or do a group assignment, well...Idia’s gonna bomb it. Thanks a lot, crippling social anxiety.

Disturbs his room mates and his neighbors constantly because of his video game raging late into the night.

The type to show up to lectures in his pajamas if he shows up at all.

Looks like he has gotten zero sleep all the time even if he slept for a full day and then some.

Wears headphones everywhere in public and blasts music at maximum volume so everyone around him can hear it and knows that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Llilia Vanrouge...

...is a child daycare worker or a teacher. On weekends, he moonlights as the lead guitarist and vocalist for a death metal band (though he never brings this up in parent-teacher conferences)

He studied history in college, but he discovered his love for childcare when he was tutoring high school students in history as part of a volunteering program...so Lilia changed career paths!

Don’t get him wrong, he still loves history and he’ll tell the little tots under his care all about the most interesting tidbits of it.

But everyone loves him, from his coworkers to the parents to the children under his care. Lilia is just loads of fun--but he knows when he needs to dial back and be serious, too.

Back in school, he was always getting into trouble for small pranks. Spooking the other students, drawing on school property with chalk, etc.--nothing that would get him expelled.

Kind of an easy-going student. If he did well, that’s great. If he did’t do well, that’s also fine! He goes with the flow and doesn’t sweat the details.

Lilia worked really hard for his degree though, especially since he changed it abruptly into something so different.

He volunteered a lot during his studies, wishing to give back to the community and to be with the children even before he had his degree.

Leona Kingscholar...

...is an unemployed rich kid living off of daddy’s money. He’s the second son to some big business or even actual real life royalty.

Have you see how lazy this man is? Of course he doesn’t have a job.

Leona only attends college because his parents threatened to completely cut him off if he didn’t. (”Your older brother Farena went to college, found himself a nice girl, and got himself a stable job that pays well; why don’t you too?”)

Probably got in on an athletic scholarship. What a chad.

He studies liberal arts, English literature, or women’s studies (because he thinks those subjects are easiest to pass with minimum effort and because he respects women).

Very sleepy boi. Falls asleep during the first few seconds of every single lecture (if he’s even there on time), and it is impossible to wake him up.

Shows up late to class. Like...five minutes before the end of class late.

He falls asleep in the most random public places all over campus.

The master at pulling all-nighters.

Most likely sleeps around (both literally and metaphorically).

Popular with the ladies, even if he doesn’t go out of his way to pursue many. Leona won’t force himself onto them, but he won’t say no if they proposition him and he’s feeling bored enough. Might as well have some fun while he’s forced to be here, right?

Has zero idea where he is going in life. Don’t we all?

Malleus Draconia...

...studies architecture, or art history.

He’s so fascinated by the design of buildings and how styles have changed so much over time.

Tends to daydream. This, paired with his resting bitch face and inimidating aura, makes everyone fear him.

Malleus likes to walk around town and the college campus just to enjoy the buildings. Because of this, his peers think of him as “the local scary-looking weirdo”.

Comments like that hurt him, but Malleus tends to bottle up his emotions and be sad about it in the comfort of his personal quarters.

Malleus tries showing up to publicized college events and every club meeting he can think of, but people tend to keep their distance from him.

Probably phones up his family every other night just to check on them and hear their voices. He’s very lonely...

Has a hard time finding a job because many people are intimidated by how he looks. Ends up overwhelming many interviewers.

Probably works part-time at a discreet WcDonald’s location. Nothing glamorous or high-paying, but Malleus doesn’t expect anything like that while he’s still a student. Plus, he is still thankful for the job experience.

Lands a job at a big building firm after college; quickly rises through the ranks and becomes the CEO. All of his haters must be jealous now, huh?

Still, Malleus feels no ill will towards them. He hopes he can be friends with them at the college reunions.

Azul Ashengrotto...

...works as a drug dealer barista and manager of a coffee shop or cafe. If you want to get darker, he runs a casino (where everything is rigged in his favor) and/or is a mafia lord (just look at Octavinelle’s aesthetic) by night.

He dual-majors in business and law because his brain is just that large.

Straight A student, in the honors program, and a teacher’s pet. Most likely a full ride scholarship as well.

Also the president of student government or the head of a club--Azul has stacked his resume with achievements and titles. Employers will be tripping over themselves to hire him.

Azul applies what he’s studying in college into his business (albeit in less-than-savory ways) to maximize his profits and to scare of unruly customers.

He has a lot of friends in college, but he’s not particularly close to any of them.

Binge eats when he’s stressed.

Do not bring up school prior to college life to him; Azul will get war flashbacks to the time when he was bullied. He refuses to talk about his past, and if you keep persisting, he will get back at you.

Despises group projects; he ends up doing all of the hard work. He’s super passive aggressive about it.

Snitches on anyone that crosses him, even slightly. Azul is very petty. Oh, you forgot to return that pencil that he so generously lent you for the exam? Well, prepare to have your embarrassing photos from that one crazy party leaked to the college newspaper.

#twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #Azul Ashengrotto #Leona Kingscholar #Idia Shroud #Malleus Draconia #Lilia Vanrouge #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland requests #twisted wonderland scenarios #curiouser and curiouser

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vergilthelibrarian · 4 years

Text

Dream of Me, pt.2.

To the anon who asked me to write a second part to this, here ya go! I’m might turn this into a series cause I’m actually genuinely interested in what I’m writing.

TW: mentions of self harm

Part.1

Yandere!PsychDoctor!SichengxGenderNetural!Reader

Walking into the day room, you looked around, eyes landing on Jisung who soon saw you.

His eyes lit up and he smiled and you smiled too, walking and taking a seat next to him.

“Hey.”

“Did you sleep well?” you asked him and he shrugged.

“A little. Not gonna lie, I was kinda scared.” he answered.

“I get it. I was too when I first went to a psych ward. I cried myself to sleep actually.

“Really?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

You two started talking, mostly getting to know each other.

“I’m in my first year of university. I’m majoring in dance.” he said proudly.

“That’s awesome! I got a degree in music and I was going for my masters before I moved back here.” you said.

“Why is that?” Jisung asked and you glanced away.

“I was kinda forced to move back here. Past demons catching up with me and all.” you told him.

“Is it because of your doctor? I saw him go into your room last night…” he whispered to you and your eyes widen for a bit before going back to normal.

“I… Jisung-”

“I’m sorry if I struck a nerve or-”

“It’s okay Jisung.” you said.

You sighed.

“My doctor is a childhood friend of mine so he knows me. I don’t really like talking about him though.” and he nodded.

“It’s cool. I don’t want to make you upset or uncomfortable or anything.”

You two looked up as you saw a young man walk into the room who you instantly recognized.

“Hey Taeyong.” you waved and the tired looking man stopped in his tracks and looked at you. He waved at you before walking to a chair and sitting down, crossing his legs and turning his attention to the TV.

Soon you saw your doctor walk in, a gentle smile on his face.

“Y/n. I see you’re out today and you’re making friends.” he stopped in front of you, glancing at Jisung for a bit while Jisung gave a small smile in return.

“Let’s go to your room for a bit and see how you’re doing?”

You nodded, getting up and walking off with the doctor to your room.

Once you got into your room, you sat down on your bed, facing Sicheng as he took a seat in the chair.

“How are you today?” he asked.

“Why do you keep asking me this? It’s not like as if you’re gonna let me leave this place anyway.” you said looking at him annoyed.

Sicheng chuckled.

“You’re right about that.” he said with a smirked.

Ever since finding out that Sicheng was your doctor, you knew that he was gonna somehow use his position and power to make it harder for you to leave despite being the cause for your stay at the psych ward in the first place.

You pulled at your fingers, your eyes soon on your lap.

You hated the air in the room.

It felt stuffy and awkward and you didn’t feel safe. You wanted to be back in the day room talking with Jisung.

“So… I see you’re talking with a new patient.” Sicheng said.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous. You’re the one who told me yesterday to go out into the day room and talk to others.” and he nodded slowly.

“I did. But I still can’t help but just get a little jealous when I see you’re talking to other people besides me.” he admitted.

He leaned back into the chair, his eyes on you.

“You know, I’ve been talking with my team and I brought up you moving into a long term residential psychiatric program and-”

“What?” you looked up at the doctor, eyes wide.

“Aww, Y/n.” he cooed. “You’re sick. You’re a danger to yourself. If I let you go back outside, who knows what will happen to you.” he said.

“B-but… You can’t do that!” your voice raised as you looked at him in shock.

“I can and I will. You weren’t even taking your medication when you checked in.”

“That’s because you kept throwing them away. You worsened my sickness…”

Sicheng’s jaw clenched and he glanced away.

He looked back at you, his face soften as he said, “I’m only doing this so you realize that I’m the only who can really help you. No one cares for you as much as I do and if you’d just stop resisting me, it wouldn’t have to be like this.” he said before getting up.

“You can go back to the day room now. We’re done for today.” he walked to the door and left the room.

You got up from the bed, rubbing your arm as you walked to the door and left the room.

You went back to the day room only to see Taeyong talking to Jisung.

You couldn’t help but giggle at how Jisung looked a bit uncomfortable while Taeyong talked to him.

They soon noticed you though, their eyes landing on you and Taeyong motioned you to come closer.

You did, taking your seat next to Jisung.

“What did Sicheng say?” Taeyong asked, his eyes now on you.

You sighed.

“He’s thinking about putting me in the long term program.” you told him.

Taeyong frowned and Jisung eyes grew wide.

“What does he even gain from keeping you trapped here?” Taeyong wondered out loud, leaning back into his seat.

You shook your head.

“I don’t know.”

Taeyong himself was a long term resident of the psych hospital. He was schizoaffective and, from what he told you, his mind snapped when he lost his mother. You met Taeyong in your first year of high school, he only being one year higher than you. Everyone knew how much Taeyong loved his mother and when the news came out that she had cancer, he became a bit more sadder than his usual cheerful self but still, he kept his optimism. Everything was fine at one point, his mother had her last chemo treatment and things seemed to be turning up. But then it came back and this time it was worse and the doctors told his family that there was nothing they could do. When his mother passed away last year, his mental health started declining rapidly and with him already being bipolar now being paired with symptoms of schizophrenia, he genuinely felt as though he was losing his mind. Besides all of that, he didn’t tell you much as to what led up to him to being here but he did tell you that it was his relatives who brought him here and suggested to the nurses for him to stay here long term and with how unstable he was, his team decided that that was probably the best thing for him.

“This place is hell. I mean, besides the fact there’s nothing to do here, some of the doctors and nurses will just dope you up with so much drugs to the point were you become numb.” Taeyong said, which was true.

Some of the doctors and nurses just weren’t good people.

They didn’t see the patients as people who were genuinely sick and needed help.

Some of them saw you as lab rats to test new drugs on or as incurable.

One of the patients named Jennie, who only left her room for meal time, had severe BPD and was given so much medication by her doctor that she never really seemed all too there.

She would just sit and stare at the wall.

Never moving, her eyes blinking slowly.

It was sad.

Jisung frowned slightly.

“Isn’t that against the law though?” he asked and Taeyong rolled his eyes.

“The government doesn’t care about insane people. We’re seen as dangers to society just for existing and some of these “doctors” and “nurses” tend to keep those same ideas when they come into this line of work.” he crossed his arms. “And they don’t help us because we need it. They “help” us because we’re considered ticking time bombs that will kill someone the moment we have an episode.”

Jisung shook his head.

“But that’s not true.” he said and Taeyong sighed, looking at him with sad eyes.

“You’re right. It’s not true. But the rest of society still think it is and we, the ones with the illnesses, still suffer because of it.”

Sicheng typed away on his computer when he heard a knock on his door.

“Come in.” he said, his eyes soon leaving the screen when he heard it open.

A man in a black three piece suit came in and closed the door.

He took a seat in one of the chairs that face the front of Sicheng’s desk and Sicheng smiled warmly at the man.

“How are you doing Yoonoh?” he asked and Yoonoh made a face as though he was in thought.

“Fine I guess.” he answered.

Sicheng saved his work and closed his laptop, giving his attention back to the man in front of him.

He waited patiently as the man tried to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t know how I’m doing. I don’t know how I’m feeling. Honestly, this life has made me so numb, so desensitized that I don’t even know if I could even have a genuinely healthy relationship with anyone. The fear of them dying a retaliation is just too high.”

Sicheng nodded, his eyes on the man who looked visibly distraught.

“It amazes me how my father was such a sweet man to me and my mother. I genuinely don’t know how he did it. This life makes it so hard to be sweet to others especially since it made me realize how much of a sadist I am.”

Sicheng listened to Yoonoh spill his guts out to him, about his fears, the nightmares he has of those that he killed getting their revenge.

And as Yoonoh talk, he cried.

He always cried during his sessions with Sicheng and Sicheng knew that Yoonoh thought he could only cry here with him because what would his men think of him crying over being raised in a life crime considering he’s the leader of his father’s mafia?

They would think he was a pussy.

After about 30 minutes passed, Yoonoh wiped his eyes, closing his mouth as he was done talking.

But before Sicheng could say anything, something came across Yoonoh’s mind and soon he found himself asking, “How’s Y/n doing? I’ve been thinking about them lately.” he said and Sicheng smiled.

“I’m taking care of them at the hospital. I’m actually planning to become their sole caregiver.”

Yoonoh nodded.

He didn’t want to tell Sicheng but he did felt bad for helping Sicheng force you to come back here, especially since it seemed like you had your entire future ahead of you. He also felt bad that Sicheng was using your mental illnesses against you. He only did things like that to his enemies so he didn’t understand why Sicheng was doing it to you… but love did come in different ways so he usually chalked it up to Sicheng just being in love.

Yoonoh didn’t really question why Sicheng did the things he did to you but he still couldn’t help but feel guilty at helping destroy your future and being stuck with a man who may be missing a few screws himself.

“How are you gonna become their sole caregiver?” he asked curiously.

“Their family already gave me the okay to care for them long term and their friends don’t even know that I was the one that was stalking them all those years ago. Also, no one is gonna question why they’re living with me suddenly since everyone knows we were close friends.”

Yoonoh knew he was right.

Everyone who was raised in this town knew how close you and Sicheng were before you went off to university.

What no one knew however was how your leaving made Sicheng lose it and while he was taking more unconventional routes in order to become a psychiatric, he hired Yoonoh to find out where you were since you deleted all of your old sns accounts before you left and didn’t really tell anyone the college you got accepted into. Once he found you though, Sicheng made it his mission to get you back, no matter how mad he had to drive you.

“Why are you asking about Y/n by the way?” Sicheng asked and Yoonoh ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know. Guilty conscious I guess.” he admitted and Sicheng nodded.

“I understand. But know that Y/n is only safe in my care. I will never let harm come to them.” he said and Yoonoh just nodded.

That might be true but if anyone was to ever harm you, Yoonoh thought, it’d be no one other than Sicheng himself.

You eyes looked to your side, landing on Taeyong’s drawing.

You looked back at the blank paper in front of you, not knowing what to draw.

You decided to go to art therapy with Taeyong since you didn’t want to be in your room all day since you were still hallucinating and talking to both Jisung and Taeyong seemed to be helping a bit.

You’ve always heard a voice in your since you were child and only started visually hallucinating around the time you hit puberty.

The voice started off telling you do to random dangerous things, similar to how intrusive thoughts are but as you got older, the voice became more abusive and since your family didn’t believe you when you told them what was happening, you suffered throughout your entire youth because of that voice, the only people taking your words seriously being your friends.

The voice that would talk to you was a male’s voice. You couldn’t put a name to who it was though so you usually called it Him.

But when Sicheng started stalking you, a new voice appeared and the voice was that of Sicheng.

His voice would tell you in the mostly sickly sweet tone how no one loved you.

How no cared about you.

That your friends were fake and your family hated you.

And you heard his voice tell you this because he was already telling you this himself.

Leaving messages on your phone through voice and text, writing letters and leaving it in your mailbox, telling you how much no one loved you… besides him.

And it really did affected you.

You started distancing yourself from your college friends and by the time you graduated, your mental health was just as bad as it was when you were younger, if not, worse.

The only reason why his words affected you was because of how much you believed him.

Out of all of your friends, Sicheng was the only one who truly comforted you.

You were friends with Taeyong too but he was going through so much back then that you understood why he couldn’t really do much to help you.

But Sicheng…

Sicheng was always there for you and maybe it was selfish of you to just leave your hometown without a word and start a new life at a college in another state but you wanted to get away from your family so badly that you were fine with forgetting about your old friends and moving on.

Starting anew.

You sighed as you picked up a red color pencil and started drawing circles.

The circles began overlapping one another until it turned into a red mess.

“Okay guys. Now it’s time for us to go around and tell everyone what we drew and why.” Chittaphon, or Ten as what everyone called him, said as he turned down the music that was playing in the room. “Remember, you don’t have to say anything.” he smiled before picking up his drawing and starting first.

You liked Ten.

He was pretty chill and funny and would also let patients take crayons and paper to their room just to draw.

Once Ten was done explaining his drawing, he passed it down to one of the patients who began talking.

When it got to Taeyong though, he shook his head.

“I don’t feel saying anything today.” he said and then looked at you.

You picked up your drawing, looking at it, sighing.

“I didn’t really draw anything.” you started. “I just drew a bunch of circles overlapping into one another.” you turned the paper around for everyone to see. “I’ve just been hearing the voices and they keep talking over each other. I guess it could mean that? I don’t know, I’ve just been overthinking a lot about things.”

“What are they?” Ten asked and you looked at him.

“Just… just about the things that led me up to being here…” you answered him and Ten nodded.

“The beautiful thing about art is that it never truly has to be good. Art is a way to express emotions and thoughts that you can’t express in the verbal all too well. To make sense of the thoughts and troubles you have. To cope and understand the trauma you suffer from. If you drawing a bunch of circles made you come to that conclusion, then I say that you did draw something.” Ten said, a gentle smile on his lips.

You nodded.

“I guess you’re right.” you said, setting the paper down on the table. “I’m done.” you laughed awkwardly, looking at the older woman next to you who then began explaining what she drew.

When group ended, Taeyong told you to wait for him and went up to Ten and asked him for some more art supplies and Ten went and got him some crayons and paper.

Once he gave it to him, Taeyong thanked Ten and soon the both of you left the room.

“Let me put these in my room real quick.” Taeyong said and you two walked to his room, just talking about whatever.

When he got to his room, he went in, set his supplies on his dresser and walked out, the both of you heading to the day room.

As you entered, you saw Jisung whose eyes were red and puffy.

He did have talk therapy during yours and Taeyong’s art therapy group so you assumed that was the reason why he looked rather sad.

You went up to him, taking a seat next to him and smiling.

“Everything okay?” you asked him and Jisung looked up at you.

Taeyong took the opposite seat next to Jisung and began rubbing his back.

“Every time one of my alters take over, I don’t feel in control of my body. I’m just watching on autopilot while this stranger ruins everything.” he said. “I just hate that I can’t even remember what actually happens. I can’t recall the things I’ve done or said. I just feel so alone...” he sniffled

“Jisung, what you’re going through, there are others who go through it as well. You’re never really alone.” you said, trying your best to comfort him. “But I know what you mean. I feel the same way too.” Taeyong nodded. “Same.” he said. “When it comes to being sick mentally, it feels like as if no one understands your struggles. That you’re the only person in the world suffering but there are others who do know your struggles. Just because your friends and or family don’t get it, doesn’t mean you’re truly alone.” you told him, a soft smile on your face.

Jisung nodded slowly.

“I guess you’re right.” he said, shoulders slumped.

As you and Taeyong try to comfort Jisung, you saw someone come into the room out of the corner of your eye. Looking up, you saw a patient you’ve never seen before and thought it was a new patient.

His eyes met yours for a bit before looking away.

He looked rather tall in to you and his hair was black. His eyes look tired and sad and as he sat down, you wondered what exactly brought him here.

“It seems like everyday a new guy shows up yet I’m still stuck here.” Taeyong whispered bitterly causing you and Jisung to laugh, who seemed to be feeling a bit better.

As you sat in your bed, you pulled at your hair.

The voices were loud.

Even though you were taking medication, they wouldn’t stop.

You began wondering if you were even given the actual medication you needed or sugar pills.

Knowing Sicheng, that wouldn’t really surprise you if that was the case.

You’ve been in the hospital for 3 weeks now and it seemed as though mentally, you were getting worse.

You looked to your side as the door squeaked open and Sicheng came in.

He walked to the bed and sat down on it, wiping your hair away from your face.

“How was your day?” he asked you and you looked away, pulling at your hair harder.

“No no no, don’t do that. That’s not a good habit.” he said gently pulling your hand away from your hair.

Sicheng was always so gentle with you… but his words always hurt you.

They cut you, hurting and bleeding far more than any self harm scar you’ve ever inflicted.

There was a part of you that still clung to Sicheng.

He was always there for you when no one else was and it made you so confused whenever you thought about that because Sicheng was the reason for your mind worsening in terms of health.

“My day was okay.” you answered timidly, not looking at the man who watched you with soft eyes.

At first, when he started harassing you, you felt terrified, angry that your old best friend was doing this, but ever since coming back home, you began feeling weird. Confused at the fact that Sicheng was still very much the warm and understand boy you grew up with… as long as you didn’t do anything that upset him that was but to Sicheng, you could never upset him.

Irritate him, yes.

But genuine anger towards you, no.

Sicheng chuckled, his hand soon caressing your cheek.

“That’s nice.” he said.

You hated the fact that this man practically had a say on whether or not you were “healthy” enough to leave because deep down you knew he was still sabotaging everything in order to make you stay here.

But a part of you would protest and say that Sicheng is just looking out for you because Sicheng’s voice, that was in your mind, was telling you that all he ever did was look out for you because that’s what the real Sicheng was telling you.

You bit your bottom lip as you felt soft plump lips, gently touch your cheek.

Sicheng would always kiss you everywhere on your face, except your lips.

His kisses was always hesitant and shy, just like him.

He leaned back, his eyes on you, smiling, a soft look on his face as he said, “Goodnight 亲爱的 (Qīn'ài de/Dear). Things will start getting better once you realize that all you need is me.” he lifted his hand up and began rubbing the top of your head. “Now get some rest.”

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hazytaezy · 5 years

Text

i’ll show you, if you show me.(m) jk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2,173

genre: gamer jk, best friends au, slight fluff in the form of (y/n) is literally jk’s biggest fan, smut-ish??? minor nasty-ness, but a general warning that smut is implied and sort of written, humor (to me lmao cause I think I’m hilarious)

warnings: 18+, nsfw, language

“game night suddenly gets a little more interesting when Jungkook forgets to hang up from your video call.”

“Alright, (y/n). We are in the last half of the battle and we just about have it. I’ll be operator, you get my six. Let’s get tactical!”

A soft exhale escaped your lips as you listened to your best friend through your headphones.

Jungkook could be both endearing AND annoying.

Sometimes you wondered how he could accomplish the two at the same time. But he was charming after all.

“Yeah, yeah Jeon. Same old song and dance. I’ve got you.”

The game launched to life and your character quickly rushed off to scavenge for items that could be turned into armor.

You had first come into contact with Jungkook when you were both twelve years old.

It was Christmas Day to be exact. Both gleaming with joy as you hurried up the stairs to set up your newest prized possession- an Xbox.

You couldn’t quite remember which game introduced you to each other, but what you did know is that you beat him.

Tremendously so.

And you never let him live it down.

Ever since that day, you both spent most of your time speaking to each other every night. Eventually teaming up and forming what you called yourselves, “The Indestructible Duo.”

People grew to hate you. Once anyone saw both of your usernames enter the server it was game over.

You both loved it.

It was your typical best friend bond. The only thing separating you from everyone else was that you hadn’t ever met in person.

As time went on, e-mails and phone numbers were exchanged. Graduations were had, colleges were trudged through and brand new jobs were offered.

But one thing remained the same, Saturday game night.

You would always joke that this was the reason that you didn’t have a life, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

So that’s how you were here today. 2 a.m. on a Saturday with glossy eyes from staring at the screen for the majority of the night.

“How’s the job been going, Miss editor?” You could hear the sarcasm dripping in his voice. Jungkook was a writer and as far as he saw it, you worked for the enemy.

“It’s fine.” You mumbled through your sips of tea. “I keep telling you to submit your novel, but soMEBODY’s too chicken shit.”

Jungkook scoffed as he slew the head off of another forest monster.

“If it’s not good enough for Harper Collins, then it’s not good enough for your publishing house.”

“Dude, you sent your first novel to a major company. All I’m saying is, in the hands of the right editor, ME, that shit would be flying off the shelves.”

You jammed your thumb into the up arrow, drawing your sword to shoo away the oncoming goblins.

“You know I love you, but the only reason you think that is because you are my best friend and you know it.”

“No. I really don’t, Jungkook. Do you remember that bird house you made for your senior project in high school? The one you made out of floss and hot glue? Yeah- it was an atrocity. AND! I told you!!!”

The familiar warmth of his laugh filled your ears and you sat back for a minute to relish in the sound.

“It was really bad, wasn’t it?”

If Jungkook could rank the top ten most painful positions to fall asleep in, sitting upright with his head hanging over the side of his game chair would come in at number one.

This is how game nights would usually end. You slumped over and Jungkook listening every once in a while for your soft snores to come through.

A sound he had grown to look forward to.

One might call it adoration.

He removed his headset and untangled the controller cords from his feet, delicately setting them on his dresser. His body went into autopilot and made the motions to shut down the game, not before saving their progress. You would have his head tomorrow if he forgot to save.

He has made that mistake only once.

Jungkook peered down at his attire, wondering if he really did have to change into new boxers just because he spilled a tiny bit of soda on them.

He could practically hear your voice in his ear, “Men. They are do disgusting”.

It only made him want to defy your thoughts and just wear them.

Opting for the easiest route out, he hooked his thumbs through the waistband and stripped them off. He tossed them to the side watching as they got snagged onto a knob of his dresser drawer.

He had slept like this many times before. There was this one time he had the nastiest flu and any clothing made his fever skyrocket.

Anyhow, he liked the way his sheets felt against his body.

He let his mind wander on what you had said earlier. Ever since Jungkook had expressed that he hoped to be a writer someday, you had been his number one fan.

He almost felt like you were destined to meet because your interests went hand in hand.

He felt a warmth grow in his belly as he thought back to all those video chat sessions while you were both in college.

He would read aloud the chapters he had finished that week as you were working on your homework. You would laugh at the parts he knew that you would and would stop him mid-sentence to tell him to change something.

A characteristic that would annoy some, but Jungkook was grateful for your honesty and how much you cared.

You were just so incredible, he couldn’t believe that he-

fuck

fuuuuUuuUUuck

Jungkook felt the familiar twitch from below.

A betrayal that he had grown accustomed to as of recently.

This had been happening more and more. He would think about how wonderful you were and then all of a sudden he would be sporting a half hard tent in the sheets.

Sure he had thought about you when you were younger, but he always chalked it up to teenage hormones and the fact that he had a girl best friend.

But lately, after every Saturday game night and sometimes throughout the week,

Okay who was he kidding. It was everyday.

Jungkook would catch himself thinking about you.

In more lewd ways than one.

He would get so far as to letting his hand wrap around his length, allowing gentle pressure to relieve the aching feeling. But then he would stop himself.

“She’s my best friend.”

Tonight was different, though. You had spent most of the game convincing Jungkook he was good enough and that you loved every bit of his work.

You had even said that you loved him, which was a new thing they were doing.

Being adults made it less weird to share your feelings and you both knew that you loved each other.

Platonically, of course.

Except all too much recently, Jungkook has had this nagging feeling in his stomach.

Platonic wasn’t a word for it.

He squeezed his eyes shut with a huff and flipped on his side. He could think about his novel. He could do this.

He wouldn’t think about you again tonight.

He just simply wouldn’t.

“Fuck it.”

Jungkook kicked the sheets off of his body and let his hand creep lower on his abdomen. He envisioned your smiling face. One that you had given him a couple nights ago. He remembered how his breath caught in his throat as he watched the strap of your dress momentarily slip off of your shoulder.

A rhythm had finally set in as his hands moved up and down.

He felt the familiar stick, which only made him hasten his pace.

He wondered how your lips would feel wrapped around his cock. You had gorgeous lips.

Most of your conversations were spent with him staring at them.

Just the though alone of you looking up at him, mouth closed around him, coaxed a moan from the back of his throat.

“Jungkook.”

He could practically hear you calling out his name.

“Jungkook”

It all felt so real. He wished that it would be.

“Jungkook???”

Fuck, wait.

His hands dropped as he tilted his head out into his room.

“Are you okay? Jungkook?”

He didn’t understand the expression “My heart fell into my stomach.” until now.

He shot up from his position and leaned forward to see his headset glowing bright green. His hands flew towards his computer and shuffled the mouse around to wake it up.

Hovering over the video call icon, he almost hesitated to click to find out his fate.

Call with (y/n)- ongoing, since 5:50 p.m.

His mouth felt dry.

But he didn’t have any time to dwell on the fact that he felt like he was going to vomit.

He could still hear you calling out his name.

Quickly, he adjusted the headphones to rest on his head and let out a silent, ragged breath.

“Yes?”

“Hey! Finally! What happened? I fell asleep and I woke up to you saying my name?”

Shit.

Had he been saying your name?

Jungkook cursed again under his breath. Damn his imaginative writer brain that caused him to leave this earth for a fleeting moment.

And for it to fucking utter your name while he was pleasuring himself.

“Y-yeah! All good!” He was still trying to catch his breath. He hadn’t noticed he was breathing this hard until now.

“You sure about that? Because it sounded like you were touching yourself and saying my name.” (Y/n) deadpanned into her mic.

He was dead.

Gone.

Here lies Jeon Jungkook. King of the dumbasses of his time.

Why they fuck wasn’t self vaporization a thing?

About 30 minutes ago, you had woken up to delicious moans and someone purring your name.

You would have thought it was a figment of your imagination, had it not been for the blinking video call icon on your screen.

You knew you should have said something. And quite honestly you let it go on for far too long, but the twinge in your stomach made you stop.

Next thing, your hand was sliding into the front of your unbuttoned jeans.

“How-how long have you been listening?” Jungkook nearly spoke in a whisper.

“Does it matter? Tell me what you were thinking about, Jeon.”

He could hear your smirk.

“Are you serious?”

“Serious.”

He froze.

He hadn’t thought about what he would do if you ever reciprocated these feelings. He didn’t even know where to start.

“I- I was thinking about your lips.”

“My lips where?”

You knew what you were doing.

Jungkook leaned back into his chair and let his hands rest back to the position they were in before.

“Wrapped around my cock. How good they would feel.”

Your thighs squeezed together and you didn’t know if you had ever felt a rush of arousal come that quickly from just words alone.

“You know…I’ve thought about this plenty of time. I think I could make you cum in zero seconds flat.”

Jungkook felt like his entire world was spinning.

So, he hadn’t been the only one thinking these things.

“God, I wish I knew where you lived. I want to be able to touch you.” He murmured.

It never felt strange that they didn’t share their addresses with each other. What with it being the digital age, they never had a reason too.

Not until now.

He reached over and pressed the video call button. His body acting on pure desire before his brain and once he realized what he did, he rushed to hit the end call button.

But he was met with a smiling (y/n).

A smiling, pantsless (y/n).

He watched as you rolled your hips up towards your hand.

His brain felt like it was going into overdrive.

Not only was he seeing you partially nude for the first time, but you were also touching yourself.

Thinking of him.

“Tell me how you would have me if you were here, Jungkook.”

He watched hungrily as the fabric of your underwear rose up and down like a guide for your fingers.

“I’d spread those pretty little legs and taste you. I’ve wondered what you taste like.”

“Do you want to see what you’ve been thinking of?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

Jungkook watched as you stood up and slowly lowered your underwear, kicking them off once they were around your ankles. You kept your legs shut and looked towards him with hooded eyes.

“Let’s see you.”

You took your bottom lip in between your teeth and awaited his next move.

Jungkook tilted the camera down to show off his quite embarrassingly fully hard cock.

You sucked in a breath and allowed your legs to be open just enough for you to run a finger over your clit.

“Do you want to see what I do what I think of you?” You tried to keep your voice level, but it came out in a sort of whine.

“I’ll show you, if you show me.”

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sylvies-chen · 4 years

Note

Welp, I loved your the last response to my ask, so here goes again! You’re totally welcome to ignore or hold off if you’re exhausted or not in the mood... but chenford prompt #2:

“You don't even know me, it's only a feeling

You gotta believe me

Darling, I'm just saying, there ain't no shame in

Admitting you're lonely.”

- “Pieces” by Declan J. Donovan

Thank you, I’m glad you guys are liking these! I’ve gotten a swarm of requests but they’ve been super fun to write for so I’m definitely not complaining lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one, I went for one of my favourite tropes!

Lucy knows better than to cross professional boundaries.

At least she thinks she does until one night when she has to go on an overnight stakeout with Tim.

In a hotel.

Normally they just wait for the suspect out in their designated undercover car, drinking coffee to stay awake and alert. But there aren’t any good vantage points from a safe distance and the deal is going down in the hotel anyway, at a time during the weekend that they aren’t yet sure of. It’s an important meeting from some hotshot criminal named Miles Lerner, allegedly happening at the hotel, so Grey sends them there overnight to take pictures and gather intel first during their stakeout before making the bust.

They arrive at the hotel late into the night, check in under false names, make sure they’re in their plain clothes. The receptionist seems disinterested, hardly looking up from her computer as she asks, “Would you like to book a room?”

“Yes, please,” Lucy starts but Tim taps her on the shoulder and draws her attention to the hotel room that their suspect is walking into. He gives her a look, which she picks up on and asks in an innocent tone, “Do you possibly have a room down that hallway? I like to stay close to the vending machines, we never pack enough food.” She pats Tim’s shoulder and Tim goes with it. If they’re going to keep their cover, they might as well make it believable.

“Yeah… babe,” he stutters. He looks nervous as he wraps his arm around her waist and puts on a smile that looks way too forced. Lucy finds it kind of adorable, has to actively stop herself from picturing their life together as a married couple.

It’s not that she wants to. She doesn’t have feelings for Tim. At least, she doesn’t think she does. But Emmett had broken up with her mere weeks ago and Tim had been there to comfort her. The only logical explanation is that she feels emotional and lonely after a breakup and Tim was the first person she’s seen. She chalks it up to that, tries to brush off whatever residual feelings she thinks might be there, and smiles back at the hotel receptionist.

“That can be arranged.” The receptionist types into her computer, squints at the screen and then passes them a set of room key cards. “There you go. Your room will be right down that hall, first one on the left.”

“Thank you,” Lucy smiles. She and Tim make their way to their room, luckily right across from their suspect’s room.

Tim fidgets with the key, the door only unlocking after the third try. They walk in and throughout all of the beautiful things about the room, the big window, the clean sheets, the cute vintage pictures on the wall, Lucy and Tim’s eyes are both drawn to the one thing they can’t ignore.

The one bed sitting in the middle of their room.

“Shit,” Tim curses, “You didn’t think to mention that we needed two beds?”

“Well, it was a little hard to concentrate with your hand around my waist. How is this even my fault? You were there too, you know.” she whacks his chest with the back of her hand, dropping her bags on the table in their room.

“Okay. Well… I can take the couch then.”

“No no, I should take it,” she argues sympathetically. “I’m shorter, I have an actual chance of fitting on the couch.”

“Okay, if you insist,” he caves in after a while. He puts his own bags on the bed, unpacks the duffle bag with their work gear. His phone starts ringing, so he takes the call. Lucy doesn’t know who it is but figures it’s Grey from the fact that Tim uses his professional voice as he works his way through a series of the regular “yes, I understand” and “got it” and “okay, thanks”. He hangs up after a few minutes, turns to Lucy who’s waiting in anticipation.

“So?”

“That was Grey,” he explains. “He says there’s new intel saying the drop isn’t happening until tomorrow morning but we have a good view of their room from here so he’s not pulling us out. We can relax for now, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be busy.”

Lucy nods, looking around the room nervously. Tim goes into the bathroom first to change, and then Lucy goes after him. It’s weird, seeing each other in such casual clothing. Lucy’s pyjamas consist solely of an oversized graphic tee of Jimin from BTS and a pair of shorts that are much shorter than what is considered professional. Tim tosses her one of the blankets from the bed and she spreads it out on the couch, slithering into it as she settles into the couch that has now become her bed.

“This guy we’re after, Lerner. He’s married, has a wife and kids. You think they know that he’s a major drug dealer?” She asks him from her couch, stares up at the ceiling as he gets into his own bed.

“I doubt he brings his shady business back home with him but I’m sure his wife suspects something. We tried bringing her in for questioning years ago without telling her why but that just scared this guy off. Went off the radar for months.”

“Still, it must be nice to have someone worried for you, wondering if you’re going to be there when you get home…” She drifts off, thinks of how nice it would be. Of how much she misses that, how much she wants to find the one.

“You’re really taking this breakup with Emmett to heart, aren’t you?” He sits up in his bed momentarily, rolls over and props himself up with his elbow to face her while looking at her sympathetically. “Listen, Chen, he didn’t deserve you. You’re… you’re good. And smart. And if he doesn’t see that, then you’re better off without him.”

“Thanks,” she replies shyly. “It’s not about Emmett, really. I just… Dating is fun, sure. But I want the one, you know? That guy who you feel so lucky just to wake up next to. The smiling like an idiot and the fun banter and the exciting stuff. I want the whole package, you know? It just gets… lonely, sometimes.” She’s still staring up at the ceiling and so is he now, the two of them sitting in silence. “Whatever. It’s just stupid pipe dream,” she brushes it off with a weak laugh, “We should get some sleep.”

He opens his mouth to say something but shuts it again. “Goodnight, Lucy,” he settles on eventually, his voice low and raspy, soothing to her soul.

“Goodnight,” she replies in almost a whisper. The word feels so intimate, so sensitive coming out of her lips. And it does while coming out of his mouth well. She doesn’t know what to think of these feelings stirring in her stomach, so she turns the lamp next to the couch and the whole room goes dark as she rests her head against the pillows of the couch.

An hour later, Lucy’s still awake, and just.

The pillows are really hard.

It’s very noticeable, combined with the weird, grainy texture of the fabric and the tacky tassels dangling in her face. She tries to fall asleep, tries to ignore all of the factors contributing to her discomfort. But then, she’s glancing over subtly at Tim’s bed, and just. Ok. She’s not the type of person to be bold and make a move. And that’s not what she’s doing here at all. But it’s a really, really uncomfortable couch, and she just wants to get some shuteye. “Tim? Are you awake?” She whispers quietly in case he isn’t.

“... Yes,” he mumbles back in the dark. “I can’t fall asleep. Lucy sits up on the couch, sees him staring at the ceiling as he talks and then moving his gaze to her.

“Me neither,” she replies. Silence falls over the room again. After a moment, Lucy gets up off the couch, tiptoes her way to the bed and leans over the side of the bed that Tim isn’t occupying.

It’s just a bed, she tells herself. Figures it’s for professional purposes, that she needs sleep to perform at her best. She knows she’s lying to herself, but at this point, she’s too tired and, quite frankly, too lonely to care.

Tim turns on his side, faces her now and watches her with confusion as she crawls into the bed. “Lucy—”

“Just… shut up, okay?” She pulls the blankets over her, turns on her side so that her back is facing Tim. She leaves a big gap between them, making sure to just focus on getting a good night’s sleep.

“Okay,” he whispers. Then, as if he purposely tries to put a wrench in Lucy’s plans, Tim closes the gap between them and wraps an arm around her side from behind her. His head is snuggled into the crook of her neck, his breathing slow and steady, and just. Lucy doesn’t even know if she’s breathing, has to remind herself to inhale and exhale. Her heart’s racing fast just from his touch.

Maybe it’s that she’s lonely. Maybe she’s just that she’s sleep-deprived and out of her mind. She doesn’t know. But as Lucy feels his breathing on her neck and shoulders, melts under his tight, steady embrace, she feels more with him than she had with Emmett, or with Nolan, or with any other guy, really.

She learns that falling asleep is a lot easier when you’re wrapping up in Tim Bradford’s arms.

#and there was only one bed!!!!!#shocker right? how will they EVER deal with it hehehe #the rookie #chenford #tucy #lucy chen #tim bradford #song lyric requests

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sunshinesukuna · 4 years

Text

hogwarts school of sorcery and sweethearts

✨pairing : magic!kuroo x magic!reader ✨genre: angst then fluff ✨tw: light swearing, bullying ✨ insp: night changes — 1D, 18 — 1D, Somebody to You — The Vamps, The Gifted (if y’all watch ep 5 and 7 y’all know what i’m gonna write abt) ✨ wc: 6.5k i rlly don’t know how it got to be this long it just... did. lest those plot holes come for my ass. ✨ uwu i officially graduated last week. they leech rally made us sit in front of our computers and graduate like? so damn cringy tho. but now it’s school admission season and you know what that means? a lotta stress as my grades try to get into a good school. TT

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢: 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 (𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧) | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢𝐢: 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧) | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢: 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 (𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Sorceress Saeko’s Guide To Potent Potions:

The Babbling Potion is an extremely inebriating potion that, as stated in its name, causes the consumer to spout lies. Each and every statement said by the user under this potion’s effect is a complete and utter lie — according to the user’s knowledge of course. It is said that the Muggle tale of Pinnochio was inspired by a wizard who accidentally poured several drops of the potion onto an enchanted doll.

Effects last for 72 hours, or until an Antidote is administered. For safety reasons, ingredients are kept confidential unless under emergency. Recipe for the Antidote is as below:

(For one person)

5 leech stomachs

Petals of the Laughing LIly (crushed finely)

Ginger ale

Root of Bubotuber Plant

Mandrake shavings

MIx together in a cauldron for two hours until brilliant orange. Stir with your wand counterclockwise for one hour, then set to simmer. When done, it should resemble the scent and taste of Pumpkin Juice.

Kuroo always marched into the war armored to the teeth with plans. Every action he did always had a clear intention behind it and was well thought out, with all the consequences and alternatives mapped out. Even the most trivial of things. Kuroo wouldn’t argue that the situation in question was as far from trivial as it could get, but he digresses. Which is what landed Bokuto, Akaashi, and Kenma standing over a fretting Kuroo.

“If you like (Y/N) so much, just say it to (Y/N)’s face, Kuroo!” Bokuto said. Kuroo gives him a sour look. Kuroo’s normally calm and suave front was reduced to a boy fiddling with his wan with pursed lips. Occasionally, bright red sparks popped out from the end of his wand, nearly obliterating a vase on top of the fireplace.

“Heh. You go up to that pretty third-year you saw last week and tell her that you like her, go on,” Kuroo egged.

“Well now that you put it that way…” Bokuto’s hair deflated along with his ego.

“Then what’s the point of you making these…” Akaashi gestured to the wads of parchment over the covers of Kuroos’ four poster. Some of them were complete with the red circles and arrows unique to Gryffindor Quidditch captains. They flitted around the parchment, akin to the moving pictures that were the norm in the wizarding world. “Battle plans?”

Kuroo chuckled. “Battle plans,” he muttered. “You’re right there, Akaashi.”

“Bokuto has a point though, Kuroo,” Akaashi said. He looked at a piece of parchment and threw it away in disgust.

“I do?” Bokuto asked. His eyes became starry again. The hair that once laid low with shame and insecurity now promptly stood proudly again.

“No use making it long and complicated if she’s just going to reject you in the end,” Akaashi said. His tone made Kuroo’s heart clench a bit at how honest Akaashi was being.

“Well yes, but when we’re dating, I don’t want to hear (Y/N) complaining about how un-thought out it was!” Kuroo said.

“Now you’re just thinking too far,” Kenma piped up from his spot on the chair. “You’ve been friends for six months Kuroo,” he went back to his book, “stay in your lane.”

Kuroo scoffed defensively. “We’re quite good friends, I’ll say!” Bokuto stifled a laugh, while Akashi snorted openly next to Bokuto.

“Go to sleep, you all.” Kuroo swiped all of the strewn parchment from the bed and stacked it onto his nightstand. “I need to think about this by myself.”

Kuroo laid on his four poster, mind amuck with thoughts and complications. Both the dark outside and the dark in his mind left him more confused than ever. Now that he had become better friends with you, he had a slightly closer view of all your thought processes, all your likes and dislikes.

You liked Herbology and magical plants. Should he do it in the greenhouse? No, you had been there too many times for it to have any special meaning to you. Not to mention that he wouldn’t want to do it while soiled in Mandrake piss. Kuroo shuddered at the thought.

The common room? Too many people that could walk in. An empty classroom? Too suggestive.

Kuroo sat up on his bed. Everyone had fallen fast asleep, Bokuto snoring the loudest out of the four. Kuroo slumped back down on the bed before catching sight of the bulletin board in his room. Besides the parchment of Quidditch moves and formations, there was a moving photo of the four of them.

Crude mustaches were drawn over their magical lips. A magical doodle of a flying Bokuto was scribbled in the corner, flying around the photo’s sky. Even the pictures were asleep. Not Kuroo’s. His was still awake.

Kuroo’s photo looked at the real version of him. The photo couldn’t talk, but Photo Kuroo looked at real Kuroo expectantly. Kind of like he was asking ‘What are you going to do now?’

Not bearing to lock eyes with the photo, Kuroo found himself looking at the schedule he had for tomorrow. Potions first thing in the morning. Ugh, he had to deal with Snape again. After Slytherin’s defeat against Gryffindor a few days ago, their head of house would be even more bitter than he already was toward the innocent Gryffindors. There were even rumors that next morning’s pumpkin juice would be laced with Draught of the Living Death or Babbling Potion. Kuroo shuddered.

Potions was followed by History of Magic, Arithmancy, Charms, and Astronomy. His mind went silent for a little while, concocting an all-new plan.

Maybe something could be arranged.

Kuroo walked into breakfast the day after that with a spring in his step, the hair on his head finally seeming to bend to his will. The rest of the Gryffindors gagged at the 180 his appearance had taken on.. Had their mouths been anymore agape, they would have been the gargoyles that stood proudly on Hogwarts front gates.

“Top of the morning to you all, fine gentlemen,” Kuroo said. Akaashi and Kenma exchanged a look.

“Game day, huh?” Akaashi asked. Kuroo nodded, grinning from ear to ear. Kenma pursed his lips.

“Astronomy Tower, right after classes.”

“Really? Good luck, bro!” Bokuto says. He clapped Kuroo on the back.

From the tip of his wand, Kuroo conjured a sticky white liquid and proceeded to slather it all over his hair. It was hair gel, Kenma realised. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows made it shimmer in Kuroo’s onyx locks. “I look fine, right?” Kuroo asked. Kenma could only nod half-heartedly.

Kuroo tapped his fingers on the wooden tables. He gritted his teeth. “You’re going to be fine, Kuroo,” Kenma says. He smiles a little at his friend's concern over confessing.

“Yeah, I think (Y/N) has a thing for you too Kuroo,” Bokuto says. Kuroo furrowed his eyebrows.

“You sure?”

“Don’t let those battle plans go to waste, man.” Kuroo laughs at the support his friends are giving him. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his head that something, something is just going to go wrong. Then again, he gets that feeling every time he has a game. But they’ve won a majority of those games, so he chalks it up to nerves.

Kuroo reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice that no one had touched before. He took a sniff before furrowing his eyebrows. “Does the pumpkin juice smell a little off to you today?” Kenma shrugged. Kuroo poured some in his goblet anyways.

Kenma was the first one to see it coming. He was sitting opposite the Slytherin Quidditch team, so he had a bird’s eye view of their actions. A glint in Miya Atsumu’s eyes, Daishou’s curl of the lips, and the scent from the pitcher akin to unicorn poop; sickly sweet but could kill a man if inhaled directly.

“Don’t drink—” Kenma started, but the gulp in Kuroo’s throat makes any of his actions futile. Kenma is half-standing, one arm raised to keep the goblet from touching his lips, but it’s too late. Akaashi and Bokuto look at Kenma like he’s swallowed a hedge of Gillyweed.

“The pumpkin juice today tastes amazing, doesn’t it?” Kuroo said. He set the goblet down like nothing was wrong. “Do you guys have any plans for later? I’m free tonight, so let’s all sneak out to Hogsmeade if you—”

Kenma snatches the goblet from Kuroo and puts it to his nose. The scents of Bubotuber pus and lily roots sting his nose. A waterfall of regret and shock crashes over the rocks that are Kenma’s heart. He shoves the goblet toward Akaashi, who does the same thing. They exchange grave looks before looking at Kuroo.

“Guys?” Kuroo and Bokuto ask in unison. Kenma spots Miya Atsumu and Daishou Suguru giving each other claps on the back from his seat. ‘Slytherin’, he mouths to Akaashi. Akaashi rolls his eyes. The audacity! Akaashi takes the first plunge.

“U-um Kuroo?” Akaashi asks. Kuroo looks at his friend, the confusion on his face now replaced with blank indifference. “Don’t you have to meet (Y/N) later today?” Akaashi asks, prompting his memory.

“That ugly shrew? I’ll pass, thanks.”

There are always going to be variables that are impossible to factor in an equation. Not all equations have rational results either. That was fundamental in Arithmancy. And as a student of Advanced Arithmancy of two years, Kuroo should probably have that ingrained into his mind right now. It was something that Professor Vector always berated him on. That he never left room for unknown variables that could come up in another problem in his equations.

Kuroo would have never thought that he would encounter one in a situation like this.

“Not cool, man!” Bokuto cried. An insult to Bokuto’s friends was an insult to Bokuto himself. But when one of Bokuto’s friends insulted Bokuto’s other friends...

Kuroo shrugged and took another sip of the pumpkin juice. “Just saying.” Akaashi and Kenma were still standing agape at the words tumbling out of Kuroo’s mouth. One minute he was fawning over you, fussing over every detail. Out of everyone, how could Kuroo have the audacity to say something like that about you?

“Anyway, what are you all off to? Anyone want to join me on the pitch during Arithmancy?”

Kenma choked back a gulp of air. “You’re skipping class?”

“Yeah.” Seeing his friend's dumbstruck expressions, Kuroo threw his head back, laughing. “What’s the old hag gonna do?” He waved his fingers around his head in imitation of the innocent Professor Vector. “Oo, you have blundered in the ancient arts of the numbers! Prepare to die!” he said mockingly.

In an instant, his smile dispersed in favour of a scowl that made itself at home on Kuroo’s face like a parasite on an unsuspecting plant. “Like hell am I going to do that.”

Kuroo started packing his bags. “You guys aren’t coming with me, huh?”

“Well unlike you,” Akaashi started, “we actually care about our grades.” Kuroo raised an eyebrow.

“Suit yourself. I’ll be in the Astronomy Tower after class if you need me.”

Enter a happy you trotting over to where the quartet were sitting. It seemed like you had just come back from the greenhouses, as evident from the leaf in your hair. You brushed it away.

“Hi guys! Hi Kuroo!” you greeted. You sat yourself down next to Kuroo, but he suddenly scooted away from you like you were the plague. He grimaced before looking you up and down. He might have muttered something under his breath, but you didn’t catch a word. You could hear, however, that it was said in a venom-laced tone that could kill a bear with just a word.

“I’m off,” he said curtly. Kuroo slung his bag over the shoulder and walked out of the Great Hall. You pursed your lips as you look at his retreating form. Something was up with him today.

“What’s up with him?” you ask, taking a piece of toast from a tray.

“He’s just feeling a little under the weather today… yeah!” Bokuto answered. His eyes looked to Akaashi for help. Either Akaashi didn’t get the hint or just decided to ignore Bokuto altogether. “That’s it! Kuroo’s just a little… sick!”

“Poor him. Why isn’t he off at Madam Pomfrey’s?” You pouted. He promised to help you harvest Bubotuber Pus later today. But he could take a break from helping you all the time, you supposed.

“Well, you see—” Bokuto said. You set your food down on the plate abruptly.

“Never mind, I should stop by later to give him a healing potion or something.” At this, Akaashi and Kenma looked at one another with baffled faces and parted lips.

“We… really think you shouldn’t—” Kenma said.

“He said he would be in the Astronomy Tower later after class!” Bokuto suddenly blurted. Akaashi sighed and put his head in his hands, the cereal in front of him taking the brunt of his frustration.

“Oh, okay then. Thanks!” you said. Not having much of an appetite, you grabbed another piece of toast and pranced off to your next class.

Classes went by as usual. You didn’t catch a glimpse of a certain black-haired Keeper that day. Kuroo would have been good at this, you think, as the goblet in front of you squawks in distress. You wave your wand, reverting it back to its original form as a crow before proceeding to try again.

What do people say again? If you tell someone you can’t have it, they want it even more? Usual classroom days with Kuroo would have never left you wanting for friends or platonic affection. But now as Professor Binns drolled on, you found yourself missing the occasional paper airplanes Kuroo would send your way during times like these. Or the inside jokes you shared about Professor Trelawney, who he hated with a burning passion, even though he didn’t attend Divination.

Once classes were over, you decided to help Kuroo get a little better. Since you often stopped by the infirmary to drop off medicinal magical plants, you could say that you knew your way around here. Madam Pomfrey trusted you enough that you would mind your own business. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t pull in a few favours from time to time.

Your reflection stared back at you from the cabinet marked ‘Healing Potions.’ The frontmost bottle always freaked you out a little. Why couldn’t the makers of Skele-Gro taken a design class or two? Putting a skeleton on the cap of a medicinal potion surely couldn’t have been the best way to attract customers.

Other potions bubbled in their flasks as you shoved them away. Draught of the Living Death, was engraved on a bottle. Sleeping potion; use only in cases of extreme pain. Yikes. Was the red bottle to its side the one you were looking for? Babbling Potion Antidote. Use in large doses for immediate effect. Not this one either.

The blue bottle on the very end was probably the one. You pushed past the other bottles, some with disturbing symptoms described on them. A jolly cupid with rosy cheeks flew around the blue glass, fit as a fiddle. On the cork was engraved ‘Pepperup Potion.’ Exactly what you were looking for.

You pocketed the bottle in your bag and made your way across the hall. Classes were finally finished, judging from the sea of black robes engulfing the hall. You hopped over a trick step on the stairs and looked up. The Astronomy Tower should be empty by now. Professor Sinistra should be enjoying a hearty meal down at supper. You trudged up the winding staircases.

You opened the topmost door to be rewarded by a gust of fresh air. The balcony above was empty save for a figure sitting on the ledge. His red Gryffindor robes were draped over the stone walls. A parchment peacock preened over by the empty tables as two tabby cats chased a crumpled rat around the chairs. Monkeys slung their way around the chandelier as sparrows nested in the mahogany shelves. It was a zoo, brought alive by the lazy swishing of Kuroo’s wand.

“Kuroo,” you said. His head lolled over to where you were standing. Kuroo blinked slowly— exactly like a cat, you noted, and raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here?”

You shuffled around in your bag. “Bokuto told me you were up here, and I thought that...”

“Ha?” Kuroo looked at you with a gelid distaste that stopped the vocal cords in your throat from working right then and there. He never looked at you like that. Did he have a problem with you? ‘He’s always stared at you like that when you aren’t looking, you know?’ egged the voice in the back of your head. That’s why he’s called you here. He hates you and wants you to bugger off.

“What the hell would I want with someone,” his eyes looked you up and down, “like you?”

“‘Like me?” Your mind stopped all other body processes as all your energy went to processing the words you had heard just now. “Are you implying something?”

“That you’re a half-witted witch,” he snarled. Kuroo hopped off the ledge to make his way over to you, “that couldn’t survive at Hogwarts even if I shoved all the books in the library down your big pie-hole?” Each word was interpolated by a languid step in your direction, backing you down to the cold walls that held the Tower up.

“I—” Kuroo leans on the wall, supported by an arm that pins you below his glare. Your muscles are held captive by his pernicious slights and the sheer denial that someone that treats, treated, you as nicely as Kuroo did could say things like this to you.

“I don’t even know why Hogwarts let people like you in.” He wrinkled his nose. “Hell, first time I saw you I thought you came in to replace Filch, the old bugger.” Okay, now this was just getting to be too much.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask. Your brain wants it to come out as somewhat of a polite query, but your voice betrays your brain and lets it loose with the same shrill naivety a child would scream at their mother with. It almost cracks in the middle, but you push forward.

“What’s gotten into me? Honey, that’s what McGonagall was thinking when she sent the letter of acceptance to you.” Kuroo puts his hands on his hips and leans back — as if that would let him throw more insults with better finesse.

“No one likes you, see? That’s why you only go to those plants for comfort.”

“Shut up!” you screech. How could he say that with such nonchalance? It looked like he was being possessed by Peeves. How hard the poltergeist would laugh when he caught wind of this. You put your hands on his chest and push him away with the remaining strength in your arms. Kuroo staggers back, but quickly regains his balance. Out of your peripheral vision, you spot shards of red glass from the bottle. You don’t bother to clean it up as you try to distance yourself as far away as you can from the monster in front of you.

The Astronomy Tower, true to its name, towered over the rest of Hogwarts. Everything below lay in its gargantuan shadow, being a great place for picnics on hot summer days. It was even tall enough to shield the students from the rain, if you were unlucky enough to not know a Rain-Repelling Charm. The only thing that was collectively despised from it was its long, winding stairs.

The same ones you were stooped over right now. You could feel tears making their way over your eyelids, but then again, what did you have to cry for? It wasn’t like you were exceptionally close to Kuroo like he was with Kenma or something. You deserve to cry, you thought. He said all those horrible things; it was okay for you to feel insulted. Especially coming from him.

You gulped down another lump in your throat. One of his enchanted paper animals had hung onto your robes as you were making your way down, and was now perching on your knees. The cat with scribbled on whiskers and eyes lounged on your lap, unaware of the turmoil going on inside you. You clicked your tongue. If this was how Kuroo was going to humiliate you even further...

Then he could have a taste of his own medicine! You ripped up the innocent cat, setting it aflame for good measure. The smoke drifted out the vents above. Blood trickled from a cut on your index figure onto the stone stairs.

“Look what we have here,” a scratchy voice crooned. The blood and emotions hammering in your head inhibit your senses. With the right honeyed tone, you would have thought the voice in front of you belonged to the very man who spurned you moments ago.

“Go— go away, Kuroo!” You stand up, moving to go back to the dorms when a face that fills you with dread blocks your way.

“Kuroo? Well, well, well, who would’ve thought that Princess Plant Prick would have had a…” Peeves pokes his cheek with his finger. “Boy toy?” You’re able to at least shoot him a dirty look, but you stay in place in case anything happens. Who knows what fishy pranks he has up his sleeves?

“No?” He twirls around you in a flurry of ghostly white. “I’m guessing… crush?”

Peeves’s childish insulting was almost soothing. Different from those from Kuroo, Peeves’s jabs were more like one from a little sibling to another one. Rough on the outside, but well meaning on the inside. The tears seemed to stop their torrent a little, and your knees find themselves buckling back down on the stairs.

“Neither. Please leave me alone.” You take a handkerchief from your bag and wipe the mess on your face with it.

“You sure, Princess Plant Prick? I’m not sure someone in your state is in any condition to be left alone.” The poltergeist moved to take a seat on the window ledge beside you. The previously bright corridor darkened a little bit with the new obstruction.

“Certain—certainly” you choked, “not with anyone like you.”

“Oh? And you would prefer it if I was, say…” Peeves leaned in closer to you. You could almost see the mosaic through the pale film of his skin. “Kuroo?” You rolled your eyes at the poltergeist.

“See, I even made a wig to impersonate him if the occasion called for it!” With a snap of his fingers, he conjured a mop of what seemed to be black rooster feathers. Peeves set it on his head and smiled in imitation of Kuroo. You allowed yourself a small smile.

“Could have fooled me,” you said.

“And what if I did? If you thought that it was actually Kuroo here in my place?” You turned your head away, avoiding the question. “Assuming the previous events didn’t happen,” Peeves added hastily.

“We wouldn’t do anything, if that’s what you mean.” Peeves gave you the side eye.

You pondered a bit. What would you do if Kuroo was sitting here next to you? Would you push him away in fear of him making you hurt even more? No, Kuroo was the one to talk things through whenever there was a problem. So then why would he lash out at you when you didn’t do anything (as you remembered) wrong to him?

“I’m really starting to agree with him on your…” Peeves’s eyes raked your form up and down, “astuteness.”

“You heard us back there?”

“And on the Quidditch pitch.” Peeves lifted a finger. ”And in the greenhouses. And near the Fat Lady. And near that nasty painting of the raccoons on the third floor.” He held four fingers up. “And many more too.”

You tilted your head to the side. What did eavesdropping on conversations have to do with the situation? Seeing your confused expression, Peeves rolled his eyes and clapped his hands smack dab in front of your face.

“I have a bet with the other ghosts, darling! Snape’s diary is on the line here, so you better wisen up!” Now he was just leading you even further and further on from a simple answer. Peeves stood up from where he was sitting and floated back up the stairs, stopping a flight just above you. A trail of mist followed him.

“And you know, Princess Plant Prick,” Peeves called from upstairs, “he did reek of Babbling Potion, earlier today.”

“Babbling…” You sucked in a gust of air. The haze in your head finally cleared up, allowing you to see what you were missing the entire time. You pulled your mouth closed, not even realising that it had dropped to the floor in the first place. You tapped your feet vigorously on the stairs, formulating your next plan of action.

Reinforcements were needed.

The Gryffindor common room was empty save for the trio of friends that looked a little out of place with the absence of the fourth. Three pairs of shaky eyes met yours as you stood in front of the table where they were all huddled. Kenma gulped. “You met Kuroo, didn’t you?”

You grimaced, but tried as hard as you could to look at the fireplace on the other side of the room. “I did.”

“How bad did it hurt?”Akaashi asked. The edges of your eyes stung as fresh tears pricked your eyeballs like needles on a pincushion. You wiped them away with your fingers and put your hands on your hips.

“Only a little. Now come on, Kenma.” You put a hand on Kenma’s wrist and yanked him out from his sitting position. He was the best one that could help you for a task like this. “We’re going to make him regret it.”

There was a potion supply available to students filled with harmless ingredients that wouldn’t harm a fly, but was enough for the potion you had in mind. Bokuto and Akaashi eventually started trailing behind you, and after enough explanation, they were on board with the plan that you had.

After four gruelling hours of rotating between actually making the potion and keeping guard in the boys bathroom at 12 o’clock, the finished product was finally in your hands. With a swish of your wand, all trace of the four of you was gone.

“Let’s do this again, shall we?”

The boyish flouncing of the previous day, turned into an arrogant saunter the very next. Yesterday’s naive smile had soured like spoiled milk and turned into a shit-eating smirk that was fouler than Miya Atsumu’s when Slytherin won a game. The potion still hadn’t worn off, Kenma noted. It must have been potent. Luckily, he and (Y/N) had been prepared for this, with a little help from Bokuto and Akaashi.

Kuroo gives a curt nod in Bokuto and Akaashi’s direction on the other side of the table as he moves to sit down next to Kenma. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the scrumptious feast laid in front of him.

“So,” he says as he piles eggs and toast onto his plate, “anyone finally coming to skip with me today?” No one answers at first. Then, being the brave soul he is, Bokuto replies to his friend’s question.

“I don’t know man,” Bokuto says. “You got a lot of flak from Flitwick yesterday after you skipped. You’re lucky your grades from last week saved you.”

“Did they, now?” Kuroo drawls. He swills the juice in his goblet a few times before downing it one gulp. The goblet magically refills itself as Kuroo sets it down.

His mouth moves to make another brash statement, but contorts into a fanged scowl when you walk up the halls. Kenma and Akaashi don’t even have to look at you to know that it’s you coming down to sit next to them.

“Fancy seeing you three here,” you say. Kuroo’s eyes twitch as you so blatantly ignore his presence. There are no signs of the pain he inflicted on you yesterday, and you seem as chipper as you can get. Frustration bubbles in his chest, at the thought of someone being so happy, even after he did all of those things to you. If you could just show an ounce of inconvenience at—

Something splashes in his face. The fiery undertones of fall and cinnamon tell him that it’s from his pumpkin juice. Kuroo draws his wand in reflex, but nothing else seems to be out for him. Worse still, the four people around him seem to pay him no attention. He catches Kenma giving you a short glance. Pearly droplets of orange liquid drip down your finger.

“What did you put in my drink?” Kuroo mutters. You pay him no mind and go back to your cereal with your soggy fingers.

“Hey.” Kuroo raps on the wooden table with his fist. “What did you put in my drink?” His volume has increased by now. So much so that the trio next to you has taken notice.

“Nothing,” you say.

“If she was actually trying to poison you, wouldn’t you think Dumbledore or McGonagall would have caught on sooner?” Kenma asked, trying to reason with his friend.

Kuroo deflates a bit, leaning back before looking at the goblet in his hands. He takes a long sip from it, his eyes never leaving you the entire time. Perhaps he did see the drop you put into it, but he shows no signs that he knows you know.

And then it happens. Kuroo slammed the now empty cup on the table. He clenched the golden material until his knuckles reddened, paled, and went back to his normal skin tone again. Something from the back of his throat sounded like it wanted to claw its way out of his mouth. People on each side of you were starting to look over. Any minute now, you think, biting your lip. You had read that the antidote’s effects could be a little painful, but you hadn’t prepared yourself for any of this.

Kuroo’s closing his eyes shut in pain. Every nerve in his throat has gotten ten times stronger, every breath next to him getting amplified by a hundred times. Ten thousand needles prick his throat as he gasps for air in the cramped space he is in right now. Kuroo forces an eye open to look into the eyes of his assailant: you.

“You little—” he rasps.

But just as he is about to force another curse word to come out of his mouth, all of the needles in him force their way out. His lungs suddenly fill with air as the pain in his neck and head dull to normal. His eyesight sharpens to its usual levels; which means he can feel the other eyes on him right now.

Kuroo sits straight again as four pairs of eyes take in his current condition. They all have their lips slightly parted, eyebrows furrowed. The one in front of him looks the most expectant. Kuroo closes his eyes and shakes his head. He opens them again to be greeted by a sudden rush of light in his eyes and… your hesitant form in front of him.

Orange droplets drip from your fingers, a remnant from his pumpkin juice. There is a paper cut you got from yesterday when...

“Hey, listen, I—” Kuroo starts. But your trembling lip and reddening eyes are too much for him to go on with his sentence.

Your feelings also seem to be too much for yourself. Even though you’re in the middle of the Great Hall, where anyone could pick out drama even if it ran around in an Invisibility Cloak, ‘discrete’ is not something you have apparently mastered.

“Hey!” he calls out after you. But by the time anyone can react, you’re out of the hall, face buried in your long, black, sleeve as you avoid the conflict. Kuroo is half-standing out of his seat. An arm raised that is lowered disappointedly as you make your way out.

The rest of the day goes on as usual. The sheer proximity of being in the same room with Kuroo is able to make your heart lurch in your ribcage. You want to have him so close by your side, so close that you can hear the steady thumping of one another’s hearts. So close that the very pheromones that make up his scent and self are etched into your mind as deep as they can possibly go.

But at the same time, you hate being in his presence. His observant eyes that scan the room like a predator its prey linger a little too long on your back. If you could, you would put a thousand miles of distance between you two, until the mere memory of him is a speck of sand in the vast plains of the universe. Of course it’s not his fault for anything that happened, but still...

It’s only later during lunch when everything seems to be pulled back together. For a fleeting moment, you pass Kenma. He mutters a quick, “Meet him in the greenhouses after class,” before disappearing among the sea of black robes. You think to call after him, but you realise that Kuroo would have easily been the one that had sent him. And Kuroo always had a plan.

So when you open the door to the greenhouse later, it doesn’t surprise you that there is absolutely no one there. Save for a certain Quidditch Captain.

He’s playing with the lilies. Your lilies. The same ones that had made their way around your head the first time he had really approached you in the Great Hall that time. They snap up happily at the slightest brush of his fingers that easily retract back from the lethal petals.

“You’ve made friends with the lilies,” you say. Kuroo stills in his seat on the stool. He turns to face you and blinks slowly, like a cat would.

“If you don’t want to be here right now, then… I understand. I understand.” Kuroo stands up. He holds his arms out in a show of surrender. “So will you let me take up some of your time this afternoon?”

You teeter between the balls of your feet. The words want to come out of your mouth so badly, but your heart seems to be keeping your lips shut. You count to five.

“Go on,” you say.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I get it if you don’t forgive me, I said some really bad stuff back there. If you want to cut off all ties with me, feel free to, and—” You put a hand on one of his broad shoulders.

“Kuroo.” He stops all his rambling and looks up at your eyes. “You were under a potion, it’s alright. I… I forgive you.”

“You do?”

“I do!” Your arms find their way around his neck. His jaw tickles your shoulder as the rumble of his laugh shakes your body.

“Thanks," you catch him whispering into your ear. None of you say anything as you dangle from his neck in the bone-splitting hug you give him. You linger for a while before peeling your arms back. Kuroo wants them back in their rightful place, his neck, so bad. “So are we back to normal, now?”

“Only if you’ll let me trash-talk you as revenge.” You both laugh in unison.

“Hey, (Y/N)," Kuroo says. “Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything, Kuroo. What’s up?”

He takes your fingers between his. You find yourself walking backwards and backwards in a twisted dance. And Kuroo holds the lead.

Your back makes contact with the wall behind you. Hot breath fans your neck. Kuroo holds out a hand to hold himself up, effectively trapping you between the wall and his tall body. You could just as easily whip out your wand and hex him where the sun doesn’t shine. But this was too good to be true. Didn’t all teenagers dream of someone doing this to them?

Now that someone’s finally doing it to you, you can only freeze as your brain goes haywire.

“Kuroo! What are you—”

“I like you,” he says. It’s quick and simple, but smoother than a drawn out love letter from those horrible Cupids that Gilderoy Lockhart had sent that year. It makes your blood roar in your ears, yet the only sound that comes through to your brain are the three words that just came out of Kuroo’s mouth.

“A lot.” The words come out of your mouth at the same time. Kuroo looks up, meeting a playful smile on your lips. He raises his eyebrows.

“How did you?” he asks. You cock a shoulder in his direction.

“I have my ways.”

Instead of pressing further, Kuroo just bows his head down between his arms, you may add, are still entrapping you. He laughs. “If you know only that much, then let me elaborate.” Your face suddenly feels very warm.

‘Well of course, you would, it’s a greenhouse, (Y/N)!’ says Common Sense. The giddy teenager overtakes you and plays it off as Kuroo’s hot, and extremely close, breath.

“You’re really cute when you’re embarrassed, aren’t you?” He taps your nose. You want to swat his hand away, but remember that your arms are currently trapped under his much bigger ones.

“You’re even cuter when you teach me Herbology at 3 in the morning. And way cuter when you have a milk mustache during breakfast.” Kuroo had removed his hands by now, but it still felt like there were invisible tacks pinning your arms to the wall behind you.

“Am I?” you asked.

“Nope.” His sudden statement has you furrowing your eyebrows, but he quickly follows it up with a flick to your forehead. “Silly. Do you think I like you based on physical appearance alone?”

You manage a giggle. Kuroo leans back on the wall as he observes the greenhouse around him. You scoot closer to him and take his fingers into your hand. They're calloused after years of holding brooms, but they're soft and plump. He doesn't seem to mind when you wordlessly slip your hand into his.

Kuroo turns to look at you. He smiles. "We should spend more time in the greenhouses, you know?"

“Yeah, I think dates like this would be really good for our relationship," you say.

“Our… what?”

“Our relationship.” You pull your hand away from his. “Do you not want to?”

Now the positions are switched. Your hands lock Kuroo from both sides as you pin him against the wall. His lips are inches from yours.

"Can I?" you ask. Kuroo chuckles. He pulls your jaw closer to his, pressing both of your lips together in the process.

"Well this didn't go as planned," he comments, before pulling you in for another kiss.

BONUS:

Kenma passes Kuroo in their dorms. "You're welcome," he says.

Kuroo is about to reply, but the blond Chaser has already settled into bed.

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utouchmycookie · 4 years

Text

Open Your Eyes

Chapter One: Flash

I (utouchmycookie) am the author of this piece. I don’t own the characters or locations, but the idea is mine. Also, I am ignoring my boring class by putting this here.

Flash walks into AcaDec expecting the heated glares of the girls, at the very least. Being verbally berated and kicked off the team by unanimous decision at the most likely. He doesn't even know what to think of at the most. Social death outside of the popular jocks (who have sway, but not nearly as much as they would at non-preppy need schools) seems like a possible outcome.

None of this happens. He does a double-take. Apparently there are no sides, which leaves the options that a) nobody gives a fuck (possible, but unlikely), or b) she said nothing (he'd figure this to be unlikely, but apparently it was entirely possible). She doesn't bother to look up at him entering the room, earbuds in and hair shielding the notebook she's scratching away in. Ned Leeds gives him the most dangerous look he's ever seen the happy go lucky President of the Computer Science, Ethical Hacking, Cybersecurity, IT, and Coding Clubs give; Michelle Jones manages to scare any sense of relief he'd mustered right off as she glances over the top of her book at him, and her glance says she knows, but the perfect expressionless deadpan and the way she almost immediately turns back to her book without giving him any further insight to what her thoughts are sends him into a horror and terror related trauma induced break down. Yes, he knows that's not a thing or the least bit grammatically correct but it's exactly what was headed for him.

He wishes she would do anything - scream at him in anger, sob in heartbreak, curse hysterically in hurt, even sigh in disappointment. She does none of these. She doesn't even bother to give him particularly serious cold shoulders and silence treatments and talk as if he isn't there and walk as if she doesn't even realize he's in the vicinity of her.

She's colder than she's ever been to him, including when he'd shoved Leeds into a locker, but she's no less polite than she's ever been. God, she's never been anything worse than curt with him, and he's such a dick and a douchebag and a tool and a piece of shit and a worthless waste of space. Even now, as he jostles to get her attention, she simply turns her eyes on him, listens to his cruel jests, and turns away when he's finished. God, here he was hoping for her to show him her heartbreak and here he was falling to pieces with his (and it was his own damn fault, his own stupid fucking choices).

Their (out of the know) teammates definitely recognize the difference in her behavior, but they chalk it up to her finally building an extra wall between them (something they've been trying to get her to do for literal years now. It was always, "Why are you so nice to him? He just shoves your books out of your hands to be a dick!" "I think he just needs some kindness in his life," "As if! I have all the kindness I could ever need, you psychotic whore!" "Sure seems like it." and god-fucking-damn her perceptiveness, her big heart, her endless kindness, her naïvety that she could help him; he would be forever indebted to her kindness and her gentleness and how much it had saved him and then he had ruined it with his stupid ass dumb fucking decisions and even now she couldn't be cruel to him, not even once.). Mr. Harrington pulls her aside after practice to double-check that he didn't hurt her, and the honesty and lack of attack in her response had made it hurt more (and how was that fucking possible anymore?!).

"He's Flash, Sir. He's always rude to me, and yes he did something nasty and it hurt, but it's not of the school's concern, it won't affect my performance in AcaDec, it's nothing I can't handle, and quite honestly, Mr. Harrington? I just don't want to stoop to his level."

"You are one of the most brilliant students I've had the honor of teaching, and are miles kinder and wiser than any other human being I've ever met. You're going to go far someday, and I cannot wait to see what you do someday."

"Thank you, Mr. Harrington. I couldn't do any of it if you didn't put your heart and soul into helping us even when it seems impossibly difficult." And then she smiled that innocent, sweet smile that let you know that she had no idea that she sounded like a brown-noser because she honest to God meant it.

So here's the thing: Peter Parker is an angel of a human being. The planet Earth 's disturbingly large number of vocal, disgusting humans didn't deserve her one bit. Flash among them.

But Peter Parker also suffered left and right.

She had been one of the few who had joined Midtown Tech's high school portion their freshman year, on one of the few scholarships offered. She'd started with an hour commute to school, and her high school career had started horribly. She was alone and friendless and new and definitely not in her socioeconomic class. What she had going for her was the school being an elitist nerd school. You had to be smart, and damn was she smart. That made her popular here. The geeky clubs made her cooler - Marching Band was perhaps not the straight dash to popularity choice, but one that gave her lots of social exposure. The International Club was a genius decision, because nobody at the school had less than Tier 1 universities in their future and everyone knew it was about being well-rounded. Acing Academic Decathlon had shot her right up to the top, earning her a spot in the likes of Liz Allen's favorite people to talk to. Peter hadn't intentionally done it, either, but she'd enchanted herself to the school by being utterly introverted and sweeter than a Pixie Stix without an ounce of dishonesty in her.

Then they'd gone to OsCorp. Norman Osborn and Dr. Curt Connors had revealed an open secret and it should have ruined her social life, but the students in the room had had nothing but sympathy for the horrible way of spilling her private life's facts - her parents were famous scientists, and dead.

The story hadn't gotten outside of their graduating class, at least, but the majority seemed to collectively decide she was their epitome of a Class Cinnamon Roll.

It helped their case that she was out sick for two weeks after OsCorp, and most people assumed that the stress of such horrible things being dragged up in such awful ways meant her mental health giving out and depleting her physical health. She'd come back and looked like shit for a week before she started looking healthier than she had before.

And then the hardest hit yet had slammed her, because Peter Parker never caught a single break.

Everyone in the school knew about Ben Parker's death. Peter's truancy was waived when she missed another week of school. Even the toughest teachers softened at the sight of her puffy, red eyes constantly wet with tears and ghost white face. Someone read the paper, and everyone doubled down on trying to soften up on Peter. Even Flash's buddies didn't have the heart to pick on her knowing she'd seen her uncle shot and held his hand as he died, helpless to do anything. She pulled herself together and two weeks later, and finally made her best friend out of Ned Leeds, generic friends with all the AcaDec girls, and at least acquaintances with the guys. Midtown decided she was not a cinnamon roll, but a gingersnap cookie from the Dollar Tree, like Seymour had once been dared to eat by a Brooklyn Visions' student back in middle school, when they had a kid from lower end Brooklyn who sold the cheap-ass things like damn drugs. Betty had told them they all needed to watch Ouran High School Host Club because they had the same energy as the Host Club drinking instant coffee, but everyone just took her word for it. Anyways, Peter. Dollar Tree gingersnaps. Tough as a Chips Ahoy cookie in light blue packaging, but not crumbly at all, and horribly sweet and spicy all at once.

Two years had been difficult, but survivable, until Thanos.

Plenty of people got fucked by the Decimation and the Blip. Half of the universe had died and returned five years later. A sixteenth of Earth's human occupants had been killed by factors associated with appearing and disappearing. An estimated fourth of all lives had been left in ruins with no way to restart. Not a single person went unaffected. Peter Parker though, she really could not catch a break.

No one outside of Flash's crew didn't believe Peter's having a Stark Internship. Therefore, learning that she had been at Stark's funeral due to being a close companion of his - and seemingly the girl out of the "girl and Spider-Man" who he had saved half the universe for, according to Ms. Potts-Stark directly, was a good sign as to the hurt she was feeling.

It was Thursday afternoon, and Mr. Mounts didn't care what they did this afternoon, because they had a paper due on Friday and half of a class in specialty Tech school that had an entrance exam who were taking AP Lit a year early had already turned in their papers. Mr. Mounts was a smart man, and a great teacher, but he was not technically inclined. He did not care though, so they all saw his YouTube views projected onto the Promethean Board with the noise up. That meant there was no stopping if the viewing of an ad — sort of.

A live news channel cut off the video with an announcement, the scene of a man who had lost it as a direct result of the Decimation and Blip completely ruining his old life during an appointment with the Maria Stark Foundation trying to help him get a new one on track. He'd gone absolutely psychotic, murdering the innocent charity worker, and setting himself loose on the streets. The news was warning of him being loose still and mourning the middle-aged woman now dead, by displaying a nice picture of her from the Maria Stark Foundation. Peter had announced, "I'm going to puke," and bolted out of the room. Ned and MJ had been on her heels, and the rest of the class was in shock.

"Oh Jesus Fuck," Sally finally said. And yeah, that was fair, because Flash knew that face as well as the rest of the AcaDec kids. It was the face of the sweet lady who once brought them Belgian Cream Pie straight from the German Bakery down the street from her apartment; she had got it at half-price because the owner's son was thoroughly charmed and the owner thought she would make an excellent daughter-in-law and that was deserving of half-priced pie even though he knew it was never going to happen.

There's a knock on the door, which opens to reveal Principal Morita looking very depressed and trying not to cry - "I need to borrow Miss Parker - oh fucking shit," he hisses.

"She went to the bathroom to puke, Sir. With Michelle Jones and Ned Leeds."

Somehow, the day only gets crazier. Everyone knows by the time Peter is safely tucked away in Mr. Morita's office, with the police officer who had to deliver the news, Mr. Morita, MJ, and Ned. The only people to go in or out is the secretary - who sends messages to the three students' teachers, as if they aren't tuned into the rumor mill - and a social worker.

MJ and Ned are sent to fetch lunch so the social worker can talk to Peter with only adults.

"Peter?... Do you have any other family you can contact? We... Uh, we tried the contact left in case of this type of horrible event, but given the nature of the contact, we couldn't get a call through -" the social worker pauses, "If not, we have options. Good homes that want a beautiful, brilliant girl like you."

"I'm sorry about that, Ma'am, but I'm sure you're aware that phone lines are a bit risky where my family is concerned. I can as soon as I heard," Pepper Potts-Stark announces as she brushes into the room. A mild-looking man follows her in, his red and white cane rattling as he swipes if in front of him. "And this is Miss Parker's lawyer, Matthew Murdock."

"I hate that we have to meet in such dismal circumstances."

"Oh, Honey," Pepper coos sadly to Peter, sinking down beside her and setting off another round of tears. "I know, Baby, let it all out, I know."

Chapters 2 and 3 up now!

#peter parker #peter parker/flash thompson #female peter parker #marvel #spider-man #pepper potts #team red #wade wilson #matt murdock #michelle jones #ned leeds #midtown #acadec #flash thompson

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apex-academy · 3 years

Text

Chapter 5: Caring Is a Hazard to Your Health (#24)

After an extended nap and some light reading, I head out to supper.

Seems quiet in here.

Only natural at this point. Just 8 people—

Stop. It...

It’s just quiet because Aidan isn’t here at the moment. Yeah.

Still, silence beats fighting. I hop in the kitchen to make some vaguely lumpy onigiri and eat it in there. Not feeling sociable yet. I’ll probably head upstairs for the rest of the evening. Get a few games in. Or...

“I could go further upstairs than that...”

I still feel like I haven’t been that thorough looking through the new floor, and now...

Where did that key come from, anyway? To show up in the gym... It was right after we got our motive, so any of us could have dropped it then. Even Monochap.

There’s no telling. I’ll just investigate and hope this doesn’t turn out to be some kind of trap. If someone wanted this to be found, then... probably Kanagi? She started Horse. Not easy to believe she’d mastermind a trap like that, though, so I won’t point any fingers yet. It’s probably just what it looked like, anyway. Slipped out of a pocket somewhere.

Impatiently, I finish up my supper and head out. I cross Tsunyasha in the hall, but she doesn’t make any death threats, so not worth my attention. Maybe I ought to be hunting Mahavir down instead, but... I’ll just burn myself out if I’m not careful.

I check the Nurse’s Office anyway, but it’s empty.

Upstairs, then.

This many flights is a bit of a haul, but I’m not that tired. That, and I should probably double-check the shutters they’ve been using in here.

...Yup. There’s still a flight closed off. At least it keeps moving up.

“All right. Let’s see if I can get into anything.”

I dig around the Computer Room first, just in case I may somehow get access to a computer, but it’s not looking promising. If there are any secret compartments in here, they don’t have visible keyholes. Kind of a long shot, anyway.

I go ahead and try the mysterious office at the far end of the east wing, but the key doesn’t even start to fit. Figures.

Finally I move to the Secretary’s Office. The door is unlocked, but...

“Probably my number-one suspect.”

I jiggle the key into the file cabinet’s key slot. It actually goes in, which is a good start, but it sure doesn’t want to turn. Maybe I’m wrong.

“Doubt I’m going to snap this thing in half, though.”

I give it another two rounds of heave-ho before it finally turns. I rub my fingers to try to get the key impression off of them before reaching for the topmost handle.

“Is there some way to make sure I’m not about to set off a bomb?”

Not that I know of, so I’ll just have to hope. Can’t see any wires running into the cabinet, so that’s a good sign.

The drawer offers some resistance, too, making a series of clangs as I pull and push on the handle. But then something manages to rattle loose, and the drawer comes on out. Not all the way, thankfully, since that probably would have knocked me over. But far enough to see the contents. Five files hang between the sides of the drawer, so widely spaced it still feels eerily empty. All but the first are labeled at the tab.

“Aidan, Aki, Arthur...”

These are files on us? In... first-name alphabetical order for some reason, but the secretary’s personal preferences probably aren’t worth worrying about. I reach for the unlabeled file. The thing is full up, but it looks like most of the papers are copies of blank forms. Mostly demographic-looking. Not terribly informative. But at the front...

“ ‘ Recruitment Guidelines’.”

If the files in this cabinet are on students, I doubt it’s guidelines for recruiting staff. As far as the student side goes, I honestly know precious little aside from the fact that they do recruit. I think there was something flowery about my qualifications on my acceptance letter, but I can’t remember the details now. So I can’t exactly verify this, but it looks authentic enough.

“ ‘Must be a legal resident of Japan or be or become fluent in Japanese within one year’...”

A lot of the qualifications are kind of arbitrary with a nice touch of legalese, so that’s not helping me any. The only thing that really strikes me is how vague the most significant qualifications are.

“ ‘Has performed a feat or collection of feats that could not be expected of any other student’.”

“...Have I done that?”

I guess tournaments must count. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I qualify. But it makes sense. It was probably similar for Kazusuke and Kanagi, and maybe some of the artistic talents. Seems boring, almost, but otherwise this school would just be a collection of obscure world record-holders, wouldn’t it?

At any rate, this isn’t helping my search for the young master. Or whatever I’m searching for right now. Honestly I feel like I just showed up over here without an actual goal in mind besides “try key.” But whatever. No one else should be coming in here, so I can take all the time I need. Might be nighttime soon, but that just means less chance of anyone being out to see me by the time I finish.

Anyone who follows the rules, at least. But no one would be looking for a victim so soon, right...? I won’t worry about it. Maybe bring some kind of blunt implement with me on the way back, but. Not worth any more thought than that.

I put the recruitment guidelines away semi-neatly and browse the rest of the cabinet. There are a few files in each drawer. At least, each drawer I can get too. Bottom one’s thoroughly jammed. I can deal with that later if I feel the need to. For now...

“...My file.”

This is the closest I could possibly get to verifying this cabinet’s info. I pull out the file with my name and stare at it.

“Why do I feel nervous about opening it?”

It’s not like it's a report card or anything. Probably? Would they have those mixed in here, too?

But there’s no reason for me to be nervous about that, anyway?? Just shut up and read it.

I start flipping through. Aside from a few oblique mentions, I don’t see any grades in here. Just the demographic-ish paperwork. That, and a few grainy copies of championship certificates. Guess I got accepted here for consistency, because no single one of these is that huge a deal. Unusual for someone my age, maybe, but...

“Anyway, seems legitimate enough.”

Time to check out the rest. I put my file back and start at the top. Aidan’s first, then. I remove his file and gaze at it in my hands for a while. Seems kind of personal, now that I think about it. But most of this would be public information, anyway, right? That, or something that’s no big deal, like hometown.

Well, I won’t find anything either way if I don’t even look. Open sesame.

First few pages are the same forms, filled out differently. He is indeed from America, specifically Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

“Never heard of either of those, but sure, why not.”

Blah, blah, height, weight, medical conditions... Nothing earth-shattering. And then...

“What the heck? Everything on this page is redacted.” Aside from a few prepositions that don’t tell me anything, all the text has been reduced to a stuttering black line.

I try looking at the other side, then holding it up to the light, but it gets me nowhere. Nothing I can do with this besides think about it, and I can save that for later. There’s a newspaper clipping in here that looks a lot less difficult to read, so I’ll try that.

“ ‘Bioterrorist Attack Kills Three, Hospitalizes Eleven Others’.”

It goes on to summarize a recent anthrax-like attack on an air control tower that pretty much took out everyone there, lethally or otherwise, within a few minutes. One Abe Sorakubo managed to hang on long enough to redirect traffic despite technical difficulties and guide one plane safely to the ground when it was unable to change course. Abe remains in critical condition...

“...’but has received a better prognosis than the 12-year-old child caught up in the attack alongside him’.”

The child had already stopped breathing by the time EMS found them on the floor of the control tower wearing one of the controller headsets. Abe stated that the child was an aspiring air traffic controller, and he wanted them to be able to wear it before they died, even if they were already unconscious at the time.

“...........”

Yeah, three guesses who the 12-year-old child was. Is it really okay for me to be reading this? I mean, if it was in the news, a lot of people already have, right? And whoever was putting together the recruitment files read it, too. They even highlighted the bit just before Abe’s statement.

I quietly refile the papers and put the folder back. Next is Aki...

“...”

I don’t know if I can do this right now. Maybe I... I’ll come back to her later.

Arthur, then.

Still hurts a little to thumb through his profile, but it’s a muted enough pain by now. At least we weren’t really friends. Classmates, for sure, but...

“...........”

Anyway.

Born on some kind of British military base in Germany, looks like. And lots of travel from there. Even his list of actual residences goes on for pages. Nothing in here seems suspect, though.

Instead of third-party material, his additional insert is more of a handwritten memo. Notes on his total distance travelled, the success of his blog, and an addendum that Super High School Level Hitchhiker may not be a very standard sort of talent but would nonetheless fit him and the standards of the school.

I flip through everything again just to be sure, but still, nothing of interest. “He’s been a lot of places” is about the whole gist of it.

“Ichiriki, then.”

I sort through his main file, which tells me a whole lot of nothing. Heir of the Tokino Hardware empire. No major moves.

No psychological profiles or anything, either. That would be too helpful, huh?

Instead of a single news article, his has several, though none of them actually have photos of his art. A few of them explain that he considers photography an abomination against everything chalk art represents. None of them specify what it’s supposed to represent, but I guess that’s to be expected.

At any rate, it really does look like he’s here as the Super High School Level Chalk Artist. As much as I’d like to say he has some fake talent to hide his involvement in this whole thing as some kind of warped observational psychologist, between this and his actual art skills, I really have no basis for saying anything like that.

Darn. He’d make an awfully convincing bad guy.

Maybe not so much at the moment, but. Overall. I can’t discount him entirely just because his talent is genuine, though, so there’s still that.

And that’s all the files for the top drawer.

“...........”

I’m weirdly tired already. Maybe I should take a break before I start overlooking any real clues. This cabinet won’t be going anywhere, right? And it probably is getting late by now.

“...”

I lock up the cabinet with much less struggle than it took to unlock it. I tug at each drawer afterwards, but they’re all sealed up pretty well.

All right, then. I can jump back in tomorrow morning.

Assuming nobody’s dead by then.

“...............”

Let’s just get moving.

[BACK] [NEXT]

#apexplot #apex5 #fanganronpa

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freebooter4ever · 4 years

Text

AU where Joe Mazzello’s character from The Social Network transfers to an actually good computer science school and we turn the movie into a romcom. This is for @detectivecutiepants who suggested Dustin needed corrupting. Let’s give Dustin the meet cute with an art history student he never asked for deserves. Not based on real people any names are PURELY COINCIDENCE. First person pov, apologies.

"Anyone sitting here?" a voice asks.

I look up at the guy asking, and then behind me at the rows and rows of empty seats in the lecture hall peppered with a handful of twenty or so sleeping students.

"No?" I reply, like it's a question.

The guy sits down. I deliberately don't look, because that seems like it would be rude, or weird, or awkward. Plus I already know I don't recognize him. He isn't one of the five guys in the school of art. It's kind of easy to remember who's who when most of your class of sixty five students are women.

I sit through the whole class trying to guess who he might be and why someone outside the art college would willingly subject themselves to this introductory art history course which is known throughout campus to be both a bore and useless.

Unable to come up with any answers, I finally give in and introduce myself at the end of class. The rest of the students stampede out of the room in a herd, but the guy lingers, neatly tucking his notebook into his backpack. His handwriting is equally as neat. I had been sneaking curious glances at his notes during class.

"Dustin," he says, extending a hand in answer to my introduction, "I transferred here this semester. Too much stress."

"You came to the wrong place to get away from stress," I say skeptically.

"Ehhhhh, maybe," he says, equally skeptical.

We fall into an awkward silence. I realize it's just the two of us in the room. We either have to talk, or leave. And it's written plain on his face that he's standing here more out of awkward obligation than actual interest, so I have to say something or give up entirely.

"Why'd you sit up front?" is my genius conversation starter.

"You were the only one who looked conscious," is his reply.

"Fair point," I concede, "If you're new here, you should know, you picked the wrong art history course to take."

"It was the only one I could get into," he explains, "Non majors get lowest priority."

"Well, if you get the chance, Melissa's Pop Art course is great," I tell him. I'm not normally one for crushes on professors but I've been in love with Melissa. She organized a trip to the Whitney Biennial in NYC, and I signed up immediately. She didn't recognize me. She remembered the international exchange student who had been here for a month, but she didn't remember me, a junior. I found out about this over pizza at Two Boots in Manhattan. It hurt. "The Pop Art class is a bit more topical to the university and the professor's enthusiasm is as good as this guy's jokes are bad."

"I liked his jokes," the guy says, looking confused.

"I know, but...you have to admit…?" Nevermind. I was already losing him. "I'll see you next class," I say instead, and give a little wave before walking backwards out the door.

He waves back. It's kind of adorable.

Of course, when I told him I'd see him next class, I assumed it meant the next art history class a week later. I didn't expect him to show up that day in the Turtle-Eating-A-Cheeto lecture hall for 213 at three pm.

"Don't sit there," I tell him without looking up when he goes to take the empty seat next to me.

"Sorry!" he leaps away as if the shitty folding chair is lava.

"You see the guy sleeping next to me?" I ask, pointing at my friend with a pen.

"Yeah?" he responds.

"He does this every class, and every class we get a chalkboard eraser chucked in our direction to wake him up. So unless you want to wear white eraser dust the rest of the day...don't sit there," I explain.

"Oh...well...I don't know…" he sounds constipated.

I look up at him. He is clearly in conflict about his seating choices. I raise my eyebrows at him like 'pick one already.'

He sits down, "Honestly, eraser dust is probably the least of my outfit problems."

I side-eye his striped collared shirt, "True."

He winces and slides down to slouch in his seat.

"If you're new you probably haven't heard of Kesden," I say, changing the topic to save him some embarrassment.

"No, I have not," he admits.

"Did they stick you in this class automatically?" I ask, "They did that to me, when I took my first programming class. I had no idea who Kesden was, I got lucky."

"No I just picked a professor at random," the guy shakes his head, "Didn't recognize any of the names."

"Okay, well Kesden is the best. Everyone knows he's the hardest. You come out of his class and you know twice as much as any of the students in the parallel classes. You pick him if you have something to prove, like me. If you don't, and want to reduce stress, it's maybe not the best choice," I say pointedly.

"I think I started picking up on that after what you said about the eraser dust."

I laugh, "Welcome to Carnegie Mellon. Where'd you transfer from, anyway?"

He takes a deep breath and releases it fast, "Harvard."

"Oh shit," I say, "Seriously?"

He nods.

I do the mental math and add, "So...you transferred out of an ivy and into a research university ranked higher for computer science, and picked the hardest programming professor...for stress relief?"

He smiles wanly, "At Harvard it was less the academics and more about...social...stress."

"Okay, then that's easy our 'frats' can barely even call themselves frats. No one cares about social life here unless it's fighting over a coveted computer spot in the Wean Linux cluster," I say, "Oh!" I turn and grab his arm to emphasize, "But have you played Capture The Flag With Stuff yet?"

"Noooooooo," he says, staring at my hand with wide eyes, "I have not."

"Well, you gotta," I say, "And don't worry about being new, no one has any idea what anybody's doing in that game."

"Okay," he sounds skeptical again.

"You'll see," I reassure him, "What's your phone number?"

"Uhhhh…." he looks hesitant.

"I'll let you know when the next game is organized. I have friends in the KGB," I explain.

"You have what?!" his voice goes high pitched.

"Not the actual KGB, the social club on campus," I say.

"Oh god...what have I gotten myself into…" his eyes roll into the back of his head, “Not again.”

"Gee, now you're worried? I tell you that you've signed up for the hardest programming class at this level and you don't blink an eye but one word about a social club…"

"I thought you said there were no social clubs on campus?"

"There aren't! Not really...KGB is like...the anti-social club. Ignore the name, it was coined in the 90's by a bunch of nerds who thought they were being funny. They're weird, but harmless, and they throw a good game of capture the flag," I say, "With stuff!"

"I have made a grave error in judgement," he says, looking more and more concerned.

"If I promise you zero social stress, will you give me your number?" I ask.

He looks at me with furrowed brows.

The professor chooses that minute to walk in, fashionably ten minutes late. The first thing he does is pick up the chalkboard eraser and chuck it in our direction. The professor was probably aiming for my still sleeping friend. He misses. It hits Dustin in the face.

"Ah!" the guy cries, flailing his arms and sliding almost out of his seat, "God!"

"Sorry, that wasn't meant for you," the professor says, and then starts in on his lecture. Programmers are not known for their aim.

My friend sleeping next to me snores softly.

Dustin sits frozen in his chair, clutching the arm rests, his expression a picture of consternation. A fine layer of pale chalk dust coats his bright copper hair and pastel yellow shirt.

I lean over close. "I did warn you," I whisper, and then sit back to take notes.

He gives me his phone number after class.

I save it to my contacts as "Dusty".

#what do i even tag this as #Is there a social network fanfic tag #i think my moratorium against talking about my alma mater or else be hit with lawyers has passed its three year mark #wow its been three years since march 24 2017

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jacekwcn · 5 years

Text

𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐞.

[ VERNON CHWE, CISMALE, HE/HIM, 22 ] // filed under: ( JACE KWON ), student is a ( FOURTH YEAR ) from ( ENGLAND ) who specializes in ( CYBER OPS ). we believe they will be an asset because they are ( HONEST & LEVELHEADED ). however, we are monitoring them due to their tendency to be ( CALLOUS & SELF-SERVING ). at their basic state, they remind one of ( BASEBALL HATS WORN UNDER OVERSIZED HOODIES, SMOKING A JOINT ON THE ROOFTOP AT 4AM, A BRIGHT COMPUTER SCREEN ILLUMINATING A PITCH BLACK ROOM, KNIFE-CUTTING WORDS SPOKEN THROUGH A CHEEKY SMILE ). our ( ZERO ) has promise, but as we all know, brier isn’t for everyone. ✉ [ jocey, 23, est, she/her ]

what’s up party people?? it’s ya girl jocey. v excited to be here and can’t wait to write with everyone! jace is a new muse of mine, so soz if his intro is super shit & all over the place. hit that subscribe like button and i’ll slide into those dms to get the plot train rollinggg.

name : jace jihyun kwon nickname : sometimes j age : twenty-two gender : cismale sexuality : bicurious hometown : london, england

━ born to two brier alums, jameson kwon and victoria carter, whose a bit of a brier legacy herself. they were two of the brightest field ops agents in their year, who were later recruited to MI6 following their graduation. jace is an only child who learned very early on that there was a lot of pressure and expectations to live up to his parents. a majority of that pressure came from his parents themselves. ━ he didn’t necessarily have a bad childhood, but he also wouldn’t say he had much of one to begin with. he often felt like his parents had him just to have an agent of their own to train. because that was what it was like growing up. students were officially recruited to brier at the age of eighteen, but jace had been training for this quite literally his entire life. ━ from having the best tutors for various classes, including languages (korean, french, spanish & italian), to taking boxing and martial arts classes, his parents immersed him in a range of extracurriculars to prepare him for brier. it was clear that he was put on the path to end up in field ops like his folks, but it was in I.T. that he particularly excelled in. he hacked into all sorts of big corporations and a couple government agencies when he was barely 10. ━ his parents weren’t particularly enthused when he was accepted into the cyber ops speciality, but eventually they accepted that as long as he was out on the field, they were somewhat satisfied. this also meant that they still held out hope that he could switch into field ops one day. well, it’s now his last year and that has yet to happen. ━ does he even want to work in intelligence after graduation? that’s the million fucking dollar question, ain’t it? given who his parents work for, the answer should be simple, right? except jace has never been simple. his mind is more complicated than the coding that he writes, so the answer to that is a complicated tbd. if you ever ask him, he’ll always tell you to, “mind your own fucking business, mate,” with that annoying smirk of his. ━ his parents were never particularly warm, loving people. chalk it up to their jobs, i guess. he seemed to have inherited that aspect of them as well. everyone knows jace is an asshole. he may look friendly and approachable, but rest assured, he’s not. not everyone can be blessed with a resting bitch face, alright? don’t piss him off because he’ll threaten to erase your existence with just a few keys and he’ll do it with no qualms. ━ he is incredibly blunt and honest, especially when he doesn’t need to be. if you’re being a pathetic sack of potatoes, then he’ll tell you you’re being a pathetic sack of potatoes. but that also doesn’t necessarily mean he reveals the truth all the time either, especially when it comes to himself. being private and secretive is second nature to him, and he rarely lets anyone in. and he manages to do all of that with a cheeky ass smirk, so it’s kinda confusing if he’s really as mean as he comes off? but he is. ━ jace is smart. like, really fucking smart. he just doesn’t apply himself or show as much effort as he should, especially as of late. in fact, he likes to laugh at the overly ambitious and eager to please students. he’ll show up to classes and will generally do what he’s told, but he’s always doing the bare minimum to get by. but when it comes to field tests and exams, he somehow manages to pull some shit out of his ass and blow people away. ━ definitely a slytherin. idk lol felt important to say that?? ━ also his code name comes from binary numbers. y’know, zeroes and ones. IDK.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

BEST FRIEND ━ listen, jace is a complete asshat, but everyone needs a best friend, ok?? he hangs out and is often seen with this person the most because he doesn’t like to tolerate anyone else really. probably knows him pretty well. maybe they started at brier together. he could also have two besties and we can make this a trio?? adorbs. insp: this, this. taken by riku richetti, niomi hawkins, aurelia quinn MORAL CONSCIENCE ━ someone who’s the opposite of jace. you make him be a better person. ok, or more realistically, at least a more tolerable person. for whatever reason, he listens to you and he’s kind of even... nice to you?? teach him how to care about anyone other than himself and basically how to be a decent human being. insp: this, this, this, this. taken by beverly richetti MUTUAL HATRED ━ jace and this person just have this insane, strong mutual dislike/borderline hatred with one another. maybe it was a small incident that escalated over time, or idk. we can plot this out more lol. but basically, they butt heads all the time and every time they’re in a room together, everyone knows it won’t end well. insp: this. taken by sam bailey EX-GF ━ dated for a bit and broke up for whatever reason. all the details can be plotted out. i’m not too particular. maybe they’re incredibly similar and that’s why they vibed well and also inevitably broke up. or they’re too different. super down for all the angst too - lingering feelings, jealousy, late-night booty calls, etc. taken by lilia newport HOOK-UPS/FWBs ━ self-explanatory?? we can make this angsty too cuz i’m a hoe for angst. open for more than one! taken by sofia pedraza

^ unless they’re crossed out, i’m always open for more characters filling the wc, even if there’s someone filling it already! i’m also game for any plots not listed on here. these are literally just things off the top of my head, so plz plz plz feel free to suggest anything you have in mind!

#intro. ( jace kwon. )#brierintro

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fanficfanatic · 5 years

Text

but every time i see you my heart sinks

read it on ao3 here

She knows it was a bad idea the minute she said it. Hell, she should have known it was a bad idea the second she thought it.

But after the mess that was Teddy Wells, the awkwardness that was Detective Dave Majors, and after the acceptance of her feelings for Jacob Peralta (the feelings that seem to unfairly grow every time he smiles and makes her laugh) Amy Santiago flipped the page on her binder, wrote ‘No dating cops’ laminated and highlighted it before calling it a day.

In all fairness, she was under the impression that Peralta had grown out of his crush (she moped around for a few days after the Maple Inn incident and incorrectly blamed it on the break up). He had moved on with Sophia and she had convinced herself that his lingering glances and his obsession to make her laugh had no other motive besides friendship.

Her reasoning for his odd behaviour and her confidence in her new rule flies out the window after she is hit with a poorly executed Jamaican accent and an equally poor confession.

And so she panics.

Panic is putting it lightly, to be honest. Her heart feels as if it is about to beat out of her chest and her brain cannot come up with a coherent thought.

And so when he tells her that he’s aware that it (it being dating him) isn’t what she wants, she goes along with it, admonishes him for making it weird and congratulating herself when they both agree to not make it weird.

Regardless, she knows it was a bad idea the minute she said it.

But she convinces herself otherwise as they take the undercover mission. When Jake looks at her with soft awe as she pecks (sloppily) his cheek. When they take a seat across the room from Augustine in perfect view when he heads to the kitchen where Rosa lurks and informs them that he’s yet to drop off the briefcase. When they catch the Chinese buyer with ease (the man has no awareness of his surroundings) and one threat from Rosa has him testifying (Amy suspects she did more than threaten but there is no way she’s going to ask).

She convinces herself that she made the right decision as she goes home to her apartment, changes into an old Academy hoodie and unsuccessfully tries to find sleep. She pushes down the guilt for making him think that his feelings weren’t reciprocated and the hollow feeling of another chance being blown away. She convinces herself that it would be too awkward if she and Jake don’t work out and that she’d rather keep him as a friend (her best if she’s being honest with herself) than losing it all for a potential relationship.

The next day she arrives at the precinct and everything is normal. Terry is typing away at his computer, Rosa is sharpening some knives, Gina is on her cell phone, Charles is probably in the break room concocting some disgusting meal and Jake is late.

It’s only when her boisterous partner’s desk remains empty for the next hour that she asks Sarge about his whereabouts; Peralta is late, but he’s never this late.

“He and Charles went out for a case twenty minutes before you came in,” Terry replies before resuming the report he was typing up.

She’s shocked for a moment before brushing off its significance. So what if Peralta is early for once? It’s only a coincidence that today happens to be the day after she shut down any prospect of a them happening.

When he returns several hours later, he walks past both their desks to head to the briefing room, presumably to put together the board and solve the case. Amy doesn’t think too much into the fact that he typically would have cracked a joke, or insulted her and instead chalks it up to the fierce determination she knows Jake has when he’s assigned on a case.

It becomes hard to ignore the obvious change the next few days. Especially when Jake stops joking around with her almost every five minutes giving her no opportunity to complain about his distractions preventing her paperwork from being anything but perfect. When he’s no longer texting her every night and sending her (infuriatingly adorable and butterfly inducing) snaps of him performing mundane tasks in a crazy way only Jake Peralta can accomplish.

And maybe it’s selfish of her (because it’s probably her fault) but he no longer actively tries to get her attention, and his eyes no longer linger on her for a fraction (or more) of a second longer than it should.

It drives her insane to a point where she walks into work ready to give him a lecture of a lifetime and stops halfway to her desk when she spots a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her and Jacob Peralta inquisitively looking at her, wondering why she froze in the middle of the bullpen.

Then,

“Guys! Santiago just got turned on by walking into the bullpen. Please refrain from speaking about the filing that needs to be done in case she explosively combusts from all the dirty talk.”

She should be pissed. She knows. He just insulted her in front of the Captain and several employees but she can’t tamper down the feeling of relief at the familiar look in her eyes. The look before romantic-stylez and it really bummed me out, man.

(She convinces herself that it isn’t loss she feels. She convinces herself that going back to the way they were before Jake left for his undercover mission is what she wants)

And then things go back to normal. He teases her every so often, she replies back with a jibe equal in bite, they solve cases together, and life goes on.

It doesn’t matter that she gets a pang in her chest every time they’re at Shaw’s and someone flirts with him (it helps that he pays no attention to them but rather makes his way over to Rosa to challenge her to a game of pool). It doesn’t matter that she gets a serious case of butterflies every time he buys her coffee or cracks a joke to make her laugh after a particularly bad day.

It does matter until Rosa corners her in the filing room one day.

“What’s up with you and Jake?”

She panics for a split second before spluttering out a hasty response, “Nothing. What’s going on with you and Jake?”

For her effectiveness when undercover, she truly sucks a lying.

“You like him.” Rosa states simply, and there is a brief flash of discomfort that flashes in her eyes; the discomfort that Amy prays she’ll act upon.

She doesn’t and goes for the kill, “You should tell him.”

She says it as if it’s as simple as that. As if she didn’t trample over his heart three times (probably more) already. As if she didn’t effectively shut down any chance of a romantic relationship between them a month ago.

She takes a leap of blind faith, praying that Rosa won’t tell (oblivious of the fact that a tiny little part of her wants Rosa to tell), closes her eyes and whispers, “I can’t.”

Rosa sighs, “Look Santiago, he’s already confessed three times.”

Amy’s eyes shoot open at that. She didn’t know Jake told Rosa. She’s aware that they were in the academy together but she supposes she underestimated the extent of their friendship.

Rosa continues, “And knowing Jake, there isn’t going to be a third. He’s persuasive when he wants to but he’s not going to pester you for a relationship when you keep telling him you don’t want one. He respects you too much for that.”

The words hit her. Mostly because she knows how true they are. Partly because it wasn’t something she considered prior to her conversation with Rosa who is no longer in the room.

Jake, no matter how immature or annoying, is one of the best people she knows. He respects women and as a result, is not going to try and push her into a relationship he thinks she doesn’t want. The thought should relieve her but instead, it gives her a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The idea that Jake has just given up unjustly angers her momentarily before she is reminded that she was the one who gave up first, and what Jake is doing is being a decent human being.

She walks back into the bullpen, genuinely unsure of what to do. She hasn’t been this confused since choosing between cop and art history and it’s unsettling because Amy Santiago does not get this worked up over a guy.

She sits at her desk and takes a moment to study her partner. He’s just received a homicide a few hours ago, a homicide that this precinct shares with the Ninety-seventh and he’s completely engrossed in it.

Captain Holt comes out of his desk and Amy kicks Jake’s leg to tell him to look up.

Holt, who has commanded everyone’s attention the moment he walked into the bullpen (one of the many reasons she holds the utmost respect for him) speaks, “I’m informing all of you that the detective assigned to Peralta’s homicide from the nine-seven is on the way.”

Jake, who was never a fan of teamwork tries to protest, “But Sir—“

Holt holds up his hand and stops him, “Don’t be a child Detective. Detective Drake almost has more case wins than you and Santiago combined. You can use the help.”

She’s already impressed. Between her and Jake, they have a pretty high score; almost the best in the NYPD. This Detective Drake must be a catch to work with and by the expression on Jake’s face, he seems to think the same.

He stands up, “Fine. But if he turns out to be some cocky asshole, you can bet that I’m going to make his life a living hell.”

And he stomps away, probably to refill his cup of coffee.

Holt sighs before requesting, “The Detective is on the way up and I would like all of you to be as welcoming as you can.”

With that, the squad, with the absence of Jake and Gina, line up in front of the elevator as it opens and Detective Drake walks in.

Amy vaguely registers Rosa’s low whistle and Hitchcock’s ‘damn’ and she may not be as verbal in her opinion, but it’s very much the same.

The Detective is dressed casually, almost like Peralta, with jeans tucked into boots and a green bomber jacket over a black top.

She has long straight, dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, her chestnut highlights doing nothing but emphasizing her dark blue eyes and fair skin. If Detective Drake didn’t decide to be a cop, she would have done spectacularly in the modelling business.

She smiles immediately as she spots them, it’s warm and kind and genuine and whatever concerns she once had about the other cop assigned to Peralta’s case dissipates as the woman addresses all of them,

“You didn’t have to greet me. It’s nice though.”

Captain Holt steps forward, “Detective Drake, Captain Holt. I formally welcome you to our precinct. Sergeant Jeffords here will brief you on the case that you will be working with one of our best detectives.”

She perks up at the prospect of working the case, “Cool! I read the file on the way here. This murder is going to be dope. Oh, and you can just call me Vanessa”

The vernacular is so familiar; it causes Amy’s brows to scrunch in amusement and fondness that she chooses to ignore.

“Hey Cap’n do you know—” Jake walks into the room at the moment and all eyes turn to him. It’s one of the things that Amy had hated about him when she first joined; his ability to command a room just by being himself. It’s funny how this trait along with several others that she had thought she disliked were now were things that she admired about her partner.

Her partner who has just dropped his case files and is staring open-mouthed at the newly arrived Detective.

“Nessa,” He breathes in shock and now all eyes pierce the newly arrived Detective, who’s in the same state of shock.

“No way. Jacob Peralta.”

And with that, Jake lets out a huge burst of a laugh and the next thing Amy knows is that Vanessa is running towards Jake as he easily captures her in a bear hug and lifts her slightly off the ground.

Her stomach drops and twists and turns and she wonders if anyone else can hear her awfully loud gulp.

“Oh my gawsh. I really missed you. I cannot believe you’re here.” Vanessa says when they pull away.

“You missed me. Gurl, I spend like a good year trying to find you. Where did you go?” Jake replies.

“Undercover. Two years. Romano family.”

“No way! Samzies!”

Captain Holt clears his throat and asks the question that everyone but Gina is dying to ask, “I’m sorry, you two know each other already?”

Jake answers, wrapping Vanessa in a sideways bear-hug, “We were best friends in highschool thanks to our mutual love of Die Hard and wanting to be a cop. She moved to California a few years later and we tried to keep in touch but it was too hard.”

Vanessa pulls out of his embrace before announcing very loudly, “Did you read the case file?”

Jake answers with equal fervour, “Ho-mo-cide!”

They both high-five each other at the same time while shouting, “Dope!”

The Captain clears his throat, once more commanding everyone’s attention and orders everyone back to their work before telling Peralta and Drake that the brief room is empty for their investigation.

Minutes later Amy is at her desk trying to type up her report but unable to move past the first line since the last three minutes. She prides herself for being able to type up the fastest reports in perfect condition and standards but her eyes seem to constantly drift off to the energetic newcomer who is currently engrossed in a conversation with Gina(who she obviously also knows) twirling a pen in her hands and slightly bouncing on her heels.

“You alright Santiago,” Jake’s voice breaks her out of her creepy staring and she flicks her eyes to her partner who somehow made it to his desk unbeknownst to her.

She makes a mental note of yet another thing that has changed since last month; her name. She must admit that she liked it (more than liked it) when Jake used to call her by her first name. She presumes that calling her Santiago establishes a professional barrier and she had convinced herself that she was happy that he wasn’t making it weird.

Jake follows her gaze to Vanessa and a wide smile breaks out, “She’s the best. I can’t wait to introduce you. You’re gonna love her.”

He’s bursting with energy as if he cannot contain the extreme amount inside of him and it’s so Jake that underneath this awful constricting ball in her stomach (that she convinces herself isn’t jealousy) she feels a burst of affection.

“Peralta, break room,” Terry says, effectively breaking whatever moment they had before Jake gets up and walks away with purpose and excitement.

Walks away to Vanessa.

The entire squad is gathered at the window of the brief room, has been for the past few minutes now. The door to the room is open but no sound comes out; as it has been ever since Jake and Vanessa walked in and forgot to close it.

“What on earth is going on here?” The Captain’s voice causes Amy to whirl around in fear that she might have disappointed her superior officer and ready to apologize if necessary.

Charles shushes him rather harshly before whispering, “They walked into the room, quietly assembled the board, and they’ve stared at this thing in silence for the past five minutes throwing the rubber ball back and forth.”

He’s correct of course. Vanessa and Jake have been in the briefing room for almost fifteen minutes now. They’re both leaned against a desk, postures almost identical, and methodically tossing Jake’s rubber band ball between each other without missing a beat. It’s weird to think that they’ve just reunited after a long separation because they look like they’ve been doing this for years.

(She supposes she’s getting pretty good at ignoring this constricting ball of something in her stomach, spreading to her chest. She’s been good at ignoring it ever since Sophia Perez came into the picture and even after she left)

Finally, after what seems like forever and a bit, Vanessa breaks the silence, “So there were only four people present inside the bank during the murder.”

Jake continues for her, “The manager, an employee and two civilians.”

“Catharine Stulford was helping Miguel D’Souza complete a last-minute transaction”

“While Janveer Phillips was shutting down the monitors and Jessica Austin withdrew 200 from her account across from his desk,” Jake concludes.

Vanessa turns to Jake, “They have no connection to the security guard. No connection means no motive.”

Jake fills in the rest of the blanks, “One of the four was with the other of the four during the time of the murder. Their alibis are each other and it fits.”

If it weren’t for the murder of an innocent security guard, the way the rubber ball crashes to the ground and bursts into a thousand colourful bands as the two Detectives straighten up and look at each other with matching looks of excitement on their faces would have been a comical sight that begged to be filmed.

Vanessa jumps up and down in the air in a way that Amy has only seen one other person do when solving a case, “Their alibis are each other!”

Jake is bursting with energy as he pieces the puzzle, “They’re all guilty!”

“Stulford disabled the cameras while Austin murdered the guard. But what’s the motive?”

It’s an agonizing five seconds of silence. It feels as though the whole precinct is tense with anticipation and the hairs on Amy’s neck stand up straight as the puzzles start to piece together in her own head.

“Money!”

This time, Jake and Vanessa scream in sync, the sound resonating throughout the entire floor, causing Hitchcock to spill his coffee.

At this point Jake is bouncing on his toes as he solves the remnants of the case, “Phillips is the manager of the bank. He has access to the vault’s code.”

Vanessa matches his fast-paced ramble, “D’Souza took the cash, and by the time the seventy-eight came in the next day to investigate, Phillips had erased all records of the missing cash.”

They’re out of breath at this point and the ball in Amy’s stomach forms into a pit in where her heart now falls.

Because Jacob and Vanessa have ceased their exited movements and now stand absolutely still, staring at each other with dopey grins and twinkling eyes.

They’re snapped out of the moment when the Captain walks into the brief room and shoos them away, giving them enough time to snatch their badges from Jake’s desk and hastily throw it over their necks.

Because of course, they wear their badges the same way. Why wouldn’t they?

But Amy returns to her desk and focuses everything she has into typing up this report. As if it will somehow fix all her life problems. As if it will take her back to romantic-stylez, or You liked me back, or I was planning on asking you out so she can take all the chances she had.

And by the time the report is finished (arguably her best work) and she’s handed the file in to a pondering Terry, waves a sympathetic Rosa and an indifferent Gina goodbye, trying too hard not to linger on the empty space on her partner’s chair, she’s gone back to the familiar practice of convincing herself.

Convincing herself that Jacob Peralta is her best and favourite (not that she’ll ever admit it outside of her head) partner and that seeing him work so effortlessly and eloquently with Drake had made her a little insecure of their professional partnership. Convinces herself that this conversation with Diaz has gotten her more than a little rattled, had surfaced past (she convinces herself that it was all in the past) feelings. She convinces herself that she’s in a great position with Jake right now; they trust each other and they have each other’s backs and that’s really all that matters.

She convinces herself that No dating cops is the best thing that she can do for her future because she has a plan set out in order to make Captain and imagine making Captain and having to face a bunch of ex-boyfriends.

And by the time her first alarm rings the next morning, she’s got the mantra ‘This is what I want’ etched so firmly in her head, that for the first time in weeks, she walks into the precinct with a wide smile on her face fuelled by the scent of paperwork and filing.

Her day gets better when she’s assigned to a kickass B&E and she and Rosa are called into the office of Jonas Bailey, New York’s very own engineering billionaire, with an empire big enough to dazzle a celebrity.

The case, thanks to the several cameras and the stupidity of the thief, is closed relatively quickly, and the only job Amy is left with is tracking down the stolen items, which happen to be prototypes made by Bailey to create medical advancement. It’s during events like these where Amy momentarily loses hope in humanity because who could possibly be cold-hearted enough to rob someone of the chance to save a daughter, mother, or lover.

Her CI tells her that there is a good chance of the thief selling the prototypes at the docks and she’s about to tell Rosa to get ready for a stakeout except that she finds her fellow Detective making plans with her boyfriend for dinner. There is a smile on her face and it’s so rare that when Rosa asks her if anything came up, she shakes her head in negative and almost facepalms into the door trying to run away.

She surveys her options when she reaches the bullpen; Charles will either force her to make a pit stop at some restaurant that serves dog liver and she’ll spend all of tomorrow puking her guts out, the Sarge will have to leave soon to tuck his daughters to bed and she is not going to deprive him of that, there’s no way she’ll survive a stakeout with the Captain and that leaves Jake.

He’s distracted with one of his police figurines, moving the arms and legs one way and then the other and the report he was supposed to finish hours ago remains halfway done on his monitor. He looks up as if he can feel her stare (maybe he can. She knows that his stare burns her like a pair of molten rocks) and upon spotting her his, face breaks into a goofy grin.

She drops the case file, complete with the evidence and inputs from the CI, on his desk, “Stakeout? Won’t be more than three hours.”

Apparently thrilled at the prospect of leaving his report (sometimes she has a hard time imagining what it would be like to be him) he gets up from his chair and follows her into the elevator humming a rendition of a Taylor Swift song under his breath all the way into the car.

It’s normal. She relishes in the normalcy of Jake choosing some over-the-top pop song, rolling down the windows and singing his heart and lungs out in between mouthfuls of sugar packed gummies he produced from his pocket. She smiles at the typical Jake-ness as he whines and complains about the lighting, the temperature, and location.

And for the first time in a very long time, after her cheeks have finished aching after a particularly hilarious joke at the expense of Scully, Amy believes that she is going to be alright. She believes that this is how it’s supposed to be and she (after so long of convincing herself to) believes that she’ll be okay with just being Jake Peralta’s friend.

The Bluetooth connected device rings, and the car blasts with an oddly loud song that Amy fails to recognize and she glares at her partner who looks smug, “Jake, when did you even connect your phone?”

He gives her a lopsided grin before answering the call.

“Did I ever mention that you were my favourite person in the whole wide world,” It’s his form of a greeting and it immediately spikes her curiosity as to who is on the other side of the line.

The voice is familiar and it’s as if someone threw a bucket of ice water on her.

“Is that supposed to excuse the Cheeto crumbs on my couch?” Vanessa’s voice holds no malice, just humour and affection and Amy can feel her smile drop.

Jake doesn’t notice.

“How about I make it up to you. I’m on a stakeout but I can come over with a double cheese pizza and Die Hard.”

Vanessa’s laugh is just as pretty as she is, “Is that supposed to be you making it up to me?”

“Double cheese pizza, Die Hard, and a foot massage.”

“Deal.”

“Deal”

The call ends, and Jake burrows himself into Amy’s passenger seat, zipping up his leather jacket to avoid the harsh cold and Amy is left with her wild thoughts and sinking stomach.

(she’ll later go home and convince herself that it has nothing to do with Jake)

The car is filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that Amy usually appreciates when on stakeouts with her man-child of a partner, but she’s too busy bursting with curiosity.

“So. Vanessa.” Her attempt to steer the conversation is admittedly pathetic, but Jake either doesn’t notice or ignores it.

He shrugs, but anyone can see the obvious excitement in his eyes, “We’re catching up. Starting from where we left off. She was, is, important to me ya know. There isn’t anyone else in the world that has every single Die Hard line memorized right down to the gunshots and can out eat me in gummy worms.”

“Are you two—”

She glances away briefly and thanks God that she did.

“Jake, that’s him!”

They get out of the car and follow the perp, who walked into an empty house with a creaky door that made Jake’s face light up like a Christmas tree. He’s always been one for theatrics and she’s always secretly worried that one day it might get him hurt.

They work like a well-oiled machine. Amy would like to say that it was something that she had created a binder to accomplish; ‘How to Be The Best Partnered Detectives with Jake Peralta’ would have had eighteen tabs and a whole library worth of information on how they should collaborate to be the best.

But the truth is, that they’ve somehow managed to work easily off of each other since the very beginning, even when the only thing between them was childish remarks and a fierce need to outdo each other. When they were in the field, they always managed to ease into a routine that makes it look like they’ve been doing it for years.

It’s this partnership that helps Amy catch the perp with ease; Jake running to the back entrance and Amy jumping through the first-floor window to corner the jerk who tried to deprive sick human beings of the chance to recover. She brings him in and locks him up in the holding cell, scheduling a text to Mr. Bailey telling him to come down to the station to give his statement before returning to the bullpen.

It takes her a second to heave in a breath to get rid of the prickling sensation in her chest when she sees that Jake’s desk is empty, and remembers the plans she overheard tonight.

(She convinces herself that she’s gotten used to his teasing remarks as she left the precinct followed by the genuine “See you tomorrow Santiago”)

She walks into the precinct the next morning, unable to even make eye contact with her partner, and heads straight to the interrogation room where Jonas Bailey awaits.

She along with Gina (who was adamant on joining because “There is no way someone that fine should have to endure several moments with Ally alone”) ask him questions about the perp, the items stolen, and the company and at the end she has compiled a list long enough to write a report that fits her standards.

Gina, not one for subtlety, asks questions of her own, “So, are you like, dating right now.”

Amy sends a panicked look at the man in front of her, but he just laughs good-heartedly, “Just proposed a week ago.”

Gina sighs, but it’s obvious she doesn’t mean it, “Damn. Why are all the good ones gone? I’m like the only one left of our kind.”

Mr. Bailey (Jonas. He told her to call him Jonas) gives Gina the typical flabbergasted look everyone gives Gina when they meet her. Amy gets him to sign his papers, before handing him the prototype and watching him walk through the bullpen to the elevators.

It leaves Amy with nothing to do and no one to go to in order to avoid her partner, who, judging from the concerned look he’s giving her, has noticed her persistence in avoiding her desk and him.

“Hey Santiago, mind giving me a hand with this report.” Rosa pulls out a chair for her beside her desk and Amy rushes towards it, never more thankful for her fellow Detective more than she is today.

However, her blood goes cold and her heart falls when all she sees when opening the folder is a blank piece of paper with Diaz’s curly cursive in red ink, ‘You owe me one’.

She gets up from her seat and rushes away into the printing room, laminating and printing and filing before repeating the steps. She goes down for a coffee run for the entire squad despite the dent in her pocket and sends the drinks up with Charles after a fellow officer calls her for help with a case.

She spends the rest of the day with the Captain, answering his beguiling questions with awkwardly phrased answers that he doesn’t seem to mind hearing while actively avoiding Jake’s sad stare every time she walks to her desk to grab something and refuses to look into his eyes. He looks like a kicked puppy, and eventually, by the time they’re set to leave, his sadness morphs into hurt and her heart claws when he walks away without even trying to say goodbye, telling Charles that he won’t make it for drinks tomorrow because he’s having dinner with Vanessa.

She doesn’t break until she gets home, toes of her shoes into their designated corner, hangs her coat on the hook and places her bag on the coffee table. She’s lucky she lasted this long considering the couple of months she had.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she opens her desk drawer and finds the familiar blue binder, flipping to the last page and reading the highlighted words over and over again, trying to find its purpose.

No dating cops.

The purpose of the rule was so that things don’t get awkward at work, so that there isn’t anything deterring her progress to Captain, so that she can preserve her friendship with Jake, so that she’ll still have Jake as a friend if not anything else.

But Rosa’s note, that goddamn note, indicates that she was the one making things awkward. She was the one acting like a complete idiot. She was the one ruining this.

Jake had respected her wishes. Jake was nothing but professional. Jake had moved on.

He moved on.

From her.

And she had feelings for him. She’s always had feelings for him.

And after weeks, no months, of trying to get rid of these feelings. After months of pretending, to be okay with what she had.

After months of constantly lying to herself and convincing herself of everything but the fact (it’s a fact. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life) that she has hopelessly fallen for her partner; her kind, funny, amazing partner who always knows what to say and has had her back for the past eight years, she’s done.

She wants to scream, to shout and cry and vent. God, she wants to vent. She’s been cooping her emotions for so long, and she really needs to talk to someone, to tell someone.

Which is how she ends up on the floor of her bedroom, phone in her hands scrolling through her contacts to find someone suitable to talk to, someone who’ll understand.

Kylie, Rosa, Manny, Mom, Jake.

Her thumb hovers over his name, a smile involuntarily pulling at her lips at the contact photo of him hugging a Die Hard poster during a movie marathon they had three years ago. She scrolls down through his profile and isn’t sure why she’s shocked at the number of times she’s called him; never less than three times a day, never less than an hour per call.

She’s never ever really believed in sudden euphoric epiphanies; they were always portrayed in media in a way that seemed too fictional and unrealistic. But no other words can describe the moment she’s having, this weight (partial weight) that’s been lifted off her chest.

Because Jacob Peralta has always been there for her.

When it was her first week at the nine-nine and she was stressed about her very first case he brought her a cup of coffee and drove her to her old partner for a pep talk.

When she had her first red ball and he brought her food every day, reminded her to sleep, and organized her desk for her.

When her boyfriend broke up with her and he came over to her apartment and spent the whole night watching Property Brothers while eating tubs of ice cream.

Even when there was the bet looming over them, even when she was dating Teddy and he was dating Sophia, he was always there for her. Even when she shut him down three times, he was still there for her, making her smile, solving her cases. He was always there.

He will always be there.

She is never going to lose Jake Peralta.

She doesn’t remember much of what happens next, the events go by in a blur but the next thing she knows is that she’s standing in front of the door to what used to be Gina’s apartment and freaking out.

Jake, being Jake, doesn’t even give her time to do that properly because the second she decides that her courage can only give her so much and begins to walk (walk, sprint. Potato, Potato) away from the apartment door, it opens and Jake is standing there, his eyes widening at the sight of her.

She winces internally, remembering that in her haste to get to him, she neglected to change her clothes or fix herself up a bit so now she stands here in front of him in the wrinkled outfit she wore to work, her hair loose from her bun, raw and vulnerable.

“Amy,” He doesn’t even notice the slip, but she does, and it’s been so long since he called her something other than Detective Santiago, or Santiago, or Ms. Posh or whatever ridiculous name he comes up with, that it gets rid of other weight on her chest.

“I was about to come over to your place,” He admits, looking at her with those eyes. Those goddamn eyes. It reminds her of romantic-stylez, and I wanted to ask you out. It reminds her of everything she lost, all the chances he had.

“You were?”

He smiles cautiously, his eyes guarded and wary, “Yeah,”

He looks so unsure and sad and so perfect that a dam breaks in a normally composed, proper Amy Santiago.

“Look Amy, I’m not sure if I did something or if…”

“I like you!” She blurts out.

And for good measure, in case he didn’t get the hint she adds, “Romantic styles.”

His eyes widen and he would have looked so picture worthy funny if this weren’t of importance. If her whole heart wasn’t the line.

He still doesn’t say anything so Amy cautiously stutters through with an explanation, because he deserves one.

“I know that I’ve been all over the place these past few months, and I’ve said no so many times, but I have feelings for you, I always had feelings for but I was scared. God, I was so scared. So I get it if you don’t want to…”

The next thing she knows is that her back is hitting the wall of the building and Jake’s hands are cupping her chin and her fists are in his hair and he’s kissing her and it’s so soft and so slow and so, so, sweet and she should have known that Jake Peralta was a good kisser.

The kiss ends too soon when he pulls away because oxygen gets in the way but he rests his head against hers and it feels so right, so perfect, so unreal and it’s so scary that it’s only been a second but she cannot remember a time before this. The other Amy, the Amy that wasted her life convincing herself of lies, seems like a faraway memory who said no when she wanted to say yes, hid around her feelings, burned in jealousy when Vanessa came.

“Oh my God! Vanessa!” She jumps away as if someone had shocked her.

Jake looks genuinely confused, “What?”

“Vanessa. What about Vanessa?”

“What about her?”

Amy stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. Jake Peralta may be messy and cocky and may not own any real books, but he is faithful and loyal and those were two things she’s known since the moment she met him.

Still, she has to ask, “Aren’t you two…you know.”

He laughs, reeling back to hold his hands over his stomach at the sheer absurdity of the situation, “No, no, no. We’re not…she’s engaged Ames.”

She not sure whether to focus heavily on the fact that Vanessa, the women who initiated (initiated is too big of a word, she simply lit a spark) her whole spiral is engaged to someone who is not Jake or the fact that she’s just been upgraded from Amy to Ames and she’s never liked a nickname more.

Regardless of the reason, she surges up to meet his lips because she’s never been this happy before and honestly, his kisses are kind of addicting. Not that she’ll ever tell him.

This time, they both pull apart at the same time and Amy wonders how ridiculous this whole thing is.

He’s wearing an old faded out NYPD shirt with jeans, while she’s in a pantsuit that looks like it’s seen better days and they’re both holding each other grinning dopily from ear to ear in the middle of the apartment hallway.

Eventually, Jake tugs her closer to him, intertwining their fingers and she doesn’t even bother analyzing the reasons why it seems so normal, so ordinary (she’ll never analyze why it feels anything but).

“I know that we need to talk and we will, but were you actually jealous of me?”

She rolls her eyes and the world feels right once again, “Shut up.”

They walk into work the next morning, Jake ten minutes after Amy, trying to conceal the fact that she woke up with her head on his shoulder on the couch and the TV still playing reruns of Jeopardy. She heads straight for the coffee machine trying to suppress her twitching lips and instead roll her eyes when Jake dramatically greets her with a “Wassap, Grandma.”

When she returns, Vanessa is sitting on the edge of Jake’s desk, swinging her legs violently, and Amy feels grateful for the engagement ring that she recently discovered hangs around her neck because there would be no way she would have ever been able to hate the Detective, not when she reminds her so much of Jake.

She seats herself at her desk, ignoring Jake’s wiggling eyebrows (an obvious reference to her jealousy) and greets the woman, “Detective…I mean Vanessa.”

She smiles warmly, “Hey Santiago, nice one on the Bailey case.”

Before Amy can reply, Vanessa leans in and whispers softly enough so that no one else but them can hear, “And congrats on the get-together. I was thinking that it would never happen.”

Amy looks at Jake because they agreed to not tell anyone until they had time for themselves. Jake just looks at his friend in shock, “I never told…”

“Oh please. I have more arrests than you Peralta. Besides, all you ever talked about was her and today you came in looking like the day you learned that Jenny Gildenhorn broke up with her boyfriend.”

Amy sighs, “We’re too obvious.”

Jake, for all his talk of keeping things between them and not wanting Charles to know, (“He’ll burst into tears Ames. And then I’ll never hear the end of it”) doesn’t seem to care much. She finds her care slipping away as he gives her that soft smile reserved only for her.

Vanessa continues, “Anyway. I’m happy that the two of you are together. You actually helped me with something of my own.”

Their look of confusion turns into a proud smile (the proud part from Jake, Amy doesn’t know her that well yet) when Vanessa pulls her ring out of her necklace and slips it onto her finger, the diamonds (there are many) glinting under the lights.

“Oh, and my ride’s here. I’ll catch up with you guys soon.”

And the entire precinct, with the exception of Hitchcock and Scully, have the same look of bewilderment and shock as Vanessa Drake walks into Jonas Bailey’s open arms as they peck each other on their lips, his smile widening when he spots the ring on her finger. They interlace hands and walk away into the elevator, and the pieces start to fit together in Amy’s head.

Vanessa and Jonas.

She looks up to Jake’s smug face. Jake, who knew that Amy was working with his friend’s fiancée the entire time.

But his eyes are shining and he looks as happy as she feels so she just smiles at him. A pure, genuine, happy smile.

Months later, she’ll smile that same smile as he goes through her binders one by one to find the picture she took of Vanessa at her wedding and instead finds her list, no dating cops written neatly on the last page.

He’ll look at it and smirk, teasing her about breaking a rule and she’ll roll her eyes and throw a pillow at him, blissfully oblivious to the shining ring tucked away in his sock drawer.

She knew the rule was a bad idea anyway.

#b99 #b99 fic #jake x amy #jake x amy fic #brooklyn nine nine #jake peralta #amy santiago #writing #fanfic #i tried

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