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dabis-devil · 4 years

Note

Could you pretty please do Shinso, Dabi, Overhaul, Kirishima, Shiggy, Bakugo and Tamaki with an S/O with is a ballet dancer and looks fragile but can actually kick ass? Sorry for the long ask but I just really adore you’re stuff!!!!!

Pretty Poison

Aw, thank you anon! Okay, I'd just like to apologize for holding off on my asks. I've seen busy and not feeling well lately, but I'm getting to my requests now! Love you all 🖤

Shinsou Hitoshi

Shinsou is an observational guy

He figured you weren't as innocent as you looked before you proved him right

All of which he figured out with distance.

When set to spar together, he was avoiding all of your agile moves, each one of your attacks

You were pressed to do give it your 100%

With a swing, you attempted to go for his neck with your fist, the purple haired man catching your fist.

He tried to get a blow at your torso, you swatted his fist.

when you tried a strike with the other, he caught that one too.

His leg scooped in the back of your knees, the two of you toppling to the ground.

Toshi is a good boi, he made sure you wouldn't get hurt before he went through with such a calculated move

“ oh kitten- ” he chuckled, tired eyes lock in onto your own. “ nobody expects this of you. . Only fools will underestimate you. ” his tone was eerie

You used your propped up knee to push yourself over. Turning the tables, Toshi on bottom now. “ nice to know. ” you mumbled with a savage smile.

Next thing you know you were helping each other up and leaving the training grounds.

Its when you and Shinsou went on your first date that he learned you were a dancer.

He didn't seem too phased honestly, but he thought it was cool!

“ Can I go to your next recital? ” he asked, thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

You said yes

Before the start of the recital, your eyes wandered endlessly around the stadium.

' where is he? ' your lips curling into a frown.

Maybe he decided he didn't care?

Little did you know, he was in the front row. Just dressed in a suit. . Classy Shinsou is rare

When you leaped across the stage, his large purple orbs followed your angelic form like a puppy eyeing a treat.

He isn't one to pump you up with compliments, but when you finally realized he was staring with a strong force of admiration, that said all.

He would stand and applaud afterward, meeting you in the back room for a bland congratulations and soft hug.

He'll be at every single recital

Every. One.

Dabi

Your innocence was cute, don't get him wrong

But his goal was to corrupt you.

He would place wondering hands on your body, expecting you to become a shell of a human and color to drain from your face

Instead your expression turned playful as you prompted him

Sinful things probably followed

And that's how he learned you werent fragile

With that in mind, this man had nO control

You already know a relationship with him entails dirtiness to keep it sPiCy

And I kid you not, your gracefulness drives him over the edge

Your movement was so controlled it's just- *chefs kiss*

The part of the town the compound was in definitely wasn't a good part of town

So you got harrased :((

“ hey pretty lady, ” a drunk man cooed, his large and sweaty hands running down your arm. “ come with me to the back. . ” he smiled and roughly tugged at your arm.

You could have easily shown this man a piece of your mind. The ghastly shrieks that filled the air stopped you though.

Dabi melted his face off, then left with you like nothing happened.

This why people don't mess with you anymore

Again, this is what makes the two of you a good team. He has your back, you have his, but you can both take care of yourselves.

He didn't really care to know you danced

It's just a hobby, when should he care? Do what you want.

If you dragged him off to recitals or anything don't be surprised if you see him playing on his phone or otherwise not paying attention.

Gives 0 fucks.

If for any reason he is watching

Probably because he think you look sexy.

Maybe it's the outfit, maybe it the way your body flows, who knows?

If you come to him bothered that he doesn't like your dancing, he will either

reassure you that he thinks you look incredibly sexy when you dance, and try to pay a little more attention to your routines

No promises^

Brush off your feelings and move on

Really isn't his cup of tea but A for effort

Bonus: he's asked you to dance on/for him

You're a dancer, of course you know how to lap dance. Of CoUrSe.

Idiot

“ doll, why don't you come show me some of those moves? ” he asks cheekily, already leading you back to the bedroom.

You still did. And you did well. So that's a win on his part-

Overhaul

Kai could appreciate your dancing, there was some sort of elegance in it.

The way your body moved from one figure to another just had his eyes drawn to you like magnets.

The fact that he kidnapped you for entertainment was besides the point

Well initially

You were given the option to leave, but you didn't.

Same offer does NOT apply now that you made your choice

The reason you were taken is for your doe eyes and soulful smile

You put up a damn good fight

But in the end you were being jumped by a few gang members.

Not to mention your escape attempts?

So thought out, and you came this close to busting out of the secret door each time.

Kai’s eyes burned holes hrough your skull when you were restrained to your bed.

“ love, why would you try to leave me? You know bad things could happen. . ” his tone sent goosebumps down your back

He's just possessive

Other than that, you can pretty much do what you want

So long as you stay in base

He turned a room into a dance studio for you

That's just how he shows affection.

he wants to sit and watch you dance until your knees buckle.

You bet your ass he will too.

“ where are you going? ” his eye brows knitted. “ I'm not done watching. ” he growled lowly, as you returned to your craft with a pout.

But that's fine,,,,

Even though he's not a huge fan of touching you

He gives the best massages.

(I'm actually so so sorry for this one, I haven't written Kai and oh my gOd I need to fix this characterization)

Eijiro Kirishima

This beautiful rock man

He thinks you are so adorable.

Literally precious okay, even before romantic ties developed

But when you become a badass out of nowhere, he's kinda stunned

You turned to Mineta and told him off for objectifying you, finishing that confrontation with a kick right to his crotch.

The grape boy wheezed and began to cry, but you walked off unbothered.

Of course Kiri, who had been on his way to save you from his perverted classmate, was like- “ huh?? ”

You being anything but reserved was a new emotion.

He didn't mind of course, he was excited to learn more about you.

And when he learns you're a dancer?

Oh boy.

Eiji supports you. Without a question!

And that's on being manly.

He shows up with roses to every single recital you have, dressed in fine attire, and will be the loudest person in the crowd.

“ WOoOOo!! YOU DID AMAZING Y/N! I LOVE YOUU!! ” He shouted from the top of his lungs.

Actually the first time he said I love you

Lowkey has good moves himself

You'll see that when he's dancing around the dorms to some cheesy music denki or Mina played

If you need help with a move he will put sweat, blood, and tears into perfecting it with you.

He literally won't shut up about you

When he's with his friends?

“ she's so beautiful! You should see her dance too! ” he gushed

Family?

“ y/n is so amazing. . (More babbles about you) ”

A wall?

“ I love y/n so much- ”

Just love him back okay

Tomura Shigaraki

This crusty man has his head in the game and all, but he totally swept you to the side.

He wants things to be blunt and direct

So when you were over there looking like a pure angel he just thought you were

As apart of the liberation front, he expected you to be there for covert missions, and not throw yourself into battle

But when you were over here taking out three heroes simultaneously??

It dawned on him that you were so much more useful.

It had been a late night and Shigs couldn't sleep, so he planned to hang out with you.

Your light shone under the crack of your door, prompting him to ask for your company

He placed a soft knock on your door to which there was no reply.

Instead, the melody of soft classical tunes drifted to his ears. The door creaked open, allowing the blue haired man a peak of insight as to what you were doing.

He saw your figure parading around the room in small leaps, harmonious twirls, and gentle hand movements.

His crimson eyes widened at what he saw. Not only did he realize how beautiful you are, but you were so soothing to watch?

For a little while he will beat around the bush

“ y/n, what were you up to last night? ” he asked, sounding as innocent as a mere child. “ hmm? ” his hands weaved together under his chin, leg swing in under his barstool.

Like when you already know something but you ask somebody anyways just to see what they would say yknow

He would make this one of his favorite things to do, watch you dance.

Over time you caught him staring through your door, and you weren't exactly happy about it

“ tomura! ” you squeaked, catching a glimpse of his florescent red orbs.

You raced over to the door, pausing your music with a fast tap to the pad of your phone.

“ why were you watching me? ” you frowned at your boyfriend, your shoulders building tense.

“ y/n. . ” he mumbled, hand searching for his agitated neck. “ I just couldn't look away. ”

Katsuki Bakugo

Bakugo did not underestimate your abilities. Ever.

From his experiences, he knows not to judge a person's abilities until you get a taste of what they can do.

He tried so hard to manipulate you into using your quirk, or just not being the peaceful person you came off as.

He faaaaailed

When you got to knew him better, you didn't hesitate to mop the floor with him.

He's impressed by your effort, so points there

He definitely liked your soft persona, on the contrary to his.

He won't tell you that though.

The closer you two got, the more he would step in to defend you and stick by your side.

The one time you snapped on somebody, he was left shaking in his boots.

He hasn't seen you behave like that. . He liked it 😏

Now don't get me wrong-

Baku didn't care for your dancing.

He didn't give a single fuck, okay

But whenever he actually saw your graceful dances on stage???

Consider him your biggest fan

But you wouldn't ever find that out. At least he thoughts so.

“ I have another recital tonig- ” you were cut off by an irritated Baku.

“ if you want me to go, just ask, dumbass! Stop whining. ” he snapped, leaving you blinking and dumbstruck

go off lord explosion murder-

He's in the front row just sitting there like

W O W

You already know he'll praise you for your preformance, whether those compliment were backhanded or of pure intent.

And if anybody dare thinks about down talking your dancing? They will be ripped. ..He would tear them apart with him bare hands. no cap.

If you absolutely amaze him, you will get the one in a lifetime chance to watch him stand up and scream your name with a proud grin, something along the lines of-

“ LOOK AT Y/N! (pronoun)'S DOING FUCKING AMAZING, JUST FUCKING LOOK AT MY BABY- ” his hand directed towards you, and you couldn't help but burn a shade of deep rose.

Tamaki Amajiki

Before you two were in a relationship, you had him fooled.

Like Tamaki, you look like a cinnamon roll, but can murder somebody.

You are commonly underestimated, which gives you the upper hand. A lot.

Tamaki taught you how to use that

Training with him was just so sweet.

He'd be scared to hurt you though

Let's add to the fact that since you like like an easy target, you would probably get messed with.

He would be the first to step in and protect you

Despite the fact his hands are shaking, and he stutters a mess.

“ my suneater. . My hero. ” you planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

Here lies Tamaki Amajiki, Rest In Peace

Don't even get me started on your dancing.

He loves it! Absolutely melts his heart.

When he watches you at recitals, rehearsals, maybe even in the dorms, he feels the depth of your movement.

He becomes a flustered mess in the distance,,,,

“ I can't believe thats my bunny, she's doing so well! ” he quietly cooed from the audience.

He will not miss any of your recitals. Unless it's an emergency.

Even then, get prepared for massive cuddles when he gets back.

He'll feel guilty about not being there, he's more upset than you are.

“ Tama it's fine- ” you chuckled softly, cradling your boyfriend in a hug.

“ are you sure bunny? I'm sure you did amazing, and I missed it! ” he whined, fighting the urge to plant his face onto a wall and never look back.

Other than tons of extra love after a missed performance, he will without a doubt dress fancy and bring you a bouquet and some little gifts.

100/10 will pepper you with compliments

Honestly he's an angel

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catsandstrawberries · 4 years

Text

Foot Issues

alright so im feeling inspired so here's a little thing I whipped out

Pairing: BalletTeacherJungkook x DanceStudentReader (mostly ballet)

Warnings: It sounds like a foot kink but its not, (unless you want it to be i guess) readers feet are disgusting, pain because ballet=pain, maybe sugar daddy (who knows, definetly not me 0-o)

Genre: Its literally fluff and I think im gonna make this a series because this is adorable

Summary: Reader is having some foot problems in ballet class one day and Jungkook is quick to check in on her

Ok so Jungkook is one of the biggest goofballs and relatively new to teaching

He's trained all his life in ballet, but after three years at a professional company he decided its not his cup of tea and he loves teaching so much more than performing

He gets job offers from a handful of state dance schools where they teach more than just ballet

He decides on the school that allows him to teach both the littles and the bigger kids because Jungkook is a sucker for the six-year-old smilies with the missing teeth.

When Jungkook firsts start his job he's quick to familiarize himself with the other teachers

Hoseok teaches Hip hop and Jimin teaches jazz and contemporary

It's a pretty versatile studio and the owner Kim Namjoon, even though he doesn't particularly dance, is suddenly Jungkooks idol

Namjoon is so good with the kids and teens, and he's so young and has already created such a strong business

Insert Jungkook making heart eyes at Namjoon uwu

But then Namjoon introduces Jungkook to you

You are one of the girls on scholarship taking the upper-level classes while pursuing a dance degree at college

"Jungkook, this is (y/n). She's one of the university students here on a scholarship. You might see her around because she clean's the studios on Monday and Wednesdays as apart of her scholarship, so if you need anything and can't find the other teachers feel free to ask her."

Jungkook thinks you look sweet enough, but it's odd for him at first because you only look two or three years younger than him but he's gonna be your teacher

You smile and try not to bust a nut because oh my god he's fucking attractive

You try to mask the color on your cheeks but before you can talk more Mr. Park is calling you because Contemporary is about to start

So you yeet yourself out of there, finally letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding

So you find out Jungkook is a pretty decent teacher

The only issue is all of the other uni students are too busy staring at his ass than actually paying attention

Well....you are too, but you aren't as obvious as them, right?

The cast list for the show specifically for the university kids is coming out soon

The show is the wizard of oz and you really want to be the wicked witch of the west

What? Not only does she get to do the fun, big jumps but Dorothy is overrated

So you have been working really hard in class and haven't really been paying attention to Jungkook until your foot starts to hurt bad

Your pointe shoes are relatively new and you haven't rolled your ankle so you don't really understand why

Jungkook comes up to you during a développé combination and he's grabbing your leg and placing your foot on his shoulder, his hands pushing your ankle up.

Ooooof the pain

you bite your lip to avoid the discomfort but Jungkook only scolds you,

"Relax."

sure relax, you try lifting your leg above your head.

But no, seriously Jungkooks extensions are insane, you watched him do a leg hold turn once and it was crazy

When Jungkook puts your leg down he immediately notices how red and swollen your foot is

After barre when all of the students go to the centre he calls you out and asks you to put on your flat shoes

You blank because

ExCUse mE

First off, he didn't ask any of the other girls to take off their pointe shoes, and you don't want him to think you're lazy or incapable and then give you a bad part in the show

You kind of stand there like an idiot while he raises his eyebrows at you,

"Bu-"

"now (y/n)"

Jungkook is never really strict with your class, sure he gets annoyed when some of you get off the music (cough cough* its always Lisa* cough cough) or when he has to give the same corrections, but he's pretty chill, he even lets you call him Mr. Jungkook

He wanted to be called Jungkook but Namjoon said he needed to keep a level of professionalism

Anyways

Jungkook sound generally mad at you and you try to hide your annoyed facial expression while you rip off your ribbons and slip on the flat shoes that make you look like a novice

On the bright side, you can do a triple pirouette in flat shoes while you can only do doubles on a good day in your pointe shoes

Class is kind of hazy because you're still annoyed but once it's over all of the girls go to bow to Jungkook because it's proper and you should always bow to your teacher

"Wait, (y/n), can you stay after? I want to take a look at your foot."

"Um...ye-eah, sure."

Fuck

You're gonna be alone with this snack

Jungkook sits cross-legged on the floor, clad in his tight, but somehow flexible jeans and his black T-shirt

"Did you do something to your foot? It was really swollen in your pointe shoe today."

You take off your flat shoes and roll back the tights of your injured foot though you practically feel no pain

Okay...

SO Jungkook is ATTRACTIVE, and he's gazing at your feet as if its the most important thing on the planet

but your feet are fucking disgusting

Your big toe lost a toenail the other day and you have blisters on your third and fourth toes. Bandages cover your pinky and its completely red.

"I'm gonna touch your foot."

Jungkook grabs your foot and puts it in his lap and looks up at you through the fringe of his hair, and this motherfucker starts to giggle

"Um..." You worry he's lost his shit for a second but then he's looking back down at your foot

"I've seen my fair share of gross feet (y/n), no need to be embarrassed"

Okay you're blushing all over and looking anywhere but him as he starts to ask questions

"Does it hurt? Can you feel this? Have you rolled over your box"

"No, no, and no."

This boi

He starts to massage your foot

Your filthy, ugly, foot

and it's strangely intimate

You gasp in a very unsexual way that sounds very sexual

You suddenly feel everything as if the blood was finally rushing to your foot

"Your pointe shoes are definitely too tight. My guess is that because of how hard you've been working your feet have swelled up a bit, which is normal-"

How can Jungkook move his hands like that? His fingers are spreading the skin and rolling his palm against the arch of your foot and it feels like heaven. His hands are distracting you so much that you don't even hear the compliment he gave you

"You're gonna need new pointe shoes though."

You stop drooling and flinch your foot away from his hands

"What?"

"You need new pointe shoes."

POINTE SHOES ARE EXPENSIVE

and you're BrOKe, there's a reason you're a scholarship girl

"What would happen if I just keep dancing on the pointe shoes I have now."

He sends you the same glare he did in class

"I won't let you dance in those shoes (y/n). They cut off your circulation and could damage your feet."

His eyes suddenly widen and he starts to blush a bit, "if money is a problem I can help you out."

"What? No, I can figure something out, and I don't want you to feel like I'm using you and I already have the scholarship I cou-"

Jungkook after rubbing some hand sanitizer into his hands that are kept in all the studios helps you to your feet by gently grabbing your hands

"(Y/n) I know your scholarship doesn't cover your pointe shoes, and if you want to be ready for rehearsals for Wiz you'll need them by Wednesday."

He gauges your reaction carefully and gently grabs your elbows as he stands in front of you,

"Hear me out, I pay for them, you pay me back when you have the money. Deal?"

You hate this, but you have no idea what else to do, and he's right. If you don't have them for rehearsals they might lower your position or not cast you.

"Fine."

You're suddenly very conscious of how close the two of you are and you both jump away as if you've burned each other

"Um, I should go." You turn to grab your bag but just before you head out the door you send Jungkook a smile.

"Mr. Jungkook, thank you seriously."

Jungkook will come to realize, that your smile will be stuck in his head for the rest of the week.

#jung jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader fluff #jungkook fluff #ballet reader #dance teacher jungkook #bts #bts x reader #bts x reader soft #soft jungkook #ballet teacher jungkook #ballet teacher bts #dance teacher bts #foot fetish?

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annathewitch · 5 years

Text

An Apple A Day

Summary: Leonard McCoy x Reader. An unexpected encounter with Leonard McCoy at the Academy leaves you with a poor impression. Will he manage to redeem himself when you encounter him again years later?

Word Count: 6,000

Warnings: Little bit of swearing, and a tiny bit of angst. Incidental o/c death.

A/N: My entry into @thefanficfaerie’s West Wing Challenge! I LOVE The West Wing and it has some really quotable lines. I chose “Nature, like a woman, will seduce you with its sights and its scents and its touch, and then it breaks your ankle, also like a woman.” It screamed cynical post-divorce Bones to me... This is the first thing I have written to completion in a long-while - I hope you enjoy it!

..........

Your training as a cadet is intended to prepare you for the unexpected and unexplained. After all, there’s so much out there in deep space that cannot be predicted. However, you’re more than a little startled by the man lurching out of the bushes with a shout, as you take your usual shortcut across the Academy grounds from the botany lab back to the dorms.

You find yourself assuming a defensive stance, noting with detached surprise that Lt Commander Ono’s persistence in teaching you basic combat skills has actually paid off. Still, it’s a relief when you don’t have to test your tenuous muscle memory further, as the man — another cadet judging by the reds — simply grunts a string of inventive obscenities and sits heavily on the path in front of you clutching a tree branch.

He’s most likely drunk, but, just as you’re thinking you should really check, you realise that you actually know him.

“Cadet McCoy? Is that you? You, uh, startled me.” You crouch down beside him and he squints at you, a little unfocussed in his gaze. You gesture towards yourself. “Cadet Y/L/N? We have an advanced xenobiology class together?”

He grunts again and you try not to feel too hurt that he clearly doesn’t recognise you. The class you take together is compulsory for all science track cadets and you’re not the type to draw attention by debating with your professor. Not like McCoy. It still stings just a tiny bit because by any standard, even in his less than pristine current state, he’s an attractive guy.

“Are you okay?” You wave vaguely around in the direction he came from.

He shifts a little and winces, and just when you think he’s not going to answer, he sighs. The whiskey scent of his breath confirms your initial suspicion that he’s had more than a couple of drinks.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” It seems like a dismissal, but as you stand he actually looks at you properly and bites out, “Dammit. Help me up would ya.”

“How could I refuse such a gracious request.” You roll your eyes, wishing that he had stumbled across some other poor unsuspecting cadet and that you could be back in your dorm. Still you stick an arm out and brace yourself as he uses it to lever his unstable frame from the ground.

It becomes apparent that he is less than fine the minute he tries to take a step away from you. He bellows like an enraged bull, and does what looks like an awkward pirouette before toppling towards you. It’s all you can do to catch him under the arms and stop him crashing to the ground again. Unfortunately, this means he practically faceplants in your boobs and you’re on the receiving end of another boozy exhale.

“Shit, McCoy, you’re no ballet dancer. How much have you had to drink?”

“No more than usual. It’s my damned ankle!” McCoy protests, righting himself on one foot. “Stupid fucking tree.” Turning pink around his collar, he glares at the fine specimen of an apple tree that was probably here long before the Academy built a dorm right next to it and long before an intoxicated cadet decided to take exception to it.

“What did the tree ever do to you? Besides produce perfectly edible fruit?” A single apple, presumably from the branch McCoy was wielding, is sitting at the edge of the path and you pick it up. “White Pearmain. Dates back to the 1200s.”

McCoy looks at you with a raised eyebrow as if you’ve grown an extra head. “What are you? Some kind of fruit historian?”

“Botanist, actually.” You pocket the apple. “Look, can you manage from here?” You ask, more out of hope than expectation.You’re vaguely curious about the situation and, before this evening, would have jumped at the chance of spending some time with the tall, dark and brooding cadet, but right now he just seems grumpy and ungrateful.

“There’s a satellite med-centre just around the corner. Can you help me there?” It takes a pointed look for him to mutter something unintelligible and growl, “Please?”

You smile as if to say ‘there that wasn’t so hard now’ and he huffs impatiently.

“It won’t be staffed at this time of night,” you point out.

“Doesn’t matter.” He does a kind of wobbling hop in the direction he wants you to go. “Are you gonna help me or not? Please?” He adds without any prompting this time. When he’s being polite, there’s a pleasing southern lilt to his voice.

You glance around, but there’s no one else in sight and by the time you could comm security you could have deposited McCoy where he wants to go. Even if it seems patently pointless.

“Fine. But I want to know why you were lurking in the bushes in the first place.” You stand on the cadet’s good side, and let him lean his weight across your shoulders. You reprimand the part of your brain that insists on making you aware that underneath the liquor he smells warm and spicy.

With you as a crutch, you make steady shuffling progress to the med-centre, mostly in silence except for McCoy’s occasional cursing when he tries to put too much weight on his injured ankle.

The centre, one of the daytime ones for check ups and routine treatment, is in darkness when you get there and you resist the urge to tell him ‘I told you so.’

“What now? You can’t just sit out here until morning?”

“Don’t intend to darlin’,” he grins crookedly as he places the palm of his free hand against the entry pad and to your surprise the door slides open. “Doctor’s privileges,” he stage whispers.

“You’re a doctor?”

“Got it in one Sherlock. On rotation at Starfleet Medical between classes.” He steers you both towards the exam room which also swishes open at the touch of his hand. “Physician heal thyself,” he announces with a flourish and a smug grin.

He hops around the small room leaning on the counter and furniture, rummaging in drawers and cupboards while you loiter awkwardly by the door unsure if you should just make your excuses. Doctor or not, surely this is breaking one of Starfleet’s many regulations?

“Uh, are you sure this is okay?” You ask tentatively. “Maybe I should just leave you to it?”

McCoy glances up from the cupboard where he’s going through vials of what look like hypospray cartridges. “It’s fine. Anyone asks, you had nothing to do with it.” He puts some medication on a little trolley next to the biobed, and hauls himself onto it swinging his good leg up then more carefully lifting his injured one up after. “You mind giving me a hand here?”

It’s not really phrased as a question, and part of you would dearly like to leave him to it, but for some inexplicable reason — maybe its the way he’s looking up at you from under his messy fringe — you find yourself asking, “What do you want me to do?”

“Play Doctor with me,” he drawls and you belatedly remember that this man is most probably drunk and not more than fifteen minutes ago jumped out of the bushes at you. You file away a reminder to reconsider your life choices when you eventually get back to your dorm.

Thankfully, McCoy seems sincere about the doctoring part, and all he wants is some assistance removing his boot. He administers his own hypo first, which he tells you is a painkiller, but he still muffles another string of curses as you ease the boot over his heel while he steadies his swollen ankle.

After a few breaths, he presses a few buttons on a tricorder and passes it to you. “Move this over my foot and ankle, slowly,” he instructs before tacking on a hasty, “please.”

You do as instructed, waving the instrument methodically up and down making sure that you don’t miss any spots. You can see an image forming on the display behind the biobed, but have no idea what it means.

McCoy is twisted around to look. “That’ll do, thanks.” He squints and mutters under his breath, something about a Jim or maybe a John.

“Is it bad?”

“Nah, just a sprain. An hour under the regen unit and it’ll be good as new.” McCoy has you bring over a piece of equipment sitting on the countertop, and talks you through setting it up around his ankle. He adjusts the settings himself though and it’s not long before he’s reclined comfortably with the unit gently whirring and bathing his foot in blue light.

There’s no other seats in the room, and so you perch on the countertop. Five more minutes, you tell yourself, and you’ll leave the doctor to it.

“You still haven’t told me why you were hiding in the shrubbery, McCoy.”

He glares at you, eyebrow raised and the pinkness creeping up around his collar again. “I was hoping you would forget about that.”

“If I’m going to get kicked out of Starfleet for breaking into a med-centre, an explanation is the least I deserve.”

You hold his gaze and eventually he huffs sulkily and looks away. “We didn’t break in. And I fell. Fell and sprained my damned ankle.”

You frown. Fell, not tripped. It dawns on you after a moment — the tree branch and the apple. “You fell? Don’t tell me you fell out of the tree?” His silence and flushed face is incriminating. “Why the hell were you in the tree in the first place?” A horrible thought crosses your mind. “Were you... spying on someone?”

“No!” McCoy protests, “I’m an idiot not a voyeur! My fool of a roommate managed to lock me out! I was trying to break in to my own damned dorm. Climbing the tree seemed like a good idea at the time.” He grumbles something about hypo-ing someone’s ass, presumably directed at his roommate.

His indignation seems genuine and you’re a little relieved that you haven’t managed to find yourself alone in a deserted med-centre with some kind of creepy stalker. Though on reflection he’s still a drunk who thought climbing a tree was a sensible course of action.

“You know you could have called security, unless you make a habit of breaking and entering?”

He props himself up on one arm to glare at you again, though you’re starting to think that perhaps it’s just his default expression. “I told you already we didn’t break in. And clearly,” he waves an arm in the general direction of his foot, “I’m not a very successful cat-burglar.”

Your lips twist in a wry smile. McCoy looks just a little bit self-satisfied and settles back with his head resting on his arms.

“So, you’re a botanist then?”

“Yup.”

“Rather you than me.” He chuckles a little as he says this and though a second ago you were starting to warm to him, now you bristle at his tone.

“You’re not a fan of nature then?’ you ask archly. “You seem pretty fond of trees.”

“Touché, darlin’.” He grins again at you, not seeming to register the coolness of your question. “Me and the natural world rub along just fine, as long as we maintain a respectful distance from each other. Trouble is, you botanists and geologists and biologists, you get all starry eyed at the thought of all those new worlds to explore, those billions of new specimens to examine — Vulcan vines, seventy different kinds of Denobulan phosphorescent moss.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Sure they look pretty, but you know what I see? A billion new potential bio-hazards that you scientists are just desperate to expose us all to, and it’s doctors like me that are going to have to pick up the pieces. People think that its red shirts who give doctors the most trouble, but give me a phaser burn or shrapnel injury over a blue shirt who’s inhaled a mystery pollen any day.”

This outburst is unexpected, and you’re unsure whether you want to laugh or be offended. Maybe both. “Well that’s a remarkably cynical view of Starfleet’s scientific research programme,” you say drily. “And here I was thinking we were discovering the wonders of the universe.”

McCoy props himself up on an elbow again and jabs a finger at you. "Discovering the wonders of the universe my ass. Nature, like a woman, will seduce you with its sights and its scents and its touch, and then it breaks your ankle, also like a woman.”

You think the noise you make is a disbelieving snort. Any sense of warmth evaporates as the doctor incriminates himself as just another egotistical, opinionated ass. He looks so utterly cocksure it makes your blood rise. You pull out your comm theatrically and flip it open.

He frowns. “Who you calling?”

“The Cretaceous period. They want their dinosaur back.”

“Very funny. That’s cute.”

Cute? You snap the comm shut, and throw your hands up in the air. “I mean, seriously?” You don’t even know where to begin. “I help you and then you insult my profession and my gender. Is there anything else you’d like to criticise - my family perhaps?”

McCoy jerks upright, looking surprised. “I meant women like my ex-wife and her cronies. Not you.”

“Why thank you for exempting me from the seducing, ankle-breaking majority. Though I guess I’m still a reckless botanist.” You berate yourself for staying as long as you have, swayed by a pretty face, and hop down from the counter. “I think I should be going.”

“Come on,” he drawls, “we were getting on so well. You know this is actually the best date I’ve been on in years.” He winks at you. An actual wink. The man is delusional.

“You need to seriously rethink your definition of a date.”

“Okay. I’ll take you out for coffee sometime then.”

“It’s tempting.” You mime an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I mean, what with you being an irascible divorcé with a ton of emotional baggage that you’re dealing with by getting drunk, falling out of trees and insulting women you barely know and all. However, I fear I must decline.”

“Ouch!” he clutches a hand to his chest. “A simple no would have worked.”

You remember the apple you stuffed in your pocket earlier, and throw it at McCoy who catches it awkwardly before it thumps him in the chest.

“What was that for?” he grumbles.

You shrug. “You know what they say. An apple a day...”

As you turn to leave, you imagine for just a second that a look of disappointment flashes across his face. He’ll get over it. A guy like him will forget all about you in a couple of days.

You don’t regret turning McCoy down, even if you pause for a moment when the flowers arrive a few days later, with a comm number and a request to let him make it up to you. You don’t regret it either when he catches your eye in class, while he’s defending the point you were trying to make to the professor, though you have to remind yourself that he thinks you and your colleagues are nothing more than accidents waiting to happen.

By the time you get your first posting on the science ship USS Intrepid, the night you had to help a cadet who fell out of a tree has become nothing more than an amusing academy anecdote, and you’re far too busy to ever think about what might have been, had Cadet McCoy been a little less of an ass.

...........

It’s amazing then, how clear your recollection is of that night years ago as you’re being wheeled through the corridors of an unfamiliar ship inside some kind of stasis tube. It’s the unmistakeable southern drawl, alternating barked orders with unexpectedly gentle reassurance, that sends you straight back to a long-forgotten exam room light years away in San Francisco. If you could focus, you know there would be a messy dark fringe and pair of serious hazel eyes hovering over you.

It’s getting harder to breathe and the tube feels more and more claustrophobic. The overhead lights start to flash by more quickly as you realise the medical team has started moving at a run.

“Don’t worry Y/N, we’ve got you,” you hear McCoy say gruffly. “You hang in there.”

It goes dark.

There’s unconnected flashes of things — a spray of warm water with the sharp tang of antiseptic, hooded faces, the feeling of a mask that pinches across the bridge of your nose, piercing beeps — but the first thing you’re really aware of is waking up in a biobed with the gentle whir of a tricorder being waved over your chest. You try to sit up and a hand presses down on your shoulder.

A figure in a familiar biohazard suit leans over you. “Well hello there.”

“McCoy?” Your voice is little more than a croak and from somewhere behind you another pair of hands swabs your cracked lips with something syrupy.

“Got it in one, Sherlock. How’s my favourite fruit historian feeling?”

His brow is arched expectantly. He remembers.

“Like an elephant sat on my chest.” There are bands of tightness around your rib cage, but you take a deep breath anyway. “Or maybe like I fell out of a tree.”

McCoy barks a laugh, and you attempt a smile. But he’s quick to resume his serious doctor demeanour. “Y/N, you were exposed to toxic spores from a fungal sample that an Ensign was working with. You started bleeding into your lungs. You had us all worried for a while.”

“I remember,” you whisper as it comes flooding back — the shrill of the bio-hazard alarms, Ensign Collet’s containment chamber not quite properly closed, and the quiet Frenchman coughing up blood. You remember triggering the containment protocols on your lab section and dragging Collet into a decontamination chamber while the rest of your team look on from the other side of the glass. “Collet?” you ask, already knowing what the answer will be.

The doctor shakes his head. “His exposure was more serious than yours. By the time the Enterprise team arrived planetside it was too late. I’m sorry Y/N. It was a miracle no one else was exposed, you were very brave.” His gruff sincerity is too much.

“Stupid and reckless more like,” you growl, as you squeeze your eyes tightly shut so you can’t see the ‘I told you so’ expression on his face. Tears drip down the sides of your face into your ears. “I think I need to sleep.”

“Okay.”

A hand presses your shoulder again, then there’s the clunk and hiss of an airlock and then silence.

The next time you wake up, everything seems a little less sore and your breathing is easier. You focus on the room for the first time. It’s a tiny little box, with an observation window on one wall and the biobed, a little table and two chairs. Apart from the airlock, there’s another smaller door, which you assume must be a bathroom. You sigh — it’s just like every other isolation unit you’ve seen.

McCoy comes in, still in the suit, and helps you sit up in the biobed. He checks your vitals, murmuring approvingly every so often. When he’s done he sits in the chair beside your bed.

You try and scrutinise his expression through the plastic visor. “Hit me with it McCoy. How long am in in quarantine for?”

“Until you’ve been asymptomatic for three weeks. Spock, Commander Spock that is, is ninety-nine percent certain that will cover the maturation cycle of any spores that might have survived decontamination.”

“Three weeks.” You blow out a breath and nod. “Okay, I can do that.”

“I’ll get you a padd to help pass the time and Uhura will hook you up with a comm link if you need to contact anyone. It’s going to be pretty dull though.” He reaches out a gloved hand and rests it on your arm. You stare at it mildly surprised at how nice McCoy is being, given, well... before. He seems to remember himself and pulls away, flexing his fingers.

“Will you come and talk to me?” you find yourself blurting out. “I mean only if you’re not busy. Of course you’re busy, but, I don’t know anyone else.”

“Me?” The eyebrow is doing its thing again. “I could find you someone a bit less... irascible.”

“Oh. Right. That. I was probably a bit harsh.” You’re surprised to find that you’re disappointed.

The doctor stands up and paces the few steps towards the window. He rocks back and forth on his toes a couple of times, before turning back to face you.

“No Y/N. I was an arrogant, self-absorbed, asshole, with a chip on my shoulder a mile wide, and within a hair’s breadth of becoming a drunk. You punctured my ego with ruthless efficiency. I was hurt at first, and determined to prove you utterly wrong, but the more I thought about it, the more obvious it was.” McCoy lifts a hand to his head as if to run his fingers through his hair until he realises he can’t and he just ends up smoothing the top of his hood awkwardly. “Dammit Y/N, I’m just surprised you want to even speak to me after what I said. It’s been years and I still cringe.”

You grin wickedly. “Come on. I thought we were getting on so well!”

The doctor groans. “Are you going to remind me of everything I said word for word? If you are I’m going to get Spock in to sit with you instead. You’ll be begging me for mercy after three weeks.”

“Not word for word...”

You’re surprised by how much you start to look forward to McCoy’s visits. He brings cards and you argue good-naturedly over the cheat rules of Ferengi poker and he teaches you the basics of chess. Sometimes you just talk. He asks you questions about botany and where you’ve been posted since leaving the academy and seems genuinely interested in your replies. In return he tells you all about the less glamorous side of serving on the flagship, with an unexpected flair for the dramatic. You wonder if he notices that neither of you talk about anything too personal.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a tiny bit disappointed on the days where the doctor can’t spend more than a few minutes with you, taking vitals and swabbing for spores. Usually Christine Chapel comes and sits with you then, and you try and slip unobtrusive questions about McCoy into the conversation. If she notices, she’s too polite to say anything.

It’s one day towards the end of the third week, that the person in the suit is someone new. Though you’ve ever met him, you’ve seen his face in holo-form a million times and would recognise the Starfleet poster boy anywhere.

“I’d stand to attention, Captain, or salute or something, but I’d probably fall over.”

Kirk smiles dazzlingly, “Relax, this is a social call. Call me Jim.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jim. Take a seat.”

He sits, leaning back with one leg crossed, looking for all the world like he’s lounging in his quarters not sat in an isolation unit with a stranger.

“Bones sends his apologies, he was called away. I offered to come and keep you company and it’s past time I introduced myself to you as a guest on my ship.”

“Bones? You mean McCoy?”

Kirk grins. “Yeah, it started as a joke at the academy and kinda stuck. I don’t think he minds, much.” He sweeps a glance over the room and shudders. “I’ve spent my fair share of time in these units, but not three weeks. I’m amazed you’re not climbing the walls.”

The corners of your mouth lift into a half-smile. “I’m too tired to climb anything, Captain. Jim. McCoy’s been kind enough to distract me.”

Jim leans forward propping has elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “So I hear. You know, when I’ve been in isolation he usually just visits me to stab me with hypos and yell at me that I’m ‘out of my corn-fed mind’.” He does a passable imitation of McCoy and you giggle. “I like to think grumpiness is his form of affection.”

He spots the chess set. “You play?”

“Badly.” You scrunch up your nose. “McCoy’s been teaching me, but I’m not as quick on the uptake as usual.”

He rub his hands together in a rustle of fabric. “Well then let me teach you a couple of moves to help you beat him.”

You play for a while, Kirk coaching you through a couple of Vulcan gambits. It’s only when you’ve begun to relax a bit that he turns the conversation back towards you and McCoy.

“You know I didn’t ever think I would get to meet The Botanist,” Jim says as he casually moves to take one of your rooks.

“What do you mean.” You eye the Captain suspiciously. He clearly knows more than he has let on so far.

“You’re her, aren’t you? The botanist from the Academy. The One That Got Away.” Jim wiggles his fingers in air quotes around the last part.

“That’s ridiculous,” you snort. The idea that your encounter had meant anything more than a bit of wake-up call to McCoy was madness, wasn’t it? You move a piece blindly.

Kirk shrugs. “All I know is that one night he met you, you turned him down — quite spectacularly by all accounts — and he couldn’t think about anything else for weeks.” He moves his queen. “Check.”

“But he got over it after that, right?” You hop a knight over one of his pieces and capture a pawn.

“Sure, he stopped crying into his cereal after a while. But I think you were always his biggest regret. There’s more than once when he’s in one of his more reflective moods that he’s wondered what if he hadn’t screwed it up with the Botanist. Checkmate, by the way.”

You’ve lost all interest in the game now anyway. Surely this is an exaggeration. “Why are you telling me this Jim?”

He stands and puts the chair back at the table. “I know McCoy. Even if he denies it, there’s a part of him that thinks maybe this is a second chance. His feelings run deep Y/N, I’d hate to see him get hurt if he’s wrong.”

“So you want to know if I plan to, I don’t know, seduce him, then break his ankles — metaphorically speaking?” This is a lot to take in, but it’s clear that you’re getting The Talk from Jim. It’s hilarious and mortifying at the same time.

“Metaphorically speaking, yes. He’s different than he was in the Academy Y/N, if you give him a chance.”

“I already know that, Jim. And I’ve never been the ankle-breaking type.”

“He’s still the grumpiest man I know.” Jim shakes his head.

“Irascible.” You smile. “But I think I’m getting to appreciate irascible.”

“Well... good.” As if a switch has been flipped, Jim’s serious expression is replaced by one of pure sunshine and he give’s you a jaunty wave as he let’s himself out of the airlock.

You flop back on the bed, hugging a pillow. There’s far too much to think about here when all you want is to sleep.

The final couple of days in quarantine drag. Something has shifted between you and McCoy, with the knowledge of what Kirk said hanging between you and you wonder how much of that Kirk has shared with his friend.

Though he visits as usual, the doctor seems more on edge, a little more watchful. It’s impossible to really tell anything, though, with the biohazard suit masking the truth of his expression. You’re itching to be out of this room, to have some privacy, to actually look into his face and tell him... tell him what?

Hi Doctor McCoy, I used to think you were an asshole, but now I want to jump your bones?

“Did you say something?” McCoy looks up from the biobed display and you realise you must have been mumbling. You feel heat rush from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair.

“Nope,” you choke out. “Nothing.”

He regards you with his customary raised eyebrow. “So, we’ll being doing your final decontamination tomorrow and then you’re free to go. Everything looks normal here and all your swabs have been clear for weeks.”

“Oh!” You knew it was coming, but it’s only just hit you now that it means the end of your almost daily visits. “We should have an end of quarantine party or something!”

McCoy busies himself entering some data into the panel on the wall. “Well, actually, Doctor M’Benga is going to oversee your procedure tomorrow.” He looks up at you frowning a bit. “I’ll hope to check in on you later when you’re settled in your quarters though.”

Hope to. You nod, deflated. This is it then. You think you should say something. You thought you would have time to prepare, but he’s making his way to the door so it’s now or never.

“McCoy!” He pauses at the airlock and looks back at you, just as your mind goes blank. “Thank you, for everything. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better.” You kick yourself mentally at your brilliant choice of words, which convey exactly your strength of feeling towards the doctor.

“Me too. Uhm, you that is. Getting to know you.” He clears his throat. “See you tomorrow Y/N.”

Emerging back into the real world is a bit of an anti-climax. Sparse white rooms seem to be the norm on the Enterprise rather than a particular feature of the isolation unit, you realise when Christine wheels you into your quarters for the first time. Still at least you have more than about 90 square feet of space to explore, and not everything whirs and beeps at your every movement. Still, it could use some plants.

Christine gives you a quick tour, before retrieving a bag from the wardrobe. She looks at you knowingly.

“Doctor McCoy mentioned that you have nothing with you. So I thought you might appreciate some clothes.” She opens the bag and pulls out some comfy looking loungewear that’s positively luxurious after weeks of disposable scrubs. “Someone will replicate you up some uniforms, but I thought it might make you feel a bit more human.”

You rub the soft fabric between your fingers. “Thanks Christine.”

“I, uh, also threw in a bit of make-up and a hairbrush and stuff. I can help you get ready if you like?”

You’re only going to be sitting on the couch, and then the bed, at least for the next 24 hours, but the thought of looking a bit more presentable sounds nice, and you’d be lying if there wasn’t a small part of you hoping that if McCoy comes later he sees you as more than a patient. “Sure, why not.”

Christine takes it more seriously than you expected, and really ‘a bit of make-up’ turns out to be a full on beauty kit, but by the time she leaves you’re brushed and moisturised and subtly glowing like you’ve spent three weeks in a spa not in quarantine with dubious lung function. Now there’s nothing to do but wait.

Being shaken awake by a large warm hand is unexpected. As is the voice edged with concern calling your name. “Y/N, wake up for me darlin’.” After a beat, “Please.”

You crack open one eye, thinking how southern he sounds when he’s being polite. “M’awake McCoy,” you slur sleepily. He’s perched on the edge of the couch next to you in all his rumpled gorgeousness. “Been breaking and entering again?”

“Doctor’s privileges,” he says with a wry smile. He helps you sit up and you revel in the warmth of his ungloved hands. “You look different. Nice. Nice different not...” he stumbles and tails off.

Though he’s avoiding your gaze, you’re enjoying being able to see him properly again, to see the flush creeping up his neck. You take pity on him.

“Why thank you. I washed my hair in actual water. And Christine worked a bit of magic to make me look human.”

He nods and meets your eyes finally for a second, before jumping up. “I brought you something,” he says, retrieving an arrangement of brightly coloured flowers from the counter. “I checked them out with the botany lab, they’re officially the least dangerous plant in the Alpha Quadrant. Some kind of daisy from Risa. I thought you might be missing some greenery.”

“Leucanthemum Risaii — totally harmless. Thanks McCoy.” You fuss with the flowers a bit, smiling and put them on the table beside you. “So, do you want to check me over?”

He looks at you in confusion. “Um no. Unless you need me to? Dammit, I should have asked how you were feeling.” He reaches out to take your hand pressing his fingers against your pulse.

“No! No, I’m fine McCoy. I just thought you’d need to do some... doctory stuff.”

“Oh.’ His expression clears. “Right. So I, uh, passed your care over to Doctor M’Benga. He’s going to do all the ‘doctory stuff’ from now on.” He turns your hand in his to hold it properly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. After weeks of restricted contact, it feels electric. Kirk just might have been right.

“Why?” you ask tentatively, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in your stomach. If it’s true, you want to hear it from him.

He gazes at you with dark eyes and breathes deeply, like he’s steeling his nerves. You feel a little bad that he’s so uncertain, so much the opposite of the first time you met.

“Because I think you’re smart and beautiful. And so I could ask if this idiot doctor might take you out for coffee. Properly this time, not like a drunk entitled asshole. What do you say darlin’?” He squeezes your hand, smiling hopefully and your insides do a flip flop.

“No,” you whisper. His face falls and he swallows thickly looking down at your hands. You place two fingers under his chin and tilt his face until he has no choice but to look you in the eyes. “Coffee’s first date territory. I think we’re way past coffee, McCoy.”

“We are?” His voice is gruff and disbelieving.

“Are you kidding? These last few weeks we’ve had the best dates I’ve been on in years.”

McCoy growls. “Dammit Y/N, are you trying to kill me? You promised me you weren’t going to remind me of that!” He runs his free hand through his hair. “Okay then, not coffee. Dinner?”

“Yes.” You grin stupidly, and without thinking peck a kiss on McCoy’s lips to seal the deal. After a second of stunned silence he briefly kisses you back before leaning back on the couch with you in his arms. He smells warm and spicy just like you remember.

“Jim told me you’d changed your mind about me. He said you promised him you wouldn’t break my ankles. Hell, he couldn’t have made that up, but I hardly dared to believe it.”

“You know he gave me The Talk?”

“He didn’t!” McCoy looks down in horror.

“Oh he did,” you laugh. “It was sweet, but by then I didn’t need convincing.”

“He’s going to be insufferable when he finds out.” The doctor sighs. “Speaking of the infant that is our glorious Captain, he sent you a housewarming gift. It’s on the counter.”

You heave yourself up to standing with a groan and totter the few paces across the room and back again on unsteady legs. “I’m going to need that dinner sooner rather than later McCoy. I need feeding up.”

He chuckles and kisses your hair. “Sure thing sweetheart. Now come on, what’s in the box?”

It’s a plain box wrapped with a big blue ribbon, and it’s heavy. You pull the bow loose and lift the lid. It’s full of perfect red apples, and a scrawled note sits on top — An apple a day!

“Goddammit, Jim! That’s not funny!”

“You told him about the apple? What must he think — I was so mean to you!”

“He heard me call you my favourite fruit historian and wouldn’t let up until I told him the whole thing. He thought it was hilarious, said I deserved it. And I did.” He picks an apple out the box. “I told you, he’s going to be insufferable,” he grumbles.

“Are you not afraid I’m going to start throwing them at you again?” You ask putting the box out of sight on the floor and snuggle back in under McCoy’s arm.

“Are you?”

“No!”

“Well then, there’s your answer. Besides you forget, I’m not your doctor anymore. Apples have no power over me.” He takes a bite out of the one he’s holding and wiggles his eyebrows. “You can throw all the fruit you like at M’Benga.”

“Idiot.” You swat him playfully across the chest, enjoying this less serious McCoy. Something tells you if you can make this work you’re going to be very happy. “Okay so I have a very important question.”

“Fire away. I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of many things.”

“If apples keep doctors away, how do you get them to stay? Pineapples maybe?”

McCoy hums thoughtfully and the vibrations in his chest tickle your cheek. “How long are we talking?”

You prop yourself up so you can see his face, brushing a piece of his fringe out the way. “A good long while.”

His lips curve in a satisfied smile. “Not pineapples then. That’s gonna need kisses.”

“Kisses?” You lean in further so that your lips are brushing his. “Like this?” you whisper pressing your mouth against his more deeply than the pecks you gave him earlier so you can taste the sweet tang of apple juice. He responds with a moan, until you both break away slightly breathless.

“Perfect darlin’,” he murmurs. “Plenty of kisses just like that.”

..........

Taglist: Tagging Urban Shitposters and a few other people I think may be interested. It’s been so long since I tagged I’m not sure who is on my general list. Just ask if you want to be added, or taken off!

@musikat18 @bkwrm523 @bookcaseninja @queenmismatched @outside-the-government @space-helen @starshiphufflebadger @yallneedtrek @feelmyroarrrr @mad-girl-without-a-box @kawaiiusagichansan @bonesmccoybones @thefanficfaerie @janeykath318 @fear0fdeathkeepsusalive @goingknowherewastaken @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse

#leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #star trek reader insert #west wing quote challenge #star trek fanfiction #leonard mccoy #star trek aos

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swyllh · 5 years

Text

we could be heroes

title: we could be heroes

pairing: soonyoung / reader

genre: superhero

synopsis: in a world where superheroes exist, you’re just a measly insurance agent, and kwon soonyoung is an unlucky guy who winds up at your office every few days.

Kwon Soonyoung is absolutely nothing like what you’d have expected; a foot holding the door just barely agape, hands tangled in the bizarre ritual of a makeshift meal, thick blonde hair wrestled into submission beneath a pink headband. Your fist, resolute and professional, falls back to your side. He grins.

“Hmm?” Kwon Soonyoung swallows thickly, before exhaling sharply. “Hot- hot!”

As he begins fanning himself with his chopsticks, you clear your throat. “Is Mr. Kwon Soonyoung in?”

“Oh,” he says, taking in your tweed suit and collared shirt. “Um, that’s me.”

You peer over his shoulder, scanning through the mutiny of colours and one too many acid-washed denim. Kwon Soonyoung hurriedly tiptoes, blocking as much of his apartment as he can.

“So, um, who are you?” he says.

Straightening up, you fix him with a level stare. “Sunny Insurance, Junior Manager. Pleasure.”

Kwon Soonyoung stares, jaw dropping. “Oh.”

He hastily backs away from the door, eyes darting between every possible flat surface. As the door slams shut, you can’t help but wonder exactly how someone - in a sulking hoodie and worn out bike shorts - could rack up so much insurance coverage for the past two months. He looks like he hasn’t even left his apartment in days; a broken femur, a fractured arm, two operations on either leg...

Kwon Soonyoung swings the door open, and extends a hand out to you. “Hello.”

It’s a firm grasp.

Coffee Dally worms its way into your intricately balanced diet of sleepless nights and tampered dreams. Somewhere between the first sip and the fifth satchel of sugar, a quaked murmur reaches you. It’s another attack somewhere, on fifth street? You squint at the sprinting lines, caught between fickle numbers and hedging arrows. Sixth street. That’s just within the perimeters of your agency’s ward.

Great. The screen fizzles out of focus and sharply into one of a burning building. Something bright red and tardy zips around the complex. It’s a superhero, and he’s ripping parts of the building out. The fires get worse. A ball of flame launches into yet another building - a bank! - and the scaffoldings go up in smoke.

You down your coffee in a gulp, seethe through your nose. Joshua glances over from the counter, barely hiding his smile. He walks over with a refill.

“It’s gonna be a long day at work, huh?”

You nod, moulding your neck in preparation for all the craning you’re about to do.

“-so I was saying, that man just swooped in, and-” your latest client is miming the sounds of an impaired aircraft, fingers bunched together as they spin around a bottle. “-and he just grabs this wall-”

“From what I hear, you’re claiming for damages dealt by the,” you pause, sifting through your files. “Hurricane Hero?”

Mr. Lee nods indignantly, lifting his bandaged foot. “They’re getting out of hand now - ripping buildings out, as though those villains aren’t doing enough damage! I should really-”

“Yes,” you say blandly, circling his insurance policy with a bright red pen. “See, it’s unfortunate, but you’ve only insured against the Bloody Banker, the Vice Vista and… Hummingbird Henry.”

“But this- this is! This is a hero who did this shit! You don’t have heroes to insure against! Do you see how, exactly how unjust this is?” Mr. Lee shrieks, wheeling back to demonstrate the extent of his injuries. “I’m a ballet teacher, I need my legs!”

You sigh. “I’m afraid I can’t help you - while a claim under the accidental fires would have been completely covered under your insurance policy, you were nowhere near the actual fire. Your injury was caused by the um, Hurricane Hero tearing the wall off-”

“That’s got to be an accident! Or some,” he attempts to read the letters upside down. “‘Acts of God’-”

“We don’t cover for ‘Acts of God’, I’m afraid,” you say firmly. Outside, there are multiple pairs of narrowed eyes glaring through the blinds. “You’ll have to write to the Association of Superheroes, or The Daily Tab. Jasmine outside will put you in touch.”

To assuage his beet-red flush, you scribble frivolously on a name card and pass it to him with a wink. Mr. Lee snatches it out of your hands, and wheels himself out with as much dignity as he can muster. You pretend not to hear his wince when he underestimates the distance to the door.

The next client shuffles in, arms bandaged thickly like the ends of Q-tips. He grins sheepishly at you, and your first thought goes to the singed strap of his messenger bag. Kwon Soonyoung plops down in front of you, arms gingerly resting on either sides of the chair.

“Mr. Kwon,” you greet. “How can I be of assistance?”

“You know the fire on sixth street,” he begins, grimacing. “Yeah, got caught up in it.”

He raises his arms - stubs, really - and lets them fall back down delicately. His body begins to bob up and down, as does the desk as it rattles incessantly. A halo of something green or fluorescent glimmers around his mop of hair.

“Do you have any medical documents?” you ask, rolling back in your chair to reach for his folder. Kwon. K, right behind J. There.

He nods vigorously. “Yeah, they’re all in my bag, but I’m kind of. Bandaged right now. Do you mind?”

You’re scanning his file half-heartedly - the entire team’s gone through this disaster-prone dossier so many times you can recite which villains he’s insured against - when the rattling ceases. Kwon Soonyoung wriggles his brows, and jabs his stubby arms in the general direction of the messenger bag.

“So, who’re you betting on?” Jun says, leaning over the bar.

You cup your ears and lean in. “What?”

Jun repeats his question over the grain and strain of Thursday’s Telecast. You look down at the card in your hands, eyes flitting between the names of superheroes and villains alike. There’s the family-friendly Couch Tater, or the prime time favourite, Vint Age. Even Hurricane Hero’s registered for the match. You flip the card over to see another table of names, all of them foreign.

“They’re getting guests to pick up the ratings,” Jun explains, wiping a glass. “Think they’re from Camdella this time.”

“How long?” you ask, turning back to the domestic list.

“Not long enough to register on your radar, Junior Manager,” Jun teases. “But if you want my opinion, I’d say you might wanna bet on Mortar.”

“Mortar,” you echo. “That’s the guy who snuffed out the landlines, right?”

“He’s wrestling against Hurricane in the first round,” Jun says. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Didn’t Mortar get the Telcomm shares?”

Jun hands the man a pint and a betting card, before turning back to you. “Can’t get enough spare cash - heard he got his insurance terminated for fraud.”

You shake your head. “But Hurricane’s a wild card. There’s no guarantee he’ll make it through.”

“What, Mortar?” Jun shrugs. “No station would let a vet down before a fire hazard. Not even RHK - just looks bad.”

“The Association?”

“Yeah, probably,” he says, and then pauses. “Well, maybe they’re reverse-psyching us. But my money’s on Mortar - he’s unpredictable but safe enough for RHK.”

You nod, and pencil in your bet. Jun collects the card, tongue sticking out as he checks your ballot. You shrug your shoulders back, and take the first sip of your mocktail.

He winces. “Hurricane, really?”

“It’s a free county, barkeep,” you say.

Jun laughs. “Well, that’s more cash for me.”

You let him go on with his duties, watching as he flirts very successfully for a tip. The rim of your glass ponders, a glimmer of a face sprinting as you shift from side to side. Thursday’s Telecast always draws a huge crowd, and with the upgrade in equipment, there’s no doubt that people are getting riled up. Violet haunts the walls as the jukebox begins thrumming out a solemn beat. Someone kicks it, and hops away howling.

“No more bets!” Jun exclaims. A scrawny teenager hurriedly shoves his into Jun’s hands.

On cue, the screen lights up with the opening theme. Someone whistles along, and is promptly shushed. You watch the line up of eager, bravado-dipped heroes and determined villains enter the ring. They pose and growl and preen over their muscles, but all the same, everyone’s got their masks on. For a moment you wonder if it’s possible that they’re just stuntmen under the suits.

“I can’t believe they got the villains onboard,” you say, mirthful after your second glass. “As though they weren’t trying to kill each other on even weeks.”

Jun yawns. “Well, it’s a fine line. They’re still trying to set up an association for the bad guys.”

“Would be helpful,” you rest your chin in your palm. “There’re always new ones popping up, how are we supposed to update the lists?”

Jun pats you on the back. “Tough job, insurance.”

“Is it me, or does Hurricane look a bit winded?”

“No take backs, you know.” Jun squints. “But yeah, a bit. Probably from the fire.”

You grimace. “He shouldn’t be there.”

On screen, Hurricane Hero stumbles over the mat but stands his ground. Mortar turns on him, and the two begin pacing dramatically in circles. The chanting of the crowd heightens, grows with bated breaths. The camera cuts to a brief shot of Mortar’s stubbly chin, where his thin lips stretch into a smirk. The shot pans out to a wider one, and Mortar lunges.

This time, it’s your office building that’s under attack. It’s the rumbling of the panels, and then the trip in the circuit - your computer shuts down, mid-word. Kimmy throws the door open.

“It’s Vibrata,” she shouts, and moves on to the next room. “Code Pink! Leave the papers behind!”

You’re about to reach for the second drawer when the ceiling fan begins to swing ominously. The tremors are rippling up the walls, raging against your dollar-store filing cabinet. The blinds behind you fall off their racks. Kimmy’s screams dull, drowned out by the colossal proportions of a shuddering crash.

A ball of red-hot shrill pierces through the air, tumbles into the frame of your door. Hurricane Hero yells, pushing himself up onto his feet. Another wave of tremors hits the building. Hurricane folds in, grip tight on the walls. He glances around, disoriented and stubborn, and meets your eyes - just as you’re finding purchase on your desk.

“Ah-” Hurricane says, and then, realisation dawning, “oh, fuck.”

You clamp a fist around your flash drive. “You won Mortar.”

Hurricane grins, flashing a peace sign. “Yeah! You saw?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Think you can deal with Vibrata?”

Hurricane pretends to think, tucking his chin into a fist. “Well, she is a Class B villain.”

You make your way to the door, and promise, “I’ll bet next month’s rent if you get her within the next half-hour.”

Hurricane lights up, and offers you a pinky. You take it. Renewed, he charges back out the gaping hole in your wall, shards showering off his tacky spandex suit.

Sunny Insurance takes a day off. You flop back into an armchair, feeling the strain in your back dislodge themselves. Joshua tops off your order with extra whipped cream. Even places a cherry on top.

“Seems like there’s a lot of damage these few weeks,” Joshua says.

You grimace. “Tell me about it - sometimes I wonder if there’s a difference between the heroes and villains.”

“Guess so,” he says. “But at least you’re insured.”

“So’s the rest of the town,” you say, wincing. “Yikes, Monday’s not gonna be good.”

“No, but that’s for you to figure out. Chill, you’ve got the weekend,” Joshua pats you on the shoulder, shoots you a reassuring smile. “And if you need more whipped cream, that’s on the house.”

As you sip slowly on your sugar-filled monstrosity, the murmurs of a report catches your ear. More accurately, the words “Hurricane” and “Vibrata” do. Turning around, you find yourself looking at the blurry loop of an unsatisfying footage. Something red and small rushes up against a bigger purple entity. The red one, Hurricane - you presume, crashes back into another building. The scene cuts back to the anchor’s studio, and a jumble of words drift below her professional facade.

Guess you’re not losing next month’s rent.

Some files are unrecoverable after the incident; you’ve tried your best, but your trusty old flash drive only had annual reports. But when Kwon Soonyoung pokes his head through the door and grins at you, you can’t help remembering the exact list of things he’s insured himself against. With the tiniest speck of doubt, you realise you’ve gone exactly two weeks without seeing him. Strange.

“I don’t remember you being here when Vibrata was shacking up the area,” you say.

You peek at him, wondering exactly which part of him’s injured. Not the arms, not the legs, clearly. There’s a clear lack of a cast or any offending bandage. But he does look thinner - cheeks hollowing out. You wonder if it’s the slight limp on the left foot, but it could just be because these are a new pair of kicks.

Kwon Soonyoung shrugs. “I got hit by a bus on second street.”

“Really,” you say. “Which one?”

Kwon Soonyoung blanches. “You’ve never been this specific.”

You level him with a look. “We’re weeding out insurance fraud.”

He pauses, documents in mid-air. Before you can say anything, Kwon Soonyoung’s leapt out of his chair. He speedwalks to the door, manila envelope crinkled around his fist.

“Um, so I forgot something,” is what he offers before running out of the office.

Jasmine walks over, heels clattering against the floor. She leans in, wide-eyed, and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“That was Kwon Soonyoung, wasn’t that?”

You nod, numb.

“It’s only been five minutes?”

Again, you nod. “We… do you think… god, he’s committing insurance fraud, isn’t he?”

The insurance fraud is not exactly surprising. In fact, you’re mildly impressed that he’s managed to pull it off for so long. In the evening, you make your way over to his apartment, a bookbag and a cold drink in hand.

As you begin the treacherous climb up, a cloaked figure rushes past you. Without much thought, you reach out and grab them by the scruff of their coat. A startled yelp, and then you’re tackled against the wall.

“Hey!”

“Oh,” they say, body peeling away immediately.

“What-” You round up on them, then stop short.

Even in the dark, you can make out the squirmy reds of this suit, and the tell-tale burns along his collars. There’s a badly stitched mark running across his right shoulder down to his left hip. Hurricane Hero doesn’t look his best.

He hurriedly covers his suit, hands in pockets and pulling his coat back in place. You raise a brow. He clears his throat.

“So, guess you get to keep your rent.”

You nod. “You didn’t get Vibrata.”

“Take it easy on me,” he winces in exaggeration. “Bruised ego and all.”

You pause. “Should you really be going for tonight’s match?”

He pulls a hand from the toasty confines of his pockets and reaches for the crown of his head. Then, noticing the mask, drops it down to his neck.

“Worried?”

You shrug. “I have to.”

Through the slits in his mask you can see his eyes widening. And then, swiftly, unexpectedly, he tugs the mask off. Kwon Soonyoung stares back at you with steely resolve.

“Mr. Kwon?”

He makes a noise of assent, then backs away. “Wait, you didn’t know?”

You hold out a hand, then grab onto his arm for security. “Why would - you’re Hurricane Hero?”

He pauses. “Oh my god, please don’t sue me.”

You try to say something, but your throat falters miserably in light of the development. Kwon Soonyoung grimaces, tugs his mask on, and slips away down the stairwell. You hurry after him, clinging to the railings. The thuddings on the stairs hasten.

“I’m not gonna sue you!” you holler.

He stops, “Really?”

“Well,” you trip down the last couple of stairs. “Not me.”

He snorts, and helps you up. The warmth of his palm lingers on your elbow, and before you know it, he’s bolting for the bus.

“This is from an actual traffic accident,” he swears, pulling his sweater up to expose a bruised rib. “I’m not claiming for the fracture, but the bruise!”

You narrow your eyes. “Really? Not that match with Staunch Little?”

Kwon Soonyoung flops back painfully onto his seat. “No! I have the bus number and everything here.”

You flip the page to see a blurry selfie - Soonyoung’s cheesy grin in the top right corner, and the barely legible letters of a license plate. Seconds before disaster. Glancing up, you see him make a peace sign.

“Did you take this right before getting hit?”

He shrugs. “Uhh, can’t say for sure.”

You roll your eyes. “You can’t go around crashing into buses just to claim for pre-existing injuries.”

“Fine,” he pouts, then scoops his pile of documents up. “Tell me at least you’re coming for the match tonight?”

#seventeen #seventeen fic #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung x reader #soonyoung imagines #this is a mess #i haven't been on for a while because of school #and along with that my writing has gotten rusty #to be honest im not sure i want to be back #but ye #inspired heavily by this instagram post about marvel #i think i'm gonna need a nap

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savagc · 5 years

Note

➰

For every ➰ I get, I’ll reveal a muse that I played in the past

H A N A F I S C H E R - C A P O N E

major: modern languages (studied english at oxford - christ church freshman year, as it is not her first language and modern languages often requires one year abroad of studies.)

second major: psychology (started at oxford her freshman year.)

academic clubs: debate club. (she sticks adamantly to debate, bc being seen as reliable and efficient she is often sucked into aiding other clubs with their events and doesn’t tend to say no when this happens, as much as she detests it.)

sports clubs / elites: equestrian/past oxford riding club.

languages: german, french, italian, english (secondary: latin, norwegian, polish, some russian.)

blood: german, tunisian.

nationality: german, italian, american.

father: wolfe fischer - russian family on father’s side. raised in Germany. his father worked for Deutsche investment, his mother was one of a few born entitled to the global network of Audi Group production sites based out of Neckarsulm and Ingolstadt for starters. She forfeited her role in the production’s furtherance once married and as wolfe was born.

mother: nicola capone - had a more humble upbringing, studying fine arts at Julliard. Her mother was a single parent, as the the conception of Nicola was rumored to have happened between opposing family feuds wrapped in organized crime. it’s rumored nicola’s father was killed by the capone brethren.

briefly about:

hana was born in munich germany on april 28th, and was raised there solidly until the age of ten in berlin. summer vacations spent between a few family homes, residing in annecy, amalfi, bruges and berlin.

languages in the home included german, italian and french. she did not learn english until traveling began abroad beginning at the age of ten.

she was an only child for the first three years of her life, and then her little brother otto was born. he died at the age of two by drowning in the small child’s pool in the yard. hana vaguely witnessed this event. she remembers this event and does not speak about it.

from that point on, as an only child, hana was spoiled in mostly gentle ways. she had everything she needed and wanted, was pampered by her mother and prized by her father. she hated both of those things and fought tirelessly for her own freedom to the point where, when she’s around her parents it’s hard to tell if she’s the parent or if they are. when hana is home she seemingly runs the house. the good thing in this being, that hana turned out kind and responsible, rarely abusing her pull over her family or her voice within it.

at the age of twelve wolfe and nicola moved with hana stateside and settled in portland, maine, where her father worked with every string he could pull that would earn him the right to the name of the family he had married into. despite nicola wishing for a quiet and peaceful family home, the property of maine home harbored tunnels and a boat house that allowed wolfe to make problems disappear, granting him a massive network of connections with justified fear in his presence. for hana, she was none the wiser. nicola keeps her cheek turned in the other direction and devoted her time doting on their only daughter. but with such work came intense isolation. though hana’s childhood property was as equipped to entertain her as a private summer camp, she was often left to her own devices while enjoying such artful and elite activities. this led her to pick up a habit of fleeing. and she got away with it every time.

hana reveled the summers spent flying back germany, home to the culture she missed. she would spend her time on the waters of annecy or listlessly trailing her fingertips through cherry wine poolside in italy, but eventually, as all things with hana, the glass would be tipped to shatter and she would once again flee for the sake of herself; delving into the cultures she found herself immersed in frequently.

university bound:

hana attended Gisela Gymnasium as a child in Munich before moving to the US solidly. she was privately tutored at home through her travels.

for the duration of her high school education, hana attended Choate Rosemary Hall.

she was invited to oxford as she adamantly refused invitation to anything her father pushed for, ie yale. her mother pushed her towards julliard but that too was shunned by hana. oxford invitation would send her out of the states and away from her family, however for pursuing her love for modern languages, hana chose to accept a year a in order to advance her studies in english and appease her family. one year. one elite society under her belt. time for her to move on.

summer before sophomore year hana transferred to back to the states per her parents demands that she stay under a radar due to the attention her society drew for their hellish behaviors.

more so &&& extra quick facts:

the good? hana and mackenzie eloped over christmas break and were married at her family’s catholic church.

uncharged/unproven crimes: failed voluntary/forced suicide attempt, reckless endangerment, illegal street racing resulting in city property damage and manslaughter (1 count), accessory to the crimes within a university secret society, possession of cocaine and the planting of.

talents/involvement past or present: advanced equestrian, debate, teaching assistance, student council, classically trained for julliard (ballet, violin, piano) less lady-like…she is a massive street racer. loves snowboarding, on-court volleyball and roller derby.

secrets:

tw death mention / suicide mention / car accident.

hana was one of three reigning members of an elitist society. in order to achieve her stature within the ranks, hana was challenged to take her car and wreak havoc on the streets of the town. the goal was to see what she could get away with, without getting pulled over or caught. this challenge was meant to hone in on hana’s talent for street racing and thus the challenge was picked by her as the best way to showcase her talents and prove her worth. one friend was in the car with her, and while hana pushed the legal street limits for nearly an hour without being caught or stopped, she grew bolder and more reckless without word from the society about whether or not she was proving herself enough to stop. so hana pushed harder.

this resulted in something snapping in hana, she failed to recognize when to stop and as a result of that, how dangerous she was, was proven. hana pushed her audi tt full speed off of a bridge and into the river below it. in her thoughts, in that moment only, it was go big or go home. hana’s head hit the side window on impact and though she recovered, the friend with her (another novitiate) was killed. this was, in hana’s mind at the time, a failed attempted suicide, not because she wanted to die, but because she lost all boundaries of her own, for her own safety and that of the person with her.

with surviving this ordeal, the society covered up the accident with damage to the bridge/car’s brakes, being reasons suspected by police that the accident had occurred. it was ruled an accident but hana is forever both haunted by what she caused, and content in pretending it never happened, or that, she did what she had to do. the society had begun to gain too much attention for its hellish behaviors. so the wishes of her father and her mother that hana transfer was accepted. it was an attempt to clean up messes being brought down around their daughter.

#oc baby;;hana capone #death mention #suicide mention #violence #drug mention #i think that's it #oh #suicide theme #plcestohide

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sprnklersplashes · 5 years

Text

Truth Of His Dreams (8/?)

AO3

London truly is beautiful. Charlie would say it’s the stuff of dreams, only he’s dreamt of London before and it doesn’t compare.

They’re standing on a bridge overlooking the river Thames. The sky is almost black now, lit up with too many stars to even try to count and yellow lights glow up and down either side of the river, their reflections dancing on the water. He’d never seen a city like it before; the amount of towering buildings that, unlike Rhodia, weren’t missing windows or grubby and crumbling with disuse, the bright red buses flying past them as they made their way through streets, crowded but buzzing with life, where at home the streets seemed to be suffocating. He’s felt it in his chest, it’s easier to breathe here, thought that could be something to do with the fact that they don’t have to constantly look over their shoulder here. Or it might be something to do with the fact that he might just belong here.

But they aren’t out of the woods yet. Even here, in London, with its bright shining lights and whirlwind way of life, he isn’t finished yet. But he’s so close he can almost let himself taste it.

Dash nudges against his legs as he looks out at the water, pressing his hands against the bridge to try to get them to stop shaking.

Twenty four hours. In twenty four hours, everything in his life could be different. No more Charlie the orphan. No more wondering where his family is, why they left, why he was dropped at the hospital. He might be Charlie the lost Prince of Rhodia. He could be spending his life dining in fine restaurants and wearing suits and going to the ballet and opera and living in a penthouse.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends?” It takes him a while to realise he’s said it out loud. The rest turn to look at him; April, Ram and Tanya on his left and Matteusz on his right, all four of them frowning in confusion. “Just… when this is all over… if she accepts me, if I am this Prince… do you think we’ll still be friends?”

“Of course we will,” April answers immediately, rubbing his shoulder with the soft smile he’s come to associate with her. “We’ll always be friends.”

“That is, if you don’t find some rich friends and dump us for them,” Ram adds in, leaning so far on the bridge that his chest nearly rests on the stone. Charlie doesn’t worry about him falling though, it seems too wide and too strong for that.

“I don’t think I ever would,” he confesses. “You’re the best friends I’ve ever had. I mean, you’re the only friends I’ve ever had-” They burst into laughter and Charlie feels his cheeks go pink. “But I’ve had more fun with you than I’ve had… ever, I guess.” Dash’s paws rub against his legs incessantly and he gives in and picks him up, holding him tight against his chest, worrying more than a little that he might drop him into the water.

“We’ve enjoyed being with you too,” Matteusz tells him. “They’d never say it, they’re too proud, but they are.” Tanya sticks her tongue out at him, but she smiles.

“Yeah, we have,” she says, twirling one of her braids around her finger, looking out at the water. “What a view, right?”

“You’d never have got a few like that in Rhodia,” Ram adds softly. Charlie silently disagrees. He remembers him and Matteusz standing on top of the apartment block, looking over the city, a lifetime ago, even if it was only a few weeks at most. But Ram’s right; the sight of the lights against the dark water tonight is quite beautiful.

He thinks that maybe the next time he sees it, it will be with his grandmother. They can share in a night like this night together. She can hold his hand and tell him the history of the bridge. He looks out at all the lights up and down the streets. Some of them are on shops and clubs, but some are on houses.

One of them could be her.

*****

The address Countess Oswald gave them is a small hotel, away from the busier streets and large shops and theatres. A part of him is disappointed that it’s not the Queen Mother’s own apartments, but he corrects himself. He is hardly in a position to be disappointed by anything. It’s quite sweet, Charlie supposes. Cobblestones line the pavement, flowers grow in window-boxes, bunting flutters gently in the light breeze. He keeps listing details in a near obsessive manner to keep his mind occupied.

He seems incapable of anything other than small, shallow breaths, even more so as they approach it, all panting a little. They managed to take two wrong turns and seeing the time getting away from them, ran the last stretch. Still, the clock on the front of the hotel ticks closer to twelve. They seem to be just on time.

Charlie catches sight of himself in the window and he hopes he isn’t as pale as he looks there. He barely slept the night before, sitting at the window staring at the sky, drawing the city scenes on the paper provided by their hotel. A metallic taste hangs in his mouth and his stomach feels like it dropped ten storeys. He just hopes he doesn’t vomit (even though he didn’t actually eat this morning). That would be the worst impression to make on his possible grandmother’s lady in waiting.

They’re led into the hotel by a straight faced, grey-haired butler, who shows them into a small, carpeted parlour where Countess Oswald sits at a small dark wooden table. She waves her hand and the butler leads them over to her, bowing slightly as they sit on the plush couch opposite her.

“Thank you, Redmond,” she says. “Perhaps another pot of tea?” The butler nods and leaves. The Countess looks pretty in a knee-length baby blue dress and heels, her hair hanging loosely around her shoulders. Pretty, but different from the woman they met at the club. Softer somehow, especially when she smiles, almost easing Charlie’s anxieties.

“Thank you,” he says. “For agreeing to meet us.”

“I’m taking a huge gamble with you,” she says. “Really I shouldn’t be doing this at all. The Queen Mother said she won’t meet any more young men.”

“Why are you, then?” he asks. Countess Oswald smiles to herself.

“I don’t know, really,” she says. “I just have this feeling. I hope you don’t prove me wrong.”

“I hope so too,” he says, his voice tight.

“Tea?” she offers as the butler comes with a pot and five delicate cups.

“Not for me, thank you. I don’t drink it.” Countess Oswald leans back in her chair with a contented smile.

“First test passed,” she says.

She begins questioning him and he rattles the answers off by heart. He feels himself taken back to the old theatre in Rhodia, naming uncles and aunts and cousins, holiday destinations and favourite meals and birthdays and palaces. Even names of architects and servants and designers his parents favoured. The whole time, he doesn’t relax. With each right answer, all he becomes is more anxious, even when Clara smiles, even when she seems caught out. She is clever, tossing in trick questions to catch him out.

At some point, Matteusz gets up and leans against the wall, pressing his hands to his lips. April and Ram hold hands so tightly they might be in danger of breaking a bone and Tanya’s leg can’t stop bouncing if she tries. But if he’s honest, they may as well not even be there. All he can think about is the Countess.

“Well,” she says, taking a sip of her tea and he wonders if he’s finally done enough. Finally convinced her that he is the Prince. “This might seem an odd question, but indulge me… How did you escape during the siege of the palace?”

At first, he feels like he’s been slapped across the face. The one question Tanya couldn’t prepare him for. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her slump forward with her face in her hands. He wants to apologise, but he can’t, not under the Countess’ eye and even then, he feels trapped in his body, like someone froze him. For a few seconds, he feels like he can’t even breathe.

Then, something unfurls in his mind. Sounds at first, attacking him from all sides, shouting and gunfire and screaming, windows breaking, doors slamming, boots running up and down halls. Charlie grabs the edge of the couch as tight as he can to ground him, stop him from getting lost in whatever episode unfolds. He is vaguely aware of the Countess asking him if he needs anything and all he can do is shake his head. An image starts to form with the sounds, a long wide room with white walls and gold trim. He wonders if he’s dreaming or hallucinating, but then details come into place, too specific for anything he can think up, and he nearly screams.

He’s remembering. For the first time in years, something he can hold onto. He’s remembering something.

Somethings sits in hands, cold and heavy and he can’t think what it is, only that it’s too precious to leave behind. And someone shakes his arm. When he turns and looks, it’s a boy, around his age, with wide blue eyes and a straight nose and messy dark blonde hair. He looks almost as scared as he does as he helps him to his feet, his arm around his waist.

“There was a boy,” he says slowly, his voice shaking as the memory plays out in his head, hazy at the edges but clearer than anything that came before. The boys wore a loose-fitting grey shirt, some of the buttons undone, and he struggles for a minute before realising what it means. “A boy who worked in the palace.” The boy took his arm and pulled him over to the wall. He pulled at one of the panels and moved it away, revealing a long, dark tunnel, which released a blast of cold air, fighting against the heat from the fire inside. “He opened a wall.”

“This is a servant’s passageway. You take it,” he had told him.

“Who are you?” Charlie had asked instead. The boy shook his head and pushed him into the tunnel as the room shook, causing whatever was in his hand to fall to the ground. Before Charlie could even protest, he was closing the wall, leaving him in the cold, dark tunnel and giving him only one option. To run.

“He got me out,” he says faintly. “He got me out.” He looks up at Clara, whose face is a mixture of concern and complete shock and who is halfway out of her seat. He takes a breath and steadies himself. “There was a boy who worked at the palace. I was in my bedroom, and he opened a door to a tunnel, the servant’s passageway, and got me out.”

Got me out. Not “got him out”. That boy, whoever he was, got him out. Is the reason he is alive.

Clara smiles, brighter than he has seen her smile before, and it looks like someone has lifted a weight from her shoulders. She thanks him, telling him she’s sorry he had to remember that day, but Charlie is only half listening. He has something far bigger on his mind.

He remembered something. Something in the dark, foggy corners of his mind finally came to light. Nothing he could have made up.

He has to be the Prince. He believes it now. He entertained the idea before, back in Rhodia, when he couldn’t sleep. He let himself indulge in the fantasy that he could be, but there isn’t a “could be” any more.

He is the lost Prince of Rhodia. He feels it with all his heart.

*****

Matteusz stumbles out into the foyer, ignoring the looks from other guests who are watching a boy well below their station stumbling out of the parlour, struggling to catch his breath. They might as well not even be there for all he cares. All he can think about is what Charlie just said.

He remembers that day, of course. There’s not a day that goes by where he doesn’t think about what happened. There used to be a time where all he had to do was close his eyes and he’d be right back in that room, gunshots ringing in his ears and flames licking at his skin. The scars on his legs aren’t as visible as they were back then, but they’re still there to serve as a reminder if he ever needs one.

He never told anyone about what he did that day. He told people that he was in the palace when it was stormed, that he hid in the Prince’s bedroom, that soldiers stormed in, but he always left out that one crucial detail. He’s not sure anyone would believe him, or worse, someone would believe him and report him to the police and he’d be questioned to within an inch of his life before being taken into the depths of the woods and shot. That he’d have a target on his back for the rest of his life. The boy who helped Prince Charles get away.

He had been eight years old when he started working at the palace with his father, and Charles was seven. He was too young to be going to work but that was how the world worked back then. Too young to understand why he was being sent out to work and why other children weren’t, and he was too young to understand why his heartbeat picked up whenever the Prince was in the general vicinity, or why he thought he was far prettier than any girl his father would be teasing him about.

He didn’t understand all that until years later.

He remembers sealing up the passage after Charles-Charlie-got in. He still swears he heard his footsteps running down, although that could have just as easily been his imagination. So much was going on that day, the room was crumbling around him and gunshots firing left right centre. The whack on the head he had got from one of the rebels after they broke in didn’t help matters. They didn’t take kindly to his insistence that he didn’t know where Charles had gone, and that he wasn’t in there. They searched the room while Matteusz was held with his hands behind his back and his heart in his throat.

He was convinced that Charles had died. As weeks, then months, then years went past and he never resurfaced once, he became more sure of it. That he’d starved to death or been killed in the riot. Or maybe that he had escaped and fled to another country and was laying low.

But he was sure he was out of his life for good.

“Matteusz!” April comes running out of the parlour, her hair flying behind her, seeming almost giddy. She grabs his arm to steady herself and turns his face towards her, her eyes wide with excitement. “He was perfect. Hell, I would have believed him, and the Countess definitely did!”

“He’s real,” he mutters.

“The Countess invited us to this ballet tonight. She said she’ll arrange for us to meet her there after the show. All we need to do is pay for the tickets and-”

“April,” he cuts her off, grabbing her by the shoulders with his shaking hands. “He’s the real thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

He lets out a sigh as his grip on her tightens. He feels so ready to let it go, but he knows how much it will change everything. Still, she surely deserves to know. As do the others, but they’re inside with Charlie and the Countess talking about God knows what.

“He’s really the Prince,” he admits. April’s mouth drops into an ‘o’ shape, she shakes her head slightly.

“How can you know that?” she asks, whispering. “Because if he is-”

“Because I was the boy who got him out,” he answers. His hands drop from April’s shoulders as her hands fly to her mouth. The words hang in the thick air between them. Matteusz is amazed at how he feels so much better for having confessed, and he knows April will take it to the grave if that’s what he wants, but at the same time, he feels reality slam right into him.

“That means… Charlie’s found his family,” she said, a smile peaking out from behind her hands before her breathing gets faster. “We found the heir to the Rhodian throne!” She looks up at him. “You’ve been flirting with the Rhodian Prince!”

“Flirting?” he repeats. He doesn’t try to play dumb and not know what she’s talking about. He doesn’t want to insult her intelligence like that.

“I’ve seen you,” she tells him. “I see the way you look at him.” She chews her lip, wincing slightly in regret. “So you…”

“Will walk out of his life forever after this,” he finishes. April shakes her head, furrowing her brow.

“What?”

“Princes do not fall for kitchen boys,” he states. It’s a known fact of life. He’s had a long life of falling for people he can’t have. Charlie isn’t the first but it feels different this time around.

“Matteusz,” April says softly, taking his hand gently. “I think this one already has.”

“You guys!” Charlie squeaks, running out of the parlour with Ram and Tanya behind him. April drops Matteusz’s hand immediately as Matteusz fakes an easy smile. “Clara wants to take us shopping for the ballet tonight! Shopping in London, can you believe it?”

Matteusz wants to memorise every detail of his face, the excited smile and sparkling eyes and laugh and the feeling of his hand slipping into his. Pretend they’re normal people going for a normal day out.

“That’s amazing,” he says, and he lets Charlie pull him out of the hotel.

He knows that he’ll never call him Charles.

*****

The night rolls around and Matteusz finds himself standing in the hotel lobby in a black suit and white shirt, which oddly, feels stranger than jumping off a moving train does. He looks around nervously at the other guests milling around the hotel, decked out in dresses and suits, dark purples and greens and reds, men in black suits similar to his. Clara had insisted on paying, joking that she did have a fortune that needed spending, and bought the finest clothes she could. The fabric is soft against his skin and yet it still feels awkward. This isn’t what he belongs in.

Ram stands next to him, wearing the same thing, but he pulls it off, mostly with the confidence with which he wears it. Ram could easily fit in here, in the high society world of silk suits and champagne. April chose a blue dress with pink flowers, and the countess even helped her with her hair. It sits in loose waves, held back at one side with pains decorated with silver flowers and her lips and eyes pale pink. She looks beautiful.

Tanya hadn’t taken a shine to any of the dresses they had looked at. The Countess had spotted her looking wistfully at the men’s section while she was pretending to be interested in whatever April was trying on and took the hint. She had whispered in the ear of an attendant, who shared a knowing smile with her and came back with an array of small, different coloured suits. In all the time Matteusz had known Tanya, he’d never seen her so happy as she was when she was trying on every colour they had to offer before settling on a dark red jacket and trousers and white fitted shirt, her hair swept into a bun.

“They may hurry up,” Ram sighs. “At this rate we’ll miss the start of the show.”

“Like you’re interested in ballet,” Matteusz mumbles in reply.

“She’s prepping him,” April says. “It’s not every day you meet your grandmother.”

“Or become a Prince,” Ram adds. Matteusz turns around and looks at the painting on the wall, pretending to care about it, when all he is thinking about is the Charlie. He’s becoming a Prince now. For all he knows, this could be the last time they see each other. Their two worlds don’t mix. He supposes he should just be glad that he never got too attached to him. “Hey, they’re here now.”

Matteusz swears his heart stops when he turns around. Charlie approaches them, wearing a soft royal blue suit and trousers and white shirt, small diamonds sparking in the cuffs. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he saw Charlie pick it out and put the jacket on other his clothes. But there’s something about the way he wears it; it’s not Ram’s confidence, it’s something else entirely. It’s the hope in his smile, it’s the way his hair is pushed just out of his eyes.

So much for not getting too attached.

“Do I look okay?” Charlie asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You look… stunning,” Matteusz whispers since he can’t find any other word for it. Stunning through and through. He feels his heart beating faster and louder with every breath. “It looked, it looked nice in the shop, but now it looks… Amazing, you look amazing.” Ram looks like he could blend in here, Charlie shines here. Like there was no revolution and he lived in palaces all his life.

“Thanks,” Charlie says nervously. “You look great too.”

“Not like a Prince,” he replies, tugging on his jacket. “But thank you.”

“We should get going,” the Countess tells them. “Trust me, the crowds at these types of things are awful.” Matteusz looks form her to Charlie, an idea flickering in the back of his mind. He’s not done playing the Prince’s escort yet.

He offers Charlie his arm and he takes it, laughing.

“Do me a favour,” Charlie whispers when they walk out of the hotel. “Don’t let go until we’re sitting down.”

“I won’t,” he replies. If he had it his way, he’d never let him go.

******

Tanya prides herself on her brain. She’s always been ahead of her peers and uses it shamelessly to her advantage. After she lost her parents, she had to work even harder, get even smarter. Not just learning facts and figures and read faster than anyone else but learn sleight of hand and to lie and to slip in and out of crowds like she was never there. She was the mastermind behind this entire plan. All in all, she liked to think herself clever above everything else. And yet here she is, cursing herself for being so stupid.

She had planned for every single eventuality. Avoiding guards, saving money, getting out of Rhodia, teaching Charlie to leave behind the street rat and step into the shoes of the Prince. Planned out every detail, except for romance.

“This is entirely your fault,” Ram whispers to her as they watch Matteusz and Charlie stare at each other in that awestruck way she’d never truly understand. She’s known Matteusz for a while and has never seen his eyes shine the way they do when he’s with him.

“It’s all our faults,” April corrects him. There’s so much sadness in her eyes as she watches them.

“We’re the idiots who let them dance,” Tanya admits sadly.

*****

“When are you coming back?” Kat asks, clad in her blue pyjamas. She sits on Quill’s lap as she brushes her hair and puts it in little plaits.

“After you’re in bed,” she tells her, turning her around. “You’ll be good for me?” She nods, brown eyes sparkling. “Good.” She kisses her nose, not even minding the presence of her comrades waiting for her. They know better than to judge her. “Now, my darling, this is Jenkins. He’s going to take care of you until I get back.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Jenkins protests. She rolls her eyes and looks over at him. He should know better than to challenge her, never mind challenge her in front of her own daughter, the child he is looking after for tonight.

“Stay here, sweetheart,” she tells Kat, shifting her off her lap and onto the bed. Kat rolls on to her belly and picks up her picture book, flipping through it without stopping to read it. Quill gets up and looks at Jenkins, narrowing her eyes. She takes great delight in watching him squirm. “Jenkins, a word?”

She leads him into the bathroom, closing the door tightly behind her and letting out a breath. She absolutely does not need this now.

“Lieutenant,” he begins, far too much defiance in his voice for her liking. She raises her eyebrows, silently reminding him of their respective positions. He nods and steps back slightly. “With all due respect, I did not join the army to babysit. And I certainly did not come across the continent for it. I came here to serve my country.”

“And that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she reminds him. “You’re taking care of my daughter so that we can serve the country and track him down. Or would you rather I take my daughter with me on this and we can take turns looking after her?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant,” he says, looking down. She takes a step towards him.

“Do you have children, Jenkins?” she asks coolly. He shakes his head. Of course not, she thinks. He’s barely more than a child himself. “Trust me, I wouldn’t trust Kat with just anyone.”

“Really?” he asks, his face brightening.

“Of course no,” she continues. “I’m trusting you with my daughter, try not to mess it up. And if she asks any questions about what I’m doing, lie about it.” Jenkins nods in understanding.

“She doesn’t need to know,” he answers. “Not yet anyway.” He flashes a nervous smile. “I think when the time comes, she’ll be proud of you.”

“You what?” she asks.

“Knowing her mother is the one who took down Prince Charles.”

“We don’t know if he is the Prince,” she reminds him, but she doesn’t dismiss his words.

Since Kat was born, Quill has wanted to make her proud. Her father had been a noble, brave man, her mother a pillar of strength. She had looked up to them, she wants Kat to do the same for her. She wants to set a good example for her and so far she’s been convinced that’s what she’s been doing.

But something changed. Somewhere in between seeing this little group of con artists and meeting this Charlie and getting her orders to put a bullet in his brain, something began changing her mind. Was her father thinking how proud she’d be when he stormed the castle and put a gun at a child’s back? Was he proud of himself? What use is Kat being proud of her if she isn’t sure what she is doing is the right thing? It has to be.

She remembers that she’s not just doing it for Kat. She’s in this for her father. Finishing what he started. Doing what he couldn’t. That’s what he fought for, what he said he’d die for.

Except according to her mother, he died of shame. For years she had dismissed the idea, claiming he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had been doing good. Even if he was spilling blood while doing it, it was all for a greater goal, the good of the country. Creating a better, fairer Rhodia. For years, she had thought her mother was being sentimental, living in some sweet fantasy and now she’s less sure.

She steps out of the bathroom and looks at Kat, who is still lost in a picture book. She wonders what will happen when she’s dead. Will Kat be in her position, asking herself the same questions? When she dies, will his face be the last thing she sees, a bullet hole in his skull?

Kat looks up at her and ditches the book, running over to her and grabbing her legs. Quill puts her own thoughts aside and lifts her up, letting her wrap her little legs around her waist. With her sitting on her waist, Quill reminds herself why she’s even here. She remembers the way she grew up, times when her family was living on food stamps and not having breakfast and worrying if she’d even make it to university in the first place. Even after her father’s promotion and their boost in status, she would be walking home seeing people living in boxes and begging for food, all the while the King raised taxes for the military and funding his parties. And spoiling his little brat. Kat isn’t growing up like that. She is fighting every day to make sure of that. Kat needs a future where she doesn’t feel helpless.

And getting rid of any trace of the royal family is the only way to secure that future.

Every light is like a promise

Every light could be a clue

One of them might be you

#marlie ff #class bbc #marlie #matteusz andrzejewski #charlie smith

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dearlazerbunny · 6 years

Text

Mine

Pairings: Simon Snow x Baz Pitch

Genre: Warnings: Part 1 of the Carry On, Simon collection

Words: ~2,000

- Summary: For the first time in years, Agatha finds her legs.

Based on Carry On by FUN, this collection will be a mix of ficlets and excerpts from the novels that fit into the lyrics. More to come!

My head is on fire, but my legs are fine. After all, they are mine.

-Carry On, FUN.

Agatha

I don’t even realize I’m doing tendus in the sand until the water rolls over my toes, melting the perfect circle back into sloppy wet beach. Curious. I try again. My body falls into perfect alignment unconsciously: toes pointed, knee out, back straight. My back stacks its vertebrae into a rod, lifting me higher into the California sun as I trace another line in the sand. It’s a mindless tick, something I used to do under my desk when’s struggling through homework, or chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

I haven’t thought about ballet in years. Ive tried not to, because it felt too much like resounding failure. One more thing I had to give up because of magic. One more choice that wasn’t mine.

I begged my parents to let me stay on at my old studio. Begged. Cried. Threatened. Negotiated. Nothing. My studies at Watford were “far too important” to be impeded by a fanciful hobby, according to my mother. She always said this with a look of sympathy painted over her perfect features, but even I could tell her thought process was something along the lines of magic = power, ballet = ???, so magic > ballet (duh).

Dance class was power to me, though. The discipline it requires, the strength, the elegance. I had all of it in spades, but more importantly; I had the drive. I wanted to be the best ballerina in the company, win competitions, dance for the Royal Ballet. I remember watching the upper years in their pointe shoes and thinking that this was so much bigger than anything I could do with a wand. They were so graceful they floated, skimmed across the room, hair plaited and shiny as they leapt across the floor. It was perfection, no magic required. Even better, it had its own sort of magic.

At Watford, they teach you that words are power. But here, among satin and rosin and sweat and blood, you don’t have to speak, yet can connect to a thousand years of history nonetheless.

I tried to spell my shoes once, but it just made them more clunky and awkward. Dance remains to be the only thing I’ve found that magic cannot touch. It transcends and ends up more flawless than it would with spells or chants.

Dance was always the one place where I was free of magic.

…..

Simon

“You’re scowling even more than usual.”

“Hm?” I love the way the worry lines fall of Baz’s face as he refocuses on me. Makes him look much less broody. We’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled in the middle. I’m supposed to be studying but I’m really just watching Baz play on his phone.

“I said-” I poked a socked foot at the hand holding his phone- “you’re scowling at that thing more than usual.”

Baz rolls his eyes and bats my foot away. “I’m not scowling, I’m thinking. You might try it sometime, Snow.”

I move my face into an exaggerated approximation of Baz’s expression- eyes scrunched together, lips in a thin frown- “Totally scowling.”

“Crowley, you’re annoying. Why do I put up with you?” He says it meanly, but he’s also trying to hold back a smile.

“Oh, says the guy who’s hogging my couch in my flat.” I motion for Baz to scoot over and he does, letting me squish between his (bony, ow) shoulder and all the pillows Penny’s insisted should be stacked on the back of the couch. He cocks an eyebrow that says you can’t be comfortable and of course I’m not but I I’m not going to tell him that. I focus on making my wings less cramped until Baz takes pity on me and throws an arm around my back, taking the pressure off the scales. He even scratches my wing a little ‘cause he knows I like that.

I’m suddenly very, very aware that Baz is very, very close.

He kisses me. Or maybe I kiss him. And I sorta forget about the phone for a while.

…..

Agatha

Th entrance exam goes well, I think.

Emboldened by that one day on the beach, I quickly track down the nearest ballet studio and sign up for a placement test. I go out and buy my first pair of pointe shoes in years, breaking them in exactly like I used to. I get my feet back into shape, flexing and pointing and turning until my toes bleed. I buy a new leotard. My hair goes up in a ballerina bun for the first time in ages.

When I get the call, I’m almost too nervous to speak.

“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of the California ballet. Am I speaking to Agatha?”

“This is she.”

“Well, Ms. Agatha, we were quite impressed with your audition. I’m happy to say we’ll gladly offer you a spot in our classes, as well as a part-time position in our corps.”

“That’s… fantastic. Thank you so much.”

And the thing is? It really was fantastic. In a way nothing had been for many, many years. …..

Simon

“You need a bigger couch.”

“Oh, shove off.” I crane my neck over Baz to see him balancing precariously on the edge of the sofa. “Actually, don’t.”

Note to self: buy bigger couch.

“So what’re you looking at?” I caught a glimpse of a photo before Baz pulled his phone away, brow furrowed.

“Don’t get weird.”

“I’m never weird.” Another eye roll, but he hands me the phone, so, whatever. “It’s… oh.”

It’s Agatha.

But not any Agatha I’ve seen. This Agatha has hair falling out of her bun, and runs in her tights. There’s a bruise blossoming on her right shoulder.

She’s also smiling.

I can feel Baz looking at me, but I can’t pull my eyes away from the photo. “You found Agatha’s instagram?”

“Clearly.”

I scroll down. There aren’t many pictures, but the ones posted are museum worthy (had Agatha been into photography? She never mentioned it to me.) In one her legs are parallel to the floor, arms above her head. She looks like she’s floating. In another, toes pointed in pink satin shoes that just screamed Agatha (what’re those called? Pointe shoes you uncultured swine. Thanks Baz. Welcome, Snow.) to form a single connection between her and the floor, spinning like a top. She looks as though she’s carved from stone. But even though her face is blank theres a heat coming from her that blows away the dead-eyed, resigned Agatha I hold in my memory.

And I can read her well enough to know she’s deliriously happy.

“She looks…” Beautiful. Radiant. Like a stranger. I don’t know what I want to say.

Baz just nods and competently plucks his phone from my fingers, maneuvering the screen away from Agatha’s serene face. “She’s dancing intermittently for the California ballet.”

I vaguely remember something about her doing ballet. Horses, ballet, fancy tennis. Even after she ran all that way she can’t completely let go.

“She looks happy.” Baz says this casually, like he doesn’t know how much of a tailspin it sends me into. Maybe he doesn’t. He probably doesn’t think much about Agatha anymore.

Then again, I don’t much either.

…..

Agatha

The end of class always feels like breaking a trance. Like you release this wire you’ve been balancing on and you can breathe easy again.

It’s also awkward to see these graceful people fall from borderline swans into messes of sweaty, gangly college students.

I’ve been here for a term now, so there’s a few people who say bye to me on their way out the door. I’m always the last to leave. I linger over the water cooler and rub life back into each and every toes after peeling off split pointe shoes.

I’m always reluctant to go.

I throw said shoes into my bag and hunt around for my phone. There’s a new text from Jenny asking if we’re still going out tonight (yes, c u at home), a missed call from my parents (remind in one hour), and a few new notifications. I swipe to instagram, mostly to get rid of that red number hovering above the app, but a name catches my eye before I can lock the phone again.

Baz_Pitch has sent you a message.

I scroll through comments of a video someone took of me doing pirouettes impatiently until at the very end:

:) - s.s.

Just one stupid emoticon, and the s.s.- not Baz. Simon. Because isn’t it always Simon.

I ran all this way and I still can’t get far enough.

A thought flies up bitterly in my head: use your words, Simon.

And then I delete the message, zip up my bag, and let the studio door bang closed behind me.

#carry on #carry on rainbow rowell #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #agatha wellbelove #carry on fanfiction #carry on fanfic #collection

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megaraxdimitriou · 7 years

Photo

1. Describe the character’s height and build. Is he heavyset, thin, short, rangy?

“I’m a big ol string bean, at 5′10. I’d like to say healthy because i exercise quite frequently but i pretty much stay the same weight i have for years due to my various love for food.” Meg is fit/slim, but she never turns down the opportunity to treat herself.

2. How old is he?

“I’m the big two-o.”

3. Describe his posture. Does he/she carry himself well or does he/she slouch?

“I’m not much of a sloucher. My mom would always smack my hands at the dinner table if i was slouching even though she let my father do it. So i’d say pretty well, mostly from habit.” That and her mother had Meg take ballet classes when she was little, so bad posture was always a big no-no.

4. How is his health? Is he fit or out of shape? Any illnesses or conditions? Any physical disabilities?

“I guess fit? Haha, is sleeping in til the afternoon an illness? Because if so, you got me.” No Meg is pretty healthy physically wise.

5. How does he move? Is he clumsy, graceful, tense, fluid?

Graceful, hah that’s a laugh. I don’t know? I walk like a regular human being, is this even a real thing?” Yes it is Meg, lol. Meg is pretty relaxed in most aspects, if anything she walks casual, although sometimes if in a good mood she has a charming strut she puts on.

6. How attractive is this character physically? How does he perceive himself in the mirror?

“Meh.” Wow, Meg my god. Meg has never been one for appearances; it wasn’t until recently that Daphne got her in things like doing her hair and makeup. Meg doesn’t really care for it, but most of the time shes confident in her own skin.

7. Describe his complexion. Dark, light, clear, scarred?

“I’m not pale, but i’m not really dark either. I look i got a tan, but got out of the tanning booth halfway through. Like a golden-brown potato chip. I do get oily sometimes, it just mostly looks like i’ve been sweating though.” meg-girl. Meg is slightly tan, but in the winter her complexion lightens immensely

8. Describe his hair: color, texture, style.

“My hair is probably about upper-mid back. I usually don’t do anything with it, but it’s naturally wavy a bit. So most of the time its just down, or up in a pony tail.”

9. What color are his/her eyes?

“Hazel, but the green outshines the most. My mom always use to call them Σμαράγδια της θάλασσα, which translated means Emeralds of the sea.

10. Does the character have any other noteworthy features?

“I’d like to think my eyes, and i have a lil freckle above my lip that draws a bit of attention. Whether good or bad i’m not really sure which.”

11. What are his/her chief tension centers?

“I guess my shoulders.” Shoulders/Upper back.

12. What is the character’s wardrobe like? Casual, dressy, utilitarian? Bright colors, pastels, neutrals? Is it varied, or does he/she have six of the same suit?

“I don’t know, i don’t feel like what i wear falls under any certain type of fashion style. I just wear whit i like.” Meg can go from casual to classy as hell. It just depends how shes feeling and what shes dressing up for. Most of her clothes are either dark's or neutrals, but there is some pops of color in there.

Most of the time she is dressed up like this (x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

13. Do his/her clothes fit well? Does he/she seem comfortable in them?

“If they didn’t fit, i wouldn’t be wearing them. Sometimes i like clothes that hug my body right, sometimes i like wearing loose things that fall and hang off my sides.”

14. Does he/she dress the same on the job as he/she does in his free time? If not, what are the differences?

“Sometimes, but mostly its still casual.”

15. You knew it was coming: Boxers, briefs or commando?

Laced solid colored underwear.

Speech

1. What does this character’s voice sound like? High-pitched, deep, hoarse?

“Haven’t really thought about that much?” I’d say somewhere in the middle ground. Her voice is feminine but has strength behind it.

2. How does he/she normally speak? Loud, soft, fast, evenly? Does he/she talk easily, or does he/she hesitate?

“Normal.” Meg never raises her voice unless around Hades or shes in an argument. Other than that, no. She never really is one to hesitate.

3. Does the character have a distinct accent or dialect? Any individual quirks of pronunciation? Any, like, you know, verbal tics?

“I guess i used too. I was raised in Greece, but my mom taught me English when i was very young. She said it was always handy to know more than one language. Most of the time people can’t tell i’m from another country until i start speaking my native language.”

4. What language/s does he/she speak, and with how much fluency?

“I can speak Greek fluently since its my native language, English as well. I know a few words and phrases of Albanian and Latin, since a lot of people in Greek used a variety of languages.”

5. Does he/she switch languages or dialects in certain situations?

“Sometimes. I speak my native language more in my head than anywhere else. Or when my mother calls.” Sometimes if Meg is flustered of angry, or it just slips from her mouth without her even realizing it.

6. Is he/she a good impromptu speaker, or does he/she have to think about his words?

“Never hesitate. Say whats on your mind.” Oh meg shaddup, you hesitate sometimes binch don’t give me that.

7. Is he/she eloquent or inarticulate? Under what circumstances might this change?

“I want to say eloquent, but honestly that sounds way more re-fined than i feel like i am?”

Mental and Emotional

1. How intelligent is this character? Is he/she book-smart or street-smart?

“Uh, both? I’d like to think i have both.” With Meg its a fair middle ground. Meg is intelligent but sometimes lacks in the motivation to do her work department. And she has plenty of street wit from Hades.

2. Does he/she think on his feet, or does he/she need time to deliberate?

“Feet. Definitely feet. Probably would’ve been as in many situatuions as i have if i put more thought into certain things...” Hahaha, *coughs* Herc *coughes loudEr* HaDES

3. Describe the character’s thought process. Is he/she more logical, or more intuitive? Idealistic or practical?

“Instinct, although sometimes more logical than if not.”

4. What kind of education has the character had?

Tbh, i’m not sure because Meg’s bio is still in the drafts and shes not listed on the dorm listings. But im pretty sure shes in University from what i remember.

5. What are his/her areas of expertise? What, if anything, is he/she interested in learning more about?

“Ah, you’d laugh. It’s kind of lame.” Meg has a love for mythology and anything to deal with that. She loves reading myths and legends. It brings out the childlike aspects in Meg.

6. Is he/she an introvert or an extrovert?

7. Describe the character’s temperament. Is he/she even-tempered or does he/she have mood swings? Cheerful or melancholy? Laid-back or driven?

“Introvert. I don’t care too much for people.” That and usually Hades got her busy/and or kept to himself a lot. It takes a certain person to make Meg and extrovert, aka Daphne/Tito.

8. How does he/she respond to new people or situations? Is he/she suspicious, relaxed, timid, enthusiastic?

“Depends on the situation or person.” Meg WILL fight for what she wants, so if on her bad side she could raise hell if she wants too. Although shes not the type of person to ask for help either. But when it comes to new people she’s suspicious in the sense she never fully can trust a person until she gets to know them better. But if she feels secure around someone she’s very laid-back.

9. Is he/she more likely to act, or to react?

“Act.”

10. Which is his/her default: fight or flight?

“Fight. Always fight.”

11. Describe the character’s sense of humor. Does he/she appreciate jokes? Puns? Gallows humor? Bathroom humor? Pranks?

“Gallows humor. I don’t care for vulgar jokes boys make. It makes me feel like i’m losing more of my brains cells from listening to something like that.”

12. Does the character have any diagnosable mental disorders? If yes, how does he/she deal with them?

“Not that i’m aware of no.” Meg doesn’t have depression, but she can feel quite lonely/or sad sometimes.

13. What moments in this character’s life have defined him/her as a person?

“I feel as if i’ve had too many of those moments.” When Megs dad died, or betraying Herc, working for Hades. There’s a lot lol.

14. What does he/she fear?

“Having my freedom taken away. Never standing up for what i want or believe in.” The irony.

15. What are his/her hopes or aspirations?

To be happy. Move on from the past and start something fresh and new.

16. What is something he/she doesn’t want anyone to find out about him/her?

She’s not as strong as puts on.

Relationships

1. Describe this character’s relationship with his/her parents.

“I’m very close to my mom. She had to raise me alone for the majority of my life and she worked so hard to have the things i could. I could never repay her for all she’s done for me. σ'αγαπώ μαμά (I love you mama).” Meg was a big daddys girl, but her father passed away when she was 7 from a motorcycle accident.

2. Does the character have any siblings? What is/was their relationship like?

“Nope.”

3. Are there other blood relatives to whom he/she is close? Are there ones he/she can’t stand?

“Not really.”

4. Are there other, unrelated people whom he/she considers part of his family? What are his/her relationships with them?

“Not at the moment.” She’d say Hades or Peyton and Patrick since she see’s them practically all the time. But it’s not a good relationship with Hades.

5. Who is/was the character’s best friend? How did they meet?

“Daphne. I love her.” I’m not sure how Meg met Daphne, but i’m blessed that she did.

6. Does he/she have other close friends?

“Tito for sure. He always makes me smile. I don’t know what it is. Berlioz too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

7. Does he/she make friends easily, or does he/she have trouble getting along with people?

“I’m i feel it’s easy to get along with people, but sometimes people are annoying and it frustares me beyond belief.”

8. Which does he/she consider more important: family or friends?

“Family. Always Family.” Meg doesn’t have a wide variety of friends, so Family is most important to her. Especially since they’re people who feel like home to her.

9. Is the character single, married, divorced, widowed? Has he/she been married more than once?

“Single? ha, married? I’m not sure that will ever happen.”

10. Is he/she currently in a romantic relationship with someone other than a spouse?

“Uh, no?”

11. Who was his/her first crush? Who is his/her latest?

“Uh, well there was this boy from my home town. I mean he was sweet and really naive, but i think thats what i liked most about him. Just the pure innocence about him, and i fucked it up. What a surprise. I hope he's doing okay. Recently? No-” Bish talking about Herc, and we all know who Meg is talking about recently bish i see you

12. What does he/she look for in a romantic partner?

“Someone i can hold real conversations with, someone i can laugh and be myself around.” Meg is simple she just wants someone is going to be there for her, even if she doesn’t necessarily need it.

13. Does the character have children? Grandchildren? If yes, how does he/she relate to them? If no, does he/she want any?

“I don’t want to even phantom the thought of having kids right now. But maybe someday.”

14. Does he/she have any rivals or enemies?

Meg doesn’t want to answer this question because she doesn’t want Hades to over-hear lmao.

15. What is the character’s sexual orientation? Where does he/she fall on the Kinsey scale?

“I’d rather boys, but intelligent ones.” Probably 0 or 2.

16. How does he/she feel about sex? How important is it to him/her?

“I want it to be with someone i care about and vice versa. I’m not the type to sleep around, but i mean to the people who do it you do you boo; just not my thing.”

17. What are his/her turn-ons? Turn-offs? Weird bedroom habits?

“I’d rather not talk about this, thanks.” Meg is quite a passionate person and she’s not going to give everything up so easily because she likes a fight. It would depend what mood she’s in, she’d love intimate or go farther into the rougher aspect of sex. Like hair pulling, lip biting, and all that good stuff.

Beliefs

1. Do you know your character’s astrological (zodiac of choice) sign? How well does he/she fit type?

I feel either an aries or leo. But probably mostly aries because they’re lively, passionate, courageous. Their negative traits would include being impatient, stubborn, and impulsive which just all sounds like Meg perfectly tbh.

2. Is this character religious, spiritual, both, or neither? How important are these elements in his/her life?

“I really don’t have any specific view on it. My mother gave me the choice of choosing/doing whatever i wanted to with religion. Maybe i just haven’t figured it out yet.”

3. Does this character have a personal code of morals or ethics? If so, how did that begin? What would it take to compromise it?

“Don’t we all have a code of morals? We all know right between wrong, but sometimes we do it anyway. It depends, although it would take a lot for me to compromise it.” Like being forced to frame drugs on Hercules lol.

4. How does he/she regard beliefs that differ from his? Is he/she tolerant, intolerant, curious, indifferent?

“Tolerant. I like to hear the other side of things or someone’s opinion on the matter.”

5. What prejudices does he/she hold? Are they irrational or does he/she have a good reason for them?

Mostly with everyone not because of color or what they look like, but shes always felt skeptical towards people because unless you don’t know that person like the back of your hand you don’t know what they’re capable of. Just like Hades. So pretty much Hades ruined her when it comes to people in general.

Daily Life

1. What is the character’s financial situation? Is he/she rich, poor, comfortable, in debt?

Meg has been comfortable, but there are times when she was younger that her family was hurting for money.

2. What is his/her social status? Has this changed over time, and if so, how has the change affected him/her?

“Under the radar.”

3. Where does he/she live? House, apartment, trailer? Is his/her home his/her castle or just a place to crash? What condition is it in? Does he/she share it with others?

“I miss my home back in Greece. It was just beautiful, i miss it so much sometimes compared to the form i’m living in at Walt.”

4. Besides the basic necessities, what does he/she spend his/her money on?

“Probably movies, i love to indulge in fantasy.”

5. What does he/she do for a living? Is he/she good at it? Does he/she enjoy it, or would he/she rather be doing something else?

“Nothing really.” Do you mean work for Hades? Then yes, and she doesn’t hate it but she doesn’t love it either. She’s known Hades for so long now that he feels like a friend in a weird twisted way.

6. What are his/her interests or hobbies? How does he/she spend his/her free time?

Meg will never admit it, but dancing. More of a classical style. Definitely something like this. (x)

7. What are his/her eating habits? Does he/she skip meals, eat out, drink alcohol, avoid certain foods?

Meg doesn’t have big meals unless she’s going out to eat, so she snacks a lot.

Associations

Which of the following do you associate with the character, or which is his/her favorite:

1. Color? Purple 2. Smell? The Ocean 3. Time of day? Sunset 4. Season? Autumn 5. Book? Anything that has to do with Mythology, she has a guilty pleasure for the Percy Jackson series. 6. Music? Upbeat songs, once that are relaxing to listen to. She has a soft spot for ballads. 7. Place? By the crashing waves of crystal blue ocean, by herself with a good book. 8. Substance? Vodka/Wine 9. Plant? Iris 10. Animal? Humming bird

#watask #aboutmegx #whoo and another one bites the dust #off to take a nap

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