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a-n-conrad · 3 years

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Painting (Steve Rogers x Reader)

[Summary: You decide to paint your friend, Steve Rogers, realizing that no one had ever painted him without his uniform. However, things start to get heated after you start to daydream during your painting session. (She/Her pronouns)

Warnings: SMUT (18+, but with emotions), Not Canon Compliant (Because fuck you, Marvel.), Swearing, unprotected vaginal sex

Request: From my request survey (https://forms.gle/D9rsJtkERoBPaKvv8)]

You and Steve Rogers were widely considered to be an unlikely pair. There were a lot of things that you didn’t exactly agree on. Steve was a lot more social, being bold and outgoing. You were a bit quieter, preferring to avoid the company of a crowd. Steve was prone to waking up early to exercise. You stayed up into the quiet hours of the night, choosing instead to get a majority of your sleep in the morning. You weren’t exactly fond of Steve’s workout routines either, though you would join him on a short jog on occasion.

While you were technically considered an Avenger, you were really only brought out to fight for emergency circumstances. You had some incredibly powerful, incredibly volatile powers, but you really had no interest in using them unless it was completely needed. So you ended up making a few deals. You’d be treated like an Avenger, but you were basically benched unless some drastic, world-ending issue came up. So until then, you were kept on hold in Avengers Tower, spending most of your time painting in the studio that Tony had gotten set up for you.

Despite this power, and despite your title as an official Avenger, you were still a bit of an outsider among the team. You tended not to talk to them a lot, becoming a bit easily overwhelmed by the chaos that the team seemed to radiate. But surprisingly, you and Steve got along incredibly well.

You had originally bonded over your love of art. You loved Steve’s drawings. You admired the linework and shading in his drawings. He could do so much with just a pen, let alone if you gave him a few colors. He admired the amount of emotion you managed to instill into every single painting that you made. No matter what you painted, whether it was a portrait, a landscape, or something entirely different, it was always filled to the brim with the emotion that you had felt while painting it. It was like looking through a window into your soul. It was so honest and refreshing.

Eventually the two of you started to talk a bit more while you worked. It started pretty tame, just discussions of how your day was or general questions about each other like “What’s your favorite color”. But eventually you moved on to the harsher topics of your lives. Steve would talk about how exhausting it was to be the face of America, to be held on such a pedestal while also being expected to sacrifice everything at the drop of a hat. You talked about how cold and dehumanizing it felt to be seen by the American government as nothing more than a weapon, a walking nuclear bomb.

Your struggles overlapped at certain points. You both spent a lot of your time being used by the government. You were both seen as tools more than you were seen as people by a lot of the general public. You were a weapon and he was an idol, some sort of trophy. So you bonded a lot over your shared struggles as you talked to each other and worked on art side by side. And when the hard stuff got a bit too heavy, you’d sit and talk about art. About subjects that you just loved to add to all of your work. About what each shade of every color meant to you, about the emotions that you saw in every tiny color shift.

It was so nice, for both of you, to have something like that. The studio that you spent time in was so safe and peaceful for both of you, since the other Avengers tended to avoid it. And the two of you had started to see through each other’s masks enough to truly get to know each other. Steve couldn’t remember the last time someone had known him as Steve Rogers more than they had known him as Captain America. He had Bucky, but Bucky was far too busy with his own issues for Steve to even consider burdening him with anything else. But with you he could truly be himself, even if that meant getting angry, sad, or frustrated.

So the two of you had become incredibly close, despite your differences. And every day that you had some free time without any big meeting or mission, you would be in the studio helping each other with art. It was a good way for you to relieve stress, just relaxing with each other. It was one of those days that you came to a realization.

- - - - -

“Has anyone ever painted you?” You asked suddenly one day as the two of you sat side by side in the art studio. He looked a bit surprised, and then he looked confused.

“Of course. There are murals of me up all over the place, (Y/n).”

“No, there are murals of Captain America,” you responded, shaking your head, “They don’t really look that much like you. You really only look like that when you’re working as Captain America. So has anyone ever painted you? As Steve Rogers?”

He looked surprised again. And you could tell as the emotions cycled through his face that he didn’t really know how to respond. You supposed it was a bit of an odd question. And you knew that it was a bit odd to think of someone and their superhero persona as two different people, but Steve couldn’t disagree. He wasn’t Captain America all the time, and he loved that you understood that, “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess not.”

You hummed a bit, “That’s a shame. It feels like a waste that everyone paints a costume. You should let me paint you sometime.”

You said it in a way that he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Your face was entirely serious when you said it, but you said it so casually, not even really looking at him, “Really?”

You finally looked up at him, noticing the pure confusion on his face, “Of course. I mean, you’d have to sit still for a while, but honestly, you could probably just sit and sketch for a while. You just seem too good of a subject to not be painted without the costume.”

Steve wasn’t really one to blush, but it was quite the compliment coming from you. He had women trying to hit on him all the time now, being Captain America, but that never really felt heartfelt. It had been a fairly long time since he had actually felt a real connection with someone. But to hear you compliment him, thinking of him as Steve Rogers instead of Captain America, made his heart flutter a bit. And the fact that he knew that you were rather picky about the subject you painted only made it more effective.

“I, uh, think that’d be cool,” He responded as soon as he was sure that he could trust his voice not to crack, though he couldn’t hide the slight stutter. It was honestly endearing how much his personality changed when he wasn’t working. While he was still headstrong and stubborn, he was a bit less confident. He knew he could win a fight. He knew that he looked good on television. But he didn’t really know how to interact with people in the new modern age. He was lucky to have the friends that he did. At least, that’s how he felt about it.

“Wonderful,” You hummed, starting to put away all of your supplies, “Why don’t we pack it up for the day and I can start painting you tomorrow if we aren’t too busy?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

- - - - -

The next day was surprisingly slow. You had to say that you were thankful. You had been looking forward to getting to paint Steve, even though you knew it was making him a little nervous. You were honestly excited to have a new project, and part of you was excited for the opportunity to stare at Steve for a bit without it being considered weird. He was easy to admire, both physically and on a personal level, so you found yourself staring more often than you’d like to admit. You were pretty sure that you had been lucky enough to avoid being caught though.

He was physically gorgeous. Obviously. But something about the way that he looked when he was drawing was nearly angelic. The way he furrowed his brows just a little and turned his paper at odd angles to make sure that the proportions of his sketches were right was adorable. The look in his eyes when his work started to come together made your heart melt. When he got a bit frustrated and would run a hand through his hair you could feel your heart skip a beat. You felt a bit dumb to be drooling over your friend, but you had to admit you were falling pretty hard for him. So you’d use this painting as an excuse to admire him without any questions.

He was already blushing a bit when he came into the studio, and you had a feeling that part of it was from Tony teasing him. He had a habit of giving the two of you a bit of a hard time about how much time you spent together. But the blush was still adorable. Something about Steve when he was nervous stole your heart. He was surprisingly soft when he had the space to be.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?” He asked as he strode over to your work station that you had already gotten set up.

“Just pull a chair up in front of me. You can get comfortable, start sketching, and I’ll get a base outline and block out as much as I can. Just let me know if you need a break and try not to change your pose too much. At least until I can get all of the base shapes right,” You instructed, trying to keep your voice even. You were surprised at how well you managed to hide the fact that you were completely lovesick.

“Alright, sounds good,” He responded, pulling up a chair and getting himself situated. He crossed one of his legs over the other, resting his ankle on his other thigh to give himself a place to set his sketchbook. You tossed him his pencil once he got himself settled, and then you got to work.

You had to admit you had started to get a bit frustrated with how easily you managed to get distracted by him while you were trying to paint. You had hoped that maybe painting him would help. You had no reason to get distracted from your painting when you were painting him. At least, that’s what you had thought before you started sketching out the form.

You felt yourself losing focus as your brush moved smoothly, the incredibly thin, light paint building a form that you found yourself wanting to know a bit more intimately. You tried your best to stay focused on the canvas in front of you, but you couldn’t stop your mind from drifting. You imagined what his body looked like under his clothes as you blocked out the lights and shadows of the fabric that rested over his abs. And the vivid image in your brain, the detailed picture of his body that you had conjured up in front of you, followed your brush as you worked.

The brush slid smoothly across the canvas, outlining his muscles, almost all of which showed through his thin t-shirt. Your brain almost instantly conjured up a matching image, the fantasy becoming more and more dynamic as you went on. It shifted from regular images of what his abs looked like when he was shirtless to more detailed images. Thoughts of his biceps flexing a bit as he held himself over you, his arms covered in sweat. Thoughts of his hands sliding across your skin. It only got worse as you moved down, eventually reaching the point between his legs.

“(Y/n)? Are you alright?” Steve’s voice finally broke you from your thoughts, his eyes which had been focused intently on his drawing when you had last looked were now trained on your face, scanning for any sign as to what was causing you to space out, “You don’t normally get distracted when you’re painting, is everything alright?”

“Oh,” You tried your best to pull yourself back to reality, though the fantasies seemed to be burned into your brain, “Yeah, sorry. I was, uh, spacing out a bit.”

“Do you want to take a break for a bit? Maybe we should get up and stretch,” He suggested. You nodded in response, hoping it would help you refocus on your painting.

It didn’t help much, though, as Steve stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt lifted up just enough to show some skin, and his pants were riding fairly low. Your eyes almost involuntarily moved to look at him, landing right about the button to the jeans that he was wearing. The muscles in his hips and stomach formed an almost perfect V shape leading into his pants.

“(Y/N)?” You had been caught staring. You tried your best to look casual, relaxing your posture. Your mistake was to try to lean on the table, setting your hand directing on your palette, which was covered in paints.

You froze, and Steve’s eyes landed on your hand, the red and blue paint gushing out from the sides. You felt like an awkward teenager, doing stupid ridiculous shit in front of your crush. You watched intently for a reaction from Steve, not really knowing what to do and hoping that the way that he reacted would give you something easy to respond to.

He raised one of his eyebrows at you, a look of confusion, with a small hint of amusement under the surface painted across his face, “You seem to have set your hand in your paint.”

“Uh, yes, it would seem so,” You responded awkwardly, finally lifting your hand out of the paint. You still really weren’t sure what to say, and not knowing where to put your hand so that you wouldn’t smear any paint anywhere wasn’t really making you feel any better. You cleared your throat a bit, trying to think of something smart to say, something that wouldn’t signal exactly how far gone you were into your fantasies, but instead you just signaled to Steve how flustered you were.

You knew that Steve had never been the biggest ladies’ man. From what he had told you, he was actually pretty awkward growing up, but the confidence that washed over him as he finally figured out what was getting you so flustered was visible. He walked closer to you, standing close enough to emphasize how tall he was, “Got something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Oh, uh,” You stuttered, not sure what to say. You could tell that he knew from the smirk on his face, but you could feel your face heating up as you thought about explaining your fantasizing to Steve. He smirked even more as you got visibly flustered.

“It’s okay, honey, I don’t mind if you stare a little,” He said, standing a bit closer, his hand moving to hold your chin. You swallowed deeply as his fingers brushed against your skin softly. Your eyes locked with his as his hand tilted your chin up just a little.

As much as he was keeping up his confident, masculine persona, you could see the complete warmth in his eyes. He softened completely when you looked at him, pure admiration in your eyes. He had to admit it warmed his heart to see you looking at him like that, like he was your whole world. And maybe it was because he felt the same way. He had been falling in love with you slowly, and as he looked at you, he wanted to find every way possible to express it.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered, his voice soft.

“Please.”

His lips were much softer than you thought they’d be, but you didn’t think about it too much as his lips moved against your own. It was soft at first, but it began to escalate quickly, getting rough and more passionate. His hands moved to your waist, pulling your body into his own, and your hands moved to his face, too focused on the kiss to notice the fact that you were smearing paint across his cheek.

He pulled back, allowing you to get a breath of air. That was when you noticed the red and blue streaks across his cheek, “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about,” He brushed it off, before pulling you into another kiss. He truly didn’t seem to care at all about the paint, choosing instead to focus on you.

This kiss started off much more passionate, building even further. Before long he pulled away again, pulling a groan from your mouth as you instinctively wanted more. Your complaints were silenced, though, as he began to kiss down your neck, nipping slighting at a few select spots, leaving marks for you to see later.

“If you want me to stop, just say it,” He said, as his hands started to move towards the hem of your shirt. He was moving slowly, giving you the chance to stop him at any point. You didn’t.

Before long, your clothes were entirely discarded, scattered haphazardly across the floor. Steve’s followed shortly. Neither of you could keep your hands to yourself, feeling the curves of each other's bodies as you continued to kiss. Both of you were desperate, the tension that neither of you even realized had been building finally crashing to the ground around you, any sort of restraint being thrown out the window.

However, you had to take a few moments to admire his body. You knew that it was perfect, he was a super soldier, of course it’s perfect, but you didn’t really know how perfect until it was right in front of you. There was no way you could’ve imagined it in a way that did it true justice. The warmth under his skin, the pace of his breathing, the firm feeling of his grip on your waist. Those were things that you could never have imagined fully.

He lifted you up without any issue, placing his hands under your thighs, carrying you to the work table and setting you on a clear section of the table without breaking the kiss. His hands slid across the tops of your thighs before grabbing your hips. Yours moved from his cheeks to rest on his bare chest, smearing a bit more paint across his scalped chest. You could feel his erection brush against your leg as he leaned over you, the two of you trying to get as close to each other as possible.

You were breathing heavily, your brain clouded with need, both new and left over from your earlier fantasies. Fantasies that were coming true, “Please, Steve.”

“What is it, Sweetheart?” Steve asked, looking down at you, his pupils blown wide with desire, “What do you want?”

You began to grind against his thigh without really thinking about it. He had to admit that something about you needing him this much turned him on, but he wanted to wait until you said it before he did anything, “Please fuck me.”

He would’ve liked to have a bit more foreplay, but both of you were so needy, having built up to this for so long with so little release until now. So he complied with your request. He pulled you quickly to the edge of the table. You were forced to lay your upper body down completely so that he could pull your hips to hang over the edge a bit. He took a few moments to rub himself against the entrance to your pussy, coating the head of his cock with liquid that was practically dripping from your pussy. Finally, he pushed himself into you slowly, making sure to monitor your reaction for any sort of discomfort. You were indulging in the feeling of him slowly stretching you out, completely enjoying the feeling of having him as close to you as possible.

He started moving after he was sure that you were comfortable, his hands beginning to wander your body, squeezing at your hips and breasts, basically any part of you that had a bit of squish, something for him to grab. His mouth latched on to the base of your neck, leaving a deep, dark hickey. You could feel every movement of his hips, his cock brushing against your internal walls again with each thrust.

You couldn’t hold back your moans as he found the perfect spot to hit, one of his hands gripping one of your hips tightly to hold you in place as his thrusts gained momentum. He started picking up speed a bit, taking care to continue to hit the spot that made you moan the loudest. His other hand slid down further, his fingers making their way between your folds. He was surprisingly quick to find your clit, not that you were complaining. Your eyes practically rolled back in your head as he started to rub small circles over it, keeping pace with his thrusts.

You were practically putty in his hands, falling apart as he found every way to make you moan. Touch, squeezing, kissing, and biting exactly where you needed him to. You had no idea how he knew exactly what you wanted, but you didn’t really care as a knot began to build in the pit of your stomach.

You practically screamed his name as the knot finally snapped, Steve continuing his motions, continuing to rub your clit, as you rode out your climax, your whole body feeling as though fireworks were shooting through your veins. Your walls tightened with the waves of your orgasms, the fluttering feeling clear to Steve as he continued to bury himself inside of you. Soon after your climax finished, you could feel his thrust begin to get a bit sloppy, focus clear on his face as he tried his best to hold on longer.

He couldn’t hold on that long, though, soon giving in to the building pleasure. He came hard, his hips snapping into your own and his head being buried in your neck to hide his curses as he came completely undone. You could feel the thick hot ropes of his cum coating your insides as he finished. You both stayed like that for a few moments in order to catch your breath.

As you started to come back to reality, you finally noticed the mess you had made. Steve’s hair was a mess, blue paint sticking some of the tips together. You couldn’t even remember when you had grabbed his hair, but the paint smears left a clear map of where your hand had wandered. The blue and red stripes across his face and chest were clear, too. In fact, you had gotten paint all over his sculpted body, the blue smears outlining his muscles.

“We should probably clean up and get back to work, huh?” He eventually sighed, his eyes never leaving your body.

“I suppose.”

(A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to send me a tip for my writing feel free to tip me over venmo! My venmo is Al3x13l. Tips aren't required, but as a broke college student, they are appreciated.)

#steve rogers x reader #marvel x reader #marvel #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x reader #smut #friends to lovers

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heyheydidjaknow · 3 years

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I would’ve posted this earlier but, alas, I passed out early. This is a longer one, but tumblr got its act together so I can post it all in one part. You guys know where the other chapters are, and if you don’t, they’re at the end of the chapter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat straight Nutella.

Chapter 10

“I’m thinking about getting some gloves.”

He looks over at you as he laces up his skates. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling slightly to yourself as you look your hands over, trying to imagine what they would look like. “Like, badass, fingerless gloves.”

He smiles. “Dude, those would look metal as fuck.”

“Totally, right?” Your smile widens. “With studs and shit.”

He gets to his feet, hopping onto the ice. “Hell yeah.” He drops a puck to assault as you go back to your backed-up coursework the best you can—your handwriting has gone to hell, but you are working with what you have.

You flinch at the crack of his stick, the cross of the T ending up underneath the letter somehow. A cheer from Casey tells you the rubber cylinder’s fate.

‘I swear I learned this.' You squint at the basic algebra, the pencil, crudely held in your fist, hovering over the packet. ‘Why can’t I do this?’

“How’s your pile coming along?” Another crack.

“It’s comin’.” You run your fingers through your hair. “Just… trynna remember how to do ne—… subtraction.” ‘Not debate. Negating is debate.’

He laughs. Another crack. “Man, that thing really fucked you over, huh?”

“Thoroughly.” You decide against continuing to torture yourself, having been at it for the past five hours—most of it in the library before Casey invited you to watch him practice some more— and set the large stack of homework back in your bag. “Are you actually making the shots?”

“Casey Jones doesn’t miss shots.” Another crack.

“Pardon me, oh almighty king of the ice.” You stand on your good leg, grabbing the side of the wall to watch as he went back to collect his pucks.

You two have managed to bond over a mutual respect/love of heavy metal and hockey and, seeing as you are staying out of the Hamatos’ hair for a while—not upon request, but out of courtesy—you have managed to spend a lot more time with him than you may have otherwise. Your school has not assigned Biology any big projects yet, so, until you are assigned it, you do not have anything other than your health to stress about.

“Pardon accepted.” You watch his form as he performs another slap shot.

“You…” you trail off, trying to remember what you were going to say.

“What?”

You shrug. “Dunno.” You lean your head on your arms. “I’ll remember eventually.”

He drops the second puck. “Got any plans after this?”

You sigh. “Nope. Probably gonna head home and try not to cut my fingers making dinner again.”

He takes another shot. “Then let’s go out after this. You and me.”

You smile. “What, don’t have any plans either?”

“Nah.” He drops the third. “Dad doesn’t care if I’m home late anyway.”

“True, true.” You have decided against prying into his home life; it is not your place and does not concern you in the slightest. “Where do you wanna go?”

“Wanna catch a movie? Heard there was this new pizza place just a couple blocks down if you wanna try to sneak it in.”

You snicker. “In the box and all?”

“Yes.” He grins mischievously and hits this one off the walls. Some way, somehow, it still makes it into the goal. “I bet your sweatshirt is big enough to stick the box under.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Not in the mood for burns on top of scars, Jones,” you reprimand him teasingly. “That just ain't it.”

“Then you can wear mine under that one and—”

“Your sweat-soaked hoodie you’ve been practicing in all day?” You cringe at the thought. “Over my dead body.”

“I mean…” he licks his teeth, smile widening, “it’s not exactly like you’re in the best—”

You laugh. “So not cool!”

He puts his hands up in defense, gliding over. “I mean, am I wrong, though?”

“That is completely besides the point, you ass.” You balance on your foot, crossing your arms. “Damn. Making fun of the girl with the broken leg.”

He leans against the wall. “Man, you were dying before the crash.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, whatever, Jones.” You lean against your hand. “How’s Johanna,” you sing.

He presses his hand against your face, pushing you away. “Annie is doing fine.”

You grin, steadying yourself on the wall. “Do you feel her, Johanna?”

“I’m gonna tell her you call her that if you don’t quit it.”

“Do you think that walls can hide her? Even when you’re at her window?”

He pushed his arm all the way out. You hop back.

“Her name isn’t even Johanna.”

“But she is Johanna,” you whine in protest, not bothering to hide your mirth. “She has the hair, the voice, the disposition. She’s an ingénue and you know it.” You have been teasing him about this for a while now: the girl in question—Annabelle Halshaw, a year below you two—had caught his eye when he had heard through the grapevine that she was the lead singer in some indie band. When he had shown you a picture and told you the story, you insisted on calling her Johanna for her golden hair and soft, sweet singing voice he had proudly had you listen to.

“She’s not.”

You roll your eyes, sitting back down as you grab your bag. “Lie to yourself all you want,” you goad, “but deep down, you know in your heart that the truth,” you put a finger up, “is apparent.”

He hops off the ice, sitting next to you as he unlaces his skates. “Whatever.” He smirks. “How’s The Don?”

You avert your gaze. “I haven’t seen ‘im.”

“Boo.” He tied the laces together. “Some girlfriend you are,” he ribs.

You go red. “Not my boyfriend. Not even friends with benefits.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sets the skates into his bag. “That’s why you already know his family.”

“That—”

“And why you’ve had him over to your place.”

“If you don’t cool your tits, I’m telling Lucy you’re crushing on her friend.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What,” you simper, “think I won’t?”

He grabs his bag. “If you do, I’ll show her that video.”

You laugh, following him out of the rink. “You’re the worst.” You note how strange it is that he spent so little time on the ice as you two walk out, but you do not say anything about it.

“Hey, you’re the one throwing threats around.”

“Yeah,” you argue, “but my threat is clearly better.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing you again.

You two keep chatting on the way to the theatre about anything and everything, from new bands to upcoming games to the newest blockbuster horror movies. You are not personally on the hockey team, but, as his friend, it is your duty to care. Besides, you figure, it gives you something to look forward to.

The movie is fine. You convince him against sneaking an entire pizza in, you split a bucket of popcorn, and you give him shit for getting freaked out by the disembowelment scene. It is payback for him teasing you about crying during the last movie you two went to a couple of days ago.

You two stand at the streetlight.

“Dude, it’s like eight,” he groans. “It’s not even late.”

“True,” you agree. “Counterpoint: I still have another week’s worth of work to do by Friday on top of the homework I’ll have to do anyway, so unless you wanna help—”

“Forget I asked.” He pulls his hood up against the autumn wind. “Need me to walk you back?”

“Nah.” You shrug. “If someone mugs me, they’ll give me an excuse to not do my homework.”

“Murdered?

“I’m already halfway there.”

He grins. “See ya tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See ya, Jones.” You wave as he runs off.

The walk home is quiet and considerably easier than it was a couple of weeks ago. Seeing as you now get queasy whenever you get into a car, you have been limited to taking the subway and walking, which, among other things, has contributed positively to your physical strength. You know that you should probably at least try to take the bus or a cab around town to build your tolerance up, but the last time you tried, you had almost tripped and fallen from how shaky your legs were getting out. Oddly enough, you note as you go through the door, you do not have a considerably larger fear of heights than you did before, or of fire, but cars were tripping you up, even though you were the one that crashed it. You feel thankful that, at least, you do not think your fear is crippling. At least, you reason, you can still get into the car.

You lock the door behind you, debating whether you feel like adding to the collection of cuts you now possess— they are self-inflicted, but not intentionally so; you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the fact that you physically cannot use your hands to cut things. You decide against it tonight, tossing your bag on the bed as you sprawl across it, admittedly exhausted. You allow yourself a couple of seconds with your eyes closed before you pull yourself up with a groan and get back to work.

A part of you wishes that you had the physical energy to stay out longer. You are always trying to find excuses not to sleep, and although the mountain of homework and readjusting your timelines for things you missed is certainly one way to keep yourself preoccupied, it is not exactly what you would consider fun. Then again, reliving your greatest traumas while you sleep is not exactly fun either.

You catch yourself peeling at the newly applied bandages on your fingers, fingernails catching under the crudely applied adhesives. Applying bandages properly requires more dexterity and patience than you currently possess, and you are hardly going to ask someone else for help with something as stupid as that. You have lasted this long without needing too much help. People can live by themselves. You will live, probably. Well? Not your concern.

‘I should eat something.’ Your eyes strain to focus on the piece of paper in front of you, your mind wandering aimlessly as you try to impress the actual importance of finishing this upon yourself, but you find that is an insurmountable feat.

You drop your bag off the side of the bed, reaching down and pulling your shoe off, leaning back into your pillows, the weight of the day practically immobilizing you. Fumbling hands switch the lamp off, bathing your room in momentary, blissful darkness before the gravity of your decision sets in.

“Alright, me,” you breathe to yourself. “What’s it gonna be today? My folks? Bradford? What’s his face? Hell,” you chuckle, “why not all three? I’m sadistic enough, I’m sure.”

You close your eyes. “Give me your worse,” you challenge as you slip into unconsciousness.

Two weeks.

He had kept his distance for about two weeks. It was not as if he did not care or was not morbidly curious what the crash had done to you—his glances through the curtains did not tell him much-- but, after some debate, he had figured you needed time to recuperate before you would want his company. Two weeks, he figured, would be enough time for you to get back on your feet or, at least, for you to start wanting company.

His excuse to see you had come in the form of his brother’s newfound prideful boasting. Feigning insult was as good an excuse as any to go see you; after all, he just so happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, and it was normal to pop in to see someone if you were already just a couple blocks down, right? Sneaking away was easy enough—they would not mind his absence—and he, after much prep work, knew exactly how and why he was going to say the things he would to get in your good favor. The plan, he knows, would have gone swimmingly.

His plans seem asinine when he hears you crying.

His brothers do not cry much. He does not, either; it was a habit that they had all thoroughly bullied themselves out of when they were much younger and, if they still did, he knew nothing of it. His master did not encourage this, per se, but talked, then, frequently about the importance of maintaining a more stoic disposition and not allowing emotions to cripple you in battle. Practically, Donatello was satisfied with that explanation, having not properly cried for more than a year now. To hear the sound again, especially coming from you, was novel.

Novel, too, is how you are crying. The sound is less of actual sobbing and more of you being strangled, quiet gasps for air escaping your lips as you shake on the bed, curled in on yourself and clutching at your chest as if whatever pain you are experiencing is centered and can be relieved by something between your collarbones. His eyes, for the first time, trace the lines on your skin, your sleeves riding up your arms to reveal them to him, tears racing down and along the gash in your face. Everything about the scene, from the soft gasping of panic to your position to the heavy scarring, is completely foreign to him, rivaled only by one or two particularly hard nights when he and his brother were much younger.

He slides in through the window, leaning onto the bed. His fingers flick your lamp back on as he grabs your shivering shoulder tightly, shaking you awake as he mumbles words of encouragement. He is not sure if his help will be appreciated, if snapping you out of it was even what he is supposed to do in this situation, but now is not the time to think of that. You are in pain. He can offer you this kindness. “Wake up,” he pleads, not thinking of how this would look until your eyes snap open to look at him.

Immediately, the reality of the situation sets in, and he scrambles off the bed. ‘Why did I think that would be a good idea?’ Panic. ‘You just walked into her room like a fucking creep. See, now she’s going to—’

“Sorry.”

He blinks, looking up at you from his place on the floor. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, wiping the tears from your eye with your sleeve quickly as you bring your knees to your chest, voice hoarse. “Sorry,” you repeat. “That you… I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for, but I know I should be apologizing.”

He is completely dumbfounded.

Your eyes glance to the open window. “I should probably start closing and locking my window, right?” You rub the back of your neck, voice clearing the longer you talk. “It didn’t occur to me since I’m so high up, but if you guys can get in, The Foot can too, right?”

‘Why is she apologizing?’

You push the hair out of your face. ‘You need something, right? I—uh—need to stop saying ‘right’ so much.” You shake your head to clear it. “’ Sup?”

He hears himself mumble some bullshit out about being in the neighborhood.

You sigh. “Sorry.” You close your eyes. “I’m usually up later; I’ve been so tired lately.”

‘Is she serious right now?’ He is completely lost. ‘She was just crying her eyes out in her sleep and now she’s apologizing? Did I miss something?’ You are smiling now, eyes still bloodshot, as if the whole thing is a figment of his imagination, still shivering where you sit.

He rises to his feet, kneeling in front of you on the bed. “What was it about?”

You blink, seemingly confused. “Huh?”

“Your nightmare,” he clarifies. “You were crying. What was it about?”

You avert eye contact. “Nothing too crazy,” you shrug. “Just about the crash. Nothing too exciting.” If possible, he thinks the bags under your eyes are worse than the last time you saw him.

He takes your hands loosely, turning them palms up to look, for the first time, at the patchwork quilt that is now your skin. “What happened in it?” He runs his thumb along the lines, keeping his voice low; he remembers how that used to help when Mikey used to have fits when they were younger. Leonardo and Raphael were never good at that; they took better to being more violently snapped out of their moods, but, then again, they never had this kind of breakdown; theirs were always more driven by loathing, self or otherwise.

You pause, still not looking him in the face as your muscles relax. He remembers, vividly, how he had done something similar when you two had first met, how much better, health-wise, you looked. ‘How long has it been since then? Three months? A little less?’

You take a deep breath. “Just… family shit,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as you trace his frame loosely. “Fire.”

Your gaze is piercing as you finally look at him properly. He feels something catch in his throat as you bow your head.

“It’s my fault, you know.” Your voice is so soft, barely a whisper. “That they’re dead, I mean.”

The air is a suffocating blanket that smothers you both.

“I never told you, did I?” Your focus does not shift as it might have a bit ago. It is locked solely and intensely on him, taking in every detail of his expression. “How I died? How they died? Why I died?”

Hesitantly, he shakes his head. He thinks it best to just be quiet and let you talk. He does not think he has ever heard anyone speak in quite the same tones, ever looked at him quite the same way you are.

You take another breath. “I wanted to try my hand at baking.” You force your eyes to stay focused on his. “I was—still am—not good about sleep. I always slept bad, and never at the right times. I used to take pills for it, to try to get myself back on track.”

He sees where this is going.

“I thought I could still stay up as late as I was used to.” You glance to the side, stealing yourself a second before focusing back on the boy in front of you. “I sat down in my room, turned on a movie. I set a timer. I fell asleep.” You swallow, hands shaking in his. “I can’t smell well, either. I must not have smelled the burning.” Your lips curl in a bitter smile. “Sure as fuck felt it, though, when I woke up.”

He lets you finish.

You try to blink the tears out of your eyes. “They were asleep,” Your voice rises ever so slightly. “I fell asleep at two something. I woke up when they started yelling.” You purse your lips, face reddening in shame as your nostrils flair. “They were trying to get someone out of bed when the roof caved in above them. My door got blocked.”

You feel yourself smile.

“So,” you strain not to cry, “that, Donatello, is why I’m here and why I’m dead, and why I really do deserve to burn again.” You laugh. “Hell, my body count is rivaling some serial killers, so that’s… that’s certainly something.”

He lets go of your hands, face blank.

You lean forward, placing your hands on your knees. “I don’t blame you,” You wipe a wayward tear out of your eyes, trying to swallow the frog in your throat. “Fuck, man, I’d think less of me, too, if it were me.” You nod towards the window. “I get it if you want to leave, but I thought you might want to know why—”

He stops you mid-sentence, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him.

Your arms lay slack at your sides as you try to process what is happening.

He does not say a word.

You break.

You burry your face into him, tears welling in your eyes as you let out a strangled sob. You hold onto him tightly as you struggle to breathe, body shaking as you wrap your own arms around him the best you can. The sound roars in your ears like thunder, the deafening quiet of the apartment punctuated only by your own cries. He gently holds you there, resting his head on top of yours. Each sound you make sounds as though you are physically being choked by your guilt, and his chest feels as though it is being crushed by an invisible hand as he listens to your pain.

Neither of you knows how long you stay like that.

He considers telling you a story from a long time ago, about some training he and his brothers had back then, but thought better of it; he does not want to upset you any more than you already are, and being in good company with someone like him may not be exactly what you need right now. Granted, he does not know what you do need, but he knows listening to him talk about bashing brains would not help your sensibilities any.

Instead, he stays quiet.

You pull away after a while, wiping your face off again as you mumble out an apology.

“Don’t apologize.” He clears his throat. “It’s good to cry; it releases endorphins.”

You smile at that. “Well,” you giggle tearfully, “if it releases endorphins.”

He smiles back, face flushing. You look good, he thinks, even with your face all red. He knows that, scientifically, there is probably a reason, but he cannot think of it right now.

He stands up. “I’ll get—”

You grab his hand tightly.

He looks back at you.

“Can I ask a favor?”

He blinks. “Of course,” he agrees easily. “Anything.”

You glance off. “Promise not to take it weird?”

He feels his heart rate increase. “Y-yeah,” he nods.

He feels you pull him gently back on the bed. “Can you stay here tonight?”

His eyes widen as they flicker between the mattress and you. “What,” he clarifies breathlessly, “like sleep with you?”

You nod.

“In the same bed?”

You hesitate, nod again.

He clears his throat, face heating again. “Like, actually?”

“If it wasn’t actually, I wouldn’t ask, would I?” You grip his hand tightly. “I just really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

‘Oh.’ He mentally kicks himself. ‘She’s scared. Don’t make her uncomfortable.’

“It’s alright if you don’t—”

He is extremely quick to reassure you that he is more than happy—‘Bad choice of wording.’—to stay tonight until you fall asleep, but that he would not stay the whole night as to not worry his brothers.

You nod in agreement. “That’s fine.” You rub the back of your neck. “Not sure I would be good company when I wake up, anyway; I still have class.”

“Oh, right.” He nods in understanding, pushing himself further onto the bed. “Which side…?”

You shrug. “Which way do you face?”

“I usually lie on my stomach.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” You slide your sweatshirt over your head after a bit of squirming around, tossing it onto the couch.

His face is now scarlet. “Okay then,” he mumbles, laying down on the side away from the window. ‘Is she going to—no, stop that.’

You look over at him, face down on the mattress. You can almost feel the heat coming off him. “Are you alright there, buddy?”

He nods.

You shrug, laying down under the blanket and curling into him, facing the window. “Mind getting the light?”

He reaches over, clicking it off.

You sigh in content, turning to face him, teetering on the edge of the mattress. “I’m not venomous,” you inform him teasingly. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: of the two of us, you should not be the one who’s a nervous wreck.”

“You dunno that.” His voice is muffled by the bed.

“You’re the strong one,” you argue.

“So?” He turns his head to look at you. “I’m the guy laying in the—I’m just gonna stop that sentence.”

“It’s only bad if it isn’t consensual.” You smile reassuringly. “I invited you to lay with me, right? So, unless I make you uneasy, then we’re all good.”

He breaks eye contact. “So,” he clarifies, “you don’t mind if I move closer to you?”

You shake your head.

He hesitantly slides himself further onto the bed. “Can I move closer than this?”

“You’ve already seen me bawl my eyes out. You’re doing me a service. Move as close or as far as you want.”

He moves to press his side against you. “Is this fine?”

You nod. “Look, how about this?” You rest your arm under your head. “If you do something I’m uncomfortable with, the safe word is pina colada.”

‘We already have a safe word?’ He was not sure if he is on cloud nine or just terrified of you.

You are very confused why he looks so warm. “Do you need me to turn the AC on?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good,” he assures you tightly. Slowly, he reached an arm out and over your waist, pulling you closer. You do not seem to resist in any way, wrapping your good leg around one of his to pull him closer.

‘Conscious touching.’ He glances down at you, trying to act cool. ‘Conscious, intentional touching. She smells so nice and she feels—okay, this is not going to work if you keep being a perv.’

“Thanks,” you mumble, humming softly. “I appreciate this more than you know.”

Cloud nine. Definitely on cloud nine.

“Every time.”

You giggle.

He blinks. “What?”

“Every time,” you note, already nodding off. “Like in that book.”

‘Which one?’ “They wrote it down for a reason, right?” The longer he spends like this, the smoother he feels.

“Totally.” You smile, closing your eyes. “Just know that this goes both ways, alright? If you ever need help like this, you know who to call.”

This is new. ‘Help like this? What, like crying?’ His eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand what you mean. ‘Or he means if I ever need company in my—what did I just say?’

You pick up on his confusion. “Emotional help, I mean.” Your fingers trace the indentations in his shell absentmindedly. “I mean, I know sometimes I didn’t want to go to my family about stuff. I dunno if you have that…” you trail off, realizing that you might be unintentionally bashing his brothers. You sincerely do not want to blow this.

“I mean,” he says after a bit, “I think I get what you’re talking about.” He sighs. “You mean stuff that they’d make fun of me for, right?”

You nod.

He feels his heart melt a little. “I’ll have to take you up on that.”

You forgot how safe he makes you feel. “Goodnight, Donnie,” you mumble sleepily.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pass out not long after that. If he has to estimate a general amount of time, he will clock it in at about five minutes. He does not move, however, until about thirty minutes before sunrise, too busy listening to the sound of your breathing and memorizing how exactly your body feels next to his. As he slips out of the window, early morning air waking him back up completely, he wonders if, someday, he could stay to see you wake up next to him. Not out of necessity, but just because you both wanted to stay like that for a while more.

‘I hope so. It’s a nice dream to have, anyhow.’

Table of Contents

Chapter 9

Chapter 11

40 notes · View notes

kurtstinypurse · 3 years

Note

Also: a taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips

have some skank kurt <3

“ways you said I love you” prompt: as a taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips

Kurt Hummel was completely and utterly infuriating, and Blaine had always thought so.

In fact, he couldn’t really remember a time when he didn’t. Kurt had always been around, at least since Blaine’s family moved to Lima when he was nine, and Kurt had been infuriating in every minute since.

At first, it was because Kurt wouldn’t talk to him.

Blaine walked into his fourth grade class at his new school, fresh-faced and wide-eyed and nervous, knowing he was inserting himself into a classroom of kids that had known each other for years. He wasn’t expecting to make friends, really, or to even be acknowledged, and he wasn’t.

But he saw one boy sitting at his desk in the corner, teeth worrying his bottom lip while he worked out a math problem, quiet, not acknowledged either.

Until Blaine tried.

He just- he looked like someone Blaine wanted to know, and so he walked over, and he introduced himself, and the boy barely looked up.

In fact, he flinched, and his pencil stilled in his hand for a moment, and then he kept writing, as if Blaine weren’t even there.

And though he was dejected, Blaine was also the type that just couldn’t handle not making a friend with someone he wanted to be friends with - and so he kept trying, learning Kurt’s name from their teacher and trying to smile at him every morning.

It didn’t work.

It never worked.

Kurt stayed quiet, and he stayed away, and Blaine just didn’t understand why.

He had always thought he was pretty friendly, pretty easy to talk to. He was always happy to go along with what his friends wanted to do, and he got excited about a lot of different things, from sports to musicals and Disney.

Blaine had always thought he was a pretty good friend to have.

Apparently Kurt disagreed, and that- that was something that settled uncomfortably inside of Blaine’s chest and stuck with him for years.

It faded, of course, into a dull ache that only showed itself when they passed each other in the hallways or got stuck in the same class. Blaine wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t a stalker - he quickly learned to stop trying and just leave it, but he always just wondered.

And then, at the start of their junior year, Kurt showed up with a shock of bright pink hair streaking through his bangs and a ring in his eyebrow and eyeliner around his eyes, and he went from quiet to being abrasive, and Blaine started wondering all over again.

He wanted to know what happened to Kurt, if it had been something over the summer, or if maybe the bullying from the jocks and the locker slams and slushies had just gotten to be too much, and maybe he was trying out a form of armor.

Blaine could understand that - he’d gotten enough of it himself, but that was another thing about it all, too.

Why couldn’t they have just been allies this entire time?

Apparently Kurt just wasn’t interested, would rather toughen up and roughen up and trade in the sense of style Blaine had always admired in favor of leather jackets and torn jeans, making himself effectively untouchable.

Blaine was over it, the idea of winning Kurt over or becoming friends or even making eye contact, but he still wanted to know why.

Of course, Blaine had only just resigned himself to never finding out when the two of them were paired up together for a science project.

It was one of those ones, too, where they’d have to work outside of class, developing a unique experiment of their choosing to prove proper use of the scientific method. They’d have to work together on it for two weeks, and then they’d present it, and the project was a pretty big chunk of their grade.

Blaine had no idea what kind of student Kurt was - he used to keep his head down and do his work, sure, but he was so different now, missing from class as often as he bothered to show up, leaning back in his chair and fidgeting with his eyebrow ring instead of taking notes.

Regardless, they needed to get a good grade. Junior year was the most important year for getting into a good college, and Blaine had plans, music and New York and, primarily, getting out of Ohio, and there was no way he could let Kurt get under his skin and get in the way of-

“Hey, B.”

And there Kurt was, perching himself right on the edge of Blaine’s desk, looking at him with a sort of put-on disinterest that didn’t quite fit the piercing blue of his eyes, the bold pink of his hair.

Blaine was startled - by a number of things, really, unsure of what to focus on first. It was Kurt’s closeness, Kurt’s acknowledgement at all, and the nickname, sounding strangely foreign and oddly comfortable coming off his tongue all at once.

He blinked, pulling his focus back in, and he looked up at Kurt, forcing a polite smile.

“Um, hi.”

Kurt narrowed his eyes at Blaine, as if suspicious of him, folding his arms over his chest.

They stayed that way for a long moment, just looking at each other, Blaine wondering what to do, what to say, if he should even bother or just offer to take care of the whole thing on his own. He actually hadn’t expected for Kurt to come over to him or acknowledge him at all, hadn’t had enough time regardless to properly consider the right path to take.

He felt shaken, startled, far too affected still by the boy who had infuriated him for so many years.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Kurt said finally, reaching up to flick at the ring threaded through his eyebrow. “Sorry about that. Somebody’s gotta do it, though.”

Blaine huffed out a short laugh despite himself, torn between refusing the apology and accepting it.

From the decent level of chatter in the room, it was obvious that everyone else had already started arranging their plans with their partners, and he knew their teacher was a stickler for setting pairs and keeping them that way, regardless of whether everyone got along or not.

For all intents and purposes, they were stuck together.

But surprisingly, the longer Kurt sat on his desk, kicking his legs out and back without a care in the world, waiting for Blaine to wrap his head around it all, the less Blaine really minded.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he said, and he meant it.

There were several interesting things about Kurt.

It was like the longer they spent together, the more interesting things Blaine discovered - unexplainable things, mostly.

Like the way Kurt didn’t argue when Blaine set their project schedule, two afternoons a week at Blaine’s house, where it was quiet. There was the way, too, that Blaine would look up from his notes or his textbook sometimes to find Kurt just looking at him, an entirely unreadable expression on his face.

And then there was the way that Kurt would laugh at Blaine’s dumb jokes, or he’d just smile at Blaine like he was actually happy to be there, only to catch himself in it and near visibly flinch and close himself off, quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

It made Blaine feel nervous and insecure and a little flustered and giddy all at once, and he wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings, didn’t know what any of it meant.

At least, he didn’t know what it meant until he reminded himself that it didn’t mean anything - this was Kurt, after all, who had purposefully ignored him for the better part of their schooling careers.

They just needed to figure out their project, get it done, present it, and move on - and moving on meant Kurt going back to ignoring him, and Blaine going back to wondering.

And that was fine.

But the most interesting thing of all came around one Friday afternoon, when both of them were tired from their long weeks and less than productive, project more or less at a standstill. They were making decent progress - Blaine was pleasantly surprised with it, actually - and so he wasn’t too concerned about their timeline, wasn’t too worried if the day was more of a waste than anything else.

He was more concerned about the fact that Kurt was still there and seemed to have no interest in leaving.

In fact, Kurt was splayed out on Blaine’s bedroom floor, legs stretched out and head pillow atop his arms as he stared at the ceiling, feet twisting from side to side in a botched sort of rhythm, as content and settled as Blaine had ever seen him.

“I’m bored,” Kurt announced, aiming a heavy puff of a sigh up to fluff up the pink bangs flopping over his forehead. “This is going nowhere. We should play Truth or Dare or something.”

Blaine frowned, pushing himself up from where he was laying on his stomach on his bed to sit cross-legged instead, suddenly feeling far too vulnerable to continue letting himself relax.

Kurt was up to something

He was up to something, and Blaine didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t know what was about to happen, and he didn’t like not knowing.

That had been the problem with Kurt all along, after all - not knowing.

But then Kurt was pulling himself up off of the floor, standing up and running his fingers through his hair and looking so big all of the sudden, looming larger than life right in front of Blaine in his power, in his mystery, and Blaine-

He forgot how to say no.

“I-I guess we can play a couple rounds,” he conceded, nerves swirling low in his belly. He wasn’t sure what Kurt was going to ask, what Kurt was going to make him do, if it would be safer to take a truth or a dare or to just take it back entirely and send Kurt home.

And then Kurt flashed a grin, a glint in his eye as he moved to he leaned back against Blaine’s desk, much like that first day in their classroom, facing him now, and before Blaine could change his mind, Kurt dealt his cards.

“Pick, then,” Kurt said evenly, though the smile still played at the corners of his lips, as if he were holding back. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Blaine said instantly, though he had no idea why, felt like he had no control over the word escaping his lips.

He had no idea why he didn’t think it through for even a moment, why he didn’t accept the option of answering an inevitably embarrassing question instead, but something about Kurt, about all of those interesting things about him that were adding up and the way Kurt was still there even though he didn’t really need to be -

Something about all of it was making Blaine feel reckless.

And he continued feeling that way, too, even as Kurt’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, even as Kurt watched him carefully as he clearly considered what he might make Blaine do.

Blaine expected something ridiculous like climbing onto the roof or even streaking down the street, or maybe Kurt would make him smoke a cigarette or- or something.

But absolutely, absolutely not this:

“I dare you to kiss me.”

The words sounded foreign to his ears at first.

Kurt was looking at him so neutrally, as if he’d dared Blaine to try licking his elbow, as if it were completely mundane and ordinary and just- something they did.

But it wasn’t.

It completely was not, and it was so out of left field that Blaine felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but sputter and say, “N-No. No.”

But Kurt didn’t waver.

Instead, he sat up a little straighter, narrowed his eyes a little further, a challenge in every way.

“Oh, come on, B. Do it. You know you want to.”

And of course, that was the sticking point of it all.

The idea of kissing Kurt - it felt like winning, like finally finding what Blaine had always been searching for, like finally getting an answer to the impossible questions he’d always held, like finally connecting in the way he’d always craved, even if it wasn’t quite the same as when they were children, even if Blaine had never quite understood that yes, this was what he had been searching for.

Kissing him.

Kissing him, knowing him, holding him, understanding him.

But it felt like a trap, not the right way to go about it or any way to go about it, because there wasn’t supposed to be any way, especially not spoken into possibility by the very boy who had avoided him for so long, who had stopped any of it from happening.

It felt like a trap, and it didn’t make sense, and he couldn’t.

“No. I’m not- No,” Blaine stammered, completely flustered and caught off guard and wanting, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. But why? “Why would-”

“What if I told you I looove you?” Kurt asked tauntingly, sing-song and teasing, his eyebrow quirked and arms folded over his chest. He was biting his lip, too, clearly trying to hold back an equally taunting grin that was threatening to peek through.

Blaine scoffed, ignoring the swirl of warmth and possibility in his stomach and the strike of mixed fear and adrenaline in his heart at the words, shaking his head.

“You don’t.”

It was just a way of getting Blaine to give in, and he knew it - he wasn’t stupid. But it wasn’t going to work. He’d had enough of this, of Kurt being so hot and cold and standoffish and alluring and- and infuriating all the time, and he just wanted to scream with the frustration of it all.

But then Kurt cocked his head a little, and he softened, eyes suddenly looking more like the blue of a clear sky instead of a stormy ocean, smile spreading into something gentler, more real.

Softer than Blaine had ever seen him before.

“I could,” Kurt murmured, so softly that Blaine almost wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all.

But Blaine heard it, and he knew he heard it, and it shook him to his core, making him gape at Kurt first, making anger bubble up in his chest second.

Making his heart flutter third, but- no.

Kurt didn’t get to do this.

He didn’t get to march into Blaine’s life after years of forcibly avoiding it. He didn’t get to sweep Blaine up into this whirlwind of- of smiles and laughs and looks and time spent together and the blue of his eyes and the pink of his hair and the glimmer of his eyebrow ring when it caught the light, and it was all too much, all too unfair, all exactly what Blaine wanted but never thought he could have, all dangled right in front of him like a test, like it was about to be snatched away the moment they looked away from each other.

Blaine exploded.

“So, what- You’re telling me you’ve ignored me all these years because you’re afraid you’d love me?” he shouted, standing up with his hands balled into fists at his sides, white-knuckled and trembling, somehow gravitating closer to Kurt against his inclination to run. “What kind of fucked up logic is that, Kurt? Don’t you see how ridiculous that is, I mean-”

“I was scared, alright?” Kurt snapped, and he was so close, somehow magnified in a technicolor that scared Blaine, too, Kurt’s face red now along with the rest of his colors, vibrant and alive and real, finally a person or just more than the untouchable being Blaine had always wondered about.

When Blaine spoke again, it was like a whimper, all of his anger dying out at the idea of Kurt being afraid- afraid of him.

“What were you scared of?” he wanted to know, pleading, begging, tell me.

Kurt inhaled a sharp, stuttered breath, turning his head just enough to look past Blaine instead, looking but not seeing anything at all, at least not anything physical, not anything tangible, and Blaine was desperate for him to speak, desperate to know, but he waited.

He’d waited for something, for anything, for so long, that giving Kurt a few more seconds, especially when it felt like whatever he would say was going to be big and important and life changing-

A few more seconds was nothing.

And so Blaine waited, and he unclenched his fists, and he reminded himself how to breathe, reminded himself that his feet were flat on the ground and that he was here, that he was capable of handling the mix of feelings inside of him and the mystery beyond him.

Kurt inhaled again, and he exhaled slowly, and he spoke.

“I… I haven’t ever had many people in my life,” he began carefully, still avoiding Blaine’s eyes but speaking from his heart all the same. “I wasn’t an easy child, and I was different. I’ve always been someone you had to work to get to know before you could really care about them. And most people just...didn’t want to.”

Blaine nearly opened his mouth to speak, to say I wanted to, I always wanted to, I still want to- but he stopped himself, swallowing it down instead, waiting, listening.

“I don’t mean that as a complaint or a pity party,” Kurt clarified quickly, a tremble in his voice. “It never mattered to me because the people that did care about me, my parents- I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.”

Another pause, another deep breath, and finally, Kurt’s eyes flickered back to Blaine’s, rimmed red with the slightest hint of tears that hadn’t shed, that wouldn’t fall.

When Kurt spoke again, it felt like a bomb had been dropped and like everything began to come together all at once, like Blaine’s world was shaken and like it all made sense at the same time.

“My mom died the summer before fourth grade.”

It would have been a mere couple of months before Blaine had introduced himself, likely few enough weeks to count on two hands. It would have been too soon for Kurt to be anywhere near okay.

It would have been Kurt struggling with returning back to a normal life that didn’t feel normal at all, trying to hold himself together in a way no child should ever have to, and Blaine just hadn’t gotten it, had taken it all personally and taken offense to it and been infuriated by it when it wasn’t even about him, not at all.

And he had held onto it for years.

“Kurt, I had no idea, I-”

“Just- Let me talk?” Kurt broke in, voice soft and pleading and effectively quieting Blaine right away, reminding him to stop, to listen. “I just remember you being so nice to me right away, and I didn’t understand why. And you kept trying, and even after you stopped, I could tell you still noticed me, and I had never felt noticed before, and the older we got, the more it scared me, because the more afraid I’ve gotten of losing the people I care about, and then my dad had his heart attack this summer, and I couldn’t take myself anymore, so I-I made myself look like this even though he was fine, as if it would help, and I-”

When Kurt cut himself off with a choked, broken sob, it was enough - in fact, it was too much, and Blaine couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t just listen, couldn’t stand still.

He stepped forward, and he reached up to cup Kurt’s face in his hands, and he leaned their foreheads together, allowing his eyes to flutter closed as he came to stand still again, an unmistakable pillar of support now, unfailingly there and unmoving.

It was the first time they had touched purposefully, the first time Blaine had been so close to someone else this way, period, but instead of feeling nervous or worried or bashful about any of it, Blaine just felt certain, sure, needed.

He didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if Kurt wanted him to, and he wasn’t sure he needed to, anyways - he could show Kurt that he was there, that he wasn’t moving, that he cared, that he wanted to be there and needed to be there and wanted to stay.

And Blaine did stay, as long as it took for Kurt to be able to breathe again, as long as it took for him to stop trembling, to come back to himself.

Finally, when Kurt brought his shaky hands up to cup Blaine’s face in return, Blaine could finally breathe again, too.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” Kurt murmured quietly, close enough for Blaine to feel the gentle warmth of his voice as he spoke.

It felt like a cue, like finally the door was opening, and Blaine didn’t want to close it, didn’t know if he could.

“I dare you not to be,” he whispered instead of making any promises or saying anything else, instead closing the remaining millimeters of distance between them to press his lips to Kurt’s in a soft, slow kiss without much movement at all, just staying, always staying.

After all, maybe if Blaine made good on his own dare, Kurt would, too.

#this is way 2 long #I am sorry #klaine #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #glee #my fic #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #prompt game

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aifastic · 3 years

Text

Winning Lines

The @talesofteufort zine has been shipped, and the PDFs sent! Thank you very much to everyone who contributed. I’m very glad to have been able to participate in this project; it was a wonderful experience and it’s been great working with everyone aaaa ♥

I’m really happy to share my piece for the zine! I really hope you all like it ♥ (Read it below the cut)

Title: Winning Lines Words: 1845 Warnings: None Summary: BLU has a drawing contest. Demo just wants his magazine back.

-----

“ARE YOU MANN ENOUGH TO DRAW THIS BETTER THAN US?”

The header caught BLU’s Demoman’s attention. He’d been reading the latest issue of Hat-Wearing Man when he found the ad at the bottom of one of the pages. There was a somewhat simple drawing of a monkey in a spacesuit. “If you draw Poopy Joe better than our extremely talented artist, we’ll give him the boot—and kick his ass in the process! And your picture will be the new image of our project and you, our lucky friend, will win nothing less than $700 dollars!”

“Huh, it doesn’t look that hard…” he said, pensive. Suddenly, the magazine was snatched from his hands. “Hey!”

“Ohohoh, what’s this?” Scout said, grinning at the magazine. “Hey, I’d win this in the blink of an eye!”

“Oi! Get your own!” Demo took the magazine back. “I’m gonna try this. Mum will love the extra money,” he added to himself.

“Pffft, no way, it’s a waste of mail money, pally. If someone should participate, that’s someone who actually has a chance.”

“Heh.”

They turned around to see Sniper in a corner, grinning.

“What’s your deal, Long Legs?”

“Shut up, ya scoundrel. If anyone has a chance here, it’s me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Demo asked. “Where’s your credentials, mate?”

“Don’t need any,” he said. “Quiet kid, hours at the back of the classroom sketching the teacher being eaten by a croc.” He grinned. “It should be easy as cake.”

“Oi, do ya remember the magazine is mine?”

“I agree, though—the chance should be for whoever’s got the talent.”

Demo sighed. “Aye, alright. But I’m not gonna just give it away.” His face lit up, an idea coming to his mind. “You’ll have to beat me for it.”

“Huh?” Both mercenaries stared at him quizzically.

Demo grinned, eye glinting.

“Let’s have a drawing contest.”

-----

They emptied the kitchen table in order to make room for their sheets of paper, pencils and pens. In the meantime, they threw evaluative gazes at each other, competitive strike flaring up.

The rest of the team slowly wandered to the room to find out what was going on.

“What is noise?” asked Heavy, scratching his chest. Medic, who was right behind him, had just closed it, having found himself too distracted by the ruckus to continue his surgery.

“We’re about to find out who’s gonna win 700 dollars!”

Medic perked up. “I am in. What is the bet?”

“We’re not betting, mate.” Sniper showed him the magazine’s ad. “It’s a contest.”

Medic’s smile turned dangerous. “Even better.”

“Heavy is in, too.”

“Aw, come on, guys! It’s not as if you’re gonna beat me!”

Heavy threw Scout an unimpressed look. “It is fun. I want extra money. I am in.”

“Alright, alright, mate. Sure.” Demo handed them both some extra sheets of paper they'd brought just in case.

Medic excused himself to go search for a couple of pens. On his way out, he almost crashed onto Soldier.

“Ach, watch where you’re going!”

“I need sustenance, maggot! And you’re on my way!” He shoved Medic away, making him stumble on the way out. A couple of German swears could be heard from the corridor. “Hello, everyone!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna get in too,” Scout groaned.

“In what?” Soldier inquired, tilting his head. Demo showed him the magazine’s ad.

Engineer peeked over his shoulder.

“Oh, a drawing contest?” he said, looking at it with a fond smile. “Heh. It’s been a while since I tried my hand at one o’ those. But I thought they allowed only one entry per ad?”

“That is point,” Heavy said. “We are fighting to get chance to earn money.”

“Oh…” Soldier grinned. “I’m in, maggots! I actually studied art with Kickasso.”

Everyone stared at him.

“Sure, mate,” Demo said, patting his back and attempting to lead him into the kitchen.

“You don’t believe me!” Soldier looked at everyone. Engie shrugged. Scout picked at his nails, and Sniper scratched the table distractedly. Heavy’s eyes said it all. “I will prove it to all of you!” And he headed to the table, snatching a paper sheet from the pile.

Demo brushed a hand across his own face. “I hope Medic brings enough pens.”

“I’ll go for mine,” Engie said. He added, “And I’ll go look for Pyro; they’ll love this.”

Scout groaned. “Anyone else? Maybe Saxton Hale?”

Spy’s laughter can be heard from a corner of the room.

“Oh, this is priceless. I wasn’t going to butt in, but this looks like too much fun to pass on the opportunity.”

“The opportunity to what?” Scout said, miffed.

“You’ll see,” he said with a glint in his eyes. “Besides, you need a referee, don’t you?”

“Ugh,” Scout said, bonking his head on the table.

-----

Everyone looked at each other from their respective places. Scout’s leg bounced nonstop; Sniper picked unconsciously at his pencil. Heavy’s grip on his pen was strong enough for Medic to worry about it breaking.

“Alright,” said Spy. “You have to draw…” He squinted. “Poopy Joe, following the ad’s instructions; the best artist wins. The rules are: no interfering with anyone’s drawing. No kicking under the table. No destroying anyone’s drawing. No rising up from the table until all this is over. No showing your drawing until everyone is finished. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. Pyro hummed happily.

“Excellent. So, on the count of three: One, two… Three!”

Scout’s pen tore onto the paper. “Shit! Do you have a spare?” Spy handed him one. “Thanks,” he muttered.

The truth was, Scout wasn’t that confident of the fact he was going to win. When it was just him and Demo, he’d been sure he’d win to the unsteady hand of a drunk man. And Sniper was all bragging anyways. But Medic? He’d probably drawn lots of skeletons and stuff at college. And Engineer’s schematics always look exactly like the finished product. Shit. And—did Soldier really paint with Kickasso? Nah, he shook his head. He didn’t think so. Heavy was a wild card, though.

But he had to try anyway! He couldn’t back off now. So he put his all into it.

Engineer turned his sheet of paper down. Hell! That was fast. He tried to concentrate in the lines that formed Poopy Joe, and emulated them the best he could. Damn, his hand was sweaty… He hated drawing. His cousin had always been better at it, and it pissed him off even now, far from home.

He slapped his drawing on the table, face down. “Done!” He looked up to see everyone had finished. Crap.

“Alright, then,” said Spy. “Let’s see what you came up with.”

“Come up with?” That had many meanings, but the way Spy said it… “What do you mean?”

“The challenge was to improve on the design of Poopy Joe drawn by the artist, not to copy it.”

“Oh, darn,” Engineer said, showing a perfect copy of the Poopy Joe logo. Holy shit. “Guess I got a bit carried away. I’m more used to copying stuff, ya know.”

Soldier snickered.

“Let’s see what you did, Soldier boy.”

“Alright! Look at it and weep!”

He showed them all a mess of lines with dots in seemingly random places.

“Soldier, that’s…” Scout got elbowed by Demo. “That’s cool. What are… those?”

“Those are his eyes!” Oh, God.

“Let’s see Demo’s!” grinned Soldier, confidently.

“Ach, you know I’m no artist, mate,” he said, showing his drawing. It was… Actually, it was pretty decent. His drawing had a cartoonish style that drew everyone’s eyes in.

“Interesting,” said Spy, nodding approvingly.

“Demo did great job,” Heavy said, crossing his arms.

“Aw, thanks, mate.” Demo shrugged it off, somewhat flustered. “What about yours?”

Heavy showed his drawing. It was simple, a single line delineating the silhouette of the monkey astronaut. It was stylish, though it was difficult to guess what it was at times.

“Wonderful, mein freund!” Medic clapped, and revealed his. It was… Oh, my god. “I might have put a bit too much emphasis on his organs.”

“Next!” yelled Scout, tearing his eyes away from the gory drawing. Shit. Now he had to show his. Alright. You can do this, he told himself.

He turned the page face up.

“Mate,” Sniper said.

“Oh, buddy, we made the same mistake.”

“Y’know? I saw RED’s Scout draw once and I secretly thought we were doomed.”

“Oh, shut up!” Scout said, face beet red. It was true, he’d tried to copy the drawing, like Engineer did. And his lines weren’t as sure as Demo’s or Heavy’s. Shit. He screwed up big time.

“It’s good overall, mate,” Sniper said. “You just need more confidence.”

Scout flushed. “What about yours, Mister Expert?”

Sniper grunted, and showed his drawing. Oh, wow. It was really good! The monkey looked like it’d come out of the page and tear them apart. He felt as if he would be able to touch its fur.

“Wow, Slim! That’s one helluva good drawing!”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. “I told ya: quiet kid.”

“Where is his spacesuit, though?”

His face dropped. “Aw, hell.”

“Hmmmph!” Pyro yelled, pointing at their sheet of paper.

“Alright,” Spy said, grinning along with Engineer. “The moment of truth has come.”

“What do you mean—?”

Holy shit.

The drawing was astounding. The monkey looked cartoonish enough not to look real, but in a way that made the drawing look alive. Everything was there, and in wonderful detail: The space-suit, the stars… Even an additional full moon in the background that was a perfect circle.

“Holy shit, Py!” Scout said. “How did you do that?”

“Hhmph?” Pyro asked, pointing at the moon. Everyone nodded. Pyro mumbled happily, grabbing another sheet of paper, and drew a classical Greek style face, then erased the rest of its features little by little until they got a perfect circle.

Oh, for the love of—

“Well, it seems we have our winner,” said Spy, handing Pyro the magazine. Pyro clapped with glee, running off with it.

“Aw, man. That was totally unfair. You knew this would happen!” Scout pointed to Spy accusingly.

“I had my suspicions,” he said, grinning.

“Hey, maggots,” Soldier said, sniffing. “Is that smoke?”

They all turned around to watch Pyro as they set the magazine on fire.

“Ach! My magazine!” Demo ran and stomped on it. However, many of the pages, including the drawing contest ad, didn’t make it. “Hell. Why, mate?”

“Hmmphmmphmmph!” they said, pointing at everyone in the room, then at their drawings. Then they clapped.

Everyone looked at each other, and found a common understanding. Who knew what Pyro said? But they had the feeling they meant they were all winners today.

“So it was a huge waste of everyone’s time. Fantastic,” Spy said. “Entertaining, though.”

“Shut up, Spy, we were having a moment,” Scout said.

And yes, indeed. Because even though Demo lost his magazine, he left the room with a good feeling inside. And he was sure that the rest felt the same way.

Poopy Joe’s artist could keep his job for another day.

#Team Fortress 2 #fanfiction #BLU Team #Tales of Teufort #Tales of Teufort zine #[♥]

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glitterbootsharry · 4 years

Text

Two- Witchy Woman

Disclaimer: I do not know much about witchcraft or anything associated with it besides the few tv shows and movies I have seen. If I have gotten anything wrong or mixed up, please feel free to let me know. I want to get as much right as I can as I have done some research, but I know I do not know a lot.

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I bite at my thumb pad as I look my dilemma in the eye and time is running out. Rowan will be here soon, and after making the last clean up check, I decide that my bleached tee isn’t good enough for the small study session. Two button up shirts lay on my bed, covering the blue plaid quilt my mum bought me when I first moved out- she cried as she pressed the nonexistent wrinkles out of the thick fabric with her hands, tucking the corners neatly under the mattress. My eyes divert between the two. They’re the same, in reality, just inverted colors of the other. The white droplets on the black silk. The black droplets on the white silk. I walk over to my top drawer and search for the matching neck scarf that I insisted on buying, giving my older sister another reason to roll her eyes at me. I hear a sudden knock on my front door and in haste, I pull out my answer to my dilemma.

“Coming,” I call out, buttoning the white droplet shirt. I ruffle my long curly hair before rushing to the front door, my shirt half-buttoned.

I turn the knob, holding my breath as I watch Rowan come into view. Her hair is pulled into a neat ponytail hoisted high on her head and she’s wearing a black graphic tee that her sleeves rolled up. “Hi,” my voice croaks as she stands outside my flat door with her backpack on her shoulders. The black velvet chicken lays across her throat as it tighter as she smiles softly at me with her mouth parts slowly.

“Hi.” My hand grips the brass knob tightly as I lean against the wooden door, crossing my legs in front of one another. I become all too aware of how long I look at Rowan, drinking in her brown eyes and drowning in her glowing skin. I want to stare at her all day- she could be doing nothing and I would be intrigued.

“Can I come in or are we studying out here?” She cocks her brow up at me, a sly smile forming on her mouth before I push the door open completely forgetting the reason she came here for.

“Oh, erm, yeah,” I rub the nape of my neck, embarrassed as I motion her through the doorway. She walks past me, her shoulder brushing my chest, and I smell the sweet scent of flowers. “How are you?” I close the door and follow her into my living room. It’s small, with only a couch, television and its stand and small coffee table in between the two, but it’s one of my favorite places in the flat. She sits down on the cream leather couch and begins to dig through her bag.

“I’m fine,” she says as she pulls out two copies of The Tempest. “Didn’t know if you had a copy so I grabbed one from the store. If that’s okay?” She hands me the red used book, corners of the pages slightly torn from the previous owners’ use. I suddenly feel warm as I stand in the room, all too aware of my looming presence. I sit down beside her, looking over the book before realizing that my own book is in my bedroom. “Thanks,” I hold up my gift before gently opening the cover. Inside was a new inscription from the gingerly handwriting that I have just now come in contact with.

“I owed you.”

I smiled as I turned the page and began to read the play again. I can’t help but notice how close we’re sitting next to each other, feeling the electricity nearly flying through us. I clear my throat as I try to concentrate on the printed words, but her slow breathing fills my ears. I adjust my black jeans and run my hand across the length of my jeans, wiping the slight sweat away. It was too much for any man to bear, being in the room with Rowan, let alone being this close to her. My pinky could reach over and touch the exposed skin of her knees and I’d melt into liquid. I look over at her, her brows furrowed in concentration, and I feel my heart begin to race. The black ink tattoo behind her ear is of a crescent moon and stars creeping onto her neck. “Do you want some coffee? Tea? Crisps?” I ask, finally breaking the heavy and unbearable silence between us. Rowan looks up at me, completely exasperated, and smiles softly, placing her hand in the crook of the small book with her pencil stuck in her ponytail.

“Sure,” she says, her voice melodic to my ears. Her eyes are dark when looking up at me and I feel my throat run dry and I can’t seem to watch her watching me. Normally, I’m calm and collected around women- I can chat them up all the way to my bedroom to pull my leg over, but Rowan… She makes me nervous when she walks into the room with my stomach in knots. “Whatever you have is nice. Don’t go and make a fuss because of me.”

You’re worth the fuss, I think to myself. What is going on, Styles? You’re never like this.

I shake my head and leave the living room to Rowan. The kitchen, though small, is big enough to let my thoughts out. I think Rowan’s beautiful, yes, but why am I so nervous around her? She’s just my classmate and we’re doing a project together. Calm down.

The kettle hisses at me, letting me know it’s ready and I pour it into a teapot, grab two cups placing them with sugar and milk on a small tray my absent father gave me two birthdays ago and tuck the half empty bag of crisps under my elbow. I walk back into the living room with Rowan on the phone, her voice frantic.

“You sure? Is she okay?” she asks, turning her body into the couch when she sees me. “Alright, erm, I’ll be right there. Thank you, Mary.”

She looks up at me with pleading eyes full of regret before she speaks, her voice barely above a squeak.

“I’ve got to go. It’s me Gran.” She stands and proceeds to shove her book into her bag before she walks out of my flat, but not before I place the tray down on the table with a force that I never meant to use, rattling the porcelain dishes.

“Wait, let me, at least, walk you down,” I call out, running after her as I rake my hair in frustration. I closed the door, half running after Rowan as she glided down the stairs. She’s in the car park before I can break ground. The sound of the engine spurring fills the air. She tries to turn the engine again, again, and again until I reach the opened car door.

“You’ll flood the engine that way. Be no use to you then,” I say, my smile trying to calm Rowan down. “I can take you.”

“I can’t ask that of you, Harry,” Rowan’s voice breaks, tears spilling down her face.

“You didn’t ask, love, I offered. C’mon,” I nod my head back to my flat. “Let me grab my keys and wallet and we’ll be on the way, yeah?” Rowan nods as she stands outside her car. I hear the slamming of her door when I turn to leave and a hushed, “Fuck.”

***

“It’s down there. First little dirt road on your left,” Rowan points at the small brown path that barely lets my car fit on its way. It was a quiet thirty minute drive to the small village Rowan calls home. Shere- the small town that never lets any new business go unnoticed. Rowan busied herself calling Mary again to check in, letting her know she was on the way. I pull up to a small weather worn red brick house with flowers planted in every inch of ground that could be except for the small gravel pathway that leads you to the front wooden door. Roses, tulips, daffodils, wildflowers- Rowan had every flower that one could have, but the majority of the vast arrangement of color were roses- pink, yellow, purple, red. Vines and moss creep up the brick of the house with no intention of stopping.

“You want to come in?” Rowan asks as she begins to climb out of my car. “Be a shame that you came all this way without a proper cup of tea and a thank you.”

“You want me to come in?” I ask, but Rowan pushes the front door of her home open by the time I climb out of my car. She left the front door open for me and when I walked in, the strong scent of flowers and chocolate hit my nose.

“Gran?” Rowan calls out, her eyes frantic as she walks into the front hallway. “Why don’t you wait for me in the parlor? Gran should be coming soon.” She turns her head looking back into the open sliding glass door into the back garden. “Erm, she’s got a bit of a memory problem so…” She looks back up to me, tears brimming over.

“Go,” I say, “I’ll find the parlor. Don’t worry about me.” Rowan smiles, graciously, and walks into the back garden, which unsurprisingly, has more roses and plants within eyesight. I wander around the small home, the cozy air reminding me of my childhood one, before I find the small unused parlor. Book line the walls- all the way from Poe to Everything to You Need to Know about Herbs. I run my finger over the spine of a small leather book labeled “Astarte’s Book of Shadows”. I pull it from the row, the leather claiming the books that sit next to it. It feels heavy when I finally have it in my hands and I have an urge to open it, but the feeling fades when I hear Rowan’s voice.

“Gran, you can’t do that. The cookies were burning. You scared me. What if I-“

“Ya Amar, you cannot worry about such things. I’m fine. How was your reading with that tall boy you told me about?” A sweet, but stern voice spoke back at Rowan’s concerns.

“You were sitting on the garden wall- the high one. But,” Rowan sighed. “My car wouldn’t start so he brought me. He’s in the study, Gran. Behave.” A small elderly woman that looked almost like Rowan with a crooked back turned into the room. Her skin was tanned like Rowan’s but with white long hair in a braid. Her skin, wrinkled with sun spots, was also covered with small tattoos. She looked up at me and smiled before sitting down on the blue couch that I was standing behind. I placed the black book back on the shelf and sat down beside the aging woman. I extend my hand and introduce myself.

“Harry Styles, madam.” She looks at my hand and smiles. Her fragile fingers wrap around my pinky, pulling me towards her. She places her other hand over the top of mine before speaking.

“You know she likes you too. Only one who's ever been truly nice to her. Alice Lloyd.” She lets go of my hand and laughs softly as she was in a small joke that I was unaware of.

Do what? I think. I never said…

“You didn’t have to.”

“Gran, behave.” Rowan brings three cups in one hand. I try to stand to help her, but she shoots me down. She brings an antique teapot. She gently pours tea into the three cups, smiling as she hands Alice her cup and as she hands me my own, her smile is full of gratitude.

“Quite a garden you have,” I say speaking to both women. “It’s lovely.”

“Gran started it when she moved here years ago. I just try to keep it up,” Rowan sits down into the chair opposite us. Her hair is down, small tendrils falling into her face as she blows into the small cup.

“You do more than that, ya amar. You put the new basil bush in just yesterday. Don’t sell yourself short, love,” Alice sighs before turning to me. “You from London, Harry?”

“Just outside. Holmes Chapel in Cheshire. My mum owns a pub there in town.”

“How nice,” Alice looks at my shirt and I’m all too aware that my shirt is nearly unbuttoned, exposing my two swallows on my chest and the butterfly on my torso. I clear my throat as I try to casually button the rest of my shirt. “You go to the university, as well? English major? Let me guess, you want to become a writer?”

“Gran,” Rowan’s voice is short- her eyes not faltering from her tea.

“Well, it looks like the fun for me has run out. The adventure outside has taken me so I think I’ll retire to my bedroom for the evening. Good meeting you, Harry,” Alice motions me to lean closer to her with her finger and when doing so, I feel the slight wet kiss on my cheek. I smile before speaking, “Nice meeting you Gran.”

Rowan helps her grandmother up and when they think they’re out of hearing, I hear the small whisper, “He’s got dimples, Rowan. Quite handsome. Don’t mess this up.”

I smile, my dimples evident, as I hear Rowan’s small, but grand response, my heart overwhelming with joy and wanting.

“I won’t. As long as he doesn’t.”

###

@awomanindeniall @sunflwr-styles

#harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles ofc #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry 1d #1dff #1d fan fiction #harry styles poc #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic

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merryfortune · 3 years

Text

Butterfly Kisses

Fandom: Yes! PreCure 5

Ship: Karen/Rin

Word Count: 2.1k

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Love Confessions, Fluff

Synopsis: Rin attempts to design more of her future but she needs Karen's help for a little bit of artistic inspiration.

Rin had been nervous to call Karen so late at night, but she leapt so quickly to answer the phone, seemingly thrilled that someone had rung, that enthusiasm heartened Rin only to dishearten herself within the seconds of Karen exuberantly greeting her. Rin scolded herself, calling herself an idiot for likely getting Karen’s hopes up. Karen was probably expecting her parents to be on the other end of the line but no. It was just her. Nonetheless, Karen spoke with her placidly and they arranged a means to Rin’s ends.

See, Rin had a little project in mind, but she wanted something very specific for it and thinking of Karen’s greenhouse, she thought she might find that very specific something there. Karen assured her that she would, and Rin was happy enough with that. After all, if worse came to worst, they lived in the information age and she could just go on the family computer or even to the library to find the resources that she needed. Its just. She wanted to see them in the flesh.

“Thank you for having me.” Rin awkwardly said when she arrived at the opulent golden gates of the Minazuki estate.

“Thank you for coming over, I’m glad to be of help.” Karen replied with the utter blitheness befitting of a rich girl.

Still, Rin could feel the weirdness of it. It was strange for them to be one on one at Karen’s place. Normally the rest of their crew were hanging around as well, but the stars aligned for some privacy, she guessed. Nozomi had to get ready for a publication party that her father was taking her on; Urara was on a job for some sort of iced tea commercial; Komachi was at the public library doing research for her next novel; and of course Coco and Nuts had Nuts House to look after with Milk. So, it was just Rin and Karen at Karen’s place. Even though it was maybe a bit strained and lonely without the rest of their friends around, Rin felt that she could work on her project better if it was just her and Karen. There would be more peace and quiet for knuckling down. So, she was looking forward to it as looked through the bars of the gate with her usual kind of daggy smile.

Slowly but surely, the gates began to open up via some unseen mechanisation and Rin slipped through before they could fully open. She flashed a smile at Karen who was already willing to lead the way from here to the greenhouse that she had on the estate grounds. No matter how many times Rin visited, the Minazuki gardens never failed to impress her. The immaculate, green, trimmed lawns; the various water features; the sprawling roads with nary a piece of white gravel out of place. Rich folk were truly rich folk.

It was about ten to fifteen-minute walk to get to the front gates, past front gardens, past the main body of the mansion, and past the back gardens to get to the greenhouse. That big, sprawling jungle of a greenhouse that never failed to transport Rin to another country. It was a lot different to the greenhouse at home which incubated out of season plants for customers who had no idea about the seasonality of plants.

Entering the greenhouse, Rin felt regardless of its enormity or how exotic it was. Inside, she felt as though she could breathe clearly and deeply. The oxygen that these plants produced was thick and sweet; Rin found it incredibly refreshing to step into the greenhouse and Karen followed along behind her.

“This will be perfect.” Rin said, looking around, her blood orange eyes were bright.

“That’s great to hear.” Karen replied. She bounced expectantly on the heel of her foot, hands behind her back, a little bit fidgety.

Rin beamed and she pulled one strap of her backpack off her shoulder so that she could ruffle through it. She got out an artbook and a pencil case that was orange. She then attempted to hike back her backpack onto her shoulders; Karen giggled demurely as she came over.

“Here, let me help.” Karen said.

“A’ight.” Rin murmured.

She blushed slightly as Karen adjusted the straps for her. She even went the extra mile of making sure the bag was zipped up properly, too. She patted down the squares of the backpack and smiled, satisfied, to herself.

“There we go.” she said, rather cheerful. “All done.”

“Thank you muchly.” Rin replied.

With her backpack back in place and with her supplies in tow, it was time for her to get to work, scrounging up her inspiration and she vowed to not let a single tile of this greenhouse go unturned as she was on the pursuit for every species of butterfly that Karen was fairly certain that they housed. But before she could get into the thick of her work, Rin glanced back at Karen.

“Are you, um, content to hover?” Rin asked, hugging herself a little tighter as she cradled her supplies.

“Oh, yes, definitely. I love observing artists – and writers – in their natural habitat. I consider myself quite the naturalist on the topic, if you will have me, that is.” Karen explained.

“Then I’d love to have you on board, fellow naturalist. Although, I suppose,” Rin touched her face in thought, “we’re etymologists – not just any old type of naturalist – this afternoon.”

Karen blinked as she followed the train of thought. “We are, too.” she said. “I promise to keep a look out.”

“Much obliged.” Rin replied.

Feeling confident in her craft and her companion, they started wandering the winding paths of the greenhouse’s insides. Now, officially, they were on the hunt for butterflies so that Rin could have the perfect and liveliest inspiration for the project that she had her mind on as of late. Now that she had an inkling of what she wanted to do in the future, she wanted to solidify it further, to make sure she was certain so her little pet project was to make various bits and pieces of jewellery for her friends and she already had a specific piece in mind for Karen before anyone else.

It was a shame it was a little embarrassing. Or maybe premature. But Rin wanted to make a ring for Karen. Not a matching ring or a promise ring, that was way too much but a ring was still the perfect piece that Rin could come up with for Karen. Even though rings could convey such heavy and intense emotions, it simply had to be a ring that Rin would give Karen.

As they walked around, trying to find butterflies to look at, Rin kept stealing glances at Karen’s hands and seeing them just affirmed the idea that her long, slender fingers would look truly splendid with a ring. Rin became all the more certain in her conviction. She would make a special ring for Karen with a butterfly motif.

First, she just had to find some butterflies to study up. Shouldn’t be that hard. Where there were plants, typically there were insects. And between the two of them, they had seen a nice array of insects inside the greenhouse – dragonflies, damselflies, fruit flies, all sorts – but no butterflies. But that wasn’t to say that Rin was uninspired by what she saw.

Snooping along the various leaves and petals of all the plants, Rin had managed to scratch down many ideas onto her page, just none like the one that she hungered for. It also wasn’t for lack of trying either. Karen was doing her best to help and being Karen, her best was haughty and to the bitterest end that Karen could find. Rin appreciated the efforts, above and beyond as they were, though.

Still, plopping down in front of the main water feature inside of the greenhouse, Rin had filled up plenty of her sketchpad. She was sitting, cross-legged, watching the water whilst she kept her head propped up by her knuckles, her elbows digging into her knees. Her sketch book splayed over the criss-cross of her legs. Trying to be polite and hospitable, Karen inched closer, trying to both avoid any glimpse of Rin’s prototype drawings and trying to do anything but that.

“Should I be going soon?” Rin asked and then she checked her watch. “I’ve been an hour and a half, you know.”

“If you feel the need to,” Karen replied diplomatically, “please don’t feel like you could ever overstay your welcome.”

“Ah, thank you, Karen.” Rin said with a smile, but she sounded a little flat.

Karen noticed and she grimaced, casting a glance downwards at Rin and sure enough. She looked pretty glum.

“I’m sorry that we didn’t see any-” Karen cut herself off as her eyes went wide.

Rin blinked and she tried to speak but Karen cut her off with sudden hand movements. Rin’s shoulders crackled as she was assailed by this sudden lack of Karen-ness from Karen.

“Stay. Still.” Karen breathed.

“Okaaaay.” Rin murmured under her breath.

Karen crouched down and she slowed down. Rin felt her temperature rising as Karen came in so close to her, reaching out to her. Her fingers brushed past Rin’s cheek, curling back a strand of her fluffy reddish hair and then holding still. Karen’s eyes were huge with blue wonder and Rin was entranced by them as Karen stared so intently at something just past her face.

“Can you feel it?” Karen whispered.

Rin blushed. All she could feel was how her heart thumped in her chest. “No.” she replied on the cusp of an exhale.

“There we go…” Karen murmured.

Her hand receded back, and Rin’s breath was taken away. She hadn’t even noticed but it appeared that a butterfly had landed on her head whilst she was sitting down and now, it had scuttled onto the elegant bow of Karen’s finger which made for an excellent perch for it. The butterfly glittered beyond Rin’s eyes.

Its wings shuttered at a calm pace. The scales embedded in them were blue and a magenta-like pink but so, so beautiful. Its antennae twitched and Rin could have sat there for hours whilst Karen held up this butterfly to her. It was perfect. She could already feel the cogs of creation start to turn.

Despite not wanting to spook the butterfly, Rin picked up her book and pen. She quickly started to scrawl down the basics of its anatomy and notes on its colouration. Rin was completely absorbed into the channelling of her inspiration; her determination and tenacity enchanted Karen. From the way she stuck out her tongue to the sweat dripping down her brow, Karen was in awe of the sheer energy that Rin was radiating.

“Okay. Done.” Rin said with a satisfied sigh.

Karen smiled and she had to admit, her index finger did ache with being held up. And it seemed that the butterfly was done, too. It shook out its wings before taking flight once more. When it entered the air, the beating of its wings were unsteady but it even out just fine, flitting up high, as the girls watched.

“Thank you so much, Karen.” Rin beamed.

“No worries.” Karen replied as she got up. Her thighs ached but not as badly as they could have as she did take various etiquette classes, after all.

Rin got up now as well, tucking her sketchbook under her arm, the gleam of all her big ideas still in her eyes.

“Thank you for coming around.” Karen added but she noticed Rin staring. “Is something the matter?”

“You remember our promise, right?” asked Rin.

“Yes, of course, I would never forget something as important as that.” Karen replied, she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Good because, um, I’m pleased to announce I’m making good progress.” Rin said excitedly.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Karen smiled.

“Not just career wise.” Rin piped up, adding on awkwardly.

“Oh?” Karen blinked owlishly.

“Yeah.” Rin said. “I want you to be apart of my future, too. Part of my dreams.”

Karen was taken aback – even flustered – by the admission from Rin but she smiled. She settled into it, all cosy like, and she leaned in.

“I’d like that very much.” Karen replied quietly.

She kissed a butterfly kiss unto Rin’s face. She was elegant as she did so. Her lips were soft to grace Rin’s gawky, angular cheeks but her eyelashes were even softer. Rin held her breath, blushing, and she gripped her sketchbook tighter. Drawings of prototype rings to promise to Karen hidden against her stomach. In the full gauntlet of admiring Karen, Rin winced, she had to force herself to close her eyes to Karen’s grace and beauty, as Karen, giggling and flirtatious, made sure to nuzzle Rin with all the edges of her eyelashes.

#karen x rin #rin x karen #karin #femslash #karen minazuki #cure aqua #cure rouge #natsuki rin #yes precure 5 #precure #writing tag #merry writes stuff

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dramaqueeenamby · 5 years

Text

Waves [AU] [2]

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Only tagging the few of you who expressed interest (that I can remember lol) as I don’t want to spoil anyone else’s perfect couple.

THIS IS AU! NOTHING IN HERE IS REAL! I REPEAT! NOTHING IS REAL!

one

Words: 4K

Warnings: Angst, over the top shit, etc.

TAGS: @purple-apricots @sisterwifeudaku @idilly @honeyybey @letsshamelessqueen-m @amazonian-strap-queen

Waves

It started out small.

Minute.

Barely even noticeable to anyone on the outside, but Summer wasn’t an onlooker.

She was a participant, a member, a wife.

The “I love you’s” that typically accompanied the ending of every phone call or Facetime sessions shortened to “Love you,” shifted to “love ya,” and eventually dropped to “you too.”

But she tried not to think too much of it. Christopher had been extremely booked and busy in the past year. It felt like his schedule consisted of shoot, promote, repeat. His visits home were far in between and shorter in duration. Sometimes lasting only a day before he was back on a plane leaving Australia.

As an adult, as a fellow actress, she understood. For someone with his level of fame, he was constantly being requested, his presence demanded everywhere at the same time. The Hollywood life was one that never closed.

And as he’d shared in a few interviews, he wanted to ride the wave as long as he could because he understood how fickle the industry was. Not even a year from now, his offers could dry up as they moved on to the next “it” actor. He was taking advantage of any and all opportunities. Again, Summer Hemsworth, the actress fully comprehended that.

But Summer Hemsworth, the wife and mother, couldn’t.

Not only were the kids getting older, their demands were steadily increasing. Emmett with his lacrosse practice, Elysha with her ballet classes, both in soccer, not to mention school and all of the project and homework assignments that included. Summer was playing both roles of mommy and daddy and shooting a Netflix show about an hour from where they lived. It was a lot, even with the help of Christopher’s family, and it was starting to take a toll on Summer’s health.

She’d been feeling slightly unwell in the past few weeks, but she chalked it up to exhaustion. She was constantly on the run. The stomach pain was irritating but tolerable, and the increased urge to urinate made watching the kids practice a bit harder. Her appetite was also changing, suddenly taking less time for her to become full, definitely a big change considering how much Summer loved to eat.

But, again, she had her kids to worry about. She’d put off her check up for as long as she could, finally penciling it in on a day the twins went to their Uncle’s house after school.

The ride to the appointment consisted of Summer discussing a potential role with her manager, Mercedes. The ride back, however, was dead silent. Summer turned her phone completely off to make sure of that.

Later that night, the twins managed to get their father on the phone, the first time they’d been able to talk to him in almost a week.

Of course, they talked and talked and talked. They had to fill him in on every single thing that happened, minute by minute, in his absence. It made them feel more connected with him despite the continents separating them.

“Papa, when are you coming home?”

Emmett was the one to pose the question, his normally lively demeanor dampened as he thought about the last time he’d been able to hug his papa. Almost two months.

“Yeah. We miss you,” Elysha added, looking over at her mother. “Right, mama?”

Summer naturally hit the lock button on her iPad. She blinked a couple times, lifting her eyeglasses onto her head, forcing a small smile. “Of course, mija.”

Emmett’s eyes widened. “Can we come see you!” He looked over to his twin to see that his expression was mirrored. “Please, papa? We’ll be good!”

“Yeah! Really really good!”

Christopher cleared his throat. “I don’t-”

“I have a few days off,” Summer added, forcing herself to mentally join the conversation. “And the school can accommodate whatever they miss.”

Christopher’s eyes furrowed. “How’d you get out of filming?”

His question unnerved her. She hadn’t thought of an excuse. “Not sure. Some hold up on Netflix end.” She shrugged and quickly moved to change the subject. “It would be nice to see you, babe. I-I really do miss you, and-”

“I miss you all too, you know that,” he sighed. Summer looked over at the kids, their excitement evident in the way they started bouncing up and down on the bed. “I just-I don’t want to have you all travel this way to spend what? A couple hours with me before I have to shoot.”

Summer rubbed her forearm. “It’s a couple more than what we get now.”

Heavy sighing from his end let Summer know that he was still not in agreement. “Well, what about this weekend?”

“What about it?”

“Could you come see us instead? Would that be easier?” She offered, the twins even more elated at that proposition. They hated traveling.

“You want me to take a 15 hour flight to come stay for like two days-”

“You’ve done it before.” Summer was confused. They’d both made travel sacrifices in the name of family. What was so different about this time? “Didn’t you say that you had off from filming?”

He was caught off guard. “Not any more. I have to do some reshoots.”

She frowned. “This early? It’s not even in post-prod-”

“Damn,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry, Summer, I have to go. That’s the director calling now.”

A chorus of “no’s” erupted from the twins. Summer gave them a sympathetic smile. “Come on, guys. You can talk to papa later.”

They weren’t happy, but they acquiesced, telling their father that they loved him. As they scuffled out the room, Summer cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Can you call me when you get done? I-I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah. Of course. You too.” Was his distracted and nonchalant reply.

She sighed. “I l-” The beep that accompanied an ended call was her reply. Licking her lips, she brought the phone to her chest, her head immediately returning to that place.

“Mama! Emmett broke the TV!”

“Did not!”

She wiped at the tear that managed to escape, thankful for the distraction when her brows furrowed. She suddenly had an idea.

“Kids, come here!” She shouted, waiting for the rapid patter of their frenzied footsteps as they appeared before her. “Mama has an idea.”

-------

“Are we almost there yet?”

Summer rolled her eyes.

“Not since the last time you asked, kiddo, which was five minutes ago.” Looking in the rearview mirror, she watched Emmett cross his arms and slump in his carseat. She chuckled. Any other time, she would have probably grown frustrated with the incessant questions. But today...today she was thankful. Beyond thankful.

Then again, her weekly appointments to the doctor were the driving reason behind her improved outlook.

A lot of things that typically evoked irritation were suddenly being welcomed. Her perspective was changing.

Elysha giggled and wagged her legs, pulling her Build A Bear close to her chest. “I can’t wait to see papa!”

“Me too!”

Contrary to what Christopher suggested, a couple hours with him was more than worth the lengthy time travel. Sure, all three were exhausted, but the idea of being reunited with him made it all worth it.

She’d done some digging in old texts and got the location of the condo he was staying in while he filmed and arranged so that they’d arrive while he was still on set in an effort to surprise him.

“Can we order pizza, mama?”

“Nooooo. Chinese!”

“Pizza!”

“How about both?” She suggested. They cheered. She laughed. Repeat.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d arrived, unpacked, and tried to settle down. Mostly, the kids ran around, exploring their new environment as Summer tried to prepare for Christopher’s arrival in a few hours.

Wiping at her forehead, she felt herself growing weak. She needed to eat something but feared that whatever she tried to consume would come up one way or another. Instead, she tried to busy herself.

Summer explored her husband’s place, picking up on a few things. He had more food than what was necessary for a single man. Not to mention, there was a lot of junk food.

Christopher didn’t eat junk food. She tried not to overthink things and instead moved up to the bedroom, deciding to take a shower after putting on a movie for the kids to keep them preoccupied for a good thirty minutes.

Pulling out a change of clothes and a shower cap which felt strange considering she was used to trying to fit in her mass of curls. Curls that used to cascade down her back but now grazed her shoulders.

She was allowing the warm water to rush down her body when she noticed two separate body washes, one specifically for men and another infused with Shea Butter.

Christopher hated the smell of Shea Butter but tolerated it for her sake. What was he doing with it?

Again, she ignored it.

Summer was out the shower, sitting down on the bathroom seat, trying to catch her breath. She could have fell asleep right then and there, but she powered through it.

Standing up, she reached for her lotion in her travel bag when something black sticking out of the drawer caught her eye.

Frowning, she pulled the drawer open and paused.

It was a bonnet. Not only that, the drawer was filled with Bobby pins, rat tail combs, and small thing of Creme of Nature edge control.

Summer had never used that brand a day in her life.

“What the hell?”

It was rhetorical. Slightly. Mind in a million and one places, Summer distractedly pulled her clothes on, popping in her evening cocktail of medications before exiting the bathroom.

“Mommy!”

Elysha’s excited voice managed to make her smile only for it to drop seconds later when she hears another voice.

“Come on, Lee. I’m sure your mommy’s busy.” Actually, mommy was very confused, not busy. Sauntering our the bedroom and into the hall, she stood at the top of the steps.

Emmett and Elysha stood at the bottom laughing and giggling, pulling on the persons pants leg. Elysha was the first to speak.

“Look, mommy! It’s aunt Yanda!”

Sure enough, Summer’s longtime best friend awkwardly swayed at the bottom of the stairs. Summer observed the singer. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and her feet were bare. She wore a pair of black, adidas joggers and a white and blue Emery hoodie, size XL, a small bleach spot on the inner hoodie.

Summer knew that for a fact because the hoodie belonged to Christopher. So did the joggers.

“Hey, girl.” Siyanda spoke with a tentative smile, laughing as the kids continued to hug her side. “What-”

“Yanda!”

Before either woman could react to the new voice, the kids were already running full speed ahead.

“Papa!”

Emmett and Elysha followed the sound of the shout, tracing it to the front door where a surprised Christopher was ambushed.

“Whoa,” he stumbled, bending down to scoop them up in his arms for a bear hug. “What are you two doing here?”

“We wanted to surprise you, papa!” Elysha shared excitedly, grinning from ear to ear.

“Surprise!” They both yelled at the same time, making the actor chuckle.

Emmett suddenly asked. “Did you miss us?”

“Of course, I missed you.” He replies warmly when he thought of something. “Where’s your mother?”

“Right here,” Summer answered for them, walking in with Siyanda not too far behind her. Christopher stood up, his smile gradually dropping as he tried to make eye contact with Siyanda. She kept her gaze on the ground.

Christopher forced himself to meet his wife’s surprisingly calm gaze. She smiled softly.

“Surprise.”

And just like that, he knew that she knew.

———————-

For Emmett and Elysha, the rest of that evening was a ball, they were with their parents and their aunt Siyanda, who Summer insisted stay and have dinner with them.

The songstress was visibly uncomfortable with the offer, but Summer simply laughed softly and smiled. “Please. You’re family. Right?”

Silence.

It was uncomfortable as could be for both Christopher and Siyanda who watched as Summer carried on like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t figured out what was going on. She even helped deflect when Emmett pointed out that his papa had the same sweatshirt.

Summer was providing a real life example of kill em with kindness.

Even as she and Christopher put the children to bed, she managed to coexist with him in a way that relayed absolute serenity despite the turmoil boiling within.

“Let’s hope they stay asleep,” she chuckled, walking down the stairs, Christopher and Siyanda on her tail. The two of them communicated in nonverbals, each unsure how to approach and the woman that they both cared for yet had betrayed in the worst way possible. “They wore me out.”

Being that he was her husband, Chris was the first to speak. “Summer, I-”

“You know, it’s funny.” Summer smiled as she walked into the kitchen, hands over the knife set. Watching her evaluate and pick up the largest one, Christopher instinctively placed a hand in front of Siyanda. “In the back of my mind, I always wondered what I would do if you ever cheated on me.”

As she stood around, eyeing the knife with boredom, both her husband and best friend wondered how to keep a safe distance between them and her. The lackadaisical tone of her voice was deeply unnerving.

“If I would cry, breakdown, whoop that ass which you both know I’m more than capable of doing,” she spoke with a humorless chuckle. It was true. While both Chris and Siyanda had backgrounds in martial arts, Summer was a beast at various forms of martial arts, MMA, taught by her brothers military combat, and had a hell of a temper. They knew of the stories from her childhood, from how she would both start and finish a fight. Boy or girl. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. Her hands were universally crafted for a wide variety of ass kickings.

“And yet, all I can do is laugh.” She shrugged, walking over to the remaining slices of pizza, starting to cut them into smaller slices. “Do you guys want some?”

Siyanda swallowed, pushing Chris’s arm down so that she could approach the island, stopping when Summer lifted the knife. “But don’t test me.”

The singer took a deep breath. “Girl….I-I am so sor-”

“No, you’re not,” Summer interrupted gently. “Sorry you got caught? Of course. Why wouldn’t you?” She giggled, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. “It could have been worse. I could have caught you in the act. Now that would have been something to see.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Summer. I-this-”

“Now Christopher, you know I hate stammering,” she sighed with faux disappointment. “Come on. Spit it out. She was here. I wasn’t. You got lonely, vulnerable, which of em’ is it? Not that I care, but humor me.”

“You know,” Summer repeated slowly, laughing quietly. “Let me tell you what I know. Actually, no. Why don’t you tell him?”

“Damnit, Summer.” He ran his hands over his face. “Can you please be serious?”

She froze, her smile icy. “Serious? You want to get serious?” She pushed her lips together and nodded slowly, wiping her hands to shake the crumbs off. “Alright. Let’s do this. Let’s put that Teen Choice Award or was it The People’s Choice? Aww, whatever, one of two awards you’ve won in your entire career to work.” She leaned back against the counter, pointing to herself. “Or do you want me to go? I prefer least to greatest so….”

“Summer, please. We just want to talk.”

“Is that what you call it? Talking?”

Chris closed his eyes. “Sweetheart-” He was silenced by Summer extending her arm and knocking over the entire box of pizza, watching it spill onto the granite floor.

“Don’t,” she whispered, clasping her hands together in a praying motion. “Don’t you dare.”

He looked away with shame, unable to even allow his eyes to watch as her jaw trembled.

“You want serious, Christopher?” She questioned rhetorically. “Serious is how I wake up some mornings so weak that I can’t even get out of bed. I have to crawl to the bathroom, where I sit on the floor, trying to force myself to hurry up and vomit because I know that I have to get kids up and ready for school. And god forbid they find me like that.”

“Serious is going to work every day sometimes filming for hours upon hours only to rush and pick the twins up from school and rush them to their practices all while praying to God that I don’t pass out from exhaustion.”

“Serious is going to that goddamn hospital twice a week for four hours of chemotherapy all while taking 10 different medications three times a day which sorta, kinda, not at all help with the side effects.” She gestured to her hair. “And it gets shorter by the week-”

Christopher was at a complete loss of words. “W-what? Chemo? What are you-”

Summer laughed bitterly, gasping quietly. “Oh, she didn’t tell you?” She motioned to a misty eyed Siyanda. “What, ya’ll two don’t have pillow talks?” She shook her head. “Silly me. You probably don’t like all that greasy ass Afro Sheen she uses on those balding edges on your pillowcase.” A beat. “Go on, girl. Tell him.” She encouraged with that same stoic smile. “Don’t be bashful now. You certainly weren’t bashful when you were fucking him.”

Siyanda winced. “Summer, pl-”

“What is she talking about?” He asked quietly, quickly growing angry when she remained silent. “Answer me!”

Summer rolled her eyes. “You don’t want to do it? Fine. Allow me.” Despite her best efforts to maintain her icy grin, it gradually dropped as Summer bitterly forced out the next statement. “I have cancer. Ovarian, to be specific.” A beat. “Stage IV.”

Silence. And then, denial.

“Wh-what? No.” He shook his head, placing his hands behind his neck. “No, you don’t.”

“Ask her.” Summer was staring directly at her former friend. “She was on the phone with me the day I found out. “One of three people I told because I trusted her.”

“Cancer?” He whispered, hands on the counter. His heartbeat was erratic as were his thoughts. “You have cancer, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to worry you.” She replied, staring at the ground. “Imagine that.”

“Summer…” She forced herself to look up. He was crying. She swallowed back the sob in the back of her throat and turned her head. “I-I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry for me,” she informed softly, gaining back her small smile. “I know I’m going to be okay.” She spoke more to herself than to them. “I actually feel sorry for you. For the both of you.” She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. “Because let me tell you what else I know.”

“I know that I did nothing to deserve or cause this. Not the cancer and certainly not you cheating on me with my best friend. Well, former.” Siyanda sniffled, wiping the tears that continued to spill. “I know that it was probably the insecurities got to you. Right? I make a film, it shatters the box office meanwhile are your movies still even bringing in a profit? Is single digit still considered a success?”

She shrugged. “Ally, Bashira, Storm, my relevancy covers a vast collection of roles, but you? You, my dear husband, will always just be known as Thor, and when those Marvel checks dry out, which they will….you’ll be lucky if you can land a fucking one season only, CW program,” she spat coldly. “You couldn’t handle being with a strong, successful, beautiful, black woman like myself, and that’s okay. Really.” A beat. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the less fortunate.”

“And you.” Summer turned her gaze on Siyanda and tilted her head to the side. “You know, my grandma always said not to trust you because you looked like the type of whore to look another woman in the face and laugh and converse all while sleeping her man behind her back….wait till’ grams hears about this.”

“Summer-”

“I really feel sorry for you though because for all of the fans who adore you, for now, at least. We both know this new girl. What’s her name? Shayera? She took the number #1 spot didn’t she? Damn, when is the last time you had a number one?” She groaned and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. It would take too long.”

“S-”

“All of these accolades, awards, talent, it all means absolutely nothing because you know, and I know, that at the end of the day, you return home to a cold, empty, barren house because, let’s be real, no one likes their cum rag to spend the night. That’s what you are, a disposable bucket for men to fuck as they please and discard like the scum that you are.” She motioned to Chris. “Ask him.”

Summer covered her mouth. “Oh wait. Can I? Please. Let me.” She bounced on her heels with anticipation. “You want to know how this plays out? He’s done with you, sweetie. See, as fucked up as a person he is to have done this in the first place, and not that it makes it any better, I can almost-no, I know that if you had told him that I was sick, you? Gone. This film? On hold. He would have had his ass on the first available flight home. Why? Shit, I forget, you don’t know what love is. After all, everyone who has ever loved filth like you….is gone.”

Summer gave a faux, sad, sigh. “He’s going to return home and do everything he can to try to make recompense, and one day, I will forgive him. But you, sweetie? You’re dead to him, and me. My kids, our kids, they’ll be hurt, yes, but when they’re older and they find out what kind of dirt you are? They’ll despise you.”

“God,” she laughed. “There is literally no scenario where you win. Now imagine that, all of that fucking for tracks, betraying people who actually gave a damn about that, playing house with my husband, not to mention the other taken men you fuck on the regular….all of that….and where does it leave you??” Her smile dropped. “The same place where you started, you seasonal bitch.”

Summer took a deep breath, closing her eyes, and placing her hand over her heart. “Well, that was intense.” She yawned. “It’s been quite a day, hmm? I’m going to head to bed.” She smiled sweetly, walking past a devastated Christopher and humiliated Siyanda. “Enjoy your lives.” A beat. “I know I am.”

#chris hemsworth #chris hemsworth fanfiction #chris hemsworth fanfic #chris hemsworth oneshot #fic: waves #crossover

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nostringsonmefanfic · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2: How Did We Get Here?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347017/chapters/59676907

Chapter 1

My feet touched the ground and I opened my eyes. I was standing on a stage looking out over a huge, empty auditorium. The house lights were dimmed, and two spotlights were shining on me from the left and right. I glanced around, but no one else was there. Anti was even gone. I turned and saw a projection screen glowing with the words “How Did We Get Here?” in green, dripping, bubble text. Ironic.

I waited for something to happen. I was afraid to move, but the longer I stood still, the more anxious I became. The silence was deafening. One of the curtains to the left was open slightly, so I decided to go back there to see what I could find. I padded offstage, careful not to step on any wires or equipment in my bare feet. Directly behind the curtain was a series of pullies for the curtains and set pieces to fly in and out, and a shelf stocked with tape in different colors and other tools. I searched around for a flashlight and found none. There was a plastic cup full of pencils and miscellaneous tools, including a big screwdriver with a dark blue handle. I picked it up and it was heavy in my hand. “It’s better than nothing,” I whispered, and I felt like I might as well have been shouting into a megaphone, it was so quiet in there. I made my way down the backstage area and found a door at then end that opened to an even darker hallway. I wondered if I could find an emergency exit somewhere, and went inside.

It was dark and I wished for my phone to use as a flashlight if nothing else. I hated how quiet it was; it made every sound I made seem so much louder. “A theater should never be this quiet,” I whispered, and even my small, timid voice felt too loud. I gripped the screwdriver tight in my hand, crossed my arms and tiptoed through the hallway, straining to see in the dark, and I found my way to some of the dressing rooms. I poked my head in one of the doorways, saw nothing but a lot of big, frilly costumes hanging on a rack, and kept going.

The hallway seemed endless, and it branched off into other hallways, but I kept going straight to avoid getting lost. After a while, I began to doubt myself. The hallway seemed to go on and on without any end in sight, just doors to dressing rooms and storage closets and other hallways. I thought, “Surely this place isn’t that big,” but I stood corrected. I hugged myself and steadied my breathing as I continued walking, slowly and quietly. I could feel my pulse in my throat and my mouth was dry, but I forced myself to keep walking.

I banged my head against a low-hanging bar or pipe and cursed as I grabbed my stinging brow. I reached out to touch whatever I hit my head on, but I couldn’t find it. I reached both hands out to grope the dark for any obstacles when I continued walking, and wondered if I should go back to the stage, jump down into the auditorium, and leave through there. I nodded to myself and promptly turned around to head back the way I came.

Then something soft brushed against my bare foot. I yelped and backed into one of the walls. I stood still, waited, listened, but still couldn’t see or hear anything. I passed the screwdriver to my left hand and kept it on the wall as I took a few more cautious steps, running my fingers over the wall, and I reached out with my right hand to feel for anything else.

I found something else. Something alive. My right hand touched something cold and wet, like a fish. I froze in my tracks. It moved as it breathed and made a deep, gurgling sound. I jerked my hand away and slowly backed up, but the thing grabbed my arm and pulled me toward it. It gripped my wrist tightly and gargled louder. I thrashed at it with the screwdriver, and the metal sank deep into its…flesh? I couldn’t pull it back out. The thing screeched and let go of me, and I turned and ran away, bumping and tripping over equipment. I reached out and grabbed anything I ran into and threw it down behind me, hoping I could slow the thing down. I could hear its footsteps, pounding after me. It was gargling, and I could sometimes make out words like, “hungry” and “come back.”

I found a dressing room and charged into it, threw the door shut behind me, and locked it. The thing started banging on the door, and each slow thud rattled it. I backed away and hoped those hinges were stronger than the looked, when I stepped on something soft again. The soft thing darted out from under me, then someone screamed behind me. I screamed too, then ran for the door. I felt around the wall, flipped the light switch, and turned to face what was in the dressing room with me.

It was Jack. Or, it looked like Jack, except his hair was green again, he was wearing a red cape, and he fumbled with a white cat mask. He clutched at his chest a stared at me with wide eyes.

Neither of us moved. The thudding at the door continued, and my shoulders were tense.

“Jack?” I asked, and my voice came out as a scared whimper. His brow creased, and I tried, “Jacksepticeye?”

“What? No,” he heaved, and he put his mask back on, resting it on his forehead. I saw the symbols drawn on the mask and it occurred to me.

“Marvin,” I said. “Marvin the Magnificent. The magician.”

He straightened up and tugged on his shirt to straighten it. “I know who I am, who are you?” he said.

“I’m…” I trailed off. I felt it, it was right there, like a distant memory I couldn’t quite recall. I opened my mouth like I was trying to form the shape of my name, but I couldn’t get it to work.

Marvin raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he said.

“I don’t… remember.”

“Don’t remember? What do you mean you don’t remember your own name?”

“I don’t know, I… Well, to be honest, I don’t understand anything that’s happening right now. I was just in my bed, watching videos, and suddenly Anti reached out of my screen and pulled my inside, and—” I stopped and snapped my fingers. “That’s it! I fell asleep, right? I was in my bed, I was tired, and I was about to go to sleep anyway, and nothing that happened afterwards made any sense. I’m dreaming.”

Marvin was watching me with a concerned expression that whole time I spoke, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Dear God…”

“So everything’s okay. I always wake up when I realize I’m dreaming.”

I shut my eyes, waited a moment, and opened them, but I was still in the dressing room. Marvin was watching me with crossed arms. “Still dreaming?” he asked.

“Well I… I’m probably gonna wake up any time now.”

Marvin sighed and side-glanced the door. “Kid, whoever you are, do you mind waking up after we get out of here? The thing that’s out there really wants in, and I don’t wanna be here when it breaks down that door.”

I jumped when the creature banged on the door again, and I gripped my hands together. “Uh, sure. How do we do that?”

Marvin glanced around the room, paced in a few circles, and groaned. “Okay, okay, I’ve got an idea, but I don’t like it.”

“What?” I said.

“I’m gonna cast a spell, and you’re going to open the door just a little so I can slip out. I’ll distract that thing so you can get out. Find your way to the men’s dressing room off stage right and hide. I’ll meet you there.”

Before I could say anything, Marvin slid the mask down over his face, took a deep breath, and he shrank down. In a small cloud of dust and fur, I blinked as he emerged as a small, white cat with the symbols of the four card suits on his forehead. He blinked his bright blue eyes at me and meowed loudly, like he was urging me to get moving. I went to the door and he followed and positioned himself at the opening. I listened to the creature outside thudding heavily against the door, groaning lowly each time it hit it. I clicked the lock open, waited until the creature pulled away, then pulled the door open a little bit, and Marvin darted out the door in a white flash. The creature gurgled and stomped after him.

I paused and listened. The creature moved down the hall, and then there was silence. I slowly pulled open the door a bit more and peeked outside. Nothing was there. I opened the door all the way and let the dressing room light flood into the hallway. I peered both ways down the hallway, still saw nothing but equipment, props, and set pieces. I took a deep breath and quickly padded down the hall in the opposite direction that Marvin and the creature went.

I would have given my left arm for a flashlight if someone had offered it. It felt colder in that hallway, and I had no clue if I was headed toward the stage again. The dark consumed me, but I didn’t dare reach out again.

“̵͚̑D̸͔̔͋i̶͇͔̒ḏ̴͂ ̶̩̞̃ÿ̷̛̩͕́o̶̓̚͜ṳ̷̰͝ ̷͔̳̿m̶̫͋̕a̴̮̤̽̂k̴̡̪̆ȅ̶͖̖ ̷̫̋͜͝a̶̲͚̓ ̸̱̋n̵̘̆͗e̴͇̊w̵̳̒̕ ̸̮̈́̎f̵̼͛͝r̶̖̗i̶̥̟͛͆e̶̬͊̿ṇ̶̳̾ḍ̴̇?̶̜̠͐͠”̴͕̀ͅ

A chill ran up my spine and clapped my hands over my mouth before I could gasp and give myself away.

“̷D̸o̷n̴’̷t̷ ̵b̸o̷t̶h̸e̷r̴.̶ ̶I̵ ̷c̸a̵n̸ ̴s̶e̷e̶ ̴y̴o̴u̴.̶”̸

The voice was even worse in person than on video. It was harsh, like a fork scratching a plate or nails on a chalkboard. It made my body tense. I held my breath.

“̄͐͐̐Ḯ̌̚ ̾̾d̅̍o͆̀n͐͂’̛̇́͗t̐̈́͌ ̛̃k̀̍͗n͗̾̐̑̚o͑̌ẃ̑̎͞͝ ̛̒w̒̉h̛͆͞͝y̓ ͋̂̊̑̏h̓͐̚e̽̐̇̅ ̓͗̌̚ẁa͑̓͛n̑̅̀͠t̊ed̈̇̽͛͆ ͊̓̐̈̏ẙo̿ủ.̑̅̽ I͆͒͠ ̍̋̉͘d̐͝o̊̂̊n̛̈̈’͑̓͘t ̋͘se̅͂͒̇̓e̿͋͑͝͡ ͘a͐̃̕͠n̂͂y͗̑thi͋̆͝͠n̂̿g͐̕͠ ̓͐s̆p̀̈́͗e̛̔͋̅c͐ĭ͑̄ă͛̈͆l̊͗̏̕ ̃͛ab̄̊͌oư͛̑ť͗̉̐ ͐̾̌̊y̾̏o̾̾̈́u̔̾̾.͂̆̂ ̿͛̒͒Ẇh͐á͂̕t̏̄̊ē͒v̾͑̚e͝ȓ,̽̎͝ ̛̒̂i͆̓̿t̆́̃͞ ̏̀s͠h̓őu͊̋l̓͊̔̍d̂̓̆ ̊̋̌b́̄̀ė̓̂͡ ͌̇͘ē̃͛̆nt̾́̓é̋̓r͒t͐̌̑͡a̅in͝i͋n̔̅ğ̈́̿̒,̋ e͆̑̓i̕͝t̃̑̓͘͞h̿̀̕̕e͛r̊̂́͞ ̓̓̾̕w̄å̄̃͝ỳ̓̆͞.̈̋͠͞”͠

I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I felt hot breath on the back of my right ear as Anti whispered:

“̜͖͡I̢̳̬͖͔̬̦̹͑̋̈̍̓͘͡’̢̧̢̹̲͇͕̤̝̗̪̰̮͕̭͎̝͍̬̗̥̭͗̋́̓̀͋̓̿͐͆̓͐̃̽̽͗͒̐͐͋͐͘͘͢͠ͅd̨͔̼̗͍̘̳͗́̊̏̽̈͗ ̧̨̺̱͚̬̫͔̻̝̹̺̯̻̌̋̄̊̈́̔͒̊͋͐͗͗͑͑̚͟͟ͅr̙͐ṳ̧̣̼̻͓̳̦͓̬͙͉̤̪͇̮̦͆̆̃̉͑̐͂͑̏͗̂̆̄̕̕͠͠n͍͖̭͈̠̓̆̿̎̂̔͟ ̡̡͓̼̙̪͔̗͍̼͔̱͍̻̾͂̌͑̓̓̐͛̿̐̌͆̏͂͂͌͢͟ͅi̡̡̤̰͓̰̰͕̰̦̞̬͉̗̺̝̽͑̐͊͌̎̅̓̎̐̑̄̇̈́͊̀͜͢͝͡f̧̰̦͓̩̼̤̝̦͙̲̥̺̩̞͇͕͔͇͉͖͂̒̓̿̆͌̉̑̈́̐̏̋͋̈́͂͊͌͘͡͝͝͝ͅ ̢̢̟̘̟̖͓̻̘̦̳̭̟̙̞̲͓͇̫̟̩͈̠̬̑͌̾͐͑̄̊̊͆̔̐̀͂̅̆̋͛̎̋̈́̊̾͋͋I̡̧̛̦̎͑ ̳̠̏̌we̝͇̖̲͋̎̑̕r̡̰̙͕͇̹̞̖̞̻̙͔̠͈̆͋̔̈́̃͒̎̌͂̾̄͊͞͝͠ͅè̠̊͢ ̡̨̨̦̳̬̲̫̯̞͈̦̮̰̳͈͇͉͐̀̔̐̽̇̆̅̍̆́̌͋̃͘̕̕͘ͅỹ̘̟̖͈̻̻̄̌͒̾͜͝͞͝ͅo͍̗̙̻̞̬͙̓̈̐͑̓̽̕͜ú̧̻͍̠̝̭̳̥̪͎̦̰̩͓̗̔̆̈̋̽̌̽̔̈́̏̋̍͛͝.̨̧̱̘̠̏̋̍̚͝”̢̘̱̫̪͍̮̍̇̑̿͛̇͆͟͝

I wanted to scream.

There were footsteps approaching from behind me. Anti giggled. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I broke into a run, and no matter which turn I took down the long, endless hallways, Anti was always there, singing, “Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run,” right above my head.

The floor started to shake violently, like there was an earthquake. Wind was blowing around me. My chest heaved and I continued pumping my legs faster and faster. Where is that wind coming from? I turned down another hallway and the wind was blowing in my face. Anti was cackling now. The monsters were coming. Anti’s laugh was echoing in my ears. I ran into the wind, my bare feet hitting the floor hard with each bound. The room was shaking so bad I thought the building would be torn in half. I was in complete darkness, and I gave all my trust to the wind. Why won’t I wake up? This has to be a bad dream.

The wind was coming from somewhere. I knew it. I had to go towards it. In the distance, I thought I saw a light, but I couldn’t tell if it was really there or if my eyes were just that desperate to see something. But no. Ahead of me, a curtain was billowing in the wind, and light was coming through it. I continued running a reached for it. It was there. Ten feet… five feet… three feet, and then I grasped the thick, dusty curtains in my hands. As soon as my fingers touched the fabric, an image flashed in my mind that made me stumble. I saw Jack sitting in an office chair, with his wrists and neck wrapped in tight, black wires. His head was hanging low. I think he was crying. When the image went away, I had shoved myself through the curtains and I was back on the stage.

With light, everything seemed to disappear. Anti, the wind, the earthquake, the monsters. I wondered if I had hallucinated all those things, or if it was all real. My entire body ached and trembled and my chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. My heels were stinging from all of the hard impact, and I limped to the center of the stage, back where I was at the start. I wracked my brain to remember which way stage right was, and when I remembered I walked off the stage. Just as Marvin said, there was another dressing room on the other end of the wall behind the curtains. I tiptoed inside and shut the door before I turned on the light. Unlike the others I had been in, this dressing room was piled high with clothes and costume pieces. I air smelled dusty, like old powder and hairspray. I climbed over the piles of clothes in the floor and went to the corner of the room to hide behind a clothes wrack that was stuffed with articles of neon, sequined, and cobwebbed glory. I nestled behind the clothes and narrowly missed putting my fingers in a set mouse trap. I sat on the cold, tile floor, curled up in the fetal position, and prayed there weren’t any spiders in these costumes.

I waited for something else to happen. I tried to wake up. I chewed on my tongue, pinched the fleshy part of my arm, tried to will myself to dream about something else, I even said out loud, “If this is my dream, then I can do whatever I want. I can even fly!” and waited to see if I would magically levitate off the ground. But deep down, I knew all of that was no good. The pain in my body was too real. Even though I did have vivid dreams sometimes, my senses were never this keen in them. The solidity of the concrete wall against my back, the cold tile beneath my feet, the number of times I sneezed from the dust, it was all too real. I wasn’t dreaming.

Once I knew that, I had to consider what that meant. One, Antisepticeye and Marvin the Magnificent were real. I wondered if that meant the other egos were, too, like Dr. Schneeplestein or Chase Brody. Every bit of logic within me said that there was no way they could be real; they were fictional characters played by a guy on YouTube. It was like assuming Harry Potter was real after meeting Daniel Radcliff. But I threw logic out the window when I considered how I got to this place.

As much as I tried to ease my mind into accepting these things, it was all so insane that it made my mind boggle. And then I considered what Anti had just said to me.

I don’t know why he wanted you.

I had no idea what that meant. Wasn’t he the one who drug me in here? All of this would have made more sense if I continued with the “It’s all a dream” assumption, but I decided to suspend my disbelief.

I heard the door open and I held my breath.

“Are you here?” someone whispered. It was Marvin. I released my breath and crawled out from my hiding spot. His hair was tousled, but other than that he seemed fine. He removed his mask and bowed theatrically as he said, “I’m back, and all in one piece. Except maybe for a whisker.” He ran his hand over his beard and eyed me. “Well, you look positively shaken up.”

My mouth was dry and gulped. “I have no idea what’s going on,” I said.

He nodded. “Well, you can relax for a minute. As long as we aren’t loud, they won’t find us in here.” He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned when he realized how messy it was, then he dusted off one of the few chairs that wasn’t full of clothes, sat down and looked in the mirror to fix his hair. “So, what exactly are you? You aren’t an ego, that’s for sure, but so far you don’t look like one of those things, either.”

“I’m not sure. I don’t even know how I got here, I—”

Marvin patted one of the seats next to him and I sat down.

“Alright, tell me all about it.”

#jse marvin #jacksepticegos #jacksepticeye egos #jacksepticeye #jse anti #marvin the magnificent #antisepticeye #oc

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unclefungusthegoat · 5 years

Text

ARMY KNIFE, SILVER SPOON- Far Cry 5 Week Day 2 (The Project at Eden’s Gate)

OK, so this one needs to be taken with total disregard for the Seeds’ ages and timeline, but they don’t make sense anyway so screw it hahaha... Also I promise that I wasn’t randomly inspired by Avril Lavigne’s ‘I’m With You’. And so, false promises made, without further ado:

Sixteen year old John Duncan runs away from home on a cold November night. Lost, alone and desperate to not return to his cruel parents, he finds himself at the mercy of the dark side of Atlanta... only to be rescued by a homeless Iraq War veteran.

Please be aware:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Attempted sexual assault of a minor, mentions of child abuse, attempted strangulation

You can read this story on AO3: HERE

My whole FC5 Week series can be found HERE

“Hey kid, you got a little something for us?”

John Duncan ignored the slurring coos of the rabble stood on the street. Tried to forget that he was only sixteen and hopelessly lost and colder than he’d ever been before. The late-November air cut through his slate grey cashmere coat, even after it had been buttoned to his neck. There was icy slush seeping into his dress shoes, and he could feel that the bottom of his slacks were wet also, sticking to his ankles. His face was numb. His stomach empty. He hadn’t even had time to retrieve his leather gloves from his room and his fingers were almost as blue as his stinging eyes.

How was he supposed to know what runways took with them? Boys like him didn’t run away. They inherited their father’s estates, attended functions, framed degrees in their swanky offices and had affairs with their secretaries. They lived in penthouses. Drove Lamborghinis. Had sake imported in from Tokyo.

But he couldn't go back. Not even to get his gloves, or a stack of bills from the safe. Not this time, not now that he was out in the world, gone for so many hours that they had surely phoned the police. He’d have to explain himself, beg them to forgive him for being so ungrateful.

And then he’d have to take the lash again.

He just couldn’t fucking take it anymore. Always in pain. Another shirt ruined where his wounds would split. Another prayer to a silent God. Another day watching them stare at him like he wasn’t good enough yet, wasn’t perfect yet.

He didn’t want to know what he’d have to do to get there.

So he’d finally snapped.

And he’d run.

John crossed his arms across his body, hoping to keep in some heat, and kept walking. He didn’t know where he was. Some dark underbelly of Atlanta, sex shops and liqour stores and sleezy bars and the types he’d always been told never to associate with. People who reminded him of Old Mad Seed. Not that he could remember much about him anyway. Just heavy set shapes. Loud voices. Foul breath. Vitriol and disdain.

Footsteps were crunching behind him, hurrying to catch up.

Predators to their prey.

“I’m fucking talking to you, silver spoon, why don’t you take it out your mouth and make yourself useful?”

“Fuck off.” He muttered, aware that the words sounded ridiculous with so many years of elocution lessons slathered on top of them.

“What’s that? What did you say? Didn’t your nanny ever teach you to speak up?”

A forceful hand on his shoulder and suddenly John was pinned against the grimy window of an all night supermarket. Staring up at three leering businessmen who looked far too much like the men at his family’s church.

“He's pretty.”

“Barely legal I reckon.”

Vastly illegal, John almost swiped back, but held his tongue.

That was a skill he’d learned well over the years.

How to stay quiet.

How to survive.

“He doesn’t say a lot does he, for a rich kid?”

“Trust fund, no doubt.”

“Ivy League.”

“Maybe he’s a mute-”

“If he’s dumb then he’ll be nice and quiet then while he proves his worth. He won't scream.”

“Take him in the alley. No cameras.”

They grabbed him by the hair and dragged him, legs kicking towards the looming void between storefronts. Frozen garbage, mouldy dumpsters, not a chance in hell anyone would come looking for John Duncan, of the Duncans.

He screamed, but a hand clamped down over his mouth. The three wrestled him until his back hit one of the dumpsters. Hungry fingers tangled with buttons and the belt and zipper on his pants, drunken and clumsy. Frustrated cursing, as he tried to get away. His foot collided with something hardened and a yowl of pain echoed across the street. Bile straining at the back of his throat, burning acid in his starved insides threatening to-

“Hey, leave the dipshit with the fancy coat alone-” came the thick growl of a tall figure emerging from the alleyway, bundled up in worn, on-it’s-last-legs knitwear. A padded parka with a furry trim on the hood made the giant seem even broader than he probably actually was, but in the shadow of the neon ‘RALPHS’ sign, and through the heavy spit of snowfall, he looked Titanesque. Atlas, holding up the sky so it didn't come crashing down on the young runaway.

“What’s it to you?”

“A big fucking problem, actually.”

The giant fixed a hand around the nearest throat, and John felt himself get released from the heavy grip. He stumbled sideways and cowered behind the homeless man, who now snarled at the lechers and tightened the pressure on the whimpering neck.

“Get out of here before I paint the sidewalk with your brains.” The giant snarled, and John absolutely believed him.

The man nodded desperately, and within seconds of being released, gasping for the cold air, all three were gone. Disappeared around a corner. Slipping on the ice in their haste. Back to their hunt or back to their wives.

The giant slouched back to where he’d been resting in the alley for the night. John made to move on, but the man called back to him and he froze.

“You OK?”

“I’ve been better.” John groaned, tousling his hair to ease the pain in his scalp, but succeeding only in letting snowflakes tumble into his face. He could barely see his saviour as it was, and having pale shimmering flecks in his long eyelashes wasn’t helping.

“Fucking perverts. They’ll get what’s coming to them.”

“No they won’t.” John mumbled, aware that he was shaking.

“You want to take a few minutes to get yourself together?” The homeless man gestured to the space beside him.

There was something about that voice… it felt safe. Gruff, wizened, like it had been through hell. But safe. Safe enough for John to approach and sit on the sidewalk beside him, settling onto a stack of soggy cardboard that he tried to imagine was anything but.

A weird silence.

John pulled his knees up to his chest, cradling them like he used to when hiding in small places. Hoping not to be heard or seen. And he tried to decide what to do. Breathing hard. Mind racing. Yet nothing came to mind. He had nowhere to go. No one who would take him in. A lump gathered in his throat and a hot tear dribbled down onto his nose.

Not for thought of being hungry and helpless and filthy, although all troubled him deeply. Not for the sudden shock settling in that he’d nearly just been raped. Not for the unease he felt staring down the alley, unable to see the end of it through the winter night.

But the thought of having to go home.

“First night’s not even the worst, kid.”

The giant had pulled out a small penknife, army issue in appearance, and began whittling a small wooden block. The feathering of the wood looked like lustrous, thick fur. A fox perhaps, or a wolf? John still couldn’t see the man’s face, but he wondered if he was Native and it was a symbol to keep him strong.

He could, however, see the patches of flaking skin on the backs of the man’s hands. In desperate need of a moisturizer or medical cream or something, anything to give the impression that the man wasn’t about to shed like a snake. Burns, he realised. And the odd cigarette stub mark between the raw patches. How did a homeless man get so mutilated?

John sniffed and wiped his tears away with his sleeve.

“Is that so?”

The man snorted.

“Even just from that answer, I can tell you won’t last long.”

“How did you know I was... like you?” John didn’t want to say homeless quite yet. It felt like such a dirty word, an ‘epidemic’ as his uncle had branded it once.

“Guessed.”

John gave him a quizzical look that the giant caught out of the corner of his eye. He chuckled.

“If there's one thing I know on sight, it's a miserable kid who doesn’t want to go home.”

John continued to watch him work in silence for a good half hour, mesmerised at the craftsmanship. He thought back to his own work, his fine pencil sketches and pools of watercolours and minute engine parts for impeccably constructed model aircraft. Things to shut him up. Keep him indoors. Train that difficult right hand to function as it should.

“So did daddy not buy you a pony?” The quiet broken. There was humour in it, nothing but a gentle tease, but the insinuation that rich kids couldn’t also face unimaginable pain riled John, and he glared venomously.

“That’s none of your concern.” He spat in a low voice.

“Oh, it’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“Kind of thinking it is now that I suddenly seem to have another mouth to feed-”

“I don't need your charity.”

“Well you're sat in my drawing room, aren't you, your Royal Highness-”

“I didn’t ask for your help-”

“Well you sure as fuck needed it.” The homeless man didn’t even sound angry, clearly used to people looking down their noses at him, treating him like an inconvenience. He just sounded exhausted. “Jesus, could you be anymore uptight?”

John pouted and hugged himself tighter.

“Probably.”

The giant paused his work and rubbed his unkempt beard in exasperation. It was tinged red, even more so in the street lamp light. John noticed the man still hadn't looked up at him, wouldn't make eye contact. He wouldn't be able to identify him to the police in a lineup, or even from a mugshot. Does he intend to rob me? Have his way with me like those men wanted to?

“Spoilt brat like you won’t last a week. If you’d prefer not to get stabbed or robbed, sell the Rolex, keep your head down, drop the accent and the airs and graces.”

Of course he’d spotted the watch. John twisted it on his wrist protectively.

“You can't have it.”

“I wasn't asking for it.”

“My father bought it for me.”

“Good for you. My father never did shit. Is sharing time over?”

The homeless man was too distracted to concentrate on his whittling and pocketed his handiwork swiftly, choosing instead to pull out a pair of thin gloves. He stretched them tenderly over his mottled skin, wincing a little as the fibres caught and pulled on the rough patches.

“Where did you get those scars on your hands?” John blurted, figuring that if he’d never see this man again after tonight, it didn’t matter if he upset him by sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

The giant sighed.

“Fought a bear for a bet.”

John’s mouth gaped open and the giant released a chuckle, pleased with himself.

“War. Iraq. Most of the homeless in this city are Vets. An incendiary device got me on patrol. I wasn’t hurt too badly, they look worse than they are. They made me stronger.”

He turned to rummage through a black knapsack and pulled out an opened packet of beef jerky. He stuffed a whole strip into his mouth, before offering it out. John felt his face twist with disgust and his stomach heaved at the prospect of eating meat so soon after hearing how this man burned. He turned away a little at the smell of it.

“Gotta stay strong if you want to survive.”

Hearing the low rumble from his empty stomach, John reached out and took a strip. He chewed on it warily. Salty. Slightly sweet. Hardly gourmet, but desperate times called for desperate measures. When he’d finished one, he found himself reaching for another.

“Why aren’t you there now? In the army? Why are you sat behind a supermarket?” He asked through a mouthful. It still sounded pompous.

The giant didn’t answer, still didn’t look at him, just sat back to rest against the wall behind them, gnawing on more jerky. John imagined a wild face under that hood, rabid eyes that had seen horrors beyond imagining. Sawn down teeth, flesh peeling away.

“You look familiar, kid. But I don’t suppose I’ve seen you at the soup kitchen.” Something sounded odd, intrigued, hopeful maybe, and John wondered how he looked ‘familiar’ if this unusual creature had barely taken a second look at him.

“My father owns a law firm in the city. One day he’s going to be District Attorney. I’ve been in the newspapers with him a few times.” John couldn’t help but boast a little, still a little concerned for the $20,000 watch on his wrist, but quite content that this man wouldn’t be holding him for ransom anytime soon.

A resigned, disappointed sigh.

“Yeah? Maybe I’ve slept on one of those papers then.”

Another uncomfortable silence.

“I know what it is.”

John looked up to where the giant was looking- the faded stars in the night sky, barely visible, but Cassiopeia was twinkling between the rooftops.

“You look how I’d imagine my little brother to look, I think, if he was still alive. He was always skinny, like you. Too skinny. Probably starved somewhere, on the streets, poor as shit like me.”

“He’s… dead?”

“Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

The giant didn’t elaborate.

“I… I don't have any brothers.” John regurgitated the lie that had been beaten into him for so many years. No son of mine has delinquents and degenerates for brothers.

“You got a Mom? A Dad?”

Of sorts.

“Yes.”

“They love you?” John could hear the aching loneliness that lay behind the question.

No. I’m innately unloveable.

“They try.” His voice broke a little. “I don’t exactly make it easy for them.”

The giant rolled his head forward and smiled down at his feet.

“Then you want my advice?”

John nodded, feeling tears building again and his lip quivering, threatening to break open into desperate wailing. Something about this felt so strange, so easy and natural. Unconditional. Why was this man being so nice to him?

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, far more gentle than John had expected.

“Go home, kid. There’s nothing more important than family.”

If only he had either of those. A heavy sob wracked through his slight body and John found himself weeping loudly into his knees, without fear of being caught, judged, scolded and forced to pray away his resentment of his pitiful life. Tears and snot and misery came streaming down his face, body shaking with the effort of it all.

Warmth enveloped his shoulders, and he realised that the giant had removed his parka and wrapped it around him. Tucking him into it, like a child being settled into bed. And he leaned into the towering figure, sharing the warmth, curling himself into strong arms of inexplicable kindness. A kindness he thought he’d never know again.

“Stay here tonight. I’ll walk you back tomorrow.”

John cried until he fell asleep.

He dreamed of red hair, the heat of farmland alight, and a shadow in the back of a police car.

#far cry 5 #FC5Week #FC5Week2019 #john seed #jacob seed #that picture of seamus?#no idea what it's from #but he's so babyfaced holy shit #teenage john right there #also this is my first proper attempt at writing jacob #dunno if it's worked hahaha #also taking a huge liberty with the theme #not a mention of the project at all hahahaha

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authenticaussie · 5 years

Note

Hmm... 18 (soul eater au), 52 (roommate), 42 (marvel), 98 (leverage), and or 14 (lantern lights)

babe……….you’re my Favourite™

also, under a readmore because this got LONG as SHIT

8. Soul Eater au

the soul eater au is really scattered because my wifi sucked on that particular day and I was posting it in the mas chat (sunshinepunks) BUT the basis is weapons ace & sabo and meister Marco. It’s a lot of “dumbasses refuse to accept New Friends (because TraumaTM)” and Ace/Sabo being dicks to Marco because he refuses to give up on them. (ahhh my favourite dynamic //swoons)

Part of the plot - my favourite part of the plot - is that Sabo spends a lot of time spying on Marco to try and catch him out as Secretly A Dick and Manipulating Them, and ends up finding out that Marco really really cares about him and Ace? And the way to Sabo’s heart is thrrrroooough his besssstieeeee lmao. So Sabo ends up crushin’ hard first, but then SPYING BACKFIRES and paranoia kicks his butt and he Feels Bad because he was ONLY MEANT TO TRUST ACE and Marco HURT HIS FEELINGS (sabo you moron it’s your own fault). Anyway Ace and Marco pair up to try and make Sabo feel better and it drives Sabo even Nuttier until there is battle couple stuff and a mid-fight Feelings Fight and then a confession and then they become the DMCA power couple. Ta-da!

Ace was a pipe and Sabo was a knife! Or…..you know, something in that realm pft. Basically hitty-stick and stabby-stabby, because you could make a) an argument for their personalities Being Like That (ace is blunt and strong and easy to just hit with but if you’re clever about it he’s awesome, and has the reach to be a longer weapon, sabo is more…well a knife can be used for a lot but also it’s very….vicious. There is very little you can do to Incapacitate with a knife that is not Wow Stabbed. Which I feel is very Sabo, he’s kinda…harsh??? in his way of handling battle, I think.) and b) because in canon, Sabo’s weapon is a pipe and Ace has that knife, and I thought it’d be cool to match that.

42. New Roommate Wanted

an OC-based commission!! James moves in with a shape-shifting thief and her GF and accidentally Falls In Love snickers

It is………..I wrote it a while ago so you can definitely see the self-projection of “I want cute rich gfs to love and adore me so I don’t have to stress about a job”

52. 5+1 Marvel AU

in the actual word document the title is “If you’re broken I will mend you” (Or 5 Times Sabo was There for his Team (and one time histeam was there for him). Sabo is Coulson and Marco is Hawkeye and Ace is a Black Widow (codename: Redback). It fluctuates between sorta implying MAS (but with a definite focus on Marco/Ace) and Coby/Sabo mainly because I made Coby Captain America (YOU CAN’T!!! ARGUE!!! WITH ME!!! HE IS!!!! PERFECT!!! AS CAP!!!) and I love fics that have the lowkey “Coulson has a fanboy crush on Cap.” lol.

(also coby/sabo is. fun? crackship but So Fun.)

Here’s the shortest one haha

It takes about five minutes after the comms. go silent forSabo to know that something is wrong, and two minutes afterwards to gear up.

It takes him approximately four seconds to tear through the people trying to keep him from helping Ace and Marco.

(It takes two weeks for them to heal, no matter how fastSabo was, and a month for Sabo to get off desk duty, but Ace and Marco refuseto do missions when he’s not their handler. They refuse to do anything thatinvolves leaving his side until after he assures them he’s fine, and that hewasn’t just a S.H.I.E.L.D agent because he had a pretty face - though that hadprompted an argument about Sabo’s ‘pretty face’ that he’d had to steadfastlyignore.)

88. LEVERAGE AU MOTHERFUCKER

THIEVES! CON ARTISTS! So this one is actually three different aus in one file - there’s a “MAS but as Leverage” and it starts out as “Ace and Sabo who fill in Every Job They Can (but their specialties are Ace = grifter/hacker and Sabo = hitter/thief and I have reasons, okay) and then they try and run a con on Marco but he’s like Um Excuse Me? And then he gets dragged into their Bullshit snickers. Oh ALSO they ONE THOUSAND PERCENT do not realise they are Madly In Love With Him (but he does. And he’s trying to be patient. But also. Dying. Because wow it’s kinda awkward being in love with. two daredevil thieves)

The second one in the doc is the Leverage trio in the OP world, ‘cause duh, and Parker starts off like…trying to steal kids from being SMILE experiments? and hires Eliot and Hardison to help her. Um I think I wanted to give Hardison a DF?? But I had a whole list: there was altering people’s sight/perceptions, being able to edit vision/specifics of reality in lines of like, code?? (aka he could do Little Changes but they could affect Big Things, a butterfly effect sort of DF). A lot of them were trying to give him a way to…manipulate stuff in a world where tech wasn’t as big a thing.

And the third one is ASL leverage! Marco still gets dragged into the disaster but it’s more found family stuff.

14. Lantern Lights

Lantern Lights is technically posted [here] under “all the light we cannot hold” BUT I have MORE. I wanted to make it longer when I originally posted it - mainly because Lea asked for angst - but I ended up running out of time (I am………so bad at deadlines, jfc). Plus, with all the things I wanted to include it honestly would’ve turned into something RIDICULOUSLY long and I was already pushing 5k when gifts were a minimum of 1k.

This was the original start / end bracketing.

START:

HiAce.

Hispencil hesitated above the empty page, only a single lead smudge marring theotherwise blank paper, and Sabo sighed softly. Eraser nub ticking against thedesk, he bit his lower lip and tried to think of what else to write. He had somuch to say – about Marco, and the Whitebeards, and about the new friends he’dslowly been making, like Koala and Hack and even the standoffish, arrogant Law,but it’d been so long since he sat down to write Ace a letter that the wordsseemed to have vanished.

Hi Ace, heread, as though the greeting would organise what he wanted to say intoneat lines for him to write. He heaved another sigh, resting his chin in hispalm. Casting his eyes up to the window above his desk he watched as theburning dusk faded into twilight blue and the stars began to shine, silverglints of light that were mirrored by the compound’s lanterns flaring to life.The gleamed against the darkness and Sabo couldn’t help but be reminded ofAce’s fire. How it glowed beneath his skin, lighting him bright red in fury orembarrassment or glorious gold in his joy. Sometimes Sabo couldn’t help butwish – but hope – that Ace was still burning, somewhere out there. In the sky,with the stars-

Hecouldn’t help but selfishly hope that Ace had given part of his fire to Sabo’sheart, to burn within him.

Sabogrowled, burying his face in his hands to try and stop the subtle sting formingin his eyes. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that so many simple things couldremind him of Ace, that undeniable frustration at his uselessness still restedheavy in his every thought, that the feelings he wanted to put to paper wereimpossible to articulate.

Thesharp tip of his pencil cracked as he pressed it into the paper, and the threewords he wrote turned from his usual neat cursive into a jagged scrawl.

I miss you.

END:

-Marco thinks that ouranniversary is the battle, but I don’t like it there. Besides, having ouranniversary on your birthday? You’d expect double gifts, and we can’t havethat.

Sabo’slips quirked into a bitter smile, his eyes drawn up to the small gift stillwrapped on his desk, bow deflated from his constant touches but nonethelessstill stubbornly holding onto the silver wrapping. He’d never had a chance togive Ace his birthday gift, and was sure that Ace wouldn’t have expected it.Would he have even been given gifts, when he’d been kept on the candle wick? Orwould the gift have been an extra moment of freedom, so painfully perfect in its rarity?

Pullinghis hair away from his face, Sabo gently bit his lip and scanned what he’dalready written, trying to figure out what else to say. His fringe curled infront of his eyes when he took up his pen again, but he barely paid attentionto the soft brush of hair against his scar tissue. Two years of having them hadgotten him used to his limited vision and things in front of his face that hecouldn’t see.

He’d never seen Ace’sflustered thoughts, nor known what each fleeting touch had meant until it had beenfar too late, and couldn’t help but wonder just how blind he’d been back then.

Did I tell you thatMarco finally stopped being chickenshit and used the word ‘boyfriend’? I feellike that counts more as our anniversary than the battle, especially consideringI wasn’t much better about speaking up about “feelings” after you left. Twomonths of not talking over the topic because one third of the topic up and-

It’s pretty stupid ofus, huh?

I mean, you werepretty fucking stupid when you-

Sabocrossed out the last few words with two strokes of thick black ink, his teethgrit in a way that made his head pound.

Regardless, everythingis going fine, now. I’m sure you’d be happy to know that Marco and I havegotten past awkwardly refusing to admit to holding hands and have nowprogressed to awkwardly kissing each other on the cheek (and then refusing toadmit to it, of course. Got to keep consistency). You’d think that as someoneso attention-starved I’d be better at this, but it always feels…not wrong, persay, but, like something is missing because you’re not here.

You’re a dick forthat, Ace.

Anyway, this will bemy last letter for a while. I’m sorry it’s short, but I’m already running late;Koala and I are set to sail with the afternoon tide, for Flevance, and Marco isgoing troll hunting. Whitebeard heard there was trouble with the gnomes in thefar north mountains, so he’s going to check them out and I want to say goodbyebefore we part ways.

As always;

With love, Sabo.

#marcoacesabo #ask meme #tag games #wip meme #wip list #12freddofrogs #ask aussie #bip bop nari drops #I feel like I should have put a limit on what I'd post in the whole 'snippet' section pft #I have NO!!!! self control!!!!#maracebo

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kittae · 6 years

Text

Park’s Paradise of Muggle Merchandise

Genre: Hogwarts!AU, drabble, Ravenclaw!Jungkook

words: 2270

warnings: strong language and very dialogue-heavy, significant roles for Wonwoo (svt) and Jimin, non-reader-insert

A/N: Ravenclaw!Jungkook ideas with @kpopfanfictrash that got slightly out of hand lol. Might turn into a drabble series! Will replace the gif with something else later!

summary: Slytherin muggleborns starting an underground business selling ballpoint pens to purebloods at a galleon a piece (this prompt)

To call the state of the castle antique would be an understatement, if the creaking of the floors, the wood groaning under every calculated step they take, is anything to go by. The hallways look vastly different in the darkness of the night while the ancient building and its residents are sound asleep. One of the two boys sneaking down the stairs stumbles over his own feet when he misses a step, earning an aggravated and subdued hiss from the other.

“I can’t see shit! Why aren’t we using our wands?!” He heatedly whispers in his defense.

“I told you we’re going to attract unwanted attention if we use our wands as flashlights! But keep being this noisy and Filch won’t even need his cat to snitch on us before he’s dragging our asses back to bed and we miss the whole thing.”

“What are flashlights?”

“Shh!”

“I just…I really don’t like this, Jungkook...What if we get caught?” Wonwoo grabs his roommate by his sleeve, hesitantly shuffling behind him until he comes to a stop when Jungkook turns around, looking at him with furrowed brows. “You know we have N.E.W.T. exams coming up...We should head back to the dorms while we still can.”

Clicking his tongue in disapproval, Jungkook releases himself from Wonwoo’s grip. “You’re a bigger wimp than i thought, but fine, go back then.” He shrugs. “You won’t get any if you bail on me now, though.”

Wonwoo visibly battles the dilemma inside his head before letting curiosity win and reluctantly goes back to sauntering behind Jungkook when the latter turns around and goes ahead without him.

“Ravenclaws aren’t exactly known for their guts, Jungkook,” He continues matter-of-factly. “We’re known for making wise decisions and being rational in times of— ow!”

Jungkook ignores the scowl of his companion, who’s rubbing the painful spot on his arm where he punched him. “I swear to Merlin’s left nutsack that if you don’t shut your mouth right now, i’m gonna spell it shut. Got it?”

With one last glare, Wonwoo’s lips are sealed as they continue to make their way deeper and deeper down into the castle, getting occasional disapproving looks of the paintings when their sleep gets disturbed and looking over their shoulders to make sure there wasn’t a certain cat lurking around the corner. While getting points taken from Ravenclaw didn’t affect their N.E.W.T’s, it’s rather embarrassing to bring shame onto their house for being out of bed like a clueless first year.

One more stairway down in the dark and they reach the long, low room underneath the lake. Jungkook knows the way to the dungeons by heart. Wonwoo, not so much.

“Are we almost there?” He asks, uncertain and slightly shivering from the underground chilliness.

Jungkook nods, deeming it safe enough to whisper ‘Lumos!’ now the Slytherin common room is only a few more feet away. The rough stone walls and ceiling light up at once, not a speck of colour to detect in the grim palette of the unconventional dormitories. When he reaches the solid wooden door, he raises his fist to knock in a strange rhythm. The door opens slightly, a dash of bright orange locks peeking from behind the corner and forming a stark contrast with the rest of the setting.

“Password?” A gentle voice asks from behind the wooden obstacle.

“Jimin, it’s me.” Jungkook sighs, rolling his eyes at the unnecessary precautions.

“That’s not the password, Jeon. Try again.”

“Fine.” He groans. “Babbling bumbling band of baboons.”

“Come in!” Jimin beams while pulling the door to the common room open wide. “Honestly that’ll never not be fun— Oh? You brought a friend?”

“A classmate.” Jungkook elaborates while stepping into the noticeably warmer and more comfortable room, the fireplace blazing and making the gloomy dungeons look a lot cozier.

“I’m Wonwoo.” The dark-haired boy timidly introduces himself as he pushes his round rimmed glasses up his nose. “We’re here for the balls joint pens.”

Jimin’s grin widens and his eyes squeeze into crescents in amusement. Jungkook simply pats Wonwoo’s back.

“They’re called ballpoint pens, Wonwoo, and Jimin wouldn’t let us in here if we’d come for anything else than— No wait, scratch that, actually...” He muses, taunting Jimin while the latter’s cheeks get slightly flushed upon the insinuation.

“Yeah, anyway, follow me if you wanna check out the goods— not like that, you damn pervert!” Jimin irritably smacks Jungkook’s shoulder when he snickers.

“He’s a bit of a slut.” He explains to Wonwoo in a whisper, causing Jimin to spin around and toss a well-aimed pillow off the black chesterfield and towards his head.

They follow him further into the room, same rough stones as on the outside but round lamps hanging from the ceiling throwing a greenish light onto them. It’s hard to miss the massive oak table, decked in a green velvet cloth that says “Park’s Paradise of Muggle Merchandise” in silver embroidery. All sorts of different stationery lies neatly splayed out across the surface, from expensive looking calligraphy pens to ordinary pencils. Stars already start to twinkle in Jungkook’s eyes, while Wonwoo just rubs the back of his neck with a puzzled look on his face.

“These are the best quality on the market, boys. Real Bics, one galleon each.”

“One galleon each?!” Wonwoo exclaims in utter disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Hey, i’m actually offering you a pretty solid deal here. They’re at least twice as expensive in muggle money.” Jimin pouts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And they’re French.”

“Don’t worry Jimin,” Jungkook swoops in, a smug smirk plastered on his face, “Wonwoo’s new to this stuff, so i got this.”

Jimin’s pout instantly vanishes to make place for a questioning expression. “Right.”

“So, the Bics! Tell me more!”

“Well, why tell you when i can show you?” Jimin smirks mysteriously as he picks one of the ballpoint pens up from the table to present it to Jungkook. “Wanna take this baby for a spin?”

Jungkook nods enthusiastically, taking the pen from Jimin’s hand and cradling it between his fingers like it was a precious jewel.

“I don’t get it,” Wonwoo shrugs, unimpressed, “They’re just pens? Non-magical at that? Why are you drooling over them?”

Jungkook looks at him as if he’d just grown two heads.

“Uh, i don’t know about you but i’m tired of my hand not being able to keep up with my brain when i have to dunk a quill into an ink pot every two sentences.”

“There’s literally a dozen different Infinite Ink quills on the market, Jungkook.” Wonwoo deadpans, silently cursing himself for falling for Jeon Jungkook’s big talk once again, risking getting caught for worthless muggle pens while he could’ve stayed in his soft, safe and warm bed instead.

“Are you stupid?” Jungkook scoffs, all the while twirling the bic between his fingers, “Have you forgotten we’re not allowed to bring enchanted stationery to our exams? They’d get confiscated in a second.”

“Muggle items aren’t even allowed on school property.” Wonwoo counters, although less confident than he started out in this argument.

“Exactly!” Jimin chimes in cheerfully before giving a curt nod, “Show him, Jungkook.”

The smug seventh year Ravenclaw entwines his fingers, knuckles cracking with the stretch while his lips curl into a lopsided smirk. “With pleasure.”

Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to expect, sceptical about anything Jungkook gets excited about, but also a tad bit curious. Instead of returning to the Ravenclaw dormitories, like he knows he should, he watches his roommate fiddle with an ordinary quill of the sort they use every day, after dismantling one of those so called ballpoint pens. Maybe the exciting part has yet to come.

He holds up his finished product with pride and Wonwoo was convinced that, in strong contrast to his own, it probably sparkled from Jungkook’s point of view.

“I present to you: the untraceable Infinite Ink quill!” He announces. “well, infinite-ish.”

“I offer refills at fifty percent on first purchase!” Jimin excitedly cuts in from behind him.

A few quiet moments pass by when Wonwoo just pinches his nose bridge, screwing his eyes shut as he silently tries to collect his patience while the duo awaits his verdict expectantly. “This is the project you’ve been working on for the past month? An illegal muggle quill?”

Jungkook indignantly furrows his eyebrows. “Can’t a man have a hobby? You have your, uh, weird frog choir, I have my muggle stuff.“ He shrugs. “Same thing but mine’s cooler.”

“I have to admit it’s refreshingly harmless compared to your former experiments.”

“Listen, I never forced my guinea pigs to drink that Blemish Blitzer, alright? They did it all by themselves.”

“For fucks sake, Jungkook, stop referring to people as your guinea pigs!” Wonwoo throws his hands up in exasperation. “They wanted to get rid of their acne, not get zits the size of a snitch!”

“That was months ago, get over it.” Jungkook rolls his eyes as he stubbornly crosses his arms. “They all got treatment from madam Pomfrey and now their skin looks better than ever before, so no one’s even talking about that little accident—”

“Literally everyone is still talking about it.”

“Only the first years and I don’t give a shit about what they—”

“Hey, are you buying or not?” Jimin loudly interrupts the roommate’s quarrel, visibly tired and annoyed. “Cause if you aren’t, get the fuck out of this common room before we get caught and i can kiss my profit goodbye.”

Jungkook dramatically clutches his chest. “Is money all you care about? What about my feelings, Jimin?!”

“Can’t buy my date a drink with your feelings, Jeon.” He quips cheerfully.

“Seriously, is there even anyone you haven’t dated left on this campus?” Jungkook murmurs before getting another pillow thrown in his face. “Where do you keep getting those fucking pillows?!”

“Same place you keep your inside voice.” Jimin hisses, but immediately flips his switch as he turns back to Wonwoo, plastering a captivating smile onto his cute face. “So, do you want me to wrap yours or can i just give it to you like this?”

Jimin’s small hand finds the back of Jungkook’s head in another slap when he hears him snicker again.

“Uh...No, thanks. I think i’m good here.” Wonwoo’s lips press together in an awkward smile, hands held up apologetically. “Not interested.”

“Fine, suit yourself.” Jimin sighs and drops his retail face, gesturing vaguely at the door. “Off you go, then.”

“This is a hole in the market, Wonwoo!” Jungkook adds. “You’ll regret not getting one while they were still cheap during our N.E.W.T’s.”

Wonwoo’s already making his way towards the door as he holds up an insincere thumb for his roommate. “Yeah, sure. whatever. I’m going back to the dorm.”

This is it! The last page of the fifth and final exam he needs to execute seamlessly until the end to have a perfect score on all of them! Wonwoo’s heart beats wildly in his chest, pumped with adrenaline and excitement from the prospect of having a perfect all-kill on his exams! He’s been killing it so far, taking his sweet time to read the questions and think over his answers. He’s known for using every given second on a test, not scrabbling down the first thing that pops into his mind and handing it all in before half of the time was over, like Jungkook does. No, he’s extremely meticulous, priding himself in his perfectionism even when there’s only ten minutes left on the clock.

He smiles to himself, reading the questions. He already knows exactly what he’s going to write! His quill just needs a little more ink—

His face goes pale when his ears register the soft thud of the point of his quill hitting the bottom of the ink pot. Empty.

His hand shoots up, beckoning the supervisor to ask for a new pot. She spots him immediately and heads over to his desk to find out what the problem is but why is she going so damn slow?

“What is it, dear?” She asks sweetly, her brown curls bouncing a little as she tilts her head in curiosity.

“I ran out of ink. Can i get a new ink pot, please?” He asks politely, ignoring the sweat beads forming on his temples as he watches the seconds tick by on the clock, the sound pounding in his ears.

“Oh, of course! Just a second, dear.” She smiles, turning to get one from her own desk at the front of the classroom. He really wants to tell her to hurry the fuck up but he knows he can’t, only adding to the frustration.

Only two minutes have passed before she’s fetched the fresh ink pot and placed it on his desk. Two crucial minutes, making his entire planning and time management utterly useless. There’s no way he’s going to be able to even write fast enough to complete this whole page in the remaining five minutes that are left. Dread fills his entire body as he scrambles to write what he can, knowing he can kiss his perfect all-kill of Outstanding scores on every test goodbye.

From the corner of his eye, he watches his roommate twirl a familiar quill between his fingers as he comfortably leans back in his chair, his ink pot as full as it has been at the start of the test. Jungkook catches his gaze and he smiles a smug half-smirk Wonwoo recognizes as the non-verbal translation of ‘told you so’ as he sends a cheeky wink his way, demonstratively holding up his convenient creation.

Son of a bitch!

#bts #bts scenarios #bts hogwarts #jungkook scenarios #btswriters #ravenclaw jungkook #bts harry potter #bts hp #bts x hp #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts drabble #jungkook drabble #drabble

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peter3sgf · 6 years

Text

an annoying type of romantic

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: about 2.2k

Warnings: None

Summary: You have a crush on someone, and it’s an annoying type of romantic.

A/N: Written for @upsidedownparker ‘s 3K Writing Challenge! I had the dialogue prompt “You have no idea what you do to me.”

"I want to tell him," you said. "No, I'm definitely going to." Instantly your friend M.J.'s demeanor changed. You heard the bed springs squeak as she shifted her weight to lean towards you. "Parker?" You smiled nervously. "Yeah." If you were being truthful, it was about time. M.J. was silent for a while. You knew she wasn't the best person to talk about feelings and stuff with, but she was important to you. Even if she had been a little snarky about you liking the geeky boy. You watched her, unsure. "You don't have to say anything," you said. That broke the tension- an unpleasant balloon popped. M.J. broke out into a grin, and the two of you laughed, not because of anything particularly funny but because of this... shared knowing of each other. "O.K.," she said. And after a moment she wrapped her arms around you gawkily- a hug. It was things like this you both could do outside of school. You returned her embrace and whispered your thanks. Monday was announced with the ring of the schoolbell. Sometimes it was just hard to believe you had to struggle with another grueling week until you were actually present in the halls that smelled too much like lemon cleaning polish. First period dragged by. You managed to not glance at the clock every ten seconds by thinking of the weekend; you couldn't have asked for a more supportive friend. M.J. had been very encouraging, to you, but also about what you were going to do. Read: your confession to Peter Parker. He probably wouldn't expect it. He made things so difficult sometimes with his cluelessness. You had to be direct, while retaining some dignity. You and M.J. had came up with a rough idea of Peter's class schedule over the weekend, which was posted to your math notebook, figuratively and literally weighing you down all day with the thought of what to do. It would be easy to tell him at lunch, M.J. had texted last night, or rather, late into the morning. Usually you would be groggy in the mornings after hours of not sleeping, but the jittery feeling in your stomach fueled you with questionable energy. M.J. never seemed to be tired. But her lack of sleep was a problem for later. I don't want to risk someone overhearing, you had texted back.

The last of first period sped by, and then the next until finally the release of the lunch bell. "As soon as I fell for him, I stopped being a functional human being," you complained to M.J. whilst walking to lunch. "He drives me insane." "Nah, you were always like this," M.J. teased. The two of you sat down at the usual table- one no one remotely popular gravitated to. You were uncomfortably aware of who sat at the same table as the two of you, so you changed the subject. "Did you find a partner for the history project yet?" you asked. M.J. rose her voice to combat against the heavy chatter of the other teens. "Yeah." She nodded, and you sighed. "I wish I could have been your partner!" you said. "But we don't have any classes together." "Did you find a partner yet?" M.J. said. "Oh... No," you admitted. "But I have until Friday to find one." "Peter doesn't have a partner!" another voice interjected quickly. You and M.J. turned your heads in sync to the source. It was Ned (of course?) beside a red-faced Peter Parker. "Ned," he hissed. "You-" Ned said, looking pointedly at his friend, "he- doesn't have a partner." "Well... I don't," Peter said. "y/n, do you want to work together, then?" You swore you could feel the smug gaze of M.J. "That sou-sounds good," you answered shakily. "Cool. Sounds... good." Peter turned away back to Ned. Slowly you moved back to your original position facing M.J. "So he asked you out on a date-during lunch," she whispered with a triumphant smile. "That's n-" You were cut off by the ever ear-piercing bell. Your class following lunch was on the other side of campus, so you assembled your belongings and dashed from the lunch table. "This isn't done!" you called back. It was done. You forgot to pursue the topic after getting home, struggling to complete homework, and collapsing on your bed. You turned onto your side and lazily dealt with your phone's onslaught of notifications. Then you remembered Peter. Peter... Partner? M!! you texted. Your finger lingered over the send icon as you considered what to type. What do I do? Your godsend of a friend's message appeared instantly. Parker again? Yeah... How do you put up with me? I'm glad you acknowledge how hard it is, M.J.'s reply said, and you imagined her wry chuckle. What's going on? Besides you being his partner? That's exactly it. And I don't know what to do. What if I make it weird? You could tell him during your date. NO!! BIG No! The thought of it was unnerving. It would definitely be best to tell him after the project... so you could avoid him, if need be. Just in case. You could bump into him after school. He's usually at the sandwich shop. How do you know that? Just something I observed. Maybe it was just something M.J. observed, but it could be some good information. Thx! It was Tuesday- lunchtime, specifically. You got up to leave to M.J.'s class, falling in line with the hungry animals on their way to lunch. "y/n!" someone said. Am I imagining his voice now? Why am I so- "y/n," Peter's voice said again. You felt a tap on your shoulder.

"Peter! You don't usually come this way," you said. You would know. "I was in the computer lab," he explained quickly. "I just wanted to ask about our project." "Right," you said. "It's a small one, so we can probably do it in a day." It was naive to think he would talk to you for any other reason. "So, where should we meet up?" he asked. "My place or yours?" Fiery blushes formed on your cheeks. "My house is fine." "Okay, do you want to give me your ad-" You noticed M.J. standing outside her classroom, and then Peter noticing her. "Actually! I can just text you. Can I write my-um-where?" Without thinking you held out your palm. Peter smoothly reached to place his hand under yours. It was warm and soft... He placed the marker pen he had fished out of his backpack in his other hand, and you felt the brush of his skin as he gently printed his number. It barely pricked. When he was done with the last digit he gave you a shy smile and hurried away. You looked down at his number. If you wanted you could text him how you felt, right now! He had written his number small and neatly, and you couldn't help but be a little biased in your thinking that it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

You almost didn't comprehend what happened. It was over so quickly. But you held onto the moment for the rest of the day, like a shining distraction.

Once you got home, the two of you arranged to meet at your house on Thursday. The middle weekday passed astonishingly fast... you couldn't stop thinking about Peter coming over, and then suddenly, it was the day. If your parents had seen the way you were cleaning, they might have cried and proclaimed their devotion to the heavens. You ran a comb through your hair for a few minutes as you waited for Peter. Your cell buzzed, and you dropped the comb for it. A message from M.J. : y/n... Don't embarrass yourself. You got this! Or something. A faint noise echoed from the door. Ah. The doorbell, of course. He was here. You unlatched the door to see him. "Hey, y/n," Peter said. You almost couldn't reply. You had watched him too often during school hours, and he was always nervous, and very avoiding of people he didn't know. Here he looked looser and more comfortable with himself, even though he still met your eyes shyly. Was he like this outside of school...? Even his hair was less neat and more everywhere. That was the most attractive- "Nice to have you here," you said with a stiff smile. "My room is over here. I wanted to work in the kitchen, but there's some stuff there..." "No problem," Peter said, following you. He was like a puppy, you realized. Adorable. "I wanted to see your room, anyways." M.J.! you wanted to scream. What is that supposed to mean?! It means he's curious about your room, you imagined M.J. saying. You hesitantly opened your room door. "Oh, y/n..." Peter said, smiling. "Your room is so cute!" "What do you mean by cute?" you laughed nervously. "Thank you, anyways. Sit anywhere." Peter plopped onto the floor, subsequently arranging his legs into criss cross applesauce. "This is good." "Are you sure that's fine? I have chairs. You don't need to sit on the floor..." "Don't worry about me, y/n!" Peter said, as if he were a kid talking to a grown-up. "I'm responsible enough to sit here." You stifled laughter. "Cool. Well, what did you want to do for our title..?" "Something with a pun," Peter said promptly. “Or… a Vine reference!”

Wait, what? The hours blurred into one another. You were typing on your laptop, still sitting on the bed. You tried to keep a consistent train of thought, but you were frequently interrupted by the crush perched a few feet away from you on the floor, marking a sheet of poster paper. Skrit skrit skri- The sound of Peter's pencil ceased, and you sheepishly remembered that you were supposed to be typing, but the hush broke with a soft indent of pillows and exhale. "Okay, you're right. This is a lot better." You turned and Peter was there, bright brown eyes and curly hair. "Wha-? Don't tease me, Parker," you mumbled. "y/n, how am I teasing you?" he said. "How'd you even hear that?" you said, dodging Peter's question. "I have... good ears," Peter said lamely. "Okay, you can sit here then," you said, indicating the spot next to the stack of papers leaning against you. Peter paused, and you heard shuffling. You attempted to focus on your work, but couldn't help but notice that Peter was sitting right next to you. "Peter! The papers!" "Oh-oh, I moved them," Peter said. "Don't worry!" "Why'd you want to sit here, anyways..." This boy was giving you a million heart attacks. He was warm and cute and very close to you. "I need the references," Peter said smartly. "Alright then. Let me know if you need help." The room resumed to the sounds of work. A few heart accelerating times he peeked over your shoulder to see the screen, but you tried to ignore that. You noticed the time. "Oh. It's getting late." Your room seemed to be basked in an uncolourful grey, illuminated by the blue-tinted light from your laptop. "We're almost done!" Peter said. "Yeah!" you said happily. "It's kinda dark, so I'll get the light and we can finish up." "It's okay, I'll get it." Peter got up and flicked the switch. "I'm closer." With the light on, you suddenly realized how close you had been sitting to him. You wanted to be anyone else right now... except you did like being here, and working with him. Basically, it's all a very convoluted mess that you don't know how you want to clean up.

"This is the homestretch," Peter said, and he sat next to you again. It was a nice feeling, something you would like to get used to. Work remained steady. Thirty minutes had elapsed when you had finished. "Oh my gosh, we're done..." you sighed, flopping onto your bed. If you weren't so hungry you would sleep then and there. Flop. A pillow fell onto your face as Peter joined you on the bed. "Mmmmn... What are you trying to do here, Peter?" you asked tiredly, pulling off the pillow. "Sleep, of course!" he said. He closed his eyes and turned away. "Peter, you can sleep at your own place." "But your room is so comfortable and cute, y/n!" "What do you mean by that, again?" you asked. "Well... Your room really reminds me of you, so of course it's cute! Alert, you bolted up. "Peter, what?" "You're cute, y/n," Peter said, slowly rising. "And smart and funny and nice... I'm really not normal around you." You wanted to laugh so badly. "You have no idea what you do to me. You're so weirdly charming all the time! Without trying!" You were letting your emotions run ahead, but you were too confused to care. You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught.

“Those are all accidents!” Peter argued. “Lucky mistakes. I mess things up all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” you said. “You could never.”

“So do you like me?” Peter asked.

In that moment you couldn’t find a way out. You were still and everything was so much more serious than it actually was, as he looked at you and you met his gaze. And then it was over without you only vaguely remembering what you had said.

“You make me such a mess sometimes, Peter,” you said. “I like you so much.”

“And I like you so much, too...” Peter said, with an ear to ear smile, and maybe he wasn’t the most popular or attractive but his sunshine filled grin was easily perfect. He was, at that moment, a million things to you. “y/n...”

“Yeah, Peter?”

He reached down for the papers, and you instinctively moved your hand to get them for him. Instead he took your hand and set it in his again. He looked at the faded phone number marked on your skin. Slowly he smiled and tilted down to softly kiss your wrist under his number. Exactly how many romances has this boy watched? He was annoyingly sort of romantic. "You're such a dork," you decided. "I saved your phone number, though, so there's no getting rid of me." "Why in the world would I do that?" • end •

Tags: @nelapuppy @misslady2426

#kaths3kwc #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #marvel fanfic #tom holland #mcu #marvel #scribbles

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owlaholic68 · 6 years

Text

Fallout December Day 24

Christmas Eve - Fallout 2

Hope you all are enjoying this day if you celebrate Christmas!

“No, Myron, wait until everyone’s ready!” Carla gently chides. They settle in their New Reno hotel room, a pile of more-or-less wrapped gifts in a pile in front of them.

Myron pouts and waits until Carla gives him the okay to open his gift. They had decided to open them youngest first, oldest last. Of course, that had led to a long discussion in the car about whether Marcus, Lenny, or Goris was older, but after some complicated math, they had figured it out.

“Wow, thanks!” Myron says, unfolding a mass of wool. He pulls out a fluffy hat, scarf, and pair of gloves, all in a soft grey color. He immediately puts them on, grinning at the comfort and warmth. “From, Marcus,” he reads from a small card in the gift.

“Okay, I guess I’m next,”’ Carla says, reaching for the small gift with her name on it. But she’s stopped by Lenny, of all people.

“How a-about you w-wait until last, C-Carla?” He suggests with a knowing smile.

“Uh, okay, Len, if everyone else agrees,” Carla says, and everyone else nods in consent. She feels a flicker of anticipation bloom in her chest. “That means that you’re next, Goris.”

The deathclaw gently picks up a large and heavy package. Carla trades glances with Lenny as Goris carefully unwraps it. Thick and heavy fabric is neatly folded. As Goris unfolds it, he starts to see that one side of the fabric is smooth and slightly shiny, and the other is soft.

“Wow,” he grumbles, holding a brand-new cloak.

“It-it’s waterproof on o-one side,” Lenny explains as Goris takes off his old threadbare one and puts on the new one, “and r-real soft on the o-other.”

“Incredible. Did you sew this, Lenny?” He asks, running a claw across the waterproof side. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Marcus goes next, opening two packages that have been tied together. The first thing he pulls out is a large wirebound sketchbook. “From Carla,” he reads.

“Go on, open the other part,” she urges. He pulls out a large souvenir pencil, easily several inches in width.

“Perfect,” he appreciatively rumbles, finding it easy to hold the pencil between his large and clumsy hands. “Thank you, Carla.”

Lenny is next. Carla fidgets the entire time his bony fingers gently pull out the tissue paper from the bag, careful not to rip or tear any of it. He pulls out a pile of leather and metal, confused at first until he unwraps it to reveal a new belt and holster for his pistol. The belt has several pouches and compartments for various things, all perfect sizes for the various healing items that Lenny has shoved haphazardly into his pockets. “From Myron,” Lenny reads.

“Go on, there’s more in the bag,” Myron says. So Lenny pulls out a heavy cloth bag, emblazoned with a red cross and with many outside pockets and small loops for hanging Stimpacks.

“Thanks, i-it’s perfect,” Lenny says, smiling at the thoughtfulness and utility of such a gift.

“You’re last, Carla,” Marcus notes. With all eyes in the room on her, Carla carefully opens the small box with her name on it. The anticipation and excitement makes her heart beat faster.

At first, she doesn’t realize what it is. The first thing she sees is a small .223 bullet casing painted gold. Then she pulls that out to reveal a heavy charm necklace, and she gasps in appreciation, trying to look at all of it at once.

“Everyone contributed something,” Goris says. “Marcus scooped up that bullet casing one day and painted it.”

“But Goris had the idea and did all of the work, really,” Myron says. “Come on, look at the rest of it.”

There’s a tiny wooden vault suit painted bright blue and yellow. “Lenny,” Goris says. A Golden Gate Bridge keychain. “Myron.” A Wright family crest and a silver boxing glove. “Orville Wright and Stuart Little.” Carla’s amazed at how many people they asked to help with this project. I can’t believe how much time and planning this took. A steering wheel, a wrench, and a lightning bolt. “Smitty, Zaius, and Harold.”

“Wow,” Carla gasps. She slips the necklace over her head. It settles comfortably on her neck, the metal cool against her skin. “This- this is amazing. Thank you so much. All of you.” She hugs everyone.

“So should we get to sleep now?” Myron asks. “It’s getting dark.”

Carla grins. “No, we’ve still got one more present under the tree, don’t we?” She drags a brightly wrapped box from behind the tree. “Oh, Myron, it says it’s for you!” She fakes surprise so well that even she’s convinced.

Myron looks confused, but takes the box anyways. “Oh, okay?” There’s a small envelope taped to the top of the box. He opens it and pulls out a note. “Dear Myron, This might get to you a little early, but I have a lot of presents to deliver to good little boys and girls, so you can understand I’m on a tight schedule. On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being very good and 1 being very bad, you are about a 6 this year. You are trying to improve, and that counts for something in my book. So I hope you have a Merry Christmas this year, Myron. Sincerely, Santa Claus.”

As Myron excitedly tears open the box, Marcus gives Carla an appreciative nod. Goris looks curious at this new human tradition, and Lenny scoots closer to Carla on the couch.

“Oh fuck yes, new shoes!” Myron says, ignoring the stern look he gets at his dirty mouth. He pulls out a pair of (only slightly) faded red tennis shoes and holds them up to his feet. “A little big, but I’ll grow into them! Wow, I’ve never gotten anything ever from Santa!”

They spend the rest of the night sharing stories, admiring their new gifts, and drinking hot chocolate. But it’s early to bed for them, for they have a big day tomorrow, a long day filled with boxing matches, celebrations, and social gatherings with the entirety of New Reno. But Christmas Eve was an warm, intimate gathering just for them.

#falloutxmas17 #fallout #fallout 2 #fo2 #holiday prompts #christmas eve #chosen one carla #lenny #myron #marcus #goris #i can't believe this is almost done #it was really fun to do

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itwasntahug · 7 years

Text

You Dug This Grave Yourself, Sweetie

Peter Parker x Stark!Reader Word Count: 2230 Summary: The basic plot of Tony Stark’s daughter gettin’ together with Spider-Man behind his back, that I just can’t get enough of… Warning: Ya girl didn't edit this (Please forgive me, I promise I'll edit the next one)

“You know you’re a deadman, right?” Bucky smirked knowingly, plopping onto the couch beside Peter, a bowl of cereal in his hand.

Not entirely sure what was happening, Peter slumped into the couch, cautiously; “A-and why’s that?” He asked, trying, and not succeeding, to keep his cool. Unknowingly, his brows furrowed, and his eyes puppy-dogged.

Peter had been watching some TV in the Tower, waiting for you to return home from drama club. But he was telling everyone he was hanging around until Tony needed him.

“Well,” Bucky sighed, taking a spoonful of his snack, “Natasha saw you and Lil’ Miss Stark getting cozy on the couch the other day,” he explained cockily, “You guys… You know,” he waved his hand as he gathered his thoughts, “Together?”

Immediately, Peter shook his head, “What?” He laughed awkwardly, “N-no! Of course not; Mr. Stark gave me direct orders not to do that—“

The door swung open and Nat walked in before Peter could finish his ramble. She eyed the TV before eyeing the pair on the couch; “Ren and Stimpy, guys? Really?”

Her gaze was met with two blank stares, and she unknowingly furrowed her brows. “What?” She asked, cocking her head.

“Nothing,” Peter said quickly, “We weren’t talking about anything.”

Bucky smirked, raising his eyebrows. “Well I wouldn’t say it was nothing,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I was just asking Pete if he had anything goin’ on with Y/N. He says nothing’s happening,” he grinned, knowingly.

Natasha rolled her eyes, “And where’d you hear that from?” She asked, almost annoyed. Peter watched the interaction completely nervous, having no idea the word would get out about him and Y/N so quickly. He wasn’t particularly skilled when it came to lying, and hadn’t a clue where to go from here.

Bucky shrugged, taking another bite, “Steve told me.”

Nat sighed, slouching into the couch, “You know,” she began, “for a guy with so much integrity, you’d think he’d be able to keep his mouth shut.”

Peter slinked into his seat as Natasha turned her attention on him. “So,” she continued, getting visibly happier, “It’s true then?”

Peter shook his head, gently, his eyes wide like a deer’s.

Natasha chuckled, “You’re kidding,” she shook her head smiling, “You’ve sweat out like two pounds since I’ve entered the room.”

As soon as Peter opened his mouth to refute her, the door swung open again, and you walked in, you backpack in hand. Throwing it onto the ground beside the door, you made your way to the three in the living room.

“Ren and Stimpy?” You asked, cocking your head to the side, “Tough week?” You asked sympathetically, looking at Bucky.

Bucky shook his head, “Not me,” he shook his head, smiling, “Your little boyfriend’s choice,” he said, gesturing to Peter with his spoon.

Your eyes widened immediately, making Bucky smirk, and Natasha grin. “What?” You asked, “How did you know?” You eyes shot to Peter, who looked even more nervous than he did when he first asked you out. “Peter,” you all but growled.

His hands shot up in surrender, “It wasn’t me!” He exclaimed quickly, “I didn’t tell anyone!”

“Then who told!” You cried, flopping onto the couch.

Natasha smirked before shrugging her shoulders, “I noticed you two getting all cuddly on the couch the other night,” she explained nonchalantly, “But I only told Bruce.”

“And Bruce told Steve,” Bucky continued for Natasha, “And Steve told me, and now I told you. It all came full circle,” he grinned annoyingly.

You sighed and crossed your arms, “So my dad doesn’t know?” You asked, hopefully.

Natasha shrugged, grabbing for the remote, “If he doesn’t know by now, he will soon,” she said, “He’s a pretty smart guy. And apparently the team has some pretty big mouths.”

Peter finally spoke up, “But neither of you will tell him?” He asked, earning a chuckle from Bucky.

“We’ll see what happens,” he grinned, “The place has been pretty quiet recently, we need something to keep us entertained.”

Natasha threw a pillow from the chair at him, “They’re just kids, let them live,” she chastised, before turning her attention back to you. “If you don’t want Tony to know, then I won’t tell him. And neither will Bucky.”

***

About a week had gone by since the incident in the living room. However, despite the knowing looks and off handed comments made by the gang that you deemed incredibly obvious, your father was still in the dark about you and Peter.

The first few days you two kept your distance: you kept yourself busy with school, projects, and drama club, while Peter kept busy thinking of new ways to keep busy. He wasn’t very good at it.

After dinner one evening, while you were running lines over for a play you still had weeks to prepare for, a knock came to your window.

Sighing, you stood; only one person would ever knock on your window instead of your door.

Swinging back your curtain, and raising your eyebrows, you flung the window open, sending a beep throughout your room. “It’d be a lot more inconspicuous if you used the door, Pete,” you sighed quietly, ushering him into your bedroom.

“I know, I know,” he breathed heavily as he climbed inside. He was full Spider-Man, suit and all. Taking off his mask, he grinned sideways, “But I’ve been helping old women cross the street, and scouting for civilians in need of help for like ninety minutes, and got bored.”

You sat back down onto your bed, but before you could speak, your father did.

“I heard the beep,” he said through the intercom, “Are you okay, Y/N?” You ears perked up, and you quickly replied, hitting the button beside your bed.

“Fine, dad,” you said hurriedly, “I just opened the window, I was kind of hot,” you answered, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as Peter joined you, sitting on the corner of your bed.

There was a pause before his reply came. “… Why didn’t you turn the air-con up?” He asked, cautiously.

You rolled your eyes as Peter looked at you, blinking nervously. “I don’t know, Dad, I just wanted the window open. Is that okay? It’s just a window.”

You head him sigh, “Sure,” he replied shortly, “Shut it before you go to sleep though, you know how I worry.”

Grinning gently, you replied, “Of course, dad.”

“Goodnight, Sweetie.”

“‘Night, Dad.”

Peter looked at you, his face still giving away just how worried he was. “That was close,” he stated, his breathing still heavy.

You rolled your eyes, “Barely,” you replied, “He was just saying goodnight,” you said, unable to keep back your grin, “You gotta calm down, Pete.” Leaning on your knees, you pressed a gentle kiss onto his lips, smiling as you did.

He was hesitant to return it, but kissed your forehead instead; “‘You know how I worry,’” he said, doing his best Tony Stark impression, “Y/N, he’s going to kill me!” He whisper-yelled, his eyes growing wide.

You shook your head and furrowed your brows, “He would never,” you refuted him, sitting back against your headboard, “And if you were so worried, why did you come over?” You asked him, knowingly, raising your eyebrows.

“Because I missed you!” He exclaimed, throwing up his arms, “We’ve barely seen each other all week, and every time we are together, Bucky and Steve are around and they never stopped teasing me! And more teasing than usual, too! This sucks.”

Raising your eyebrows, you replied, “Would you rather tell my father?” You asked, “Well would you?”

Peter sighed, throwing his mask on your bed side table, and moving up to sit beside you. “I just miss you,” he groaned, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Immediately, you slumped against him. “How angry do you think Mr. Stark would be if he figured out I stayed the night?” He asked petulantly, as he rested his cheek on the top of your head.

You grinned and shook your head, “He would go full momma-bear,” you answered with a sigh, looking up at him. Grabbing his hand that was resting on your shoulder, you began fiddling with his fingers, “When should we tell him?”

Peter sighed, “I don’t know…” He replied, “I think I should bulk up, first—“

Before Peter could finish his thought, the door swung open, and your father rushed in, his hand and forearm armed in his suit, and directed at the two of you.

Your eyes widened in surprise, and Peter was suddenly off of the bed and back by the window.

“I knew it!” Your dad yelled, angrily, “I knew I heard voices— You would never just ‘open the window,’ you hate bugs!”

You jumped to your feet, as Peter began attempting to cover his ass. “It’s not what it looks like Mr. Stark,” he began hurriedly, his cheeks a bright red, “I was just… We were just… Doing… Chemistry homework,” he finished poorly.

You rolled your eyes, but your dad hopped in before you could. “Is that right, Spidey,” he asked, terrifyingly calm, “Because that’s exactly what I would have guessed from the complete lack of textbooks and notebooks and pencils,” he yelled again, gaining the attention of Natasha and Steve who decided to join him at the door of your bedroom.

“They’re just kids, Stark,” Nat said, trying to push Tony’s armed hand down that was aimed directly at Peter. “They weren’t doing anything; it’s not even past her curfew,” she reasoned gently.

“Oh,” your father snarled in reply, as you and Peter shared a panicked look, “Are you the parent of either one of these children, Natasha? Because I don’t recall you helping raise either one of them—“

“Hey,” Steve butted in, “She was just making a point.”

Without saying another word, your father, keeping his aim on Peter, closed the door behind him, leaving both Steve and Natasha out of your room.

“How long?” He asked, looking at Peter.

You sighed, walking up to your father, “Dad,” you sighed, “Stop that,” you said as you took of his suit. “You’re scaring him.”

Tony looked at you, incredulously, “That’s the point,” he explained, nearly out of patience.

“Stop it,” you spat. “It’s only been a few months.”

“A few months?!” Your dad exclaimed, “A few months?!”

You shrugged your shoulders, “We were afraid to tell you!” You replied at the same volume as your father, “Because of this reason exactly!” You reasoned, gesturing to his entire person. “You’re freaking out, dad!”

Immediately, he calmed down, which somehow frightened you even more than when he was full momma-bear. “I’m cool,” he replied bitterly, “I’m cool. Just have a few questions, Parker,” he said through his teeth. “What intentions do you—“

“Dad!” You exclaimed, exasperated.

He sighed, “Fine, fine,” he said, putting up his hands in surrender. “I’m reasonable,” he said, mostly to himself, “I am an adult. I can handle my emotions,” he sighed, closing his eyes, as you shared another moment of panic with Peter.

“Listen,” Tony continued, “This is definitely… a surprise,” he shrugged, “He’s not the worst,” he said gesturing vaguely to Peter, while looking at you.

“Thank you Mr. Stark,” Peter replied hurriedly.

“I wasn’t done,” Tony cut him off, before calming back down. “I know you can handle yourself, Y/N,” he said, turning his attention to you. “And I know you can make your own decisions. But if he ever does anything wrong, I want you to tell me. And if I ever see him do anything wrong, don’t think I won’t bring it up to the both of you, understood?”

You nodded your head, “Yes, dad,” you replied, simultaneous with Peter’s, “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

Tony nodded his head in understanding, “Now with that being said,” he continued, “I’ll bring your attention back to the contract you signed when you were nine years old,” he said, “The itemized list of 32 ‘When I get a Boyfriend’ Rules.”

You rolled your eyes, groaning as you flopped down on your bed.

“What?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders, “Yeah, it was seven years ago, but if you recall, number 32 reads, ‘Even though this is nine year old Y/N signing this contract, it applies to Y/N’s of all ages. You dug this grave yourself, Sweetie,” your father said sassily.

You sighed, raising your eyebrows, which was apparently all that Tony needed.

He raised both of his hands in surrender; “Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll make some revisions. But I’ll tell you what’s not leaving that contract, Spidey,” he said turning his attention back to the very nervous Peter Parker who was still standing at your window. “No sneaking in through windows, no closed bedroom doors, and no bedroom visits at any time after dinner. All of which are being broken right now,” your dad continued, borderline threateningly.

Shooting your father the finger guns, Peter grinned nervously, “Of course Mr. Stark, I’ll be going then… Uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N,” he blushed, “And I’ll text you when I get home… Um, goodnight Mr. Stark… G’night, Y/N,” he smiled, as he grabbed his mask and head back out of your window. “And may I just add,” he said, before closing the window, “This went far better than expected—“

“You may not,” Tony replied, “Get out of here, Parker, before I have you forcefully removed.”

“Got it,” Peter said quickly, shutting the window, and waving goodbye to you before really leaving.

Your dad sighed, as he sat on the corner of your bed, and you climbed under the covers. “Really,” Tony sighed, “That’s the guy you want?”

#spiderman imagine #peter Parker imagine #tom holland imagine #avengers imagine #peter x Reader #Spider-Man x Reader #peter/Reader #Spider-Man/Reader #stark! Reader x Spider-Man #stark! Reader x peter Parker #stark!reader #masterlist

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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When Roses Bloom (Trixya) Chapter One - Bramble

I have had this idea brewing in a word document for a little while now and am finally confident enough to post it. This is the project of mine that has the longest chapters. If you like lots of fuck ups Trixya, side established Pearlet, oblivious slow-burn Witney, and mamma bear Peppermint this fic might be for you. Enjoy!

When Katya finds out one of her roommates is leaving the apartment she is upset. Not because she likes the girl, far from it, the loopy bitch is a complete nut job and that is coming from Katya. No, she is upset because she barely gave any notice of her departure, nowhere near enough time to find a new roommate.

It isn’t even the fact she is leaving that upsets Katya, it’s the fact they were only informed three days before the moving day, which meant the girl must have been looking for a new place for some time prior. Katya would like to say she is a good roommate but the truth was she didn’t make much of an effort, still she isn’t bad enough to drive someone away without so much of a word beforehand. She knows she could have tried harder, gotten to know the girl, her background, her story. Actually, ask how her day was when she got in from her course, what she was studying. Asked personally what she wanted from the shop instead of demanding her to leave her shopping list attached to the fridge, know her well enough to be able to surprise her with her favourite snack. Done all the things she does for Ginger with no questions asked. Maybe Katya should’ve done all those things, but that would’ve meant getting attached the girl and what was the point now? The girl is leaving?

However bad of a roommate Katya might have been to Vanessa, she believes it was common courtesy to give more than three days notice to moving out. Katya thinks it is a demonstration of respect to your roommates, people who need the rent, to give them at least a week minimum. And Katya wasn’t given that.

Katya isn’t upset, she is fuming.

Katya can only hope that next time is better. Sure, Vanessa always paid her rent on time and kept her nose out of Katya’s business, but she hadn’t made much of an effort either and communication is a two-way street. She has promised Ginger that no matter how little Katya gets on with the inevitable new roommate that she will at least try.

“Hey, Katya.” She is still packing up the last of Vanessa’s stuff when she hears her best friends voice coming from the hallway of the apartment. A couple of seconds later, Ginger comes into their former roommate’s room holding an open cardboard box in her arms.

“What are we going to do, Bob Hoskins?” Katya asks with hopeless eyes, taping up the box she has just finished packing. She carefully scrawls ‘books’ on it with a sharpie and straightens her back. She stands up and walks over to the last pile of her ex-roommate's crap.

“Start looking for a new roomie first thing tomorrow morning,” the short women states adjusting the hold of the box in her arms as Katya gently places the stuff into it. The blonde tapes up the book before struggling to write 'miscellaneous’ onto it. “Now lets go, loser.”

Katya lets out a heavy sigh as she bends down to pick up the box on the floor. She follows Ginger out the door and complains all the way down the stairs about how their former roommate chose a day the lift for the apartment block is out-of-order to move and how her arms hurt from carrying boxes down the stairs all day, boxes that aren’t even hers. But before she knows it they are carrying the final two boxes down to the truck. Katya lets out a string of curse words as her toes catch on the edge of the rug in the main area, she could be curled up on the catch, watching TV or just reading a book, trying to at least enjoy her day off but no. Ginger offered to help with packing and dragged Kaya to do the same. And Katya does not understand her logic, at all, because as far as she is aware Ginger can’t stand Vaness the most out of the two of them.

Her best friend doesn’t make sense but Katya has no other option than to be ok with it.

After loading up the truck with the last two boxes the pair bump into Courtney who is laughing her head off, standing next to a flabbergasted Willam. Scanning the street in the general direction they are both looking, Katya lets out a loud roar of a laugh when she notices how her now ex-roommate has Jason pinned against one side of the truck.

“She is eating their face!” Willam exclaims which only makes Courtney and Katya laugh even harder.

Ginger is just behind them all shaking her head as Jason is trying really hard to pull away. Jason takes a look at the four watching the interaction, and gently takes Vanessa’s arms to unwrap them from their neck. The kiss ends there, and Jason feels like there is saliva all over their mouth. They gasp for air as they send an awkward smile to the girl in front of them, who is still staring at them with big dreamy eyes.

Satisfied with the kiss, Vanessa winks at Jason before waving to the other four. She opens the door of the passenger seat and climbs in, and like that she is gone.

“C'mon Jason, let’s go wash out your mouth with soap before Matt can taste Vanessa on your tongue.” Willam jokes as he tugs on their arm. The look on Jason’s face resembles something to a rabbit caught in the headlights, which only makes Katya giggle.

“Please don’t tell hi-” Jason begins to plea before Willam cuts them off.

“None of us have a death wish, don’t worry your pretty little head.” And with that the group makes their way back to their respective apartments but with Courtney opting to join the other two girls instead of going back with Willam and Jason.

“Should we, like make an ad or something?” Katya asks when they are back in the apartment.

“No don’t make an ad, you’ll attract all the murderers.” Courtney chimes in. “Make a list.”

“Yes! Let’s make a list,” Katya exclaims. “What about?” She asks with a chuckle.

“About what we are looking for in our new roommate,” Ginger says with a grin on her lips turning around to find a pencil and notebook in her own bedroom. She returns a few moments later and gives them to Courtney so she can write for them.

“Can she be, like, taller than us?” Katya asks with hopeful blue eyes. “I’ve always been the tallest roommate and I think I deserve a break from climbing to get to the top shelf,” she explains after receiving a confused look from her best friend.

Ginger laughs but nods and Courtney wastes no time in scribbling down point one. “Okay, what else?” The Aussie asks looking at the other two.

“She must be a girl,” Katya suddenly says after a couple of minutes in silence. She has wide eyes and parted lips as she looks at Ginger expectantly. “I have never lived with a boy, never have, never will.”

“Hey! Courtney protests after writing down 'must be girl’ in the notebook. "I live with Willam and it isn’t that bad at all.”

“But that is Willam, that’s different.”

“Anyway,” Ginger speaks up. “How about must be clean and responsible?” Katya nods and Courtney jots it down.

“Quiet,” Katya adds.

“Funny,” Ginger fires after a beat. “Actually, scratch that, I’m the funny one here.”

“Excuse me?” Katya jabs at her playfully, not really taking any offence.

“Well, ladies, I guess that’s all.” Courtney smiles, ripping out the page and giving the paper to Katya. “Think you can find someone with all of that?” She asks curiously.

“I guess we’ll find out when we start living with her,” Katya reasons after revising the list.

“I’m going to go get ready and check on the other two, I’ll see you later,” shortly after Courtney was leaving the apartment.

“Don’t suppose you fancy tagging along to Chuck’s with us?”

“No,” Katya quickly responds shaking her head.

“Come on, Kat, it’s been so long since you hung out with all of us outside the apartment block,” Ginger pleads. “It’s not the same without you there.”

“Why would I want to hang out somewhere, on my day off, where I work?” Katya questions with an arched brow.

“Because we’re your friends and it’s a different experience when you’re the customer, plus no one else besides me know you work there so that excuse won’t fly with them.” Ginger crosses her arms over her chest. “Unless you want to tell them what you actually do.”

Chuck's is a local bar a few blocks away from the apartment block and every Friday night it holds a karaoke night. Katya isn’t proud of her job she does at Chucks but it pays good money, nice company, and gives her self-esteem. She keeps it from as many people as she can, including her friends, but had to have someone to confide in so she chose the closest person to her, Ginger. Outside the pairs knowledge, the group discovered Chuck’s through Courtney, who had found it last year when she planned on dragging Willam along to karaoke to forget a break up. The two ended up loving it there and so went back the next week, and the next, and the next until they eventually persuaded the rest of the gang to go along with them. Katya used to go every fortnight but slowly stopped going until she completely stopped a few months ago. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to hang out with her friends, quite opposite actually, she just never fairs too well in social environments that she isn’t performing in. That being said, the fact she works there definitely doesn’t add anything to reasons why Katya should go to Chuck’s, it is just a disaster waiting to happen.

“Alright,” Ginger clasps her hands together before pulling Katya into a tight hug. “But just this one time.” Ginger nods with a smirk on her face.

“You’ll enjoy it, I promise it.”

•

Katya is still in the bathroom when she hears three knocks on the front door. She curses under her breath for her friends actually being punctual for once and opens the bathroom door with just a towel wrapped around her body, but then she sees Ginger already making her way to the door so she runs to her own bedroom quickly before she can open it.

The clock on her nightstand reads eight o'clock sharp. She quickly dresses, pulling on a pair of black tights, throwing on a red t-shirt dress that reads 'Bonjour’ in white across the front of it and partners it with black thigh high boots. She smudges some black eyeshadow on her eyelids, coats her lashes with mascara and matches her outfit with a classic red lip.

“Look who decided to join us,” Jason says from the kitchen door when they spot her, a red apple in one hand. “Are you ready, Katya?”

“Yes,” she answers running a hand through her damp hair and watches as they take a bite of their apple. “Where’s the girls?” Katya ask looking around the living room, where there is no sign of her friends.

“Getting shoes from Ginger’s room,” Jason answers slightly muffled due to the mouthful of fruit they have. Katya rolls her eyes when they grin at her cheekily.

She walks to the bathroom and starts blow-drying her hair while she waits for the other two girls to come out of Ginger’s room. After ten minutes her hair is fully dry and she joins the rest of the group. After a couple more minutes, they are all on their way to Chuck’s

Chuck’s is a nice place with a good vibe, dim lights, a reasonable stage, a great live band and the performers tend to be fantastic. It had really stepped up its game since it came under new management.

Katya follows Ginger to the group’s regular semi-circle booth, facing the stage. There aren’t many people around considering it’s early. Ginger scoffs at the performer currently butchering a Mariah Carey song while looking around trying to find any familiar faces. Her blue eyes light up when she sees a tall skinny figure at the side of the stage, seemly being the only one enjoying the performance going on.

“Max!” Ginger yells over the music, waving her hands to catch the guy’s attention. Katya freezes besides her best friend as she calls over the stage hand, who will most definitely recognise her. Katya follows where Ginger is looking at with her eyes and soon sees a familiar grey-haired guy making his way over to them.

“Hi, guys,” the tall guy greets them smiling at each one of Katya’s friends before he lets his eyes linger a little bit on Katya’s face. “Katya, it’s so good to see you here!”

“You two know each other?” Willam questions with an arched brow.

“Yoga,” Katya blurts out. “He goes to my yoga class.” Katya looks at Max out of the corner of her eyes, silently begging him to go with the pre-planned bullshit.

“You go to yoga?” Willam asks clearly not buying it.

“Yeah, have been for a few weeks now.” Max shrugs off the uncertainty as he straightens his back before looking at Ginger. “So, you finally managed to make her cave and come then?”

“Turns out it wasn’t too difficult.”

Katya can feel the panic rising in her throat so she politely excuses herself and strolls towards the bar. When she gets there, she spots Shea talking with a new blonde. Katya knows she is new because this is the first time she has ever seen her in Chuck’s. The blonde is facing Katya’s direction which allows her to study her face. Her hair is a honey blonde, whereas Katya’s is more on the platinum side of the scale, and is pulled up onto the top of her head in to a large messy bun. Her makeup isn’t the subtlest but then again, she is working in a dimly lit bar, not many people are going to comment on her face. Her eyeliner is thick with wing flicking upwards at the end, her lips look ever so slightly overdrawn and are neon pink from what Katya can tell. The girl perks up when she spots Katya at the end of the bar and excuses herself from the conversation. Shea turns to see where she was heading and smiles when she spots Katya.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The blonde asks as she stares at Katya. If Katya thought she was beautiful from the small distance between them before, then she definitely thought she was beautiful with just the width of the bar counter between them.

“I’ll get this one Trix, she gets a special order you’ll learn soon enough." Shea shouts over to the blonde who glances over her shoulder and smiles.

The girl leans on the bar using her elbows as her support. From the angle and height Katya is sitting at on the barstool, and the new angle the girl is at, Katya has a perfect view of the girl’s cleavage. Katya fights the urge to peak when Shea slides a small glass over to her.

"Poured a little something special in it for you tonight, just don’t tell Pepp." Shea gave a weak smile as she pulls over the only stool they kept behind the bar that Katya normally sits on during quieter nights between sets. "How’d they convince you to come?”

Katya looks at the new girl as she took a sip who was watching and listening to Katya and Shea's interaction attentively. “Ginger backed me into a corner verbally, her speciality. Who’s the new girl?”

Katya feels bad immediately because she didn’t ask the girl directly herself. That was the thing with Katya when she knows someone she is fine, when she is performing she is fine, but when faced with new people she flakes.

“Katya, this is Trixie," Shea motions at the blonde behind the bar. "This is her first night.”

Katya nods drinking more of her drink. “And Trix, this is Katya who is at the intersection of glamour and comedy. You can find her right on the corner, selling her ass.”

Katya chuckles lightly. “Stop giving away all my secrets to newbies, Brenda.” Katya looks at Trixie before speaking. “What she means is stick around long enough and you’ll see me half-naked in front of a room of strangers.”

Both Shea and Katya barks out laughter at Trixie, who has parted lips and wide eyes, clearly surprised. “Katya here, is the dancer I was telling you about.” Trixie looks at Katya who smiles back at her.

“You think you could tell Dan, to put on a batch of his famous fries?” Katya asks Shea who pushes herself off of the stool and goes through the small kitchen joined onto the bar leaving Katya and Trixie alone.

“So, what got you into your dancing?” Trixie asks, she seems sincere with her tone.

“Please don’t call it dancing, it makes it seem proper and it isn’t. But I needed money and Pepp knew me and when the spot opened up she got me it. I’m not proud of it but it pays the rent.” Katya replies.

“I think, while it may not be the most appropriate thing in the world, it is still an art form.” Trixie smiles as she pushes herself to stand up straight. “I, for one, can’t wait to see you in action.”

Katya almost chokes on her drink and almost spits it back at Trixie. “Besides, I’m not a dancer, I just move my body in a compelling way…compelling them to leave.”

“Girl don’t act brand new, you’re the reason this place has seen a boom in customers." Shea joins the conversation again, this time also being joined by Peppermint. "Dan said they’ll be right up and says to say hey.”

Katya nods as she turns to look at Peppermint who had by now walked around to her side of the bar. “Hey Pepp.”

“Hi, Kat, I’ve been told Ginger managed to convince you to come to the bar on your only day off.” She stops to laugh. “You really can’t say no to anyone can you?” Katya shrugs as she slides the glass back to Shea who catches it before it stops. “And you’ve met Trixie as well.”

“We’ve talking about her dan-”

“Not dancing.” Katya cuts her off before she can finish the word.

“We’ve been talking about her performances” Trixie says almost more as a question than a statement.

“Anyway. Pepp you don’t happen to know anyone who needs a place to live do you?” Katya inquires.

“I might know someone, why, Vanessa leave or something?” Peppermint responds as she takes a seat next to Katya on a barstool. Katya nods looking to the side at her.

“Are they female, clean, responsible, quiet and possibly funny but not too funny so Ginger won’t feel threatened?” Katya asks as she rattles off the list they made at the apartment earlier.

“I’d say so, what do you say Trix, are you all of those things.” Katya whips her head back to look at Trixie who resembles a doe who’s just been startled and is looking to flee.

“Um, I guess?”

Katya looks back at her table and then back at Trixie. “If you can take a break you can meet the gang and I guess we’ll see what happens from there.”

Trixie likes to think of herself as a calm and collected person. That being said, she was a nervous wreck. She could fake it all she wanted but it didn’t take very much to reduce her to an epitome of anxiety. After everything she had gone through with her step-father she had expected life to be easier, to have a thicker skin and be more confident, but that sadly wasn’t the case. It was Peppermint who met her the first time she stepped into Chuck’s.

Trixie had been cycling through the city when a car had driven through a puddle at an obnoxious speed right by her, soaking her from head to toe in the process. She was cold and beginning to shivering not used to just how cold it was yet. She had maybe wheeled her bike down a block or two before she came across a flyer advertising a job opening at a local bar. She didn’t need much persuading after she read that she could start as soon as possible, after all, she needed a job until she found her big break in the music industry. After wheeling her way back to her shared apartment with two strangers she phoned in about an interview.

Trixie remembers her first experience with Chuck’s. It was a Thursday night, fairly early as far as bar standards go, some comedy act was on the stage. It smelt like old cigarettes and whiskey, was poorly lit, but it seemed cosy. It seemed like a place Trixie could see herself working at. Luckily, Chuck, the manager liked Trixie, something about her enthusiasm did the trick. She was leaving the office when she accidently bumped into a slightly smaller, gorgeous black woman. Pulling back Trixie apologised profusely as the women just beamed a smile at her. “It’s ok, baby.” She had said ending Trixie’s apologises. She had given Trixie the once over before speaking again. The rest of the night Trixie had stayed tucked in by Peppermint’s side, sitting on a stool stage-side where she met Max and watched Peppermint assassinate the stage. Trixie had never intended to stay past her interview but then she found Peppermint and was enthralled by her stage presence, it was that moment she decided even if she didn’t get the job she’d still spend her time here. It would get her out of the house and away from her shitty roommates.

Luckily, Trixie did get the job and she would get paid to serve customers, be surrounded by good company and watch amazing talent. But with the money came higher expectations form her roommates, who had said as Trixie left tonight that part of her pay check will have to go towards rent now, and by part they will probably take it all. Peppermint introduced her to Shea when she arrived to Chuck’s. The three have been talking since, until more customers started to come in.

Now Trixie was walking just behind Katya nodding her head to everything she was saying not really paying any mind to the words she was actually speaking. Occasionally she peaks over at Peppermint who was sticking two thumbs at her. Relax, Trixie thinks to herself, they’ll think you’re weird if you don’t. In and out, slow and even, and Trixie will be fine. Except she isn’t. She is in her head too much and she is bound to stumble on her wording and make a fool of herself just like she did in high school for all those years, and in college.

Katya stops abruptly and Trixie wonders if something is wrong. Maybe she has changed her mind and doesn’t want Trixie potentially living with her. After all, they had just met. “Is something wrong?” Trixie inwardly cringes at how frail her voice sounds.

Katya turns on her heels to face Trixie with a blank expression on her face, completely unreadable. Trixie twirls the hem of her apron between her two hands as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. Nervous habits she’s picked up throughout the years. “No one besides Ginger knows I work here, and I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

“Why don’t-” Trixie’s sentence drifts off when she sees Katya’s expression. “Right, right, not proud. Got it!”

The two start walking again until they get back to the semi-circular booth the rest of the group is sitting at. Max has by now disappeared and the group are fully engrossed in the performer on stage. Trixie knew them to be a singer that goes by the name Adore most of the time. The group seems to notice Katya returning and taking her seat before they notice Trixie standing awkwardly until Katya pulls Trixie down to sit half on the chair, half off it. But Trixie doesn’t complain no matter how uncomfortable she is because Katya is making an effort and that’s more than most people do.

“Guys, meet Trixie.” Katya snaps her fingers in front of a small ginger women’s face before motioning to Trixie. The women eyes Trixie up suspiciously and it’s enough to make Trixie’s skin crawl.

“I thought you fell down the toilet for moment there,” she says with a southern drawl to her voice to Katya before turning her gaze back to Trixie. “I’m Ginger and I apologise for anything this wacko has done.”

Trixie plasters a small smile on her face and she can only hope it isn’t coming across as too forced. “She’s been a delight.”

“That’s a first,” Ginger laughs.

“Ginger how soon is too soon to start living with someone,” Katya asks whilst playing with a napkin that was on the table in front of her. The group is quiet as they all share a similar sense of confusion.

“What are you planning?” Trixie shifts in her seat trying to remain unfazed, but Ginger’s tone has the slightest slither of something uncertain that threw Trixie off.

“Because I think Trixie could be our new roommate.”

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