#wanna annotate them with my own handwriting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dear-evanrosier · 3 years

Note

Would you maybe do a favorite nightmare part 2…like continue it? Cause I freakin LOVED IT!!! I wanna know what Sirius does, I bet he would get Reggie outta that house faster than you could say expelliarmus, and also, James. What would he do, would he be like wtf lil Reggie black has a crush on me what do I do??? Or be like omg YAYYYYYY LIL REGGIE BLACK HAS A CRUSH ON ME! And then also what would Reggie do when he finds out the others know??? See, so many questions…so maybe a part 2…or 3….or more lol! But yeah, will there be more to it? (Hoping yes)

So I wasn't expecting anyone to ask for more, but i gladly wrote it

MASTERLIST

TW: mentions of child abuse

They were quiet as they walked up to the dorm, but the moment Sirius flopped onto his shared bed with Remus, the silence ended.

“That’s… a lot of information to get at once.” Peter started with, and then was shot a glare from Sirius.

“Hey, don’t attack me. I’m just saying.” Peter put his hands up in defense, flopping onto his bed. Sirius sighed and brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his temples.

“Yeah, sorry Wormy. It’s just a lot to process. ‘m not trying to take it out on you.”

“‘s okay.”

“So,” Remus said, sitting next to Sirius and carding his fingers through the black hair, “start with one thing at a time. What part first?”

“That boy. He said if I knew half of what Regulus did, I wouldn’t call him a coward. When did I call him a coward?”

“Last week,” Remus answered, at the same time Peter said “Yesterday,” and James “This morning.”

Sirius sighed and moved his hand from his face, dropping it at his side. “Yeah, I do say it a lot. He deserves it.”

“Does he?”

The other three turned to face James, who looked embarrassed for the first time ever.

“What do you mean, ‘does he’?! Of course, he does, James!” Sirius exclaimed, and James shrugged.

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t have a brave bone in his body, that’s why! Why are you sticking up for him?”

“Because no one else does. And you haven’t actually had a proper conversation with him that wasn’t you shouting and hexing each other in two years. How would you know anything that has happened in that time?”

“I know he got the mark! Didn’t you notice how that boy avoided his left arm? Why else would he?!”

“Didn’t you notice how you left him?”

Sirius didn’t have a response, snapping his mouth shut and looking shocked.

“James! That’s not-”

“No, he’s right.” Sirius cut across Remus with a sigh, sitting up. “But I thought he’d be okay there. It’s not like he was really affected by what they did. He’d get up and walk away. He acted like it didn’t happen.”

“So you’re saying that everything they’ve done to you, they did to him.”

Sirius nodded at James and looked down.

“And you willingly left him there.”

Sirius put his face in his hands, his words muffled. “I fucked up.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fix it.”

⨪⨪⨪⨪⨪⨪Days later⨪⨪⨪⨪⨪⨪

“This is a bad idea,” Remus whispered, but Sirius just shushed him and lead them further down the corridor, stopping at a door second from the end. A silver plaque read in black letters R. Black.

“Not fair they each get their own rooms.” He mumbled, then pushed it open and led the others in, making sure the invisibility cloak stayed secure over them. Sirius took one look at the interior of the room and huffed, “This really isn’t fair.”

The walls were a forest green, accentuated by a black bookshelf formed into the wall with drawers halfway up the wall. A desk of matching color sat next to the door. An open potions textbook, an inkwell, and a parchment half-filled with incredibly small writing sat on the desk. A double-sized bed opposite the desk, adorned with emerald green blankets and blacks pillows. A nightstand next to the bed matched the desk and bookshelf, holding a heavily annotated book and a few empty vials. The wall it sat against was glass, letting in the eerie pale green light from the lake. Another door at the foot of the bed was closed. “Wonder what’s through that door.” Sirius nodded to it, and Remus put a hand in front of his chest.

“Probably just the bathroom. Besides, you’re not poking around your brother’s room. Why are we even here?”

Sirius faltered. “I...I don’t know. I had a plan but I forgot it.”

James sighed and looked as though he was about to respond, but hushed voices and hurried footsteps had him pulling the other two back into a far corner, keeping Wormtail from falling off his shoulder.

Regulus and the Ravenclaw, Jacob, came in, shutting the door quickly behind them.

“I’m going to murder Snape.” Regulus spat, sitting on his bed and wiping blood from a cut on his cheek. Jacob nodded and stood in front of him, leaning down to hold his chin. “That’s understandable. Just make sure you don’t get caught or you pin it as a suicide. Now, about this cut..”

“I’ve got it.” Regulus waved his hand over his cheek, the cut disappearing. Jacob tsked and turned Regulus’s face to each side. “You’ve got to teach me that. Why’d you learn it anyway?”

“Well I wasn’t going to lay on the floor and bleed out nightly, was I?”

James caught Sirius grimacing for a moment.

“Hm, fair enough.”

He leaned down and kissed Regulus, who had no problem returning it.

James felt something pull at his chest.

Jacob pulled away and pulled Regulus into a hug of sorts, his face pressed into Jacob’s chest. “Do you feel up to going to Slughorn’s thing tonight?”

“Sure, but if Snape calls Evans that again I may actually kill him.”

“Again, understandable. But you were only able to hex him this time because he also insulted you.”

“I’ll hex him when I want, image be damned. He’s too much like my mother for me to care.”

Regulus stood up, kissed Jacob’s cheek, and walked to the drawers, pulling out a jumper. “Are you wearing your robes or are you stealing my clothes? Tell me before I go too domestic like my broth- like Sirius.”

“You can call him your brother.”

“No. He’s made it clear I’m not. Why waste my time trying to convince someone to want me. I’ve survived the last two years without him, I don’t need him.”

“I never said you did,” Jacob replied quietly.

Regulus tensed for a moment, sighing. “Are you wearing my shirt?”

Jacob sat on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Yeah, any band ones? I know you stole that one from Andr- your cousin.”

“You can say her name. I don’t care she abandoned me too, it was only a matter of time before it happened. And yes, I have a few. Uh, Led Zeplin? Does that work?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Regulus pulled it out and tossed it towards him, then took his robes off and setting them on the bed.

“Is he not changing in the bathroom?” James whispered, and Remus shrugged.

“They’re together, I don’t see why he would.”

Regulus stopped loosening his tie and stiffened, standing straight up. Jacob paused unclasping his robes and looked at Regulus oddly. "You ok?”

Regulus nodded and continued, throwing his tie on his robes and starting on the buttons of his shirt. "Fine, just thought I heard something. It's nothing."

Jacob nodded slowly and took his one robe off, beginning on his own tie.

Sirius, in a turn of the normal, silently scolded the two, then gasped loudly when he caught a glimpse of Regulus shirtless back.

Tourjus Pur was scrawled into him, between his shoulder blades, in his mothers handwriting.

"Accio cloak."

Their cover blown, Sirius looked up at his younger brother, who's face showed a mix of embarrassment and anger. He had his cloak in one hand, the shirt he had just removed in the other.

"What the fuck are you doing in my dorm?!"

#regulus black #Sirius Black #regulus black needs a hug #child abuse tw #james potter #Remus Lupin #peter pettigrew #hogwarts #marauders era #Marauders

23 notes · View notes

teacupfulofstarshine · 4 years

Text

you are my dad (boogie woogie woogie)

summary: five times logan accidentally referred to virgil as his dad, and two times he purposefully referred to virgil as his dad

(OR: a birthday fic for the lovely @lovelylogans set in her STELLAR gilmore girls au!)

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANNALISE!!! if y'all haven't read the sideshire files you're missing out, it's so soft and good and wonderful and i promise you will love it

cw: illness, alcohol, drunkenness (but none of these are angsty, it's all fluff)

wordcount: 2819

read it on ao3!

(occasion the first: the nineteenth month of logan’s life)

“You can never tell anyone about this, kid. I’ve never done this in front of anyone and I never will again, you understand me?” Logan, strapped into his portable high chair, stares at Virgil while chewing on his Jupiter teething toy, not saying anything. Virgil assumes that it’s an agreement and slides the hair elastic off of his wrist.

Carefully, he gathers all of his bangs into one hand and slips the elastic around them, twisting and sliding and twisting again until he has a little unicorn-horn ponytail sticking off his head and a clear line of sight. “Alrighty. What do you want for breakfast, Lo, huh?”

Logan slobbers on his teething toy and kicks his little bare feet vigorously. He drops the teething toy on his tray and loudly declares, “BA!”

“Bananas?” Virgil guesses. He’s never been as good at interpreting Logan’s variety of noises as Patton, but Logan waves his little arms and lets out a long string of baby nonsense, so Virgil assumes he must be at least somewhat on the right track. “Okay, kid. You get bananas now, and I’ll make us some chocolate-chip banana pancakes. Deal?”

Logan slaps his tray and picks up his teething toy again. Virgil pulls open the fridge and carefully fills one of Logan’s sippy cups with apple juice, settling it into the cup holder slot. Logan immediately abandons his toy and begins to nom on the spout to get some juice.

Virgil slices up bananas and sets a little plate onto Logan’s tray, along with a small plastic kiddie fork. Logan lowers the fork towards the slices of banana with the fierce determination of a child attempting to win a toy from a claw crane game. Virgil huffs out a soft laugh and returns to the kitchen counter. He moves through the motions of pancake batter, throwing in banana slices and chocolate chips, and he’s completely in the kitchen zone. Logan’s happy chewing noises and babbles become a soothing background noise.

He’s jolted away from his pancake batter abruptly when he hears Logan wail.

Virgil whirls around, whisk dropping on the floor and splattering pancake batter everywhere. Logan is crying, holding one hand out, and his little pointer finger is red. “Oh, you - did you bite your finger?”

Logan sniffles and cries, holding his hand out. “Paaaaaaa!”

Virgil winces. “No, kid, Papa’s not -”

Logan makes grabby hands at Virgil. “Pa! Paaaaa, papapapa, paaaa, paaaa!”

Virgil freezes. “I - you - am I Papa?”

“Paaaaaaaa!”

Virgil carefully takes Logan’s tiny hand, leaning forward and carefully kissing his little red finger in the way he’s seen Patton do millions of times. “There we go, Logan. I - Papa kissed it better, so we’re okay, right?”

Logan sniffles. “Paaa . . .”

Virgil carefully offers him a disk of banana. “You want some more banana?” Logan wipes at his little eyes, leans forward, and carefully takes the banana chunk in his mouth. “There we go. You’re okay. It’s okay, Logan.”

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the second: logan’s junior year of highschool)

Virgil is really sick of walking into the Sanders house and discovering a sick Sanders (pun very much not intended, thank you, Patton).

He nudges the front door open, arms laden with takeout containers of meal-prep for the week and bags of groceries to re-stock the kitchen and two cardboard drinks trays full of to-go cups. Patton’s not home, off at some kind of business conference, and he’d promised to take care of Logan.

(Take care of our kid, Patton had said, and Virgil had been caught so off-guard by the pronoun our that he’d barely remembered to agree.)

So he has lunches for Logan for every day of the week, groceries so that he can make his own dinners, and a stock of smoothies full of hidden nutrients for study breaks. Virgil kicks the door shut behind him, struggling to not drop any of the things he’s holding.

“Logan, you wanna come help me with your meals and shit?”

There’s no immediate answer, which isn’t worrying in and of itself; it is almost 7:30 AM on a Saturday, and Logan is a teenager. Virgil sets the drinks trays and takeout containers on the kitchen, drops the grocery bags on the floor, and goes to lock the door behind him. He hears footsteps behind him. “Sorry if I woke you, but -”

He turns to face Logan and almost drops the keys. Logan is wrapped up like a burrito in his thick quilt, dragging it along the kitchen floor like a cape. His eyes and nose are red, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair looks like Remus’s after a late night of partying. He sways in the doorway.

“Logan?” Virgil asks, keeping his voice soft.

“Virgil,” Logan rasps. “I . . . believe that I . . . may be ill.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Virgil says. Logan blinks at him, once, uncharacteristically slow.

“Could you please stop the room from spinning? And - and perhaps you could - could do me the favor of - of catching -”

Logan pitches forward, and Virgil lunges to catch him. He feels Logan’s forehead and swears with how hot it is. “Alright, buddy, back into bed with you.”

“Y - you brought me . . . groceries,” Logan manages. “I . . . we have to -”

“You do not have to do anything except get your ass back in bed,” Virgil says. “I’m calling Jean and leaving her in charge for the day, she can handle it. I’m staying here with you.”

“Y - no, you - go t’ work -”

“Over my dead body, kid. Come on, back to bed.” Logan takes a single step and his knees immediately buckle beneath him. Virgil doesn’t think twice before scooping the Logan burrito up into his arms, shifting so that Logan’s head rests in the curve of his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He maneuvers Logan back into bed, tucking him in and taking his temperature. It reads 101.1 - hot enough to warrant concern, but not so hot that he needs hospitalization. Good; Virgil’s had his fill of seeing Sanders boys in the hospital. He soaks a washcloth in ice-cold water, and Logan hisses when he lays it on his forehead, swiftly transitioning from a hiss of pain to a hiss of relief.

“Stay here, kid. I’ll bring you something to drink in just a second, okay?”

Logan makes a weak, pained noise from his bed. “Papa?”

It takes every ounce of self-control Virgil possesses not to bolt or flinch or scream or otherwise negatively react. He knows this is Logan’s fever-addled brain speaking, he knows it doesn’t mean anything. “Yeah?”

“Papa, I don’ - I don’ feel so good,” Logan whimpers. “Papa, I - I think - I think ‘m sick, Papa.”

“Yeah,” Virgil says, approaching the bed and gently brushing a hand against Logan’s cheek. “Yeah, you are, kid.”

“Don’ like it, Papa.” “I know. It’s gonna be okay, Logan.”

“Papa, not - not gonna leave?” Logan sounds so small and fragile, and Virgil remembers the first time a tiny bundle of baby was placed in his arms and the first time he met those vibrant indigo eyes and the first time he knew that he would give anything in his life for this child and his happiness.

“No, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the third: logan’s senior year of high school)

“You Sanders men wouldn’t have a proper diet or a proper sleep schedule without me, would you?” Virgil sighs. He’d worked a late shift at the diner today; when Patton had picked up dinner for himself and Logan, Virgil had kissed him quickly and told him not to wait up.

Now, carefully shutting the door behind him, he’s beginning to think that he should have told Patton to pass the message on to his son.

It’s nearly midnight, and Logan is slumped across the kitchen table. The table is covered in a mountain of SAT prep books, all of them annotated in Logan’s cramped, increasingly sloppier handwriting. Logan has blue and black pen marks smeared all over his face, his tie is askew, and he’s creating a small puddle of drool as he breathes in and out.

“Aw, geez,” Virgil sighs. He toes off his shoes and leaves them in the tray, carefully dropping his coat and apron into a heap. Logan makes a soft snuffling noise. “You gotta get sleep, kid. How are you supposed to take an exam if you can barely keep your eyes open, huh?”

He carefully closes all of the books and piles them up neatly on the table, slides the pen from Logan’s hand and fills up his pencil case, piles the post-it notes in place. It takes some maneuvering, but Virgil finally manages to pick up Logan. He stirs in Virgil’s arms. “Whhmmmm?”

“Hey, kid,” Virgil murmurs. “We’re getting you to bed, okay?”

“Need t’study, Papa . . .”

Virgil’s heart clenches as he carries Logan to his room. “You need to sleep. You won’t pass the exam if you fall asleep in the middle of it, will you?”

“No, Papa . . .”

“Don’t burn yourself out. Take breaks, let your body recover. Isn’t it you who told me that the brain stores and processes information when you sleep?”

“Ye, Papa . . .”

Virgil carefully settles Logan on his bed, pulling off his tie and belt and shoes and glasses. “Sorry, Papa,” Logan yawns, eyes still closed. Virgil pulls the folded blanket from the foot of Logan’s bed and tucks it around him.

“Don’t apologize. Just sleep, okay?”

Logan is asleep again before Virgil’s even left the room.

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the fourth: the aftermath of logan’s twenty-first birthday)

“Who knew my boyfriend was a lightweight?” Roman laughs. His second beer of the night is half-finished in his hand, and there’s a barely-buzzed but very-drunk Logan curled in his lap and lazily kissing his face. Virgil, the designated driver and therefore sober, would be slightly offended that his basically-son is making out with his boyfriend in front of him, but it is Logan’s twenty-first birthday, and they’re all chaste kisses along Roman’s jawline.

“I wasn’t expecting it, based on the stories Patton’s told me.”

“Do tell!” Roman says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I will not,” Virgil says. “You need good healthy role models in your life, and if I tell you stories about shenanigans you’ll never take Patton seriously again.”

He finally manages to pile two giggly drunk teenagers into the back of his car and pull away from the remnants of Logan’s party. They’re whispering conspiratorially in the back seat. Virgil turns on his music on a low volume and keeps his eyes on the road.

It takes Roman approximately seven minutes to finally kiss Logan goodbye and stumble down the driveway to his house. (Logan does not make his job easier by clinging like a starfish and begging for “jus’ one more kiss, please?”) Virgil nods at Isadora when she opens the door, and she offers him a nod in return as she ushers Roman inside.

“I - I love him,” Logan slurs, yawning and leaning forward so that his head bonks against the driver’s seat.

“I know.”

“No, you - I - I love him, Daddy. I love him.”

Virgil adjusts his rearview mirror and laughs softly. “I know, Logan. I think all of Sideshire knows you love him.”

“They do?” Logan hums. “Do - d’you think Roman knows I love him, Daddy?”

“I’m sure Roman knows,” Virgil says.

“I should tell ‘im more, Daddy.”

“You can tell him everything you want tomorrow. Right now, we’re going home, and you’re drinking a bottle of water before you go to bed.”

“The - the human body is seventy-five percent water, Daddy. Ex - except Roman’s body. His is just made of muscle and pretty.”

Virgil barely manages to contain the laughter bubbling in his throat.

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the fifth: logan’s sophomore year of college)

You have: three new voicemail messages!

First message: Saturday at 1:17 AM

“Daddy - Daddy, ‘s me, ‘s Logan, an’ I think I’m jus’ a tiiiiiiiny bit drunk? I wanna make a - a - a snack , but not like Roman, cause he’s a snack but I don’t - uuuuuuuum . . . what . . . was I askin’ you? Dunno . . .”

Second message: Saturday at 1:27 AM

“Daddy, ‘m sorry, got distracted cause - cause Roman is jus’ - jus’ so pretty - but I hada . . . a . . . question! Yeah, that’s the word. I wanna make those muffins you make, the ones with th’jam in the middle, an’ - but I don’ remember the recipe - how - how d’you put the jam in the muffins without cuttin’ ‘em in half? I don’ understand . . . I’ . . . call m’back, kay?”

Third message: Saturday at 2:48 AM

“Uh . . . Daddy . . . how d’you get batter stains outta y’r clothes . . .”

(“Virge? You okay?”

“Logan leaves the weirdest drunk voicemails.”)

*~*~*~*~*

(plus one: the aftermath of logan’s graduation from chilton)

“You really did that, huh, kid?” Virgil asks. Logan looks at him, mortar slightly askew, eyes bright and happy. He’s holding his diploma, and Virgil reaches over to ruffle his hair. He gently pulls Logan into a hug, and Logan holds on perhaps slightly tighter than normal. Virgil isn’t judging; he’s holding on tightly as well.

“Did what?” Logan asks. “Graduated? Were you expecting me not to?”

“No, of course I knew you’d do that.” Virgil feels the lump creeping up his throat. “I - I just - aw, hell, Logan -”

“Are you crying?!” Logan asks incredulously.

“No, shut the fuck up,” Virgil hisses reflexively. Logan laughs, and he sounds watery too, so Virgil lets it go. “I just - you - I -” Logan waits patiently while he takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts. “Good speech,” he finally settles on.

“Oh,” Logan says, voice small. “That.”

“You - you called me Dad.”

“That I did.”

“Was that on purpose?” Virgil asks. He holds his breath a little, not sure what he’ll do if Logan says no. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Logan says -

“Yes,” Logan says. “Of course it was. You may not have contributed to my genetic makeup, but - but you are my dad, Virgil. In every way that truly matters. You and Dad raised me, you kept me fed and healthy, the diner is my second home. You’re my - you’re my dad.”

Virgil hugs Logan tightly, one hand gently gripping the back of Logan’s hair and the other squeezing around his waist. “You are my son,” he whispers into Logan’s hair. “In every way that matters, you are my son.”

Logan takes a deep breath, and then, so quietly Virgil almost misses it, he whispers, “Eight, dad.”

Virgil inhales, shakily, and exhales, “Sixteen, kid.”

*~*~*~*~*

(plus two: the aftermath of virgil asking logan’s permission to propose)

Virgil curls his hands into fists on his jeans, staring very intensely at Logan’s sneakers. “I promise,” he says lowly, “that I’m not trying to intrude on your life. I know how important Patton is to you, I know how important you are to him. And I know it’s archaic and kind of sexist to ask for someone’s hand in marriage as if I’m asking permission for someone’s property, but - but I - you’ve put up with so much instability in your life, with your shitbag of a sperm donor -”

Logan snorts at the reference to Christopher, and Virgil lets the corner of his lip quirk up into a smile before settling back into Serious Mode. “- and I would never want to make you feel like you have to accept me. I’m not trying to marry Patton because I think I have to, or because I think I deserve to marry him, or - or because he owes me something. I want to marry him because - because I’ve spent so long loving him, and so long being loved by him, and we’ve made a home together and a life together and - hell, we’ve raised a kid together - and i just -”

“I’m sure this is all just one big insurance scam,” Logan jokes. Virgil wheezes, and Logan reaches out to take his hand.

“Virgil.” He pauses, and then, “Dad.”

Virgil’s head jerks up, and Logan smiles softly at him. “I know that you would never propose if you weren’t completely serious. I appreciate you coming to make sure that I would be alright with this marriage, because I know someone asking you this question if you were in my shoes would help to ease your anxiety about the transition.”

“That was . . . very emotionally astute.”

Logan smirks. “I know.”

“Brat,” Virgil laughs. He blinks, and suddenly his face is wet.

“I appreciate this,” Logan repeats, “but Roman and I have literally been planning your marriage since we met. You do not need to worry about my opinion in this matter. If it will ease your mind, though, yes, Dad, you have my blessing to propose to Papa.”

“You haven’t called him Papa in years,” Virgil says.

“I haven’t had another parent to call ‘Dad’ in years, either.”

Virgil couldn’t stop himself from hugging Logan if he tried. “Eight,” he says, and Logan hugs him tightly.

“Sixteen, Dad.”

#starshinewrites #annalise's birthday fic!#annalise tag!#platonic analogical #cw alcohol #cw illness

236 notes · View notes

pumpkinpaix · 4 years

Note

For the prompt: 14. “How did you fail a survey?” + wangxian

“Oho, what’s this?” Wei Wuxian chirps, popping up to prop his chin on Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“What do you think?” Lan Wangji asks drily, moving his hands to give Wei Wuxian a better view of the angry “0” and sharp tirade in red marked on the paper on the desk before him.

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “Isn’t this Professor Jin’s—wait, isn’t this the first week survey? How did you fail a survey?” he demands, plucking the paper off the table to look at it more closely.

“It was a poor assignment with inappropriate questions,” Lan Wangji says calmly. “It was a waste of time and unacceptable behavior from a professor. I told him so.” He starts pulling out his laptop as if this isn’t a wild statement.

“Yeah—I can see that now,” Wei Wuxian says, skimming through Lan Wangji’s extensive criticisms annotated in exacting and viciously neat handwriting beside each question. “Damn, Lan Zhan, is this what your students have to deal with? You must be a terrifying TA.”

“Perhaps.” Lan Wangji frowns. “I find their work more acceptable than this.”

“I mean, everyone knows Jin Guangshan is a sleaze and an asshole, but he doesn’t read most of the time, and definitely doesn’t look at assignments past the first page. If you’d scribbled some nonsense under the questions to make it look like you answered them, he would have given you full marks.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Basically.” Wei Wuxian shrugs. “I wrote some porn about rabbits that I broke up into sections under each question. And then I illustrated it on the second and third pages.”

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, but Wei Wuxian can see him struggling against a smile. “And did you get full marks?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, here, wanna see?” Wei Wuxian leans over to drag his backpack into reach.

“That’s all right.”

Wei Wuxian can’t help but laugh. “If you say so, Er-gege.” He goes back to reading through Lan Wangji’s brutal commentary. “You really went out of your way to only write in the margins.”

“I wanted him to know what I was doing,” Lan Wangji says simply.

“Are you going to do this for every assignment you object to? What are you going to do if he fails you in the class? It’s a requirement for graduation.”

“Then I’ll fail,” Lan Wangji says peaceably.

Wei Wuxian shoots him a look. “But?”

Lan Wangji blinks at him with a flat and innocent expression, and maybe four years ago Wei Wuxian would have bought it, but Wei Wuxian knows better now, Wei Wuxian knows him better now, so he just stares back pointedly.

“But I’m planning on getting him fired before the end of the semester,” Lan Wangji says finally, turning back to his laptop and what looks like an essay on ancient Chinese law, as if this is the end of the conversation!

“Lan Zhan!” he exclaims, spinning Lan Wangji’s chair around to face him. “You can’t just say things like that and not tell me the plan!”

“The plan is to get him fired,” Lan Wangji says, trying to spin back to his desk, but Wei Wuxian preempts that by climbing into his lap and kissing him messily on the forehead, nose, mouth—

“I love you so much, you know that?” Wei Wuxian says, grinning against Lan Wangji’s lips. Lan Wangji retaliates with a sharp, tiny nip, then pulls away.

“Wei Ying.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll let you get back to your boring essay about—what is it about? Wait, no, don’t tell me, actually, I don’t want to know—” He clambers off of Lan Wangji as he chatters, sprawling himself out on the floor and dragging his own homework out of his backpack.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji says, beginning to type. “Mind your posture.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I’ll cushion my joints or whatever,” Wei Wuxian says unconcernedly, flipping open his folder stuffed with haphazard papers and syllabi. His copy of the contentious survey is still there on top. He grins, slithering back up towards Lan Wangji’s chair.

“Wei Ying.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to read what I handed in to Jin Guangshan?” Wei Wuxian prods, sliding the packet in question over onto Lan Wangji’s keyboard.

Lan Wangji sighs, but he picks it up.

Wei Wuxian waits for a few moments of silence, watching gleefully as he sees the tips of Lan Wangji’s ears redden.

“Wei Ying, did you—” Lan Wangji starts, then cuts himself off.

“Yes? What did I do?” Wei Wuxian asks cheerfully.

“You wrote this about us,” Lan Wangji accuses, looking delightfully embarrassed.

“No, it’s about rabbits!”

Lan Wangji shoots him a withering glare. “You gave this to Jin Guangshan?”

Wei Wuxian laughs. “It’s not like he read it!”

Lan Wangji sighs and closes his eyes.

“Oh, come on, Lan-er-gege! You didn’t even get to the best part! Did you want to see the illustrations? I think I did a good job—hey, Lan Zhan, look, look—”

—

(prompt list || other ficlets || ko-fi)

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #wangxian #mdzs fic #wei wuxian #lan wangji #myfic #myficlet #bet y'all thought it was gonna be wwx failing the survey #but i'm flipping the script #idk this is.... kinda ooc and a mess but i had fun so that's all that matters #thank u for the request!!#nogiabadnumber #asks and replies #mine #why tumblr code so broken #im trying to get this to show up on my dash and it won't ahaha #my own... dash....

421 notes · View notes

poisxnyouth · 4 years

Text

teacher dave chapter 5 (d.d)

A/N: well...........here we are........aren’t we? it’s been a while (over a year...). to all of y’all who have been in my inbox begging for this for so long - this is for u <3 -hailey

WC: 3.1K

“Shut up,” David whispers harshly as you hike up your skirt, propping yourself against a shelf in his storage room. The sound of his fingers tugging down the zipper of his black jeans seems too loud, juxtaposed with the noises of your breathing. You don’t pay attention, hands on the back of his neck, as he tears open a condom and rolls it on, stuffing the wrapper in the breast pocket of his white dress shirt. He spreads your legs and supports your weight against the shelf, routinely placing a hand over your mouth as he slips it in slowly.

David feels you breathe heavier into his hand, eyes boring into yours, before he pulls it away and drops his head to your shoulder, hips moving steadily. He goes carefully, both hands gripping your hips tightly and holding you up as he fucks into you, the only noise being the conglomeration of your quiet breathing. On a particularly harder movement, you gasp as he hits deeper and the shelf shoves against the wall loudly, your legs wrapping around his waist. He makes a lower noise in the back of his throat before you speak in a whisper, “Is Miss Sh-”

“Be quiet,” he cuts you off, shaking his head, “I really don’t want to think about her right now.”

You nod as David’s grip readjusts, pushing your thighs up and pinning you to the shelving, leaning up and attaching your mouths. The strip of wood is pressing perpendicularly into your spine and you can already feel the bruises David’s pressure is going to leave, his teeth gently clashing with yours as he continues his movements.

It only takes a small whimper into his mouth for him to pull away and put his hand over your lips once more, eyes scanning your face deliberately. He whispers quietly, voice gruff, “You like this?”

You nod against his grasp, a silent urgence for him to speak more, “Get yourself off. I would do it, but I’ve got my hands full.”

You obey, fingers running from the nape of his neck down his shoulders and his front, moving to touch yourself. David’s gaze drops between you as your free hand tangles strands of his hair between your fingers, his breathing heavy, “Faster, honey. We gotta hurry this shit up. It’s taking too long.”

His hips speed up, too, hitting deeper, and you feel his fingertips press harder into your skin as you get closer. David shuts himself up as he cums by sinking his teeth into your shoulder, simultaneously tugging each other closer. He slinks away quietly moments after, removing the condom and tying it as you move to slip the sleeves of your blouse back over your arms and adjust your underwear. He does the same, rebuttoning and tucking his dress shirt, quickly tying his tie into a Pratt knot. David’s rebuckling his belt as he watches you peek under the fabric to glance at the marks on your shoulder, quietly speaking, “Sorry, baby. It’s habit now.”

The new outlines of his teeth on your shoulder aren't the only ones, accompanied by deep violet bruises embossed into your skin from previous storage room sessions. He does it to keep himself quiet, and they always bruise deeply, but it catches his eye during class when he spots you subconsciously pushing at them. David’s regret is only a guise.

He takes a step forward and kisses you deeply, hands on your waist and tugging your body closer to his. You feel both of his palms slide down to the width of your hips and down to your ass, gripping tightly.

“God damn it,” David gripes as you run your hands down his front, stopping to fiddle with the flap of his belt, “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“So are you. We don’t have time,” you say in a whisper, fingers still on his belt. His semi-hard dick nudges your thigh slightly, and you take it upon yourself to begin unbuckling him.

“Stop it, sweetheart,” David’s hand leaves you to push away your touches, “I want you to do something for me.”

You tilt your head, placing your hands on his chest and gazing at him in a way which urges him to continue, “Go sign yourself out, drive to my place, go in, and wait for me until I get home.”

“It’s twelve, I’ll be waiting for-”

“Do it,” he says again, pressing kisses down the column of your throat, “I’ll give you the key. I need to fuck the life out of you, not this piddly shit. I’m tired of it.”

You look at him doubtfully before agreeing, watching him pull his keys from the front pocket of his jeans and remove his house key from the ring, placing it in the palm of your hand. David continues speaking, “No clothes when I walk in, please.”

“Dinner tonight?” you ask him, moving to straighten his tie, “After?”

David shakes his head and presses a kiss to your cheek, voice dropping, “I’m not your boyfriend.”

“You should be,” you reply quickly, eyes rolling, “It’s not like we’re fucking other people.”

He clears his throat and steps away, realizing he missed a button on his shirt and correcting his mistake, “Speak for yourself.”

“Excuse me?” you blink, instant attitude as your eyebrows scrunch together, “Then what the fuck, Dave?”

“It’s so easy to get a rise out of you,” he says easily, hands coming to your waist, faces close, “Yes, we can have dinner. You know that you can stay as long as you want to.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you gripe, hitting at his chest, “I was literally like, ‘Oh, so that’s why he doesn’t want to be a thing-’”

“I don’t wanna talk about this right now,” David urges, shaking his head, “Later. You know the drill.”

He kisses you quickly before abandoning the room, momentarily leaving you to your own devices as he turns lights on in his classroom, hearing him piddle around aimlessly. David, without fail, forces you to toss the remaining condom - every time. This means you have to grossly carry it around with you and discreetly find a way to throw it out; usually in the metal disposal box of a bathroom stall on campus. Regardless, it’s disgusting, and he never understands why it’s a bone of contention.

“Honestly, Y/N,” David shrugs as you time your way out of his storage room, waiting a few minutes to exit after him, “Just throw it out of the window when you leave. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s gross!”

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, going through papers on his desk, “Your paper sucks.”

David stuffs your paper into your hands, the number sixty-five scribbled and circled at the top of the page, “Do it over and do better. Actually, do it while you’re waiting for me. I want it done when I get there.”

“Are you kidding me?” you protest, annoyed with his presence, “Why are you being such a dick?”

He tuts and shrugs his shoulders, “I literally told you how to get an A and you didn’t listen to me. It’s up to you, now.”

“How am I fucking you and I still get this?” you drop your voice, “Is that really how this works?”

David steps towards you, hands stuffed into his pockets, “I don’t give a fuck how good you suck my cock. Bad work is bad work. Get over yourself. Fucking doesn’t give you an A.”

“I suggest,” he continues, “You leave, and work on that now. You have a lot to fix.”

You huff, sighing deeply as you stuff it into your bag, “I hate you so much.”

“The horrible price I pay as your teacher,” David quips sarcastically, leaning against his desk, “Cry me a river, sweetheart.”

“I swear, sometimes you do it on purpose,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “You give me shitty work just so I pay more attention to you.”

“Asshole,” you retort, “Maybe it’s just bad work.”

“Nah,” he tuts, fingers running through his hair, “You know what kind of shit I like to see from you. Teacher’s pet.”

David glances at his watch and then you, sighing deeply, “You should leave. The bell rings in . five, and I have copies to make. I’ll see you later. Text me if you need anything.”

“Fine,” you say, still annoyed with him, “Computer?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he shrugs at your question of using his personal computer, standing up straight from his position against his desk, looking around before pressing a kiss to your lips. You take the hint and bid him goodbye, clueless as to why you’re giving him the pleasure of knowing you’ll oblige him for whatever he asks of you.

Every single margin of your paper has arrows and his scribbled, sloppy handwriting, describing your mistakes in harsh detail; one of them specifically reads, “Am I really this bad of a teacher?” David’s notes all come across sarcastic and overly critical of your writing, explanations, and citations.

“If we ever get into an argument, it’s a guaranteed win for me. Your reasonings suck.”

“This is exactly what I told you to not,” he underlines five times, “do. So why did you do it???”

“I hate that I’m going to have to read this twice in my life. Do better.”

“Jesus! NO.”

Even his annotations piss you off, and you’re annoyed as you sit in front of his computer, rewriting it to his specific taste. You finish rewriting the paper after three hours and raiding his fridge for a few beers in the middle of the day, and he’s completely unsurprised to see the pile in the trash when he walks through the door.

“I should’ve known you’d steal my shit,” he gripes, not actually caring as he sets his things down, unbuttoning his collar and making his way over to you. You’re still in front of his computer, parked in his chair, and David presses a kiss to your forehead, leaning down to read what you’ve written.

He only skims through a couple of lines before nodding his head and standing up straight, “Already better. Print it, I’ll grade it later. Why are your clothes on?”

David tugs at the sleeve of your blouse as he takes a swig of your drink, watching as you stand and begin to pull off your clothes. He makes a common admission before you lean up to kiss him, “I’ve been thinking about this ever since you left. Thought about you snooping through my stuff and my dick got hard.”

“I didn’t snoop,” you reassure as he shamelessly drags your hips closer to his, “But maybe I should have? What’s there to find?”

“Guess you’ll find out sometime,” David shrugs, teasing as he attaches your mouths and places the Corona back down, hand on your ass as you tug at his tie. You blindly untie it, dropping it to the floor and focusing your fingers on the buttons. His free hand works on his belt, both of you breathing heavily into the kisses while he gently pushes you towards his bed.

It’s a familiar stumble as he sightlessly steps out of his shoes and shrugs off his dress shirt, a too formal garment for his profession, jeans pooling around his ankles. His fingers pull your underwear down your legs and unclasp your bra, lips leaving yours and quickly placing themselves on your skin. The saliva on your skin is visible, the light hitting it, as you lie on his bed and he kisses downwards, eyes fluttering closed as he settles between your legs.

The fact that you have been fucking your teacher for weeks now, no matter how much you do so, never becomes routine. Every time it happens, you’re just as shocked as the first time, and you relish in the noise he makes as he tastes you and holds your thighs apart, pressed against the side of the bed. David watches your face like a hawk as he goes down on you, mentally noting every indication of enjoyment you supply him with.

You whine his name and tug on his hair as he leaves a painful hickey on the sensitive skin in the uppermost of your inner thigh. He pulls away and glances down at his work, bringing up his fingers to rub over it and press into it, watching as you gasp in momentary pain.

He rolls his eyes, murmuring under his breath, “You’re the one who likes being all marked up.”

David digs through his bedside table for a condom before you pluck it from him and toss it, tugging him closer, “Come on. Please? I’m on-”

“The shot. Yeah, I fucking know,” he rolls his eyes again, “You try this shit almost every time.”

“Daviiiid,” you say, pushing slightly at the waistband of his briefs, “It sucks with one.”

“Fine, just this once, but I’m pulling out,” Dave gives in, “You’re my student. No babies.”

“No babies,” you repeat, nodding and kissing him again, palming him gently before tugging him out. He pushes the undergarment down his legs and settles between you again, taking his time and watching your face.

“Hit it from the back,” you suggest, attempting to move over.

“No,” David stops you, holding you down, “Here.”

You easily give in and you feel him push into you as one of his hands wraps around the circumference of your neck. The sight of your cheeks going a reddish pink, eyes rolling back and mouth dropping open, is enough jerk off material - should he ever need it - to last him for the rest of his life.

“Fuck yes,” he says at the sensation of being bare, head dropping as he groans slightly, “So much better.”

David watches your face become redder before he removes his touch, a white handprint visible from his pressure. He holds himself up above you as he closes his eyes, hips moving steadily. He gives into you, pulling out and rolling you over onto your stomach. You instinctively arch your back, one of his hands coming to your shoulder for leverage as he slowly slips himself inside, grunting deeply and twisting his face up as he bottoms out.

A higher pitched whine emerges from your throat, your moans mixing with his as he fucks into you. He roughly pulls your body by your shoulder to meet him in the middle, grip tight, and he doesn’t stop you when you begin shamelessly touching yourself. You feel David kiss sloppily down your spine, teeth grazing gently.

He wishes he could see your face when he stops his movements and reaches around to press against your lower abdomen, feeling you slacken and grip at his forearm, suddenly a million times noisier than before. Combined with your own caresses, you nearly instantly cum at the combination of sensations.

David follows you shortly afterwards, hastily remembering to pull out and jerk himself off, cum splattering across your lower back. He feels the sweat trickle down his back as he recovers, panting and breathing heavily as he blinks himself back to reality. He reaches for his shirt on the floor, carelessly wiping you clean and tossing it back onto the carpet. Dave doesn’t pay attention as he tugs his underwear back on and you climb under his covers, running his fingers through his hair.

“Shit,” he groans, getting in next to you, “I kinda pulled out...a little late.”

“Jesus, you suck,” you sigh, pressing your thighs together and scooting closer to him, head on his chest.

“No babies, though,” David says, holding his pinky up, “Right?”

“No babies,” you repeat, half-heartedly pinky promising with him, “Can you grade my paper?”

“I just came,” he reasons, shaking his head, “Give me a fucking sec.”

“I love my job,” David begins randomly, eyes closed again, “But God, I miss blunts.”

“You smoke?”

“Not anymore,” he says sternly, slapping at your arm slightly, “Don’t try to talk me into it. They test us.”

“I was just asking,” you roll your eyes at his accusatory tone, changing the subject, “You should be my boyfriend.”

David opens his eyes lazily, glancing down at you, “You’re horrible at pillow talk, you know that?”

“You deflect every time I bring it up,” you comment quietly, “Just say no already.”

He sighs and you feel the band of his watch land on your waist as he throws his hand over your torso, fingers rubbing delicately at the skin as he stares at the ceiling, “It’s not a no.”

“But it’s not a yes either,” you reply, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear, “Which is a maybe, which is actually worse than a no.”

“You’re too cynical,” David shrugs and shakes his head, one hand smoothing over your hair, “It’s not that deep, sweetheart. I’m still your teacher. I know that you know why I have reservations, and you know what it would mean if we did. I’m not sure I want that for you.”

“For me?” you reply, turning to look at him, almost offended, “What would be at stake?”

“Not dating your teacher?” he responds, tone becoming ruder, “If this became anything more, I’d feel like I’m taking something away from you. You still have a few months left before you’re done. You shouldn’t be thinking about me.”

You scoff ignorantly, unmoving, “So, you wouldn’t even try it?”

“Sure, I’d try it,” David rushes out, “But, honey…”

He sighs again stressedly, swallowing, “You’re not listening to me. It’s not about you; this would be short-lived at its best and you know it. It’s not like I’m going to be leaving here, and you are.”

You both go quiet in each other’s embrace and David makes a soft groan before getting up, walking over and grabbing your paper from his printer. You watch him from his bed as he tears the cap off of his red pen with his teeth and leans against his desk in his underwear, spitting the cap out and reading your essay quietly. His eyebrows remain scrunched together as he grades it, scribbling and writing sporadically, the noise of the pen against the paper noisy in the silence.

You watch him chew on his lips as he flips through the pages and rereads paragraphs, quickly scratching a grade at the top of your first page. David tosses your work on the bed before speaking, “Better. See what happens when you listen to me? I’m showering, if you’re coming.”

It’s a one hundred, accompanied by a messy, scribbled heart.

69 notes · View notes

blackfemmecharacterdependency · 4 years

Text

08. The Apex Rises

Word Count: 3605, Trigger Warnings for gaslighting, bullying, mild violence

Shana had gotten into SO MUCH trouble for losing her keys that she was no longer to drive her car to school (which… she only had a permit, so she had to give up the car to a driver when she got there anyway, but it had still been pretty cool that she got to drive to school in her own car that she would be driving whenever she finally got her license). She and her clique had scoured the school trying to find her keys, and their vehicles, homes, and anywhere else that she had been. The girl was losing her mind about it… That magnified when she saw something sticking out of Grace Monroe’s bag.

“Where did you get this?” she snarled, reaching into the bag and pulling out Grace’s set of house keys.

Grace snatched them from her hand and said, “From my mother. She likes me to have access to home and a few of her properties.”

“I meant that keychain! You didn’t have that before!” Shana fussed, folding her arms. Grace began to speak about every keychain that she had, until Shana squealed, “The Sassy Strawberry!”

“Oh, that? Simon gave it to me.”

“It’s. Mine.”

Grace furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head, “Um, no. Simon gave this to me. It’s mine. But, you could probably find one…”

Shana flared her nostrils and one of the teachers came up to the table, “Are you girls rehearsing? Because the theater is a much more appropriate place than the study hall, if you are.”

“Shana is making me feel unsafe,” Grace said, smiling at Shana. Shana clenched her fists and her teeth and stormed off. Grace shook her head and said, sorrowfully to the teacher, “My mother said that her father is being investigated for theft of trade secrets. It’s probably weighing on her, the poor thing.” The teacher’s face showed that she was interested in this rumor, but she knew better than to socialize that way with the students. Grace knew that she would bring it to other staff though and once they thought that Shana’s dad might not be looking so good for the school… Well… Whatever happened, Grace would be entertained.

Simon showed up to study hall and made a stack of books. She told him about the occurrence and he was highly amused, though she could tell that he was here for business. She let him get to his studies. Simon was in advanced classes and he still made all A’s. Grace made all A’s too, but it was MUCH harder for her. She just got so bored with everything and often spent class time reading a book instead of paying attention… which meant that by the time she reached study hall, she had the worst notes. Simon let her borrow his for classes that they had together or classes that they each took, but his notes were generally madness. He wrote his notes FOR HIM, and it was obvious, because she’d point to something and ask, “What is this.” There would be one or two words there and he’d read them. It wasn’t that she couldn’t read his handwriting. He actually wrote pretty neat for a boy. It was that those two words wouldn’t mean anything to her. Then, he’d explain and she would always wonder… How on Earth did he remember all of that crap from writing down TWO WORDS???

However, that still was an easier way of her learning than in class. For one thing, it was Simon, so she listened to him easier. For another, it was Simon, so he made the time and snapped her back to concentration whenever she zoned out. “I’m going to speak with the Dean about being a student tutor,” he said.

“Gross. Sounds WHACK. Why would you wanna do that?”

“I am already doing that, but I’m not getting any credit for it!” Simon said. That was when she realized that she may have leaned on him a little too much. Besides, he was in academic competition groups and stuff. He HAD other things he needed to do.

Grace began sweetly asking others for help with studying. Some of the less popular and less liked girls who also did well in class were her target. They began to not only help her, but be willing to DO her work, if she needed, and Grace wasn’t one to turn down free help. In exchange, she would compliment them and tell them great things about themselves that she figured that they would never hear.

“Grace! That bracelet is SO pretty! Where did you get it?”

“Simon gave it to me.”

“Simon is SO CUTE. You’re so lucky…” She’d simply smile. There wasn’t a need to correct anyone, as long as she and Simon knew what they were. But, with Simon’s name attached to hers, Simon started being treated a little bit differently, as well. The teachers, at least, didn’t seem to think he was the scum that they acted like he was before then. The girls had been taking a second look at him, mostly wondering what it was about him that they didn’t know. What was his secret? How did a boy like that get Grace Monroe? They not only wanted to know, but they were extremely intrigued. Girls would often invite him to things, then try to annotate that he could bring Grace too. He usually told them he’d definitely be there, but then purposefully not come, whether or not he had anything to do. That only made him seem more mysterious, which entertained him, because one of those events he skipped he was literally at home talking himself out of giving his mother Samantha’s cat food to see if she even noticed the difference, and that was the highlight of his night. But, he snapped a photo of himself, laying down with his hair free and a thoughtful face, and as suspected, the girl who invited him liked it and asked why he didn’t come over. He didn’t reply.

Grace and Simon were walking to her next class and making plans for the weekend whenever this really tall redhead came in between them and just started talking to her. He just… started talking, like they had been having a conversation at some point, and he was resuming it, whether or not she was available. She stopped walking and gave him a look for his audacity. He laughed and said, “Sorry, were you busy?” By that time, Simon had moved around and was standing behind her, but next to her.

“Yeah. I was,” she said, rolled her eyes and turned around.

“Bitch,” they heard. Simon flanked all the way around and was in his face very quickly, baring his teeth at him. The boy laughed, even though he was clearly uncomfortable. “Ummm… What are you gonna do, Laurent?”

“I don’t know, but I know that whatever I do will cost me everything here, so how much damage do you think I’m gonna try in the process?”

Grace smiled and stepped between them, addressing the redhead, “Look, I don’t want Simon to ruin his future or yours today, but I definitely can’t stop him if you continue to be rude.” Her smile vanished and she said in a hard voice, “He doesn’t like that.” Simon was daring him to even make a move.

The guy didn’t understand enough about Simon to call his bluff, luckily for him, in a way. Simon didn’t have to attack. But, everyone who saw began to spread it around, how Simon made him look like a coward, defending Grace. Kids started acting a little differently. Whenever Grace would come through, they’d be really nice to her, and she was always super nice back. Simon just seemed to be present, but always paying attention. He made some people nervous.

Someone whispered about him being her guard dog as they passed one morning, and Grace stopped and turned around, “Who said that?” She asked. Nobody would confess, but she noticed that Simon was staring at one particular girl and so she stepped in front of her. “Hi, what’s your name? I don’t think I know you.”

“Heather.”

“Of course it is. Heather… did you… call Simon my guard dog, a moment ago?”

The girl looked nervous and shook her head. The other students watching weren’t sure what they were going to witness, but they were definitely going to witness it. She was lying. She had said it. Simon had glanced at her as the words left her lips, before she quickly stopped talking when she noticed him watching her. Grace took a deep breath and asked her, “Who does your nails, Heather?”

The girl held out her hand, warming up to Grace’s nice voice, and no sooner had she extended it did Grace bend back her fingers. Heather squealed and Grace told her, “I don’t need any guard dog, Heather.” Students gasped and Grace mushed Heather’s face. “Go to the nurse. You’re gonna need ice.”

Simon chuckled as he and Grace fell back into step, and the hallway kids made way for them, unsure of what things could set one of them off and make something like that happen again. Meanwhile, Grace went back to speaking warmly to the ones that she liked and had rapport with and completely ignoring others. Simon was just there, with her, softly smiling at her. His arm went around her shoulder and she leaned into him and commented, “Talking about a guard dog. Bitch I’M the guard dog!”

“A common misconception,” he said, laughing, their faces practically touching.

“I really do save you from harm entirely too much,” she fake complained.

“That wasn’t harm. That was a girl with a bad dye job mumbling to her friend to seem cool.”

“Well… I didn’t like it!”

Grace had brought Simon around her parents and told them that Simon was her best friend and explained that he was at the academy on a scholarship, but his GPA was the highest in their class and he wrote, built things… Her mother lost interest at some point, but her father had more and more questions for Simon. All he had to do was remain chill. Grace nervously wrung her hands while Mr. Monroe asked Simon more damn questions than he ever even asked HER about her life. She supposed that was because to a degree he knew everything about her life, but she didn’t like it, still. Simon spoke very highly of Grace and even credited her for things that she didn’t remember ever doing or flat out knew that she had not. Mr. Monroe seemed very pleased with each compliment. She supposed it made him feel like they were doing well. After all, they didn’t really ever have to have conversations about her. As long as she was doing everything right, they barely got involved. Her mother began scrolling on her phone. That’s how not concerned she was, both with Simon’s praise of Grace and Simon, period.

Grace asked, nicely, “Mom, did I mention that Simon took the photos of me that got me that deal?”

“You did. What you keep forgetting to mention is why Simon was in our home that that time of morning and why you were still in the previous night’s clothes.”

“She tried to tell you that at the pumpkin patch on the phone, and you cut her off,” Simon said. The entire room went silent and Grace’s eyes went wide. He didn’t say it rudely or anything, so he was confused as to why they were looking at him like he had most definitely stepped out of line.

“What he meant was I forgot to tell you later, because I couldn’t tell you at the time, because you were calling me about the offer. I went to an after party, after the dance and I got in late, but didn’t want to wake you. I went straight to sleep, so I was still in it whenever Simon came over the next day for our 4th annual visit to the pumpkin patch.” Simon frowned.

“At which, you didn’t bring home pumpkins.”

“She was the victim of a hate crime,” Simon said.

“WHAT?” Both of her parents said, her mother dropped her phone and sat up.

“Please stop helping me,” Grace said. Simon folded his arms and she explained, “I bumped into a man and he called me a racial charged epithet. I didn’t feel very nice afterwards, so Simon escorted me home.”

“After I had some strong words with him,” Simon said, smirking. Grace fought a smile of her own, but she REALLY wished he’d be quiet. Then again, her parents looked different. They looked concerned, but grateful. Simon had worked magic in her life again. She smiled at him.

Her mother spoke next, “Well, Simon, do you plan on taking our daughter to the Winter Ball?”

“Oh, I um…”

“Because, I’ll have to style you, you understand? You can’t be trusted to do it yourself,” she told him. Grace’s lip dropped.

“Well, I don’t know if Grace wanted to go to the Winter Ball with me…”

“Yeah! Yes, Mom. We’re going together.”

“Great. Jerry will have to get your measurements as soon as possible.”

“Jerry?”

“The tailor,” Grace said.

He nodded. They… seemed to like him, or at least tolerate him and like the fact that he was taking care of their daughter to the best of his ability.

By Winter, Grace found herself rethinking that whole friendship thing… But, she didn’t say that. She wasn’t going to. Not even when he ran for Student Council president and won despite the fact that she was pretty sure a lot of their class did not like him. Not even when he was bringing trophies into the school. Not even when he was excelling at everything, helping to change things that he was not excelling at, spending time seemingly bonding with her dad and becoming better about shutting up whenever he was in her mom’s presence. Simon had even begun to start going on vacations with them.

Typically, she had a caregiver, but given her age and the fact that Simon was a nice enough child that they knew was not as fortunate, they would allow him to come, as long as his parents didn’t mind, and get him to assure them that he would make sure that Grace was alright. It annoyed her that (her father) made those “little deals” with him, then he’d tip him, like a lot. Simon joked about going on trips with all those other girls at school who liked him to make bank. Grace didn’t find it funny and he wound up having to suck up to her. The fact that this was very “couplish” type behavior wasn’t lost on him, but they never brought that conversation up since the pumpkin patch. Her parents weren’t usually around them most of the time, but she would be around them more than when she was little (when she annoyed them).

Her dad seemed to prefer Simon’s company, however. Simon had been starved for a man to like him and Grace was an only child, so she guessed that they were connecting because they were both dudes or whatever. But, during those times, if she tried to establish a connection with her mother, the woman generally seemed exhausted to have to bother with her, or only excited when it came to potential auditions or information about the beauty brand she was dealing with. It made her focus more on her arts and beauty ventures.

Simon helped her with maintaining and managing stuff, and interceding with her mom for ideas that she was too nervous to bring to her. Grace didn’t like how she seemed to be open to his ideas, convinced that her mom never would have heard her out if she had said the very same things! “I think that they’re just used to me speaking up, because I always have while you’ve always just tried to say whatever you thought that they wanted to hear,” Simon told her and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “It’s fine. What they think doesn’t matter, remember? There’s just us.”

But, it sort of felt like it was just her sometimes. She would go to the dance studio for hours, working on routines and post herself online doing choreography and climbing the social media ladder as a dancer. Sometimes, she would make music and songs and feature them with some moves. She was started to capitalize on her talents and kids at school definitely either feared or respected her, no matter what was going on at home.

Home life wasn’t so bad. Her parents were still very aloof about her, but at least she got to talk business with them, as handling her growing online fame and her brand was a lot of work.

They eventually hired a team, though. She saw less of them, but they always made sure to be on their best close knit and loving fakeness for appearances and interviews.

They expanded the private community, Monroe Square, and Grace became one of those faces that people saw online all of the time, some new, some worshipped, some hated out of sheer exhaustion with her popularity, but one thing was certain, she ran everything at the Academy.

Simon had been focused on his academic career, organizing Grace’s hectic mess of everything that she touched. That girl, sometimes he swore HAD to be doing the things that she did on purpose. Like, whenever she would toss something at a trash can that clearly wasn’t going to go in or even near it and not even look, because she knew that a lemming would rush to rectify her mistake. Or whenever she would be done with something and just toss it into the crowd and watch people scramble over it. He liked that she was bold and powerful. He hated that she was careless and messy, but if her carelessness ever caused a physical issue, everybody knew that he was her muscle. The guy wasn’t large and he was pretty thin, too. But what he lacked in size and stature, he made up for in being absolutely obsessed with taking care of Grace.

Everyone knew that if she rationalized to him not to attack someone, because he could get into a lot of trouble, that person always mysteriously came into some trouble of their own later. It drove people a little bit angry that somebody on Simon’s “level” was matched up beside someone like Grace, giving him power and privilege that they hadn’t been previously used to him having. (It bothered some of them that Grace ever had any, if we’re being honest). But, there was nothing that you could do about it. They were just the biggest kids in school now.

Grace got a custom lipstick color that she named Apex Red, and whenever she deemed somebody worthy of being her “friend” read follower, she’d kiss them on the cheek with it and they would be allowed to post it and call themselves members of the Apex - the name her stans co-opted because she used it as a tag so much.

People would always use the hashtags in their posts: TheQueensMark,ApexRed,IAmApex,GraceAndSimon,TheApex - if nothing else those HAD to be in the post. They could be disowned for not following some very meticulous and dedicated rules that Simon put into place in order to try to assist Grace in navigating her online fame with her school popularity and her Apex fanbase with her actually handpicked followers in her real world. He loved that she had stans, but they needed to first and foremost remember where they stood in line of reverence, somewhere beneath him. Nobody was her number one stan or biggest fan or anything similar, and one of the Apex rules was that IF you saw or heard someone suggest it was to correct them by saying that Simon actually was and half the time, they followed it up with, “You’d know that if you were a real fan.”

Sometimes, he’d watch arguments in her comments indicating that he wasn’t “a fan, but cofounder of the Apex. The Apex is Grace AND Simon! She’s the face and he’s the function!” and rebuttals saying, “Simon himself hails Grace as the head of the Apex, you null!” He would like both comments, just to be clear that he saw them and didn’t weigh in. They were both right.

Simon believed in their friendship, their love, their talents, and their power. They were the Apex, but Grace was from money so she had reach that he simply just didn’t, so, she got to be the leader and he was content to be her support. She shared everything with him, anyway. Her success, credit where he would have not taken it, popularity, money, and most importantly for him, herself. She always had time for him. He was worried when she initially began to catch on that it might go to her head and she’d leave him in the shadows, but she ALWAYS looked to see where he was and made sure that he was okay, if she didn’t insist on having him right next to her.

Whenever they came up the school steps and everybody made way for them to come through, and the fangirls smiled and the fanboys melted, and the teachers shook their heads and rolled their eyes at how extra kids could be, Grace and Simon were always right next to each other.

#If They Didn't Get on the Train #AU Infinity Train #Infinity Train #Nesha Fanfiction #Infinity Train Fanfiction #fics #The Apex Rises

20 notes · View notes

sophies-earbuds · 5 years

Text

Inside (an irondad fic)

Word count: 2768

Summary: During a work day in the lab, Peter tells Tony about the night the Vulture was arrested.

Ao3

“Hey, Pete, can you hand me that screwdriver over there?”

Peter reaches for the small tool on the desk, which is about four feet out of Tony’s reach due to his habit of rolling tools out of the way once he’s done with them, even though he’s going to need them again just a few seconds later. Apparently, having an intern is the best thing to happen to Tony’s workshop since sliced bread.

“Yeah, as long as you don’t fling it across the room again,” Peter teases sarcastically, handing the screwdriver to his mentor, who flashes him a pointed look that doesn’t come across as anything but fond to Peter.

“You’ll come to learn that some habits are unbreakable, kid. But as long as I have you in the lab, I think I’ll be just fine,” Tony tells him, to which Peter rolls his eyes, hating when Tony pulls the whole ‘I’m an old adult and you’re a learning teenager’ spiel.

“So, what do you do when I’m not here, just sit around until someone comes along to hand you the tool you just flung away?” Peter asks, leaning his cheek on his hand, watching Tony mess around with a pair of decked out sunglasses he’s making for Peter, which he hopes will help dial back his heightened senses while he isn’t in his suit. At the moment, he’s trying to add a chip that will connect the glasses to Karen, paired with discreet earpieces Peter can wear all the time, sort of like reverse hearing aids that will also double as a bluetooth for the glasses and his phone. He has to admit, it’s incredibly cool. He’s mostly there just to oversee and learn about nanotechnology, and to test run some of the tech to fit his accommodations.

“Pretty much, Underoos.”

As Tony keeps on with his work on the glasses, Peter pulls out his chemistry work from his bag, opening up his notebook to the page of his newest web fluid compound, and set to work theorising new ways to make the fluid last longer, so he’d stop losing his backpacks as the webs dissolve. Hiding them in a more discreet manner is definitely not an option in Peter’s mind, because where’s the fun in that? He’s got no time to put down his backpack before going out on patrol after school.

“Working on some new web fluid?” Tony asks, glancing over at Peter’s notes. He’s suddenly very conscious about the way he decorates his notes with doodles and bubble letter headings, filling in corners and blank spaces with zentangle patterns he’d learned back in a short middle school art course.

“Yeah, I wanna make sure that the criminals I web up won’t be able to escape with a blade, or that it won’t dissolve so quickly…,” he trails off, focusing again on filling in a few annotations, marking out what will and won’t work.

“So… you want to create a web shield?” Tony asks with the quirk of an eyebrow in his direction.

Peter thinks for a moment, considering the idea. “Not what I was going for, but that’s definitely going on my to-do list,” he says, flipping a page to scribble down a hasty note about durable and retractable web shields.

“We can start on it tomorrow morning. You’re staying the night, right? You cleared it with May?”

Peter rolls his eyes, smiling at how overprotective Tony is with him sometimes. “Yeah, I called her earlier, said we were supposed to have a late night in the lab. I think she was more relieved, though, said something about making plans with some friends. I’m glad she can get a night without having to worry about me dying or something.”

“Yeah, because you’re so safe here, with all of the untested tech and literal weapon robots,” Tony says sarcastically, messing with a microchip prototype under a magnifying glass, testing out the waters with the mini Karen file, thus proving his point.

“Mr. Stark, I think we both know I’m safer with you than I am by myself,” Peter tells him reluctantly. Usually, he won’t admit so easily that what he does is dangerous, mostly because he doesn’t like to worry the helicopter adults in his life, but he knows it’s the truth.

“That, and maybe you’ll finally get some sleep.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter goes back to stare at his notes, wondering what he’s missing in his compound, and eventually decides he can’t pay attention to it, so he instead watches what Tony is doing.

So far, the glasses are pretty much skinned so Tony can fit all of the tech inside of them, ensuring that nobody will be able to figure out their actual purpose. Being discreet is key in highschool, even without weird spider powers.

“Run out of ideas?” Tony asks, not looking away from his project.

“Only for now. I’ll probably think of something while on a snack break later,” Peter tells him, spinning from side to side on his stool, unable to sit still for even a moment.

“Speaking of, I picked up those chips you said you liked,” Tony mumbles through a screwdriver he has clenched between his teeth, making his words almost unintelligible.

“Seriously? Thanks, Mr. Stark. May refuses to buy them anymore. Says I inhale them like oxygen,” Peter laughs, already thinking about their next break so he can rip into a bag. It’s not like it’ll help with sustenance or anything, since his metabolism is freakishly fast from the spider bite, but it’ll still taste good.

“Perhaps I should confiscate them, if that’s the case.”

Starting to pout deliberately, Peter looks up at Tony, his cheeks being squished by his hands as he siccs the puppy eyes on his mentor. It always works with Ned, so why not Tony?

“Kid, I’m immune to the eyes. And I was kidding, I’m not that much of a buzzkill.” Peter can practically hear the eyeroll in his voice, and grinned again, sitting up straighter on his stool and letting go of his cheeks. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have to prevent you from going into heart failure, though. I’m still responsible for you.”

“Mr. Stark, my body was literally modified to prevent that from happening itself,” Peter explains, waving around his arms exasperatedly. Tony gives him a pointed look.

“Yeah, well, you can still form medical ailments like the human you are. Don’t want you ending up with one of these,” he says, knocking on the middle of his chest with his knuckles, eliciting a hollow metal clanking noise. Not that he really needs it anymore, the shrapnel is all gone, but the reactor still powers the Iron Man suits.

“I’m fine, sir, really. Nothing gets past this immune system. I’m not even sure normal vaccinations will work on me anymore,” Peter goes off, not realising that he’s splitting onto a new tangent every second.

“Want me to get a doctor up here tomorrow? Figure all that out for you?” Tony offers. “I know it’s not Bruce, but I have some doctors on standby who know how to deal with enhanced and modified humans,” he explains, still messing around with the Karen prototype. He seems to be trying to find ways to fit it inside the frame, using small, thin wires that look like they can’t hold much power, but are probably more effective than they look.

“That’d be great, thanks,” Peter says with relief. “Backtracking, do you know where Dr. Banner went off to?” he asks, tilting his head. If Peter is being honest, Bruce is one of the people he’s most excited to meet, hoping to converse about biology and medicine, since Tony is more of a mechanic type scientist. And while Peter loves all types of science, he has yet to talk to a real professional Doctor. Maybe he’ll collect the holy trinity of science mentors: technology, biology, and chemistry.

“No idea, Kid. Just fell off the face of the earth, haven’t been able to contact him since that Ultron thing,” Tony mumbles through his concentration.

“Well, I hope he’s not in any danger,” Peter vocalises his thoughts, not really meaning to say that part out loud, even though he knows Tony is thinking it as well.

“I want to say that I know he isn’t, but I can’t lie to you, Kid. Whenever someone goes missing, I always have to worry.”

On that note, Peter decides to stay quiet, not entirely sure if Tony wants his opinion on the matter at this point. But he’s wired the same way. It’s why he goes patrolling every night; when people are in danger, he has to worry, and do something about it. Otherwise it’s his fault when the bad things happen.

After a few more minutes, Tony lets out a groan of frustration, hanging his head low and stretching his neck muscles before resuming the project.

“Oh, forgot to tell you, we got news of Toomes’ case this morning. Short trial, they bring him into jail tonight,” Tony says offhandedly, switching one of his magnifying glasses. His tongue is sticking out of his mouth, which Peter knows is a sign that he’s working with a fairly frustrating gadget.

The way Peter tenses at the name, sucking in a breath he can’t seem to let go of, brings Tony out of his concentration to face him. He even turns his chair, which signals a conversation is about to happen.

“What did that guy do to get you so anxious? You were confident in your ability to ‘take him down’ just a month ago,” Tony asks, furrowing his brows at Peter, who rubs at his neck, biting his lip at the thought of having to relive any second of what happened with the Vulture.

“It’s nothing. He uh- I mean he had creepy eyes on his wingsuit, so-”

“Pete, you and I both know that is not the whole truth. You’re a horrible liar. I’m surprised nobody’s figured out you’re Spider-Man yet,” Tony interrupted, earning himself a lighthearted glare.

“For one thing, the only people who have figured it out are you, Ned, and May, and you barely count because you’re some sort of superhero magnet,” Peter tells him, tapping his pencil against his notebook, studying his own handwriting and ignoring whatever reaction Tony has to his statement. “And for another, it’s really okay, Mr. Stark. It’s not like I’m hurt or anything.”

“Kid, you can hurt inside, too. If something happened that night he hijacked the plane that makes you flinch when you hear his name, I want to know about it. I’m breaking the cycle of shame, remember?” Tony tells him, making his cheeks burn at the memory of his mentor indirectly referring to himself as Peter’s father figure. He reaches up to push his hair out of his face, having not done anything but let it air dry after his morning shower. Of course, his curls have to show themselves at the first sign of freedom from all of the product he usually puts in it on school days. With the amount of time Peter’s spent at the new facility since the move, he’s begun to not care about how he looks when he’s there.

After a good thirty seconds, Peter finally breaks under Tony’s probing stare.

“I followed him the night of the homecoming to his base, and he was waiting for me,” he begins, chancing a look up at Tony, who is paying him full attention. “Remember how the warehouse was all demolished and collapsed when they investigated his business?” he asks, not waiting for Tony to nod, but still flickering his eyes up to him. “Well, when I got there, I thought I had him, but he uh-” Peter took a deep breath. “He started saying all of these things about you and your business, and it threw me off that he was using my actual name, so I didn’t realise what was coming and he made his wingsuit break all of the support beams, and the um, well the ceiling caved, and the building just sort of… collapsed on me. And I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have Karen to contact anyone, so I started yelling for help, but nobody heard me, so I had to lift the beam that fell on me. And then I stuck to his suit and fought him up on the plane so he-”

“Woah, Pete, slow down,” Tony says, snapping Peter out of his reminiscence of that night. He doesn’t even realise that he’s completely spacing out until he feels his eyes burn from the lack of blinking. “He knows who you are?” Tony asks, resting a tentative hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter nods slowly. “And he dropped an entire building on you, knowing that you’re only fifteen?”

Peter nods again, trying to fight off the stupid tear that escapes his eye, wiping it away before Tony can notice. But of course he notices, because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Peter.

“Kid, why didn’t you mention this to anyone?”

Peter thinks for a moment. Why didn’t he? He figured the crashed plane was enough for Tony to deal with about that night, he didn’t need the added burden of Peter being trapped, especially since he knew Tony would blame it all on himself for taking away his suit, which wasn’t why it happened at all. Not to mention-

“It would have given away my identity, and I didn’t want to deal with the police about it. So, I webbed the guy up and left him for someone to find, then hid on the Cyclone until I knew for sure that he was caught and in custody. Next thing I know, you’re asking me to join the team.”

Tony leaves him in a string of silence, only his thoughts to keep him from going uneasy. The hand on his shoulder never falls away, only grips tighter after a few seconds.

When Tony opens his mouth, Peter expects him to say something about how stupid it was for him to withhold important information from the authorities, but instead finds himself being pulled into a tight hug, his head finding its way to Tony’s shoulder to rest on.

“Pete, I wish you’d told me sooner. I could’ve helped,” he whispers, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Peter’s head, fingers carding through his curls. The gesture is incredibly out of character and has never happened before, but it’s not bad. In fact, Peter could get used to this. It’s been so long since he’s received any sort of paternal affection, and while it may be weird, and he may feel guilty for thinking it, this is exactly what he remembers that feeling like.

But Tony Stark is not his father. He already has one of those. He may not be with him, but he’s still his dad.

That doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Tony, though, because a hug is a hug, and he’s in desperate need of one right now.

“It’s over now, Mr. Stark. I’m okay,” Peter tries to reassure him, but Tony just chuckles a little, reminding him that no situation is too serious. He thrives off of this mentality. It makes him feel like he doesn’t need to commit to the feeling of a moment.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one telling you that?” Tony asks, making Peter laugh along with him. With a light clap on the back, Tony pulls away, and the tear that slipped out earlier is now forgotten in the midst of his bright smile. He can physically feel himself getting happier just from the feeling of Tony being happy.

“I think we can take turns,” Peter tells him, a smirk finding its place on his face.

“Or you could just stop almost dying.”

“Only if you do.”

Peter looks up at Tony, making eye contact for a split second as they both raise an eyebrow, then looks away, smiling as he realises just how alike they really are. Maybe he’s not so far away from becoming who he wanted to be, even as a little kid.

“What do you say we take a break from the glasses and go upstairs to the kitchen, yeah? Tear into those chips, eat our feelings away?” Tony asks, pushing his stool under the workbench and walking over to the elevator. Peter grins, looking back at his notes for a moment before running over to Tony as he presses the button.

“Sounds like a plan, Mr. Stark.”

#i hate the way tumblr spaces paragraphs #its better on ao3 #marvel #spiderman #ironman #irondad #spiderson #irondad & spiderson #peter parker #tony stark

4 notes · View notes

ijuanainspire · 5 years

Text

Daily Grind

So you wanna be a law student huh? Whether you’re that philanthropic person who wants to give justice to the poor or you’re that straight A- student who wants to prove more or a victim of your parents’ obsession or profession, then WELCOME! Or better yet, GOODBYE.

Law school means saying good bye to lot of things such as your weekly night out or that Saturday night drinking spree with barkadas. Law school means less (or none at all) chill nights and saying hello to tons (literally) of readings and case digests.

It is a war. And it is ferocious. It will take your time, your life and will need a lot of dedication. But do not fear because every drop of sweat, blood and tears will be worth it and is worth it once you conquer this profession.

So how to gear up for this battle? Here are some of the materials I personally use and recommend if you have finally decided to commit yourself to the realms of law school.

1. Codals

A lot of people have judged me while I’m inside a public utility vehicle while I was reading or carrying with me my codals. They literally look like the Bible and if people around you are unaware of what they are, they will think you’re weird reading a Bible inside a jeepney or LRT. But nevermind them since these babies will save your ass once inside lawschool. These are the codified laws and they come in either the regular size about the size of a regular notebook or the mini versions which I prefer since they are more portable and easy to handle.

So where to buy them? They are available in your local National Bookstore or you can go to Rex Bookstore as it is the best place to go grab them. But beware, these precious babies are kinda costly but definitely a good investment. A codal can range from Php 600.00 to Php 1,000.00 or even more depends on the subject. Don’t confuse yourself with a codal and a reviewer or annotated book. A codal contains purely the law. A reviewer or annotated book contains explanations from different professors or justices. Sometimes, it depends upon your professor whom he prefers so I advice not to buy annotated books until you meet your profs. < 3

Into online shopping? Rex has a website and they deliver! Check out the link : https://www.rexestore.com/2-law?id_category=2&n=637

2. Pens, Highlighters

Aside from reading a lot, writing is another staple in law school. So invest wisely on a good sign pen. Most law schools adhere to sign pens/fountain pen only policy during their exams meaning you can only use those kind of pens when answering your exams, so better invest in a comfortable and good pen as early as your first day on law school. Good penmanship is a must and sometimes help (some professors will credit for good penmanship). So if you have crappy handwriting, better buy a writing book where you can practice your hand writing. Professors won’t bother reading your answers if you have bad handwriting.

I personally use a Pilot Hi-Tecpoint V5 or V7 in Black, Red and Blue. I use Black solely for exam purposes while the Red pen is dedicated to my notes and reminders. Using a bright color helps me to retain things in my mind better. I use the Blue pen to write either the date or topic in my papers or reviewers, it keeps me organize and helps me to recall. A pen costs about Php 45.00 to Php 50.00 depends on the store selling them. Some of my classmates use G-tech but I tend to misplace a lot of those pricey things.

My favorite highlighter is the Stabilo Pastel Yellow or the Sharpie also in Yellow. They cost about Php 35.00 to Php 45.00 each. I have them in different shades: A Neon Pink for titles of cases, the Yellow for important facts or doctrines, a Neon Yellow for super important lines in cases, a Pastel Pink for the names and details of the persons in the case and a lot more colors coz why not right? :D

Recently, Stabilo released new highlighters which come in slimmer versions also in pastel shades. Although, I still prefer using the traditional ones. Invest wisely on your pens and coloring materials as they will help you adjust into comfort once classes start.

3. Pen capsule/ Pencil case

When you have become a highlighter and pen hoarder, you will definitely need a container for them. In law school, most students prefer using Pen Capsules. They are that cylindrical looking pencil case which can stand on its own, which allows you to just pick your pen upright and voila! Although it is not a requirement in law school, it is a preferred must have.

I bought my pen capsule in SM Department store, in their Stationery section. It was really cheap, only Php 99.00 and comes in two colors, Pink and Gray. However, when I tried to buy again, they sold out and eversince, they haven’t restocked (that was way in 2016 and still checking out until 2019). FILED is another shop which sells pen capsules. I’m not sure if they are the pioneer in selling but if they are, credits to them. However FILED pen capsules are kinda costly if you ask me. A regular one costs around Php 300.00 or more. I once gifted a FILED pen cap to a friend and it cost nearly Php 500.00 but it was really pretty! It was in pink and had embroidery. The quality is mighty fine, worth the price. Although if compared side by side with the one I bought in SM, the FILED pen cap appears to be slimmer and limited in space. But it is definitely a pretty pencil case.

Check out the FILED website, they do delivery! https://filed.com.ph/collections/pens-pen-cases

(Disclaimer: I do not own this photo. Grabbed from the page of FILED. So this is the Pen Capsule I gifted for my friend, the Pink one. Pretty aye?)

4. Bag

When you are carrying a lot of stuff (codals, pencaps, reviewers etc.), you will definitely need a good bag! Whether it is a back pack or typical go to bag, it doesn’t matter if its a Gucci or Nike, if everything fits, and it’s sturdy, go for it.

It was a struggle for me to find a good bag, especially my laptop is kinda bulky. But lo and behold online shopping, I finally found the back pack for me.

So I found my back pack in Lazada, it costs only Php 599.00 during the time I purchased it. I was obsessed with it, the size and appearance is just on pointe. Check out the link to see the specifications and other details: https://www.lazada.com.ph/products/pr-miole-v3-classic-leather-backpack-i277598963-s414923985.html?fbclid=IwAR3IluPEaHtDaxRmJQ3rjaFJJkEAodfwHGscbxZGaxQm5_V64gtbvJUPBLQ

6. Laptop

You will definitely need this. So as early as now invest in a sturdy one! One that has tons of memory because you will use it all! And if possible, buy a laptop that is lightweight. It is an agony to carry around your books and materials and on top of that, a laptop that weighs around 2kg or more. If you have the cash to splurge on a quality and lightweight laptop, just do it. I tell you, it is worth it.

But of course this is just a personal suggestions and not a law school requirement. If you can’t afford to buy a lightweight laptop, better learn how to manage your stuff in your bag so you won’t burden yourself with all the weight of carrying a heavy bag.

What laptop to choose? I prefer the iCore series or just ask your local tech guy what laptop can withstand tons of office work and browsing at the same time. That will do the trick. If you want to run DOTA in your laptop, better buy one in the iCore series with a videocard in it. Thank me later!

So there you goooo.... you may notice, I didn’t put any notebooks or papers. The reason is, we are all different when it comes to studying. I don’t usually use notebooks since all my notes are written in my cases. Yellow papers are a must though, but just pack some for yourself or you’ll end up supplying the whole class. Trust me on this.

Law school is hard, worth it, crazy and really hard so you’ll really have to love it and learn how to balance your life around it. But that will be for another blog so stay tuned!! I hope this helps!! <3

xxx D.

#law #lawschool #lawstudent #lawschoolstartepack #FILED #bag #highlighter #codals #lawschoolblog

1 note · View note

clove-teasdale · 6 years

Text

truths & lies

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

A/N: not a challenge. OKAY Y’ALL, this takes place the same day as THIS FIC from @brooks-schreave but at night. if u want context re-read that. not entirely necessary if u remember what happened but leaving it there anyway. I hope this wasn’t too bad and I made it justice. thanks grace for the rp <3 ft. my guards and brooks. also, I needed a name at one point and was uncreative, sorry. over 3k words. forgive typos and stuff, enjoy! (and since it’s today, happy holidays!!)

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

I was turning around the last corner to my room when I heard the prince’s voice.

“Officers! A nice evening we're having…”

A small smile formed on my face as I watched Brooks talking with fake enthusiasm aimed at Barnes and Rogers. Seeing them patrolling around the hall was something I was used to by that point and they were quite the amusing pair. According to the maids, Rogers was in his first year of duty, a smart kid extremely loyal to the monarchy. Barnes, in contrast, had been serving for over a decade, already with a family of his own. His loyalty to the job.

Rogers immediately bowed to Brooks, not bothering to question why he’d start such a trivial conversation with them. “Absolutely, Highness.”

Barnes, however, only bowed politely. Sharp as ever as he asked if there was something they could help him with. “Oh, no, no…” Brooks said, kicking the ground, clearly uncomfortable. “You must be wondering why I'm here.”

Rogers shook his head, almost offended at the thought of being considered so disrespectful. “Oh, but it's your palace.”

“It's the floor of the Selected,” Barnes interjected, suspicion and disapproval noticeable before he quickly added, “But it is not our place to wonder, Highness.”

Subtle, Barnes. I walked the rest of the way to my room, getting closer to them quietly. This was sure to be an entertaining conversation, our conspiring could wait.

“Glad you asked!” Brooks clapped his hands together, smiling awkwardly. “I am just checking up on things, being a good guy. I am in no way here to see anyone specific.”

Barnes raised his brows and I shook my head. I had guessed he was a bad liar before, but he was worse than I’d expected.

“You shouldn't worry about that, Highness,” Rogers began, oblivious to Barnes' suspicion, “we're doing our job well, I assure you. You can go on about your day and let us worry about the guarding.”

“For once my partner is right,” Barnes eyed the prince warily, “you should not concern yourself which such trivial things, but it's very... kind of you.”

“I want to be a guard!" Brooks blurted out, practically irradiating panic as he nodded to himself. "Th-that's why I'm here. I'm practicing.”

I rose both eyebrows, almost facepalming before the need to laugh hit me. I contained it though. “You wanna be a what now?”

Barnes and Rogers both looked at him with their own shocked expressions. “That’s unexpected, Highness.”

“That’s an understatement,” Barnes mumbled.

“Yeah, I've just always been fascinated with the... brute work.”

Brooks’ act was crashing and I snorted at the sight. “I hardly think it’s polite of you to call it brute... Highness.”

He turned to fully face me. “Clove, what a coincidence!”

One of my eyebrows went up as I watched him walk over, trying to hide my amusement as I grinned, “Is it?” His eyes narrowed.

“You're right, it isn't,” shaking his head solemnly, he faced the guards, “we're lovers meeting for our nightly tryst.”

My eyes widened before I glared at him, taking a step closer as a silent threat. You little... Fixing a smile on my face, as if that were the type of joking I approved of him, I let out a fake laugh. I punched his arm in faux playfulness though. “How funny, Brooks.”

He grabbed his arm, doing his best to pull up a smile through the pain. “I am a jokester.”

I spared him one last glare, then smiled politely at Barnes and Rogers. “He probably just needs help with that...Spanish homework of his.”

Officer Rogers tilted his head. “Don't you have tutors, Highness?”

“The prince is too shy to ask for help, aren't you Brooks?” I countered.

We didn’t need an awkward pause of Brooks debating what to say, and besides, it was my turn to embarrass him. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying it. Brooks had no other option than to whisper it was true so the dreadful exchange could be over.

“Oh, deeply sorry, Highness. We didn't know,” Rogers apologized quickly. Barnes narrowed his eyes, seeming not quite sure if he should believe it but bowed anyway. “We'll leave you to it.” He spun on his heel to leave and Roger followed quickly with, “At your service, if you ever need it.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Brooks sighed and I reached for his arm to shove him in the room. Closing the door behind me, I leaned against it for a moment, that weird need to laugh taking over again. This time I let myself do so.

“Stop laughing.” Brooks crossed his arms. “That wasn't funny.”

I ignored him, of course. “You want to be a guard?” I made a face of fake disbelief, bringing a hand to my chest. “How incredibly humble of you.”

“You're amused, aren't you?”

I was. Very much so. Faking a more serious tone I continued, “Brute force is so very important on the life of a guard. I'm glad you are aware of it.” My chuckling became softer as my amusement subsided. It was a little strange to tease him just for the sake of it instead of the usual sting I used when he was being a jerk, but I wasn't about to complain about witnessing such a priceless scene.

“I'm glad you enjoyed that.”

Meeting his gaze, I managed to stop laughing, realizing this was Brooks. I composed myself and cleared my throat. “Yeah, well... anyway....” I walked to the closet, searching for my box hidden behind some shoes. Taking it to the room, I set the box on the bed and opened it to reveal a couple of old magazines, my random sheets with notes, the journal he'd given me from the library, and my own notebook.

Picking up the journal, I flipped through the first pages. “It's been proving a little hard to read, in all honesty, but I've figured out the first chapters in my spare time the last two days.” I handed him the journal opened on the first margin annotation and then reached for my notebook in the box. “This is what I've got so far. I haven't gotten to the details of how they do it yet,” that was in further chapters, “but I'm pretty sure they don't leave the Selection to chance anymore.”

I handed him my notebook opened on my progress. It wasn't much, but there were readable transcriptions of the first Spanish annotations from the margins of the journal, then translations underneath and my own notes for context.

To avoid wasting time reading all of them, he asked, “What does it say?”

“Basically, it seems they consider the royal bloodline to be of utmost importance and therefore thought of it wise to further consider who is worthy enough to produce an heir.” I rolled my eyes as I explained, understanding the concern to some level, but knowing caste alone did not define worthiness. It was about finding the right person and choosing wisely. Heart and mind. “Of course, the whole charade of the Selection is that it's equal and impartial. Letting a daughter of Illéa join the highest of ranks and bring a voice to the people. That means they can't really be openly selective of who is allowed to join and who isn't.” The journal was proof that that didn’t stop them, however.

“But does the heir still have a choice?”

I pressed my lips together, knowing he meant Nate. “I doubt he's aware... Your father on the other hand…”

He closed his eyes. I understood that disappointment well. “That's what I thought. Do you think your dad knows?”

Clenching my jaw, I looked away. “I'm afraid to say it's very likely most of the advisers know.”

Even without reading more of the journal, I knew Dad had to be involved. It would be foolish to deny it. I couldn’t turn a blind eye to the strings of logic weaving in my head, creating a fuller picture. Wilson called it my double-edged sword. You can't always hold on to hope when the reality is hitting you right in the face. Just like I had been unable to pretend I didn't notice Miss Grundy's strange mannerisms whenever parent-teacher conferences came along.

A hand on my back broke my thoughts. “Hey, we don't know if this is still going on, and if it is, on the bright side, I guess you're considered worthy.”

He was trying to be nice, but a dry laugh left my mouth either way as I stepped away from his hand. “How fortunate to be defined by a number.” I knew he was trying to be nice. To joke, be light-hearted. Sadly for him, I wasn’t the best when it came to people comforting me.

Actually, I probably wasn’t the best at comforting others either. Not in the most conventional of ways at least. I chewed the inside of my cheek, muttering, “I didn't think he was that type of person.” Then shaking my head, I focused back on the box. There was no point in sulking. I just had to push it aside.

With the help of the palace library, I’d found a book on the analysis of handwriting. There were a couple of general markers that people used to figure out psychological aspects of who’d been holding the pen, but some were also used to predict the probable gender of the writer. I had printed out pictures I’d taken from the book, showing stroke samples and statistics.

Standing next to Brooks so he could compare the writing in the journal, I steered our conversation back to the research. “I have no clue who wrote this since it was years ago, but considering the way of the strokes it was very likely a man.”

“I take offense to that remark.”

“Great. That's extra points for it being an accident.”

He smiled at my quick retort. “How many points were earned for the slap?”

I looked at him surprised, holding back a grin by pressing my lips together and pushing him away, taking the journal in the process. “That was your own fault.”

“Maybe so, but violence is never the answer.”

“Fair point.” I wasn’t about to argue against it, so instead, I said the truth with a shrug. “I was in a bad mood.”

“I was trying to provoke you.”

Faking a gasp, I gave him a perplexed look. “Were you really?!” Then letting my expression fall flat, “What a plot twist.”

He laughed, which wasn't too bad a sound, bumping shoulders with me as he kept a smile on. “It's how I show I care.”

I scoffed. “That's a stupid way of showing it.”

“Next time, I'll just shower you with compliments. Promise.”

“Sure. Let's see if you don't die from such a hardship.”

His eyes brightened for some reason as he leaned towards me, acting dramatically. “Oh, my dearest Clove, how your smile shines like the sun.” I raised an eyebrow and he leaned closer, looking at the ceiling and clutching his chest. “Your voice is like a song and I'm addicted to the melody.”

I crossed my arms and countered, “Max said my name alone was like music.”

He looked back down at me with a small smile. “And how right he was.”

I did my best not to seem too amused as I narrowed my eyes. This is probably how he acts around Eloise. I feigned suspicion, lifting my chin. “So this is how you get all the other girls to like you, huh?”

“Oh yeah, they can't contain themselves.”

“Are you admitting you've been flirting with the Selected?”

“Absolutely. I just can't help it.”

I chuckled at his persistence to keep this going. Though I wasn’t sure what it even was. Joking? Acting like decent human beings around each other for once? “What’s gotten into you?”

He stopped, leaning back. “You told me to be nice.”

“Oh, sorry,” I joked, aiming for the harmless teasing from earlier, “I thought that word wasn’t in your vocabulary. It's unexpected I must admit.”

He tilted his head. “All you had to do was ask.”

I gave him a flat look. “I’ve implied it before and so far, before today, you’ve failed.”

“You looked like you needed cheering up.” I could only blink at him after that, taken aback by his admission. I hadn’t thought he would actually notice, let alone help.

I’d had lunch with my dad the previous day, unable to cancel even if the last thing I wanted to do was face him after the journal. He’d lied to my face and there was nothing I could say about it. I had to act like everything was okay. Like I didn't know what he was involved in.

Pushing down the wave of anger at the memory of sitting with him and laughing at his jokes, I closed my eyes and let silence fill the room. Brooks and I would figure out the truth. Somehow, eventually, we would have the needed proof.

I took a deep breath and glanced back at him, allowing myself to smile, yet it turned into a full-on grin as I shook my head. The dork and I working together. Who would’ve thought? I tilted my head in his direction, watching him for a moment. “Thanks, then.”

He smiled back, some sort of pride lighting up his features, “Anytime.”

Mere seconds later, however, he looked away, hands fidgeting. I scratched the back of my neck, awkwardness rubbing off on me too. Change of subject it is. “So, what are we planning to do with this information once we've got more figured out?” I thought about it for a second. “I want others to know.”

“Wow, Teasdale. Looks like we agree. Let's hope the world doesn't end.”

“Dramatic much?” I asked, but he claimed to be a dramatic person on a regular basis. I said I used 'annoying' as his usual adjective and he brought some sarcasm into the mix by calling me ‘absolutely delightful’. “I see the compliments keep coming. Trying to keep me in a good mood?”

That finally got him flustered. “Y'know this is harder than it looks. I don't know how to act around you. I jus-I'm a little lost here.”

“And you think I know?" The need to defend me took over. Little kids arguing. "Before the library, the last thing you let me know was how no one wanted me around. Not precisely the most welcoming of statements.” He froze, stuttering and I sighed. “Just save it, Brooks. Point is I'm entitled to my skepticism, and as you said before, we weren't precisely friends in the past. You had no reasons to argue with me or accuse me of anything and yet you still did so.” Maybe I was a little angry about it. “I don't even know why.”

He looked down with frustration, but composed himself quickly, meeting my gaze again. “I know I haven't been the most polite, or chivalrous, o-or decent man to you.” He closed his eyes. “You have to understand, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know why I do it, I don't know why it's aimed towards you. I'm sorry.”

I stared at him as he kept his eyes shut, seeming far too embarrassed to look at me. Part of me couldn't believe he’d actually apologized. I wasn't sure if it was the most eloquent of apologies, but there was truth behind his words.

When he kept his eyes closed, I took a moment to think about how to reply. I wasn’t sure if this meant we could try to be friends now--an idea he’d completely loathed years back--but maybe, for the sake of our teamwork, we would have to avoid killing each other before getting answers.

Reaching for a pillow, I threw it at him. “That's my acceptance of your apology. You can open your eyes now.”

He opened them cautiously. “You've gotten violent.”

“It was that or…” I walked over and paused, reconsidering one last time before offering a hand for him to shake. “Clove Teasdale.” It was the same greeting I’d made the first time we’d met. When we were both just two freckled three-year-olds.

Back then he’d refused to accept it. Today he didn’t. “Brooks Schreave.”

I kept eye contact as he held to my hand, waiting for him to shake it and pointing out, “The pillow was more fun.”

He squeezed slightly. “Can't say I enjoyed it as much as an alternative response.”

“Like hitting you with two pillows?” I suggested. He gave me a flat look that made me grin. “I figured.”

His hand didn't move to shake, but he didn’t let go either so I glanced down at our joined hands. Uh... when I met his gaze again he was still looking directly at me, his expression awkward as I was getting used to at that point.

Not knowing what to do, he started swinging our hands. “I don't know how to stop. I feel like it'll make things awkward.”

A genuine laugh bubbled up. I hoped he didn’t feel like I was making fun of him, this was just a side of him I’d never seen before. “More awkward than to keep holding hands? Should I help you out?”

He nodded. “We'll both let go on the count of three.”

“One,” I began, “two,” he continued.

“Three,” I let go. He didn’t.

Well.

He snatched his hand back. “Whoops, made that worse.” I rolled my eyes and hit him with the pillow again after picking it up. He stumbled back. “That's not a soft pillow!” Then, attempting to take the cushion away, he accidentally pulled me with it.

Letting go of the pillow quickly, Brooks caught me before I could stumble forward, but in the process, Mr. clumsy decided to slip on the fallen pillow. My eyes widened as I placed hands out in front of me, hoping not to fall flat on my face. He swiftly shifted our positions to cushion my fall, however, groaning as I fell on his chest instead of the floor. “Shoot.”

Idiot. I moved off him, resting my back on the floor and admiring the ceiling. “You’re horrible.”

He ignored that and joked by saying I had a nice ceiling. I said it wasn’t mine, but he argued it was "for the time being."

“Wonder how long that’ll be.” After the discovery of the journal I hoped I'd be able to stay long enough to figure that out.

“You'll probably be here for a while, logs.”

I narrowed my eyes at his tone. “You’ve never called me that.”

“That's because it's stupid.”

I scoffed, lifting my upper body with the help of my elbows. “We were like 5.” I couldn’t tell if there was anger or annoyance in his gaze at the ceiling, but the word jealousy, also crossed my mind as I remembered my conversation with Quinn. I still couldn’t believe Brooks could have had a crush on me once, but if he had…

“You were clearly in love with him then," he stated, and I knew he meant Nate as he leaned up on his elbows too, locking eyes with me, "but tell me, are you now?”

I decided to keep the discussion civil as we’d failed to do in the past regarding this topic. “I’ve never been in love.” With Nate or otherwise.

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you assume I was?”

“Childhood infatuation is a common thing,” he explained, speaking a little lower.

“Infatuation is stupid.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “it is.” He was leaning closer, I could tell. He’d been moving in since the moment he’d sat up.

I frowned at the shift in the room, his face only an inch away. He was too close. What are you-... I opened my mouth but was cut off by a knock at the door.

“LADY CLOVE, DID YOU EAT DINNER?” I almost laughed at the sound of Barnes. Brooks stopped getting closer and moved away, looking down with a sigh as he lowered himself back to the floor.

Yelling back at Barnes on the other side of the door, I said, “I did!” And gave my current companion a suspicious glance.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR VISITOR?” Barnes called again. “MAYBE HE SHOULD LEAVE TO GET SOME FOOD.”

I silently questioned Brooks about what he’d thought he was doing as I replied, “Yes, maybe.” His blue eyes met mine without an answer.

“I heard dinner was quite delicious, Highness. You should check it out.”

“I'm sure it was,” the prince called back. To me, he added, “I think I should go.” Standing up, he gave me a slight nod before walking to the door, opening it and offering Barnes a smile as the guard moved aside to let him pass, bowing. I watched as his back disappeared with a raised eyebrow, unsure if I should let myself assume anything.

Then my expression was for Barnes as he stood by the door. “What was that all about?”

“General concern for your eating habits, Lady Clove. You’ve already skipped breakfast today I was told.”

Yeah, right. I’d gotten food with Eloise later anyway. “Officer Barnes?”

He pressed his lips together, but when I didn’t let him go he simple admitted, “I know what it’s like to be his age.”

I rolled my eyes. Jacinda had mentioned the officer had a soft spot for protecting people easily whether he liked to admit it or not. A lot of the younger staff members looked up to him because he looked out for them.

"It's not like that," I mumbled, but even as I said it, I stared back into the room. At the fallen pillow I'd hit Brooks with.

It couldn’t be.

#brooks tag #NEXT FIC IS THE SLEEPOVER #THEN CHRISTMAS STUFF #LOTS OF THAT LOL #author #im excited #barnes and rogers tag #//fics #//not a challenge

6 notes · View notes