#just a five minutes sketch to save the idea for later
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Anakin and the Jedi Babies: A Child's Ink
Context: Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono
WARNINGS: underage characters get tattoos/piercings
Word Count: 5680
Rating: T
Ships: primarily Gen (Disaster Lineage + Shmi), offscreen JangoShmi, past Obitine, past Anidala
----
Ylliben Skywalker is known as a preternaturally calm and quiet child, serious and pensive.
He jokes. He roughhouses. He is as responsive to tickle attacks and shoulder rides and warm hugs as any other child.
But he is Jetii'Manda, not just Mando'ade, and that fact is impossible to forget.
This is a child that can read before he can speak, a child who can talk at length about 'grassroots antiestablishment propaganda and its influence on rural sociological development' before he can say the words without a lisp. This is a child who looks a man in the eye and tells him to check over his blaster one last time, or it will explode in his hand only minutes into the next engagement. This is a child who is not only willing, but capable of discussing the plausible ramifications of Duke Adonai Kryze's latest decrees with Jaster Mereel himself, while still in possession of all his baby teeth.
(His father is not worried by this. Upset, sometimes, pained and tired, but not worried.)
(His sister only laughs.)
It is, as a result, not as surprising as it could be, when a six-year-old wanders his way into Na-Tsuyon's parlor and asks her what the risks of getting a tattoo at his age are.
"I'm not having that conversation with you unless your parent is here," she says. A few of the other artists crane their heads in her direction, but she waves them off.
"I'm not trying to get it right this moment," Ben protests. "I'm just gathering information. He said that was fine."
"Still need your parent here here," she tells him.
He leaves for about ten minutes, and then comes back with a tall, gangling figure in tow.
"I hear this isn't the place for unaccompanied minors," Knight Skywalker jokes.
(She has heard him called a General. She does not know which war he fought. Nobody does.)
(They no longer ask.)
"Well, he is young," she says, brushing her tentacles back over a shoulder. "I don't let anyone under human-fourteen get tattooed without a parent on hand, and giving preliminary information to anyone under twelve is... generally not worth it, shall we say."
Skywalker smiles, oddly amused in the way he always is when someone points out his children need supervision. "Glad to hear it. Are you the Na-Tsuyon whose name is on the door?"
"I am," she says. "And you're Knight Skywalker."
He's pleased at that. She can feel it in the chemical receptors of her head tails, and wonders. "Yep. So, do we jump right into the discussion or do you need me to sign something, or..."
"No, it's enough that you're here," she assures him. "Now, the main reasons we discourage tattoos for younger sentients is the distortion factor. While the level of pain is much lower than it would have been several millennia ago, and we have the technology to remove ink from below the skin, a tattoo before your body stops growing will distort as you grow and your skin stretches. You would need to come in yearly for touch-ups, to remove the sections that have moved out of place, and fill in where the ink is no longer settled."
"That makes sense," Ylliben says. He looks up at his father, and then back to her. "You'd be able to tell me if any of my choices would be... bad for a Mandalorian, yes?"
"I would," she confirms. She glances up at Knight Skywalker. "I don't suppose you have any history of getting tattoos?"
"No," he says. "I'm from Tatooine, so..."
Different connotations to the very act of it, for him.
She ducks her head in a nod. "I understand. Generally it's easier if the parent has experience in the process, but it's far from mandatory. You're willing to work with the distortion maintenance?"
"Yes'm," Ylliben says, and his father shrugs and gestures, as if the word of a six-year-old is thus law.
"I'll walk you through the details of the process, including the care, relevant allergies, and so on. I don't suppose you have anything in mind already?" she asks.
"I do," he says. He doesn't tell her what it is, yet.
Anakin Skywalker stays there the entire time, and they make an appointment for later in the week.
----
"My buir isn't my only father," Ylliben says quietly, when it comes time to get details on what he's getting tattooed. "I had another father before him. A Jedi. He died, to protect me, and a lot of other people. So, um..."
He shoves a picture to her, the symbol of the Jedi, plain and simple. She looks at him.
"In red," he says, shifting on his feet, looking up at his father and then back down at the page. "For, um, to honor a parent."
"Your first father was a Jedi?" she asks, gentle as she can.
"Mm-hm," Ylliben says. "He died, um... he saved buir from slavery, too, a long time ago. Both my dads were Jedi, and I'm going to be one, too, and so is Sokanth. It's--it's about where I come from, and--"
"You don't have to justify it if you don't want to," Na-Tsuyon tells him, reaching out to place one hand on his. It's very warm and dry, in her opinion, but she finds that most humans are. Mandalorians are some 80% human, or near human.
Nautolan Mandalorians aren't unheard of, but she's a rare one.
Ben sucks in a breath, and says, "I want it up here, on my right shoulder, like a pauldron."
Na-Tsuyon nods, and looks up to Skywalker. "You'll have to sign some papers to approve it, Master Jedi. You approve of the design?"
Skywalker hesitates, and then goes to one knee in front of his son, and speaks so quietly she can only hear "--remind you of the generator complex?"
Whatever Ben's answer is, it's too quiet for her to catch. It satisfies Skywalker, though, and he stands. "Alright, let's see this paperwork."
----
When Ylliben comes in again, a year later to get his slightly-twisting tattoo fixed, it's with Miss Shmi in tow. Na-Tsuyon greets the middle Skywalker, for all that she's still not entirely sure how to address the girl. "I heard you've been attending the university at Sundari. Some kind of engineering?"
"Mechanical, yes," Shmi says, oddly soft. "I'm going to spend another year to specialize in vehicular engineering. I'd like to design starships, since I already know how to fix them."
"A worthy goal," Na-Tsuyon says, as she leads them over to one of the stations and starts sanitizing Ylliben's inked shoulder. She doesn't entirely see why a university education is needed for something that, in her opinion, an apprenticeship could more thoroughly cover. It certainly worked well enough Na-Tsuyon herself. "You're on vacation, then?"
"I am," Shmi confirms. "It's... unfortunate that Anakin couldn't be here a the same time, but we'll see each other in a few days."
Ylliben fidgets for a bit as his jedi symbol is fixed, and then finally asks, "Ori'vod can approve new tattoos, right?"
"Sokanth, no. Shmi..." Na-Tsuyon looks up at her. "I have no idea if you're listed as his legal guardian anywhere, and I'd need proof of that."
"Secondary to Anakin," Shmi confirms. "Ben would like this to be a surprise for Ani."
Ben pulls out a sheet, with a careful design on it, and presses it into Na-Tsuyon's lap when she lifts the tattoo gun and he's not at risk of ruining his own ink. It's simpler than the Jedi symbol, though it's two colors instead of one.
"It's the Open Circle Fleet," Ben says, shy in a way she's given to understand he usually isn't. She thinks his shyer moments may be connected to admitting to emotion, something that he's tying quite closely to his choice of Tattoos. "I thought, um, since I'm already--already honoring one buir, then, er..."
"The Open Circle Fleet was under the command of my brother's Jedi Master," Shmi explains, one hand on Ben's. "And I am given to understand that the symbol was designed as a subtle nod, of sorts, to the two of them as a team. Ben's looking to honor Anakin as he has his first father."
Ben looks down at his lap, and doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes.
"Bring me proof of guardianship," she tells them. "And I'll make sure you get it finished early enough that the bacta comes off before Knight Skywalker makes it home."
She holds true to her word, and talks her way into being there to see the reunion and reveal.
The emotions that cross Skywalker's face are complicated and unexpected in ways that she can't identify.
Then it's all too simple, because he starts crying on little Ylliben in the middle of the hangar.
----
It doesn't take a full year for Ylliben to come in for another set. It's only five months, maybe six. He has a sketch again, a geometric design of something she doesn't recognize, but still pings as familiar for some reason.
"It needs to be the right shade of blue," he tells her, serious as anything. Knight Skwyalker is right next to him, smiling all soft and indulgent, and maybe a little sad. "It's for Soka."
Oh. This is based on her facial markings, then. Or... what they will be, maybe. This doesn't look quite like what she's seen on the girl, but everyone knows little Ben is more touched by visions than his father and sister.
Na-Tsuyon thinks she knows where this is going. "The same blue as her montrals and lekku?"
Ben shakes his head. "No, 501st blue."
Or not.
"It's close, but a little darker and more saturated," Skywalker offers, and shrugs when she looks his way. "It's a long story, but the 501st was the legion I led before I arrived at Mandalore. It had a specific shade of blue assigned for armor paint, so legions could easily identify each other in the field."
That's... odd. She doesn't ask for more detail, though. It's not her business. "Where do you want this one?"
Ben shows her his left forearm and frames a section about two-thirds the length of it, along the outer side. Like a vambrace.
She has a feeling all these symbols will be on his armor, once he's old enough for it.
"Let's go through my inks and see which one will work best," she says, and does not comment on the rest.
----
When Ylliben comes in again, a few months before his next touch-up appointment, he doesn't have an image on hand. His father is trailing him again, and Na-Tsuyon has a guess.
"Time for Shmi?" she asks.
Ben ducks his head, flushing and not meeting Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "Yes'm."
"I thought as much," she says, and smiles at Skywalker. "General."
"Don't start."
"There have been oh so many rumors flying since the last Jedi run-in, you know."
"I don't care," he grouses, dropping into a seat. "Hells, a man takes emergency command for one battle, and it's all anyone can talk about."
"You ended a civil war, sir."
Ben giggles into his hands as Skywalker groans and slaps a hand over his eyes.
"No respect," the man complains. "Ben, be nice to me, I'm your dad."
"Nuh-uh," Ben says. "I know all the most embarrassing secrets."
"A cruel child," Skywalker accuses. "Ruthless."
"You're the one raising me," Ben says, swinging his legs back and forth. He's got plastoid training vambraces, now, and greaves that clink against the legs of the chair.
"Somehow, yes." Skywalker sighs, with great drama and all such things. He drags himself up to sitting. "Anyway. Moving on."
"Do you have something in mind already?" Na-Tsuyon asks.
"Binary suns," Ben says. "Just two overlapping circles, coin-sized, one bigger than the other, in sunset colors. In a gradient, with a sort of... flare to it? Halo? The... oh! The stellar corona. Buir knows the colors better."
"I want to see what you have to work with before I sketch out the design," Skywalker says. "But yeah, sort of pink and yellow and peachy."
"I can do almost any color," Na-Tsuyon promises. "Especially on fair human skin like Ylliben's. I won't have a problem getting those to show up the way I would on myself."
Na-Tsuyon is a color most would call 'aquamarine.' She's a light shade between blue and green, and much as she likes her skin, it's an absolute pain to make red and orange show up.
She can do it.
It's just annoying.
Ben asks for this one to be on the inside of the left forearm, high and opposite to the widest point of the mark for Sokanth.
----
"Can I see your fonts?"
Ben's alone, for the moment, but Na-Tsuyon knows that when he makes his decision, his father or Shmi will approve it without question. It's no harm to let him browse.
"Basic, Mando'a, or Huttese alphabet?" she asks. "Or something more esoteric?"
"Mando'a, please."
He's eight years old, now. He's still far younger than most of her clients, but she's long gotten used to him. Even when he's acting like a child, there's something to it that doesn't quite sit right. 'Born middle-aged,' a few of the other civilians on base had joked.
She wasn't sure if she thought it was just a joke, these days.
Na-Tsuyon passes her fonts book to the boy, and settles back in her chair for a long afternoon of running numbers. He, meanwhile, goes to sit in the lobby, legs still not long enough to reach the floor, paging through with unwavering, unsettling gravitas.
Half an hour, and then Ben returns.
He points to a font. "This one."
"What's it going to say?"
"Vode An," he tells her, as serious as can be. "In black, over my heart. It's important."
"It's a fairly common phrase," she notes idly. "Should be quick."
She doesn't expect much of a response, and certainly not the one she gets.
"It was different for them," Ben mutters, not looking at her. She sees him twisting the toes of one shoe into the floor. "It was... it was different. I can't talk about it. They were brothers, actually brothers, and they had--they had nothing, they were basically slaves, but--"
"You don't have to talk about it," Na-Tsuyon assures him, a hand on his. "You don't have to explain it to me. If it means something to you, that's all that matters. I just need you to be sure."
"And buir to sign the paperwork," Ben quips, smiling at her. She notices that several teeth are missing. It's cute. "You need that too."
"That too," she agrees.
When Skywalker shows up, he hears what it is that Ben would like, and makes a few suggestions for a border--a gear that sounded too much like the Republic's symbol for a Mando'a phrase, a building on stilts from a city she's never heard of on a planet that rings no bells, a human genetic strand for reasons she can't imagine--most of which are soundly ignored, until Skywalker sketched out a stylized ship of... some sort.
"Venator," Skywalker says, and taps the image. "Nobody will know it except us, but it'll mean something to you, for them."
Ben looks at it for a long moment, and then takes the scrap of flimsi with Mando'a on it and lays it overtop the center of the sketch.
He stares at it for a few long moments, and then nods sharply and pushes it to Na-Tsuyon. "This, please."
He's such a polite child.
It makes it easier to ignore the more confusing parts of his presence in her parlor.
----
"Hi!"
Sokanth Skywalker is in her shop.
That's new.
"Hello," Na-Tsuyon says. "I didn't know you were thinking of getting ink."
"I'm not," she says, hopping up on a stool across the counter. She holds out a hand, and Na-Tsuyon clasps it with bemusement. "But you guys do piercings too, right?"
"We do," she confirms. "You're... ten?"
"Yep!" Sokanth chirps, kicking her legs back and forth. "Is that old enough to get these without permission, or should I ask my dad to come by?"
"At least twelve for piercings without in-person, signed approval from a parent or guardian," Na-Tsuyon says. "Though if you're anything like your brother, I don't imagine that'll be a problem for you."
Sokanth grins at her, bright and a little wild. "Nose, bottom lip, eyebrow. I don't know the actual terms, but I know what I want. Which do you suggest getting first?"
"I'd say nostril," Na-Tsuyon tells her. Most species even vaguely humanoid kick off with the ears, but that's not exactly an option for a togruta. "Let me get a chart and you can figure out what type of piercing you want, and what kind of hoop or stud. I don't actually do the piercings myself, though. Comm the General if you want this done today, though."
"Thank you~!"
----
Nostril, labret, and a horizontal brow, the piercer notes down at the end of the latest Skywalker visit. Na-Tsuyon wonders if the brow piercing will look strange with Soka's markings, and then doesn't think on it further.
----
Ylliben, almost nine, is silent as he gets the touch-up.
His father isn't here. Neither is Shmi. It's pre-approved, signed permission and all, but it's still odd that neither of Ben's adults is here.
Sokanth is, but she's almost as quiet as Ben is.
Na-Tsuyon has heard the rumors, but she's not going to say anything. She's not. It's not her business.
"Ben," Soka speaks up, towards the end of the appointment. "Ask her the thing."
Ben shakes his head. "No way."
"She knows more about tattoos and how important they are than anyone!" Soka urges. "Ask her!"
"Do you want to wait for your father?" Na-Tsuyon suggests.
"No!" both immediately yelp.
She pauses, glad the needle hadn't been to skin, and levels a look at Ben. He flushes and settles down, mumbling an apology for jerking as he had. She goes back to fixing the stretch of the binary suns tattoo.
Soka shifts in her seat, watching them intently.
"Shmi's upset with buir," Ben suddenly says. He doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "I'm... I don't know if you heard what's going on."
"I do my best to avoid rumors," she says, keeping her voice as neutral as she can. "I did hear that the Mand'alor is about to have a grandchild, and something about an upcoming wedding. That much has been announced officially."
"Dad freaked out," Soka says, legs kicking back and forth. "He's happy for her, and he's fine with Jango being the other parent, but it kicked off a... philosophical crisis? Ben, what do you think?"
"Metaphysical, maybe," Ben mumbles. "Definitely existential."
"And he told Shmi some stuff and now she's hurt that he didn't tell her before and it's all a mess," Soka finishes. "So, uh, we don't... want either of them involved. Until. Um. Until that's settled."
Na-Tsuyon bites back any deeper questions she might have. "Alright. I won't pry. What did you want to know from me?"
"I had a plan for what I was going to get next," Ben says, staring at the fold of fabric over his sister's knees in lieu of something more pertinent. "A peace lily, on the inside of my wrist, for..."
"You don't have to tell me," she reminds him.
Ben bites his lip, and closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. Neither of the girls comment.
"She was important," Ben finally says. "In the big memories. But she doesn't... she's not... she isn't here. And Jango is. And he's marrying Shmi, and they're having a baby, so I should put a mark down for him first, right?"
"He's gonna be Mand'alor, too," Soka adds.
"He is," Na-Tsuyon says, as neutral as she can.
"He's joining the family," Ben says, his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him. "And there's going to be a baby, and that's. That's important."
"There's no order that you have to get things in," Na-Tsuyon assures him, squeezing his shoulder in a light gesture of support. "You've prioritized family so far, so I think it would make sense to get a mark for the coming cousin, at least. Unless... is the lily for your birth mother?"
Ben's face twists, uncomfortable for some reason she can't begin to guess at.
"No," Ben says.
"Skyguy's Jedi Master did almost marry her when they were younger," Soka explains. She glances at Na-Tsuyon and then away and at the wall. "They had a whole dramatic 'forbidden romance' thing going on, 'cause Jedi aren't supposed to get married. She died before Ben came into the picture, though."
It's a neat enough explanation.
It feels fake, but much of what the Skywalkers say about their pasts does.
She's sure it's true in some way. In some perspective. From... from a certain point of view, maybe.
"Alright, then," Na-Tsuyon dismisses. "All things aside, I would suggest adjusting your order of tattoo acquisition, but there's no particular requirement by Mandalorian standards. Your choices are rarely anything that intersects with set traditions, nor do you have a historic clan or house that comes with mandates of the sort. It seems that you're leaning towards prioritizing something for the new additions to your family, though; you've made it clear that these things are important to you, and I think you should pursue it if you're comfortable with it."
Ben nods, eyes somewhere far off.
"It'll make him flustered," Soka pushes, kicking lightly at her brother's ankle. "Jan-Jan's still worried you don't like him anymore."
"He is not," Ben huffs. "He's just scared of buir."
"Nah, your opinion matters too," Soka argues. "And you've been avoiding everyone 'cuz Skyguy freaked out and Shmi's upset, so Jango's worried you're mad at him about the baby happening. If you get a tattoo about him, he might actually cry."
"Is that why you want me to take that route?"
"Not the only one," Soka says, utterly guileless. She blinks at him, bright and innocent. "But I definitely do want to see the future Mand'alor crying because you made it obvious he's family now. It'll be funny."
Ben sighs, very clearly being dramatic about it. "Soka, I'm not going to pick a tattoo based on what you think will be funny."
"Imagine his face, though."
Na-Tsuyon doesn't comment at the expressions Ben makes as he very clearly does exactly that.
"Well, kriff," Ben sighs, and Soka giggles at the swear. "I'll have to get a tattoo for Jango, then."
----
Ben is already nine by the time he comes in with his father to actually get the tattoo for Jango's addition to the family. The choice he makes isn't particularly imaginative, but it'll suit well enough. A mythosaur skull, the symbol of the Haat Mando'ade, in a grey the same shade as beskar.
There actually are traditions to this one, specific adjustments to the framing and stylization meant to indicate how one fits into the faction, but also how one is associated with the Mand'alor. Ben is family, and close family, but not related by blood, nor adopted directly by the Mand'alor, rather a relative through the riduur be alor.
Na-Tsuyon explains each element and adjustment in detail, lets them process and agree, until she's taking a needle to Ben's skin once more.
"Will you be getting one for the coming child as well?" Na-Tsuyon asks while shading in a curve of bone.
"Not yet," Ben tells her, quiet and oddly contemplating. "I need to meet them, first. Figure out who they are."
"Sensible," she agrees. There's the usual oddity in his phrasing, and she ignores it as ever. "Did you tell Fett that you were getting this?"
"No, it's intended as a surprise," Ben says, watching her work.
She can almost feel the coming question.
It does not come from the human she expects.
"Do you know any Mando tattoo artists in Little Keldabe?" the General asks, voice low.
She finishes the line she's on, lifts the needle away from skin, and turns to him. "You're leaving for Coruscant?"
"Not yet," Skywalker says. He meets her eyes evenly. "But... soon. The time's coming. A year, maybe two. The Force will let us know when the time is right."
"Uh-huh," Na-Tsuyon acknowledges this. She does not comment further. The Force is not her wheelhouse. If they think it wants them back on Coruscant, with the Temple, then that's what they believe.
"These are Mando work," Skywalker continues, almost painfully earnest, "and I'd like to ensure whoever maintains them until Ben stops growing knows the right way to handle Mando art."
It's really not that different from a standard tattoo artist, but she's a little charmed anyway. Enchanted, almost. The man really does care.
"I can get you some names and addresses next time you stop by," she promises him. "It's been a few years since I checked in on their work, and I'll need to look them over before I make any recommendations."
He smiles at her, relieved in a manner she finds appallingly open for a Jedi like himself.
Ben mimics his father.
----
She gets to attend the wedding, months later.
The food is very, very good.
(Ben waits until the reception to show off his new tattoo, and the future Mand'alor does, in fact, cry.)
(So does Shmi.)
(So does their eight-week-old daughter, but that's probably unrelated to the tattoo.)
----
"Do you think getting a belly button ring would be good?"
Na-Tsuyon doesn't lift her head from her paperwork when Sokanth poses the question to the piercer. She's in for the horizontal brow bar, this time, and the labret is going to be somewhere a few months down the line.
"That's really up to you," the piercer says. His name is Hujnak, and he's a Devaronian that's been working here since Na-Tsuyon opened up the place. She loves him dearly, but he stole the last piece of cake and for that he will have no help with difficult customers for the next fortnight.
Or until she gets bored.
"I'm leaning towards 'no,' but I'm not sure," Soka muses. "I like the idea of it, but I feel like it might get snagged on things more easily. Plus, it's going to be a point of higher damage and pressure if I get a gut punch. It's one of the parts of my body I'm never really going to armor up, you know?"
They do know. There have been screaming matches about all the Jedi's refusal to wear enough armor on many occasions. The Jedi prioritize their agility to such a degree that armorweave is more reasonable than actual armor, in their opinion. This is an opinion that Fett and Mereel both take issue with.
At great volume.
(Shmi has vambraces, a gorget, and greaves, Na-Tsuyon knows. Some of it was exchanged at the wedding. Shmi doesn't wear much armor, certainly less than even the children. Shmi, crucially, isn't a warrior or otherwise planning to see battle.)
"Then I would say it may be best to hold off."
"Phooey," Soka says, though she doesn't seem particularly upset. "Ben's gonna be cooler than me forever, then."
"You think tattoos are cooler than piercings?" Hujnak challenges. "I'm offended."
"He can just get more," Soka protests. "Without it looking weird or getting dangerous, I mean."
Hujnak hums, noncommittal. "And you're worried about being cooler than the younger brother you have told me is, and I quote, the biggest nerd ever?"
"Well, yeah," Sokanth scoffs. "He's gonna start acting older than me as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. I gotta have something to hold over his head, you know?"
"Seeing as you are the older sibling..."
"Ehhhh..."
Nope.
Not paying attention.
----
"These are House Kryze colors."
Ylliben's breath hitches.
He is ten. He doesn't seem ready to provide answers. She turns to the father instead.
"Will that be a problem?" the general asks, calm and even.
"Yes," she says, and Ben slumps. She continues, because this is her job, and for a reason. "Unless you have a ready justification for when House Kryze asks, yes, it will be a problem. If it were a landscape or an animal, it wouldn't matter, but the pairing of the colors and the peace lily is an explicit statement of loyalty to Adonai and his heir, Satine. Unless you've suddenly decided to adjust your political stance to total pacifism instead of your Jedi approach, or have another reason to take on House Kryze colors, I'd warn against it at all, and would refuse to perform the work myself."
Ylliben's eyes are fixed somewhere behind her, and shining wetly.
"Okay," the general says. "Ben, do you have any other pallettes in mind?
"These were her colors," Ben whispers, and then he swallows thickly. "I just..."
"Simplify," Skywalker suggests. He fiddles with a necklace half-hidden in his Jedi layers; the japor one is visible, but a dull gold glint is all Na-Tsuyon can see of the other before it's tucked away again. "She'd understand, yeah? There's political ramifications. Dangerous ones, especially to you."
Interesting thing to say about a woman who, by Soka's earlier statements, died well before Ben was born.
They could at least try to stop dropping hints about their oddities. She doesn't want to know more.
"Lilac," Ben finally decides. "And... pale silver. With a filigree pattern in the shading?"
"I can do that," Na-Tsuyon promises.
She does not ask further.
----
"We're moving to Coruscant in a month."
Na-Tsuyon's head snaps up, head tails jolting almost painfully with the movement.
Sokanth is getting her labret, finally. She's gossiping as Hujnak prepares the tools, as usual, and Na-Tsuyon tries to ignore it when they Skywalkers do that, she does, but...
"You're leaving," she repeats, feeling oddly blank.
"Um... yeah?" Soka answers. She scratches at one stubby montral. "We've talked about it before. I thought you knew."
"I didn't realize it was so soon," Na-Tsuyon defends. She's more upset than she should be. "I thought you'd be waiting until the little princess was older."
Sokanth blinks at her, slow and... not judging, no. Evaluating, maybe.
"I'm almost thirteen," she says, slow and deliberate and heavy. "And Ben's eleven. There's no hard age limit for becoming a padawan, but I'm getting into the peak years for getting chosen, and I've been living here instead of in the Temple. I haven't had years to impress a potential Master like the others. That might not matter; sometimes a Master sees their future student and just knows, but... I need to have other Jedi to spar with, not just Skyguy and Ben. And Ben's visions are getting stronger, and Dad was never that good with his own in the first place, so he's worried about being able to help at all. We could stay longer, but..."
She trails off, and shrugs, and the weighted air disappears. "It's not the same thing as a verd'goten, at all, but it's about the same age, you know? I should be in the Temple for it."
"What would a verd'goten equivalent be?" Hujnak prompts, when Na-Tsuyon fails to find her words. "Being an adult and equal member and all such things?"
"Knighthood," Soka answers immediately. "Dad got knighted when he was twenty, but that's really young, usually. His master was knighted at twenty-five, which was a bit late, but apparently there was a whole dramatic thing going on there that Dad never got all the details about."
"Becoming a Padawan is a sign that your teachers see you as someone that is ready to take on the responsibilities of a Jedi, yes?" Hujnak asks. "That you may not be ready to go out on your own, but that you're old enough to understand your oaths and choose how to follow them, and to protect others?"
Sokanth considers this, and then nods. "Yeah, I guess it's similar to using the verd'goten to gauge if someone's ready to swear the Resol'nare, that way. Still not moving out, and just about entering an apprenticeship, but enough of an adult to make the choice of how to change the world."
"I think most cultures have something like that around the same age," Hujnak comments. "Some do it a bit later in the teens, but it's usually around your age that most... well, most cultures who age at the 'human standard' rate--"
Na-Tsuyon can't help the reflexive snort of derision. Neither can Soka. Hujnak, the closest to human in the room and yet still very much not, smiles like this is exactly what he intended.
"--most who age at that rate do have it somewhere in that eleven-to-seventeen range, I'd think."
Soka shrugs. "Yeah, well. Still gotta go to the Temple for it, you know?"
"Are you going to take the verd'goten at all?" Na-Tsuyon asks, suddenly a little desperate to keep the Skywalkers here, with Mandalore and all its people, just a fraction of a moment longer.
"I don't think so," Soka muses. "I've been thinking about it, but I should probably talk about it with Jango, yeah?"
"Yeah," Na-Tsuyon says, and feels like she's swallowing down around rocks.
----
As it turns out, the timing is very deliberate. Three weeks later, Jaster transfers the title of Mand'alor to his son.
(Though Na-Tsuyon does not know this, twenty-six is older than Jango was when he lost the title, once upon another life.)
There is a week of festivity. There is food, and drink, and dancing. Some people get married. Some people make announcements of impending births. Some people reveal songs they composed in preparation for this very day.
For a week, Mandalore celebrates a new king.
Then, the Jedi and his children leave.
(Ben gives Na-Tsuyon a hug before he goes.)
(She tries to understand why she feels like she's losing something when he does.)
#Obi Wan Kenobi#Anakin Skywalker#Ahsoka Tano#Shmi Skywalker#JangoShmi#Jango Fett#Disaster Lineage#star wars#time travel#de aging#mandalore#mandalorian culture#phoenix posts#Anakin and the Jedi Babies#tattoos#original characters#outsider pov#this is part one of three I think#it's two in the diddly darn morning and I am going to bed
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Day 3 - Identities
Day1 - Day2 - Day3 - Day4
Marinette had been living with the waynes for over a month now. The reason? Tom and Sabine sent her away to her biological father. Apparently To Dupain was not her biological, but Bruce Wayne was.
Marinette had a sliver of hope, A really, really thin one. Which had faltered by the month.
Marinette had defeated Hawk Moth with Chat Noir. Apparently Plagg found the brooches along with two sleeping kwamis accidentally. At night when Gabriel and Natalie were asleep, He had stolen the miraculous. On the patrol that night, Chat had told her that the miraculous were right under their noses. He gave her the two brooches and told her that Plagg had found the brooches in his father’s study. He told her that Gabriel was Hawk moth and Natalie was Mayura. Then he de-transformed and handed her the ring saying that he wanted to continue his life as a civilian.
Later that week it was announced that Chat noir found out who Hawk Moth was and he had stolen the miraculous at night. He then said that Gabriel and Natalie were the Villians. He then revealed himself saying that he was innocent, and he had no idea that his father was Hawk moth. Marinette had thought that with Hawkmoth gone she could beat Lila, But no, it Backfired. That was the reason she was Shipped off. Like an object. She was replaced just like an object.
Her only wish was to die. But she had tried to do that multiple times. Someone always managed to save her. So no, that option was unavailable. She had thought that she would finally be able to die in Gotham by sucide, But no, Selina, Cassandra or Jason always managed to save her.
By now she had started to see the woman as a mother figure. The Waynes hated her. They didn’t even listen to her side of the story. Only Cass and Jason had seen that there was more to the story. Selina and Alfred too, of course. The waynes saw her with disgust. They laid out certain rules.
And of course she figured out they were Bat family. She may not be from Gotham, but she wasn’t certainly stupid. She had to admit, The Waynes were really good at hiding the Batfam thingy. But what gave them away? Misplaced Batarangs by Tim. Then Tikki had also found the cave. She wasn’t stupid, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were good friends and certainly Batman and Superman. The people of Justice league stopped by often at the Manor too.
Speaking of the Justice League, They had given her an offer to join the League, but she declined. They had given her a satellite phone for emergencies to contact the league. They had praised her high and low. Batman was even Concerned for her when he found out her age range. Concerned! If they knew that Ladybug was their new sibling who was claimed to be a bully, she’d be declared a threat and her take Miraculous away.
Her routine was the same. Wake up. Eat breakfast in silence as she was being glared at. Study something. Do commissions while talking to her boyfriend, Luka and the others. Eat Lunch while being glared at. Study the Grimoire with Alfred. Sketch some designs while talking to Selina and Cass. Draw illustrations while Jason talks. Eat dinner in Silence. Stay up till 3 am doing commissions. Sleep.
Last week she had introduced Luka to Cass, Selina, Jason and Alfred. It went really well. Especially when Jason found out he was Jagged Stone’s son.
She was thinking how she could step up her game with the Waynes. In her thoughts she didn’t see Selina coming in.
“What are you thinking about Kitten ?” Selina asks, seeing the half sketched dress.
“Gah! Selina don’t scare me like that! Anyway I was thinking, ``What do I do to annoy the waynes?” Marinette asks the Master of scheming Cat-woman.
“Hmm, what about going to your true self? Being in headphones, ignoring them, Snide answers, and stuff like that?” Selina says thoughtfully.
“Selina, that's brilliant! You’re the best Mom!” Marinette says. She covers her mouth with her hand realizing what she said.
“Aww, Com’ere Kit. I love you.” Selina says softly.
“You’re not mad?” Marinette hesitantly asks.
“Of course not!” She says.
“You’ll be more of a mother than Sabine will ever be to me.” Marinette says with a small voice and hugs the older woman.
Then the Chaos was unleashed. Whenever the Waynes wanted to ask her something she’d ignore them and she always had her headphones on.
- - - - - - - -
“Marinette, tell me why did you hurt the poor girl?” Bruce asks in a stern voice. Of course Mari didn’t hear him because of the blaring music.
“Marinette, Why did you hurt the poor girl?” Bruce asks again, obviously annoyed.
“MARINETTE-” He was cut off from Alfred of course.
“If I may Master Bruce,” he says, earning a nod. He gently taps the girl’s shoulder. Marinette moves her hair away and removes her Airpod. The music is loud enough for everybody to hear.Meanwhile Bruce flushes in embarrassment. “Miss, Your father wants to ask you something.” Marinette nods. She turns to her Father.
“What?” She asks.
“I asked, Why did you hurt the poor girl marinette, around two months ago?” He asks, patience bearing thin.
“Oh? I didn’t know that I could make a clone of myself and Send one to the fencing class and the other to beat her up at the Seine?” She says in a bored tone. Jason and Cass, not being able to hold their laughter any longer, burst out laughing.
Later that night they checked her attendance, sure enough she was in the fencing class.
- - - - - -
One day Marinette got a call from the Justice league, Stating an emergency. She quickly transformed to Ladybug and Portalled to the Watchtower.
“Ladybug, welcome to the Watchtower,” Wonder Woman welcomed, standing at the head of a group of heroes. Interestingly enough, Batman and all of his brood were among them. Nightwing, Red Robin, Black Bat, and Robin and the others.
“Wonder Woman,” she greeted back. “What’s the problem?”
“Your former partner has been kidnapped.”
Ladybug’s face turned pale, but she took a deep breath instead of panicking. “What do we know?”
“Ra’s al Ghul has taken the former Chat Noir in an attempt to convince the Guardian of the Miraculous to turn over the jewels to him,” Batman reported.
Her face turned up into a snarl. “The League of Assassins,” she spat.
They were surprised that she knew Ra’s. But they hid it well.
“I take it you understand why we cannot allow the Miraculous to be surrendered to his control,” Batman continued.
Wonder Woman stepped in before Ladybug could reply. “Ladybug, we need you to tell us who the Guardian is so that we may protect them.”
Ladybug let out a cold laugh. Shivers ran down everyone’s spine. “Wonder Woman, you misunderstand. The Order of the Miraculous is all but dead. I’m all that’s left. You want the Grand Guardian of the Miraculous?” She spread her arms wide. “You’re looking at her. And Ra’s al Ghul can have them over my dead body. ”
The gathered heroes looked stunned. “Now where is Adrien?”
Red robin started, recovering first. “You’re not going alone.”
“You’re right,” Ladybug cut in. “I’m not. I’m gathering my team.”
“What Red Robin meant to say is that Batman and his assembled partners are going with you,” Wonder Woman soothed. “They have experience dealing with Ra’s and would be a great asset.”
“I’ll be back in ten minutes, at the most.” She said. Everyone nodded. She portalled away to gather her team.
Five minutes later a portal opened and stepped out Honey bee, Dragoness and Cobra in the Glory. The portal snapped shut when Ladybug entered.
“This is not enough! We’re dealing with Ra’s al Ghul and the league here!” Ladybug said. “We need her. She’s the last resort if we lose!” Dragoness exclaimed. The Justice league was confused. Who were they talking about?
“You’re right. Bee, you’re the only one who knows where she is. You’re her best friend. I can't find her in all of paris!” Ladybug asks, turning to Honey bee.
“You’re right, I do. It’ll be easy to find her. She’ll be in her room. She’s always Isolated, so don’t worry about getting caught.” Honey Bee answers.
“Isolation! I thought I told her to Socialize!” Ladybug exclaims.
“Yeah, but her family treats her like a pariah except some people. But Ladybug I don’t know if she’ll be able to fight.” Honey bee says.
“Rossi?”
“Rossi.”
“Now location please.” Ladybug says.
“Right. Wayne Manor, Gotham, New Jersey.” Honeybee whispers. Earning surprised looks from Ladybug and the Supers.
“Alright.” Ladybug portals away. This was all staged of course. She had recently found a spell to make a clone of herself.
“Why won't the hero be able to fight? She’s a hero!” Batman exclaims.
“Depression, you overgrown furry, Depression. She’s tried committing sucide several times. We saved her.” This earns many shocked looks.
Cue opening a portal. All of the Paris heroes Gasps. All in glory Multimouse is standing there.
When Honey Bee saw Multimouse, she gasped and enveloped her in a hug, muttering French endearments and saying how much she’d missed her. Dragoness stole Multimouse for a hug next before passing her on to Viperion who also received an extra peck on the lips in return, while Ladybug watched with a soft smile.
With Kaalki involved, it was child’s play to get into the assassin stronghold. Team Miraculous filled the gaps and worked seamlessly in their own right, simply a step away from Gotham’s Bats. They beat assassins on their own. The Bats just watched in awe.
It didn’t take them long to make their way to Ra’s.
The man wore a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he greeted him from his throne. A bruised and bloodied but otherwise intact Adrien was being restrained on the dias a few feet away.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Team Miraculous,” Ra’s mused, looking down the line. His eyes paused on Multimouse and his expression shifted to intense amusement. “And if it isn’t the latest in the Detective’s brood. I suppose heroics truly do run in the family after all.”
A number of shocked and confused gazes snapped to Multimouse, who simply stared at him down with cold eyes growling quietly.
“And yet she isn’t why we’re here,” Ladybug cut in coldly, shoving that problem in a box for later.
Ra’s shifted his oily attention to her. “Yes, I believe I requested the Guardian, young Bug.”
“And here I am,” Ladybug said simply. “But I will never cede the Miraculous to you.”
“Well, then I suppose the Blonde Cat dies.” The assassin near Adrien tried to kill him only to turn to orange smoke. Ra’s growls when he realizes he was tricked.
“Your reign is over. Your crimes won’t continue much longer. Tell me, just how long have you been using the Pits to keep yourself alive?”
“Goodbye, Ra’s al Ghul,” Ladybug intoned. “We’ll leave you to what remains of your empire.” She turned and motioned for the Fox to open the portal to the Watchtower. The Bats followed behind.
Adrien was at the fringes, attempting to escape a hero that was trying to get him to the Medbay for medical attention. He only had eyes for Multimouse.
“Marinette!” he called.
The Bats were shocked at both the name and the blatant outing of a secret identity.
Adrien broke free from his wounds. “Marinette, I’m so sorry,” he said brokenly.
It was quiet for a moment. “I take it they told you why I left, then,” Multimouse said, carefully devoid of emotion.
“I never thought-”
“Don’t, Adrien,” Queen Bee snapped.
Adrien gaped at his friend, shocked at the venom her words carried against him.
“But her Lies, they weren't hurting anyone!”
“How?” Multimouse snapped, her voice cracking. She took a deep breath. “How was it different? Because you told me I had to ‘take the high road?’ Because her lies would unravel themselves? Because she wasn’t hurting anyone? Bullshit, Adrien! They were hurting me!”
“She followed your advice at first,” Queen Bee said sharply. “She shouldn’t have, but you were her friend and she trusted you. By the time she realized that it had been a mistake, it was too late. Everyone else was in too deep and you did nothing . When Mari tried to tell everyone that they were being lied to, she was made to look like a liar. A bully.”
“Do you realize that the rest of us had people on watchlists?” Ryuko said bluntly. “People at risk of Akumatization that could bring the city to its knees. Aurore, because of Stormy Weather II. Ondine, because of Syren. But do you know who was on top?” She let the silence sit. “Marinette. Marinette was on top of that list. The only reason she was above Ladybug was because Marinette was drowning. But any time she tried to get through to the others, Lila hit back harder and you would ask Mari to back down. Because we don’t want to upset Lila, right? We don’t want her to become an akuma. Again.”
“My parents believed her, Adrien,” Multimouse said quietly. “They sent me away because I was ‘out of control’. I’m treated like a criminal where I am now! So I’m sorry, Adrien, but I can’t forgive you. You said you didn’t want to live with more lies, but then you stopped telling the truth when it threatened your ‘peace’. Even when that ‘peace’ might have ruined my life.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “But you know what they say, right? Never meet your heroes.” She turned and looked straight at Batman. “They’ll always just disappoint you.”
- - - - - - - -
The next week was tense at the Wayne manor. But eventually they apologised to marinette. She became close with them. She and her family then sent lawsuits to the Akuma class.
The saying is true then. “All’s well that ends well.”
@maribat-bdbwm
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Rivals Are Always One “Make Me” Away From Kissing
Tossing the controller onto the desk, Adrien reached for Marinette’s waist and slid her into his lap. She came willingly, looping her arms around his neck and weaving her fingers into his hair. (An Adrinette no powers video game AU - 10,000 words)
Adrien had to admit that he was a little bit of a nerd. Here he was, fifteen minutes early for school, in an outfit his personal assistant picked out for him, and looking over his homework alone in the hallway instead of talking with classmates or hanging out in the sunny courtyard like everyone else was doing.
A gust of cool air rushed in through an open doorway and ruffled his hair, making him sigh. It was no wonder he was still single.
The whisper of his name on the wind caught his attention.
"Nino?" Adrien called. The hallway was deserted, so he stuffed his homework into his backpack and stepped closer to the open doorway to investigate. The back of Nino's red cap came into view. He was sitting on the front steps, brushing shoulders with Alya.
"You have too much faith in my bro," Nino said.
Adrien stopped walking forward as his heart sank to the floor. Nino didn't believe in him about something?
"I'm giving Marinette one week, tops," Alya said.
"It's going to take him at least a month," Nino countered.
"You willing to bet on that?" she asked, standing.
"Yeah, I am."
Alya stuck out her hand, then pulled him up as they shook on it.
It was only when they started to turn to come into the building that Adrien realized he shouldn't have been eavesdropping while standing in the dead center of an empty hallway. There was nothing to hide him from the surprised eyes of his friends.
Alya was the first to recover, her expression quickly slipping to suspicion. "How much of that did you hear?" she asked, hands on her hips.
"Nothing!" he said, hands up. "I didn't-"
"Did you hear the news?" Nino cut in.
"N-no? What are you talking about?"
"The Olympic Committee voted."
"About?" Adrien asked. He tried to forget… whatever they'd been talking about.
"eGames are in for Paris 2024!"
"Seriously?" Adrien asked. "I thought they voted against that last month."
Nino ignored the comment and held out a hand for a high-five, but it was more like a middle five, limp and unenthusiastic. Nino glanced toward Alya, and they shared a smile.
"I bet I could get us tickets easy," Adrien said, pulling Nino's attention away from his girlfriend. "Want to come-"
Nino snapped back to attention, eyes gleaming. "You should sign up for the team."
"I should what?" Adrien asked, bewildered by his friend's sudden change in tone. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'm not that good."
"No really, dude." Nino grabbed his arm. "I think you could do it." He threw an arm around Adrien's shoulder, turned him around and marched him deeper into the school.
"No thanks?" Adrien let himself be steered into a crowded hallway, Alya stalking behind them, her eyes burning into his back. "I'd need more practice than I have time for. Some of those gamers-"
"All you need-" Nino guided them around a group of upperclassmen. "-is a partner to practice with."
What was going on? Adrien knew he was kind of sheltered and maybe a little socially awkward, but he knew Nino well enough at this point that he could tell he was trying to set something up. "I get it. You want an excuse to play on my system every day. But you know my father-"
"Oh, no way, man. I'm not good enough." They stepped through a pair of double doors and out into the morning sunshine of the courtyard. Students laughed and yelled at each other. Others lounged on the stairs going up to the second floor. Nino's hand on his shoulder tightened and they stopped moving. "But maybe there's someone-"
"Yeah," Alya cut in. She shoved her way in between them and pointed to the middle of the courtyard, toward a tight cluster of students. "I bet Marinette would want to practice with you."
Adrien followed the line of Alya's finger. Marinette's dark hair and bright smile peeked out from the center of the group. As usual, she was surrounded by admirers, all of whom were laughing at something she had just said. His stomach clenched, though he wasn't sure why.
"You're kidding, right? She's one of the most popular girls in school."
"Did you miss the memo, sunshine?" Alya said. "You're pretty popular yourself."
"And the four of us hang out together all the time," Nino said. "I'm sure she would love to spend some time with just you."
"I don't even think I want to be in the Olympics," Adrien said, turning away from Marinette and glancing at his other friends. There was definitely something going on. Nino and Alya traded sideways glances and wiggling eyebrows, communicating something Adrien couldn't figure out.
"You really should ask Marinette to practice with you, dude," Nino said.
"No, I don't think-"
"Come on, Agreste." Alya stepped up into his space. Not that he could ever tell Nino this, but his girlfriend could be scary when she wanted to be. She was somehow towering over him, even though he could have sworn a few seconds ago that he was taller than she was. "You want a gold medal, don't you?"
"No?"
"Yes, you do. Now go ask Marinette."
"This isn't even about the Olympics, is it?"
Alya nudged him through the open door and into the light. Adrien blinked, disoriented by the sudden movement and the direction his morning had taken.
"Get moving," Alya insisted.
"Okay, okay! I'll ask her!" he said. His plan to skirt around Marinette's knot of students and escape to the other edge of the courtyard was shot down when his friends' footsteps crunched behind him. They weren't going to let him get away.
Feeling their eyes on him, Adrien weaved his way through the students that filled the yard, hoping the bell would ring and give him an excuse to abandon his quest. What was really happening here?
Guys and girls alike were leaning over Marinette's shoulder, and as he got closer he could tell the laughter was due to something on the sketch pad she was holding. Her smile and the light hitting her hair just right made her glow. Her eyes sparkled.
And Adrien stopped moving.
There was no way he could approach her with this many people around. What was he going to say, anyway? Hey, I think our friends are terrible and plotting something against me, and I'm going to regret asking later, but will you please play video games with me? It sounded stupid even in his head.
A single, sharp fingernail between his shoulder blades reminded him that he had no choice in the matter, so he stepped forward, excusing himself through the crowd of Marinette's admirers, until he was close enough to grab her elbow and borrow her attention.
"A-a-adrien?" she asked, stuttering when her bright eyes found his. "How you- uh, what?"
"Can we play video games later?" Ugh. This was even worse out loud than it had been in his head. "Um, the Olympics are coming up later. And we should practice." Yes, that was an eloquent explanation. Very smooth.
Marinette's eyes went wide in a doe-eyed stare, like she couldn't believe he'd ask her such a thing. "Oh." Her voice shook. "Th-tho nank you. No thank you! I don't-" She glanced behind him, over his shoulder. "I mean, yes! I would love to!" She stared at his feet and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear nervously.
Adrien glanced quickly behind him. Nino and Alya were standing a little way away, looking far too innocent. Alya examined her fingernails. Nino was gazing all around the courtyard, not fixing on any one point, his face blank. So they were bullying Marinette into it, too? Whatever they were planning, he wasn't going to let them make her uncomfortable.
"You don't have to," he told her quickly, and her head snapped back up to his. "I mean, it's probably a stupid idea. If you don't want to, I understand. It's kind of a weird idea. And I think the Olympics are dumb and, I mean, you probably like them, so-"
"No," she said quickly, mercifully cutting him off. She reached out to grab his arm, but pulled back just before her fingers brushed his skin. It was close enough to raise goosebumps.
"I do want to practice with you," Marinette said.
He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.
"Really," she said, putting enough force into it that she sounded almost convincing.
"Okay," he said, skeptical. She must have so many friends and demands on her attention. She was really going to make time for one-on-one time for him? "I have a free two hours before my piano lessons tomorrow. I'll ask if you can come over."
"I'm free then!"
After her initial hesitation, he was surprised to hear her so excited. What was really going on? "Then, that's good, I guess. Sounds... good. Great."
"Great," she echoed.
The bell rang. Relieved, Adrien walked off through the shuffling crowd, pushing through sharp elbows and heavy backpacks and toward Nino and Alya, who were muttering to each other, their heads close together, and not paying him any attention.
Alya was whispering as he approached. He only caught a soft, "They're going to be-" before she noticed him and walked off.
"Bro, please make me lose." Nino adjusted the headphones around his neck.
"You want to lose? What, a bet?"
"Can't say," Nino said. "It's important, though. You've got a month."
If Adrien was confused before, he was stumped now. The only thing he was sure of was that this had nothing to do with the Committee vote or video games. Was Marinette in on it or was she his fellow victim?
Now that he didn't need the bell to save him from anything, it happily rang the beginning of class. Dozens of shoes shuffled down the hallways. Friends called out to each other. Adrien trailed far behind Marinette on his way to their class. Her pigtails bounced to her enthusiastic step.
What was really happening?
***
A week later, Adrien didn't really care what the motivation behind the practice sessions had been. He was having too much fun. In a stunning display of paternal affection, Gabriel had allowed Adrien to set up regular video gaming sessions with Marinette. Or Nathalie had put it into his schedule and not mentioned it to his father. Probably the second one, though he liked to pretend.
Today, they were up in his room, being washed in the music of Mario Kart that they were playing on his gigantic television. Adrien sat up straight on the couch, toes digging into the plush carpet, and pouring his focus onto the screen, but Marinette was draped across the furniture, one foot dragging on the floor, the other accidentally poking his knee whenever one of them leaned into a turn.
In the past few days, a remarkable change had come over Marinette. Instead of being anxious and fidgety whenever they ran into each other at school, the hours of being together had forced her to grow relaxed around him. It was amazing to see the side of her that everyone else so admired shining out of her when she was with him, instead of it being trapped under her awkward stutter like it used to be. He loved this.
As he rounded the final turn, Marinette on his tail, he squeezed the controller even harder, though his character was already going at top speed. A squirt of black ink blocked out his half of the screen.
"No!" he yelled, trying to negotiate the curve while blind. "I forgot you had that one! I thought you were out!"
Marinette didn't leave her position on the couch until she'd crossed the finish line. When she did, she jumped up and crowed her victory. "I beat you again! Admit it! You're going to cry yourself to sleep tonight because I creamed you so bad!"
Adrien wiped away a fake tear with her controller and was rewarded with one of Marinette's soft giggles. The sound was infectious, and soon his laughter joined hers. This was the way a lot of their games ended. Win or lose, they were both happy, just because they enjoyed each other's company.
Adrien's suspicions had melted away over the past few days. Nino and Alya were dating, and they wanted their best friends to spend time together. That must have been it. He had to admit, he loved the idea.
And he loved that she was comfortable enough with him to be the person he saw her be with other people, bold and funny and expressive, somehow kind and fierce at the same time, ready to compliment him or trash talk him at a moment's notice. It kept him on his toes.
While the question of why it had taken her so long to warm up to him nagged at him, it wasn't enough to keep him from acknowledging that he was much happier when she was around.
"So what do you want to play next?" Marinette slid off the couch and pulled out his collection of games.
"Shovel of Hope," he said quickly.
"I usually pick that one," she said, turning to direct a questioning eyebrow his way.
"It is. And I want you to be happy, so we can play your favorites twice in a row."
A slack look of shock was replaced quickly by Marinette's shy smile, and Adrien's heart flipped.
He'd always known she had a nice smile. So why did it seem like a new revelation just now?
***
If Adrien's observation about their first week together was how much he liked Marinette, then observation about the second week was how much his game had improved.
Marinette's skill on most games was just a little higher than his own, so playing against her was always a challenge, and teaming up with her was always instructive. Of course, her teasing continually spurred him on.
Today they were in her room playing Zombie Fighter 2, which he'd never even heard of before. And it showed. After seven rounds, he had failed to land a single hit on Marinette's character. He went down in a shower of sparks.
"KO'd again! I can't believe it!" Adrien tossed his controller into his lap. He noticed every time his left knee brushed her right as they sat cross-legged on her chaise.
"Your skills are improving, young grasshopper," Marinette said.
"How is losing improving?"
"You lasted a whole ten seconds longer than last time. You're learning how to run away."
Adrien socked her in the face with a pink pillow. He'd been in her room a handful of times now and he still couldn't get over how pink everything was. Walls, curtains, blankets, even furniture. It suited her, though.
Marinette stood up and stretched. A small strip of skin peeked out where her shirt rode up. "We should head downstairs. Your driver will be here soon."
"No." Adrien averted his gaze quickly. "Let's play one more!" The warmth of Marinette's room wasn't something he looked forward to leaving, not when his own sterile, empty room was the only thing waiting to welcome him home.
"I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "Can't get enough of me, or can't get enough of being pounded into the ground, I wonder?"
"Jury's out."
"Ouch! Why do I keep you around, again?" she asked.
"Must be because I'm so cute." Adrien selected his character, and the screen lit up with another round.
"Must be." Marinette ruffled his hair.
Adrien sat up a little straighter. Was it the praise? Or was it her touch? When she took her hand away, it was to fix his grip on the controller.
"You're never going to win like that. Your fingers aren't spread out enough. Like this." She adjusted each finger individually, pushing and poking and smoothing each one into place until they curved just so.
Her hands radiated warmth. But not just that. It felt like... kindness? Caring? How was he getting that from just the feel of her fingertips against his wrists, directing him to relax the sudden tension in his arms?
By the time she pulled away and they started playing, Adrien's hands were shaking. He pulled them deeper into his lap, so she wouldn't see the tremors.
What was happening? And why did he feel like Marinette touching him again was going to make him feel better? Whatever it was, it wasn't helping him win.
"That'll teach me to compliment you," Marinette said after cutting down his avatar with ease. "That was awful. What happened?"
"Just tired, I guess," Adrien said, putting his controller between them and flapping his hands, like they were sweaty or cramping or something else normal.
"Tired, huh? I can play better than that in my sleep! So what's the real reason?"
"Tired. That's really the reason."
"Tired of getting beat, maybe."
"Oh, lay off."
"Make me."
He needed something to do with the nervous energy in his hands, and Marinette was asking for it. When he poked her side, she made the most adorable squeal he'd ever heard, and he had to do it again. The tickle fight that ensued was nothing short of inevitable. She tried to reach for the pillow on the floor to defend herself with, but he took the opportunity to poke her side and she tumbled off the chaise and pulled him with her. It wasn't enough to stop him.
"I surrender!" Marinette gasped after only a few seconds. "You win!"
"You admit I'm better at something than you?"
"No, your arms are just longer, like a monkey's." She laughed even before she felt his retaliation tickle for the jibe.
As their laughter subsided, Adrien felt lighter. He hadn't had fun with a friend like this in he couldn't remember how long. His father always made him feel foolish for finding something mildly amusing. Somehow, Marinette made falling off his seat liberating instead of embarrassing. He loved that about her.
Sprawled out as they were, it took Adrien a few seconds before he noticed where his hand was resting. Right on Marinette's soft stomach. She was smiling up the ceiling, not seeming to notice or care that he was touching her. It felt nice.
But it was probably weird. He was being weird.
So why was he not moving?
His hand moved up and down with her breathing, rhythmic and calming. Would she stop him if he slid his fingers along the fabric and felt the texture of her shirt?
He kept his hands still until she sighed deeply, and then he guiltily removed it.
***
It had been the best month of Adrien's life, and he owed it all to the girl who was walking toward him. The school courtyard was packed with students going home for the day. Backpacks hung off shoulders. People shouted to each other. Heads bobbed up and down as they tried to find their friends in the crowd.
Marinette's small build made it difficult for her to push her way through the crowd, but shoved backpacks and used her elbows and finally reached him. He was touched by the effort that she made to be near him.
"Nino and Alya coming?" he asked.
"Over there," she said, nodding toward the couple. "You ready to head out? My dad promised croissants for all of us today, and I'm very done with school right now."
It wasn't easy to pick out their friends in the mass of students, but he finally found them by the stairs, heads together like they were whispering despite the noise.
"What are they talking about?"
Marinette sighed. "The, uh, that bet." She looked sideways at him, like she was hoping he'd say something about it.
"Oh," Adrien said, racking his brain for scraps of memory. "Nino won, right? He said it was going to take over a month." For someone who won a bet, he didn't look very happy about it. The two looked over at him at the same time and frowned. Well, Nino frowned. Alya glowered.
"Technically, Alya's got until the end of the day but... yeah." Her voice became very quiet. Small and sad. "Nino's going to win."
"I never learned what that was about," he said, hoping she would provide an answer to the mystery.
Marinette just shook her head and started fidgeting with her purse strap to avoid looking at him. "L-let's wait for them," she stammered.
That wasn't a good sign. He didn't want to push her into her old habit of not being able to hold a conversation with him, so he didn't ask again. "Sure, we can wait," he said, taking a step to the side to give her some space. "It looks like they're on their way over already."
Nino and Alya approached with fake smiles plastered on their faces, like nothing had happened. Neither greeted Adrien or Marinette when they reached them, just kept walking toward the doors. The crowd thickened the closer to the door they got. Students pushed to get out of the building, and Adrien quickly lost sight of Nino and Alya somewhere ahead of him. He and Marinette squeezed through the doors and finally made it out onto the stairs.
"Oh no!" Marinette pulled at her hair as they started down the stairs.
"What?" Adrien asked, shuffling behind a red backpack that was going much slower than it needed to.
"Nothing, nothing. I just broke an elastic again." Keeping one fist in her hair to hold the pigtail in place, she fished in her purse for another one. Their pace became a crawl as she searched.
"Just wear it down," Adrien suggested.
"I'll look stupid," she said, giving up the search in favor of digging in her pockets.
"Come on, you'll look fine," he said, trying to convince her so they could catch back up to the others. He could see them waiting by the crosswalk, backs to them. "I've never seen your hair down before."
Marinette half turned to him, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "All right," she finally said, letting it fall and taking out the other side to match. She brushed it out with her fingers as they finished walking down the stairs.
She looked nice like that. Really nice. A piece of him thought he should probably tell her that, so she wouldn't feel self-conscious. The rest of him was just glad Alya and Nino weren't looking at them, so they couldn't see him gaping at Marinette like a vulture.
That was when his hands started trembling. The nervous energy was back, urging him to reach out and touch her. Maybe tuck that stray strand of hair behind her ear and let his fingers linger by her cheek, his fingertips graze her jaw. But he didn't want her to pull away again, so he clenched his fists and tried to remind himself that there was no reason for him to be acting this weird around her.
"I feel like everyone is staring at me," she said after only a few seconds.
Well, I don't know about everyone. At least one person is. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away. Students started breaking away from the main group, escaping down the sidewalk toward their homes. Nino and Alya had finally noticed their approach.
"My hair must look stupid. I knew it!" She threw her hands on top of her head, a combination of covering herself and patting it down to lie smooth.
"They're only staring because you're so beautiful."
Adrien and Marinette stopped and stared at each other. Alya and Nino stared at the pair of them. A light turned green and cars streamed past, the wind they created making Marinette's hair dance.
Marinette looked as surprised at his words as he felt. But it was true. He'd never thought about it before, but she was probably the prettiest person he'd ever met. Inside and out.
When the initial shock wore off after three seconds, Marinette hunched her shoulders. "Oh, w-w-well, y-you th-thank."
Panic settled over him as she stuttered. He'd messed up somehow. She was nervous. He'd made her uncomfortable. He was weird and made her feel weird, and he'd messed everything up. She was upset.
He opened his mouth to apologize – he had no idea how to apologize for giving an honest compliment but he knew he had to try – but the look on her face froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Shock and disbelief, warring with curiosity. But they were all replaced with the familiar crinkle in her eyes that meant a challenge was sure to follow.
"So your true feelings come out at last," she said in delight. "Sorry, but I can't get involved with my sparring partner, so don't ask."
"What-"
"No, no. Your begging won't work on me!" She pushed him away with one hand flat against his chest.
Could she feel his heart beating through his shirt? She must have been able to. The whirlwind shift in her attitude was making him nervous.
He looked at Nino and Alya for help at this sudden change. They were both open-mouthed.
That was when it clicked. She was just teasing him again. Or more likely daring him. He knew her well enough to know that tone when he heard it, the same when she offered a bonus challenge round. That compliment had been sincere, but he knew how to play along.
"Oh please, Marinette," he said, falling to his knees. "Your grace and beauty surpass all." The words were so easy to say. Too easy. "Make me the happiest boy in school and go out with me?" He clasped his hands and unleashed the most pitiful expression he knew how to make, not sure if he was even acting.
Marinette flipped her loose hair over her shoulder. "I could never give my heart to my most bitter rival."
"Noooo!" He threw his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her stomach. He heard more than felt her laughter, but inside he ached. Ached as she ran her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck and then because she pulled her hand away. Ached because it felt so good to be close to her and then because he was letting her go as he stood back up. It was all he could do not to let the ache show through his fake smile as he continued the "joke."
Nino had his face in hands. "I hate both of you," he mumbled through his fingers. "So, so much."
Alya had already given up on them. She was halfway to the bakery.
"That's unfair," Marinette said, shifting her backpack and not looking at Adrien like he wished she would. "This is completely Adrien's fault."
"Mine?" he said, trying to sound scandalized instead of bitterly disappointed. "You're the one who won't go out with me."
She opened her mouth to respond, only to pause when she saw his face. He tried to school his expression, hide the new emotions pulsing through his blood, replace it with a smirk and a wink.
It must have worked because Marinette tapped his nose and said, "Sorry, Adrien. You'll have to ask me again some other time. I'm too busy being single at the moment."
The words cut deeper than they had any right to.
Nino grumbled something and turned away. Across the street, Alya shouted, "Are you two done being stupid yet?"
It seemed like Marinette was the only one who was truly happy after the joke, though he thought he saw something else flash across her face as she looked away. He wanted to pretend that it was longing or maybe regret, but he knew that couldn't be true. Marinette considered him just a friend. They had only been joking.
No, she had been joking. Everything he'd said was real. Why hadn't he realized it sooner?
His compliments, all the praise, asking her out, every single word of it had been real.
The ache settled deep into his heart.
***
The next morning, Adrien arrived at school a few minutes earlier than he normally would have, heart pounding and exhausted as he walked through the front doors. The exhaustion was caused by barely sleeping at all last night, instead being consumed with thoughts of Marinette, her confidence, her hair, her laughter, her quiet beauty, her kindness, and how much he wanted to touch her and spend time with her.
It hadn't even been 24 hours since he'd realized he was in love with her, but it spread through him like an wildfire, burning him up from the inside out, reaching through every part of him and carving out new places for thoughts of Marinette to inhabit, driving him to do something, anything so he could be with her.
His pounding heart was caused by that last bit, the knowledge that he now needed to act. His plan was simple, but he ran through it again anyway as he waited by her locker. As casually as he could, he was going to ask her out. But not on a date. Not yet. If she didn't like him that way (the "if" killed him; he knew she didn't), he wasn't going to mess up his chance by playing his hand too soon. He repeated his line over and over again. "I was just wondering if you'd like to do something other than video games with me some time?"
It was simple. It was normal friend stuff. He leaned against her locker, the cool metal soothing the voice that said she was going to say no, that he was an idiot for even asking her. After joking around yesterday, it was clear that she only thought of him as her weird gaming nerd friend. Why would she want to do other things with him?
But he had to try anyway. If she said yes, it would be a step in the right direction. He would be able to spend more time with her.
Though he tried not to, Adrien watched every person who entered the hallway, waiting for her. His heart leaped to his throat every time he saw black hair, and it crashed back down to his feet every time it wasn't hers.
If she said no, well, he would accept his place as just her gaming buddy, even though it would break his heart. And he could always pretend that their practice sessions were dates, right? Besides, he'd known her for over a year and he'd been okay with being only friends that entire time. It would probably be simple to find his way back to that easy, uncomplicated friendship.
He slipped a little farther down the cold locker door. His argument was very unconvincing, and he swallowed back the tightness in his throat at the idea.
Black hair bobbed into view, and this time it was Marinette's face underneath it. Blue eyes flashing. Smiling broadly at someone who wasn't him.
Excitement and terror washed through him. Her laughter echoed down the hall ahead of her, and he basked in the sound and sight of her. Would he even be able to speak by the time she finally saw him?
Marinette hadn't noticed him yet. She was talking with someone else, and Adrien's eyes flicked to her companion.
Nathaniel was laughing too, then laughing harder at something else Marinette said. Without hesitation, he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a side hug. Marinette looked content as they walked ever closer to her locker, and that's when Adrien finally accepted the truth.
She was going to say no.
And he couldn't accept just being friends.
With only seconds to make up his mind before she saw him, Adrien did the only thing he could think of.
He ran away.
***
Today's practice was taking place cross-legged on his floor, staring up at his giant television. Marinette sat with him, a six-inch gap separating them, but she looked over at him from time to time, concerned at his silence.
Over the past week, Adrien hadn't given up hope completely, though he knew he should have. Marinette didn't like him that way and was way out of his league. The knowledge didn't stop him from agonizing over the perfect thing to say that would get her to change her mind, or at least give him a chance.
In the end, he had waited too long.
Though he was trying to act like everything was fine, the jealousy ripping through him was affecting his mood, his game, even his face, and had been chewing him up all afternoon. For the millionth time, he tried smoothing out his scowl. He'd already given up trying to shake life back into his numb hands.
B, up, duck, A. Button smashing when he knew he wasn't fast enough. Finally watching as his avatar felt defeated to the mat. Again. He took a shaky breath.
"Okay, what is going on?" Marinette asked, placing her controller carefully down in front of her, lining it up perfectly parallel to her knees. "You're making a lot of rookie mistakes. It isn't like you."
"Oh, just tired," Adrien said, making a show of stretching and lolling back.
"You told me this morning you'd slept really well last night," she said flatly.
"Oh." Right. He'd said that. Shoot. "Tired... from school."
"Okay... What was so-"
Adrien started a new round, forcing Marinette to scramble for her controller and cut off her interrogation.
It was only going to buy him time. If Marinette thought someone was upset, he knew she wasn't going to let it rest until she'd helped them feel better. It was one of many, many things that he loved about her. But he also knew he'd be better off bringing it up before she did, so he could steer the conversation.
They played for a few minutes in silence while Adrien's character was annihilated and he organized his thoughts. "So..." he finally asked, and he was pleased to hear his voice sounding almost normal, not tense like he felt. "What did Nathaniel want to talk to you privately about earlier?"
Adrien knew. She probably knew that he knew.
Nathaniel had asked her out. Adrien had been too slow, and now she was someone else's girlfriend. Could she read the agony on his face underneath the mask of disinterest?
"Oh, Nathaniel asked me for a date." How could she be so calm about the thing that was causing him to die inside? Sensing his distress, his avatar also keeled over and died. Round sixteen ended in defeat.
"Oh? That's..." He gulped. What question would just a friend ask? "When's the big-" He forced the word out. "-date?" That had sounded awful. The words and his delivery.
"I turned him down," she said casually, and just as casually she slaughtered his character again.
The next round began as Adrien blurted out a thrilled, "Really?!"
Marinette's character killed itself by jumping off the edge as she dropped her controller and turned to stare at him.
Adrien cleared his throat. "Really? Too bad for him, I guess." I'm cool about this, Marinette. Not interested in you or your love life at all. His unasked question hung over them: Why did she turn Nathaniel down? He couldn't bring himself to ask.
She continued to stare, considering him, then turned away with a smile she couldn't quite hold in. "I've wiped the floor with you for the past eighteen levels. You want to go again, or are you ready to admit your defeat?”
"And let you rub it in for the rest of our lives? I don't think so."
"I promise not to if you agree to do my homework for the rest of the year."
"I would absolutely love to never do that ever. Bring on level nineteen."
"Oh, that's what I was hoping you would say." Her glance was sly, and Adrien felt a challenge coming on.
Their characters were whirls of pixels, but this time he had no problem keeping up. She'd turned Nathaniel down! Adrien was back on form, matching Marinette stroke for stroke, about to pull out his first win since-
"I bet you were wondering why I said no." Marinette's avatar slipped a punch over his slack fists, knocking him down to half health with one blow. "It's because I already like someone else." With one more kick, she finished him off.
Adrien gripped his controller, not seeing the screen or even her as the next level started playing. Of course she already liked someone. Someone as loving as Marinette would have someone she loved. He'd never even had a chance, even before he'd wanted one. He was an idiot for not realizing.
"Complete devastation!" Marinette said. She meant his character, but she could have been talking about the boy sitting next to her. Both were crumbling to the ground.
The practice session ended early that day. Marinette sent him several questioning looks over the next hour that he stubbornly ignored, and he was glad she didn't push him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand her sympathy.
Like the gentleman he was, Adrien walked her to his bedroom door. Even with the awkward tension lingering in the air, he wanted her to stay a little longer. Maybe sensing that, or maybe just still hoping to cheer him up, Marinette hesitated in front of the closed doorway.
Adrien opened his mouth to speak, but when he realized he had no idea what it was he wanted to say, he shut it again slowly. Marinette waited patiently, playing with the hem of her shirt. What could he tell her? Nothing that would help his situation. Nothing that would change her mind about whatever wonderful guy she had her eye on. Nothing that would make her consider her dork of a gaming partner.
Marinette smiled up at him. After the miserable company he'd been all afternoon, she still felt like smiling at him? He almost blurted all his feelings out anyway.
"Well..." she said. "I should go."
Pushing herself up on her toes so she could reach and putting her hands on his shoulders for balance, Marinette placed an unexpected kiss on his cheek, just next to his mouth.
Adrien closed his eyes at the tender touch, heart melting.
I could turn my head, he thought as her lips lingered. I could wrap my arms around her and never let go. The scene was vivid in his mind, her hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest, fingertips tracing the stripes across his shirt. Whispers of how much she loved him. Him pulling Marinette close, her wanting him to.
But it wasn't real. She wouldn't like that, he reminded himself, so he kept still. His hands gripped his jeans to keep them from seeking her out.
When she pulled away a few seconds later, her look was intense. Despite her announced intention to leave, she hesitated. Waiting for something. For him to say something?
The words were right there on the tip of his tongue. Confess! He could do it!
He could, but he shouldn't. She'd just admitted to liking someone else. How disrespectful of her confession would telling her now be? Adrien didn't want to lose her.
"See you tomorrow?" he said, pulling the door open for her.
She frowned, not like she was angry. Like she'd been disappointed. Without another word, she slipped through the door and padded down the wide atrium stairs. He didn't take his eyes off her the whole time, but she didn't turn around to see it. From his spot so far away, he heard the front door click softly behind her.
He stayed put long after she'd gone, replaying the kiss in his mind, what her soft lips felt like, the tingle he'd felt as she'd rested her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, the heat of having her body so close to his.
Had it been all his imagination, telling him what he wanted, or had her kiss really been that close to his mouth? It had felt like she'd almost touched his lips she'd been so close.
The memory was still fresh on his skin, and he outlined the spot hesitantly, then with awe as his finger brushed the corner of his mouth. It wasn't his imagination. She really had.
Maybe... maybe he had misunderstood. Hope bubbled up inside him. She liked someone else, someone other than Nathaniel. He wasn't Nathaniel. What if she'd meant him?
What if he did have a chance after all?
***
Adrien wanted to be absolutely sure. Getting his hopes up again, or listening to Marinette's rejection, would be too painful. He was going to make sure he was the one, so he spent the next week looking for clues that he was the lucky boy she'd set her sights on.
And clues were everywhere.
They were mostly little things, like the way her face would light up when he came around a corner, or how she leaned into his touch when he dared to brush her bangs out of her eyes, or how she didn't scoot away if he sat down close to her.
Four days later, in the middle of a hard level, he experimentally touched his hand to her knee, keeping the pressure as light as he could, in case it wasn't wanted. She scooted closer, like she wanted to make it easier for him to do it again.
Marinette knew about his strict diet and would often bring him goodies, leftovers from the bakery. The following day, she'd brought him ones she'd made herself "with love." That's what she said. The big L word. A small part of him told him to calm down. She could have meant that she loved him as a friend. Most of him excitedly took it as an obvious hint.
Overall, his second favorite hint of her feelings was how she glowed under his compliments.
"These pastries are the best things I've ever tasted! Could you teach me to make them?" Marinette stumbled over her words for the next five minutes.
"Forget competing in the Olympics," he said two days later. "You could be the team coach. You're amazing!" She blushed for the rest of the day.
The best hint, the one that left him reeling, was becoming a common occurrence: she talked to him. Lately, their practice sessions would be filled with long stretches when they chatted about everything and nothing, controllers abandoned.
Today, she lounged on his couch, and he sat on the floor by her head. She'd asked him about his day, and he'd listened to hers, though she admitted herself that it was boring. She'd asked him about his day, then about his dreams for the future.
The honest curiosity she had for his answers, the fact that she even cared, left him leaning the couch for support. Marinette was on her back and smiled up at him as the movement brought him closer.
The conversation hit a lull when he ran out of things to say. Instead of feeling awkward, it was peaceful, and she closed her eyes and sighed.
What a perfect time to test her feelings for him again. Before he could think better of it, he ran his fingers through her hair. Her reaction was immediate. Her whole body relaxed, her smile widening. When she opened her eyes to look up at him, they were soft, maybe even loving.
But the "maybe" was still too daunting, and he pulled his hand back and looked away.
He needed to tell her how he felt. He liked her too much not to. He wanted her to look at him like that all the time. So why was he pulling out the controllers again to avoid her? Was it really better to wait and see what happened? Or should he just lay his heart bare right now?
He settled on the couch next to her, Marinette bending her knees to give him room without moving from her spot. Was she still giving him that loving look? Or had it turned into a frown because he was being a coward? He hunched forward under the weight of all his questions, resting his forearms on his knees.
"I bet I could beat you in my sleep," Marinette said. Her voice sounded normal, so he dared to look at her. Her face was mischievous as she stretched out with an exaggerated sigh, throwing her legs across his lap and pinning his arms down. "Care to bet against me?"
"Um, move. I need those arms."
"Make me."
Two more hints: the ease with which she touched him, and the way she seemed to save her most dazzling smiles just for him.
"Make you?" Massive crush or not, Adrien was not about to pass up a challenge. "I'll make you."
Marinette settled deeper into the cushions, pressing down onto his arms. It was the best trap he'd even been in, and he couldn't reach much to help him, just the coffee table in front of them. Leftover snacks littered the table, along with a half-filled glass of water. He slid it off the edge of the couch as Marinette squirmed to keep him in place.
With his limited movement, he couldn't lift the cup very high, so he mimed pouring it over her shins. She shrieked and kicked him in her scramble to get out of the way, and the glass spun out of his hand, splashing water all over him before landing on the floor. It soaked into his shirt and dripped through his hair.
"I'm sorry!" Marinette jumped up immediately, flapping her arms around her head so fast they blurred. "I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"It's fine," he assured her while rivulets of water tickled his down scalp. "It wasn't that much water."
She groaned at the lie. "I'll go get you a towel."
Before he could protest, she ran toward the bathroom door. Adrien followed her, dripping. "It was my fault. Please don't-"
A fluffy towel muffled his words as she threw it over his head and started rubbing it into his hair. "Marinette," he mumbled. "You don't have t-" The pace of her hands became less frantic as she moved from the crown of his head, moving down to dry the back.
"Sorry," she whispered. Her tempo became even slower as she worked the sides of his heads, rubbing gently so she wouldn't hurt his ears. Plans to "accidentally" get himself soaked on a weekly basis were already starting to form in his mind. He wasn't sure if it was the attention she was paying him or her rhythmic pace as she stroked circles around his ears, but every muscle in his body seemed to be melting.
"Is that any better?" she asked. Her hands stilled, but she didn't remove the towel from his face. Her breathing was quick and shallow.
Adrien lifted up the edge to reveal Marinette's panicked face. What did she think? That he was going to hate her because of some water? He wasn't a cat.
Her eyes searched his, looking for anger or rejection or who knew what, and he gently grabbed her face with both hands to bring her back to reality. And as an excuse to act out at least the beginning of every fantasy he had about kissing her. With the way she was looking at him, he could even pretend that they were about to come true.
"It's fine," he said, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. "I'm all dry now." A cold spot was soaking through at his shoulder, but he ignored it.
After a few more seconds of wide-eyed staring, Marinette slid the towel off his head and looped it behind his neck, holding onto both ends and giving no indication that she wanted him to remove his hands. So he didn't.
Another clue. It finally was enough. He knew.
Leaning in slowly, so she would have time to change her mind, he looked at her lips, then raised an eyebrow in question. Marinette used the towel to pull him closer to her, closing her eyes. A rush of heat swooped in his stomach when he felt her body brush against him. Her breath fanned his face as he inched closer. They hovered, anticipation building, noses brushing, lips quivering, until he tilted his head and finally closed his eyes.
Without warning, the door swung open. "Adrien."
Marinette and Adrien jumped apart, the towel falling on the floor.
Nathalie walked in, staring at her tablet and almost ignoring the teenagers she was speaking to. She hadn't noticed anything. "Your piano teacher is here. Ms. Dupain-Cheng's ride is waiting downstairs." Without another word, or even looking around the room for them, she left, leaving the door open after her.
"Um," Adrien said. Cursing the interruption, he bent to pick up the towel. When he straightened he reached out for Marinette's hand, but she was already across the room, picking up her things and not looking at him, her face glowing red.
She snuck him a peek once as she was putting her shoes back on, but when she saw him staring at her, she looked down again. Probably because he was gaping at her like an idiot.
Marinette finally walked back over to him, eyeing the wet spot on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-
"Want a hug?" he asked, offering his arms. "It's nice and cold."
She chuckled as she leaned into him, resting her cheek against his. "Thanks for having me over." Her breath blew his hair, tickling him. "And for letting me beat you."
"Oh, yes," he said. The hug didn't feel cold at all. It was warming him up from head to toe. "I lost on purpose, just for you." How was he supposed to just let her walk out his door, when all he wanted to do was hold her and never move from this spot again? "Because your happiness is so important to me."
As she pulled away and stepped back, he grabbed her hand, and then just as quickly let it go, unsure how to recreate the mood that had so quickly evaporated.
They waited, neither moving, Adrien hoping for at least another goodbye kiss like she'd given him last week. Without warning her expression crumpled, and she walked through the door without saying goodbye at all.
She'd been waiting, he realized as soon as she was gone. She'd been waiting for a goodbye kiss, too.
Adrien ran to the window in time to watch her walk down the front steps. He followed her with his eyes as she slid into the car. When she turned to pull the door closed behind her, she paused, looking straight at him. He waved, but she shut it without returning the gesture.
"Tomorrow," he vowed. It was Saturday, and they had another practice in the morning. The first words out of his mouth were going to be his confession.
He just needed to figure out what to say.
***
Saturday mornings used to mean stifling isolation. There was no school to look forward to. His tutors often had the day off, and if there wasn't a photoshoot, he was likely to be confined to his room. Another benefit of having Marinette in his life was that he was no longer alone on the oppressive weekends.
"You're smart, and kind, and funny." Adrien muttered to himself in the back seat, his driver occasionally looking at him with concern through the rearview mirror. He'd been rehearsing multiple versions of his speech since last night. It was only a few minutes until he saw her, and he still hadn't decided what to say. Should he just blurt it out? "Marinette, I love you." Or should he build up to it? "I've loved spending time with you, and you're my best friend, and lately you've become more than that." He tested them both out. They were both fine, so why did they both sound so... wrong?
Maybe he wasn't being specific enough. Anyone could tell her she was great. So what should he say about her specifically? This only led him back to all the other lists of rehearsed lines he'd come up with in the last 12 hours, her confidence, her infectious joy, her compassion...
The car pulled up to the curb, and Adrien stepped out, knees a little wobbly with anxiety. He was going to have to just wing it. Say what felt right in the moment. Which was a terrifying idea, but now he had no choice.
The bell tinkled and the smell of fresh bread and chocolate chip cookies filled his nose as soon as he pushed open the bakery door. Sabine and Tom turned to him with wide smiles.
"She's already waiting for you," Sabine said, waving him through the door to their upstairs apartment. "Have fun!"
His footsteps seemed to echo through the small hallway. Hesitating only a second, he knocked on the door that led into her living room, and waited, heart pounding.
Marinette, I have something to tell you. Marinette, I love you. Marinette, before we start to play, can we talk? He'd promised himself. The first words out of his mouth would be his confession. Don't mess it up, Adrien. Just tell her you love her.
The door was yanked inward so fast that it hit the wall. Adrien jumped. "M-marinette. I lo-"
"I've got a new idea! Come here!" She reached through the doorway and clamped down on his wrist, then turned and towed him through the living room and up her stairs. A woman on a mission.
He had no idea what that mission was, or what really was happening, so his imagination started supplying possibilities. She got a new game? She needed to show him her newest art project? He tripped on the top step when he thought that maybe she was dragging him up to her room because she couldn't wait to kiss him.
He imagined her snapping the trapdoor shut, with the pink curtains closed and her room dimly lit by filtered light. She would let go of his hand, then turn around to face him, before slowly stepping into his space. She'd slide her hands up his shirt, stopping at the collar, grabbing fistfuls to pull herself closer. And closer. Their faces were millimeters apart. He could count the lashes of her half-closed eyes. He reached for her eagerly, wrapping both arms around her waist, pulling her closer, her stomach flush against him.
"I love you," she whispered. "You're the only one for me." Her lips parted slightly as her eyes slid shut.
Marinette's voice was suddenly bright and cheery. "Pick your favorite button!"
Adrien's daydream popped.
Sunlight flooded her room through uncovered windows. Her trapdoor was still open, as her parents had always requested, and she waited for an answer expectantly, bouncing on her toes and not looking smitten in the slightest.
"Uh, what?"
"Buttons," she repeated. "Which one's your favorite?"
She'd dragged him upstairs for sewing help. He cleared his throat and smoothed out the collar of his shirt, which hadn't been rumpled by her hands.
"I've never thought about it," he said, keeping the disappointment out of his voice. "Flat buttons are probably the easiest to sew with, but Father says shank buttons are almost as easy, and I think they look... What?"
Marinette was laughing at him. "No, your favorite controller button, you goof." She waved one in front of his face. The A button had been taped down. Taking it in both hands again, she mimed playing an intense round. Enthusiasm bubbled off of her. He had no idea what this was about, but he was already on board with whatever it was. (Even if it wasn't kissing.)
"I'm confused." And also in love with you.
It was too late for his confession to be the first thing out of his mouth. His fingers itched to touch her, but she was too excited to let him interrupt.
"See, we're getting too good. We need a new way to push ourselves, so I thought, give ourselves a handicap." She pointed at the incapacitated button. "And go head-to-head. What do you think?"
"I think that's amazing."
As soon as the moment passed, he'd realized what a perfect opportunity he'd missed. Marinette was scrambling across her room to tape down the B on his controller. "You're," he whispered, too quiet for her to hear. "I think you're amazing."
"Catch!" The controller flew, and he caught it deftly. Marinette flopped onto the chaise, leaning sideways against the cushioned back, leaving enough room for him to sit at the end, if he didn't mind her feet poking his thigh, which he definitely did not.
The computer monitor flickered as Marinette scrolled through the settings. Adrien leaned forward as the round began, trying to ignore the way her toes jabbed him when he got a hit on her. It didn't happen very often. The handicap was almost impossible to play with. Marinette won every round easily. At the end of the fourth round, she covered a fake yawn and stretched lazily, and he finally realized something important.
"You practiced this beforehand, you dirty cheater!"
Marinette laughed wickedly as his character was knocked out again.
"You're almost as good as I am now, young grasshopper. I've got to maintain my superiority somehow!"
"We both know that isn't true." He swiped for her hands, but she was too fast, moving the controller out of his reach. "Give yourself a second handicap."
"Make me," she said, her feet pushing against him to press herself further into the back of the chaise.
"Give it."
"No."
He leaned over her legs and into her space, but she kept the controller away from him, grinning wildly. Feigning defeat, Adrien leaned back. When Marinette lowered it into her lap, he pounced forward, but she was still too quick, lifting both hands behind her head, hiding it out of sight.
"Hand it over!"
"No!"
He reached, and she leaned back farther, one elbow poking his cheek. Pushing into her, he strained to get the controller, and she arched underneath him to keep it away.
His arms were longer than hers. He should have been able to get it. His fingers found her wrists, and he slid them up to find her fingers.
A warm breath on his cheek made him stop. He was face-to-face with Marinette. He was nearly lying on top of her, pressing her into the chaise. They were both breathing hard, though they'd barely moved. One of her pigtails was loose.
"It's not fair," he said, mouth dry. "You need to make it even."
She lifted her head, until her face filled his vision and their noses touched. "Make me." Her lips brushed his with each word.
He kissed her.
Every longing moment, every loving thought he'd ever had about her poured through him into his kiss. Again and again his lips found hers. Somewhere, a controller clattered to the floor, and then her hands were on him, in his hair, splayed against his neck, pulling him closer, and he kissed her harder, caressing her face, pulling out her loose pigtail so he could feel her soft hair between his fingers.
Kissing a line from the corner of her mouth to ear and back, he asked, "Have I sufficiently dazed you?"
She hummed dreamily in response.
Kissing just below her ear, he asked, "Think you can play like this?"
A whisper. "No."
Taking his time, he worked his way back across her cheek, making sure to kiss every inch until he reached the corner of her lips, but he stopped just shy of them, gently kissing her nose instead. "Good."
Somehow, he managed to pull himself off of her. Marinette clutched at his shirt, trying to get him to come back, but he circled the chaise and retrieved her controller, holding it out to her. He loved the way her fingers hovered over her mouth as her eyes wandered up his arm. When her eyes reached his lips, her fingers pressed down hard, like it was the only way she could stop herself from kissing him again.
"Up for another round?" he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder to the computer screen.
"Yes, but not of that." She scowled. Half of her hair was loose around her shoulder.
"Let me win this game and you have a deal."
"Never."
"Poor, Marinette," he said, settling down next to her and clicking Start. "No more kisses for you."
Ten seconds into the round and Adrien already knew his plan was going to end badly. His hands were shaking. Marinette's character wobbled. Every time he licked his lips, he could still taste her.
And she had realized that if she rubbed her toes against his hip, he would jump and look over at her. The first time she did it, he was unsure if it had been on purpose, but the second, he turned to find a sly smile waiting for him. This girl was going to drive him crazy.
"I don't think much of your tactics," she said a minute later, as her character finished him off. It had taken three times longer than normal because they were both awful. "You're clearly just as dazed as I am."
"Not nearly enough," he said. Tossing the controller onto the desk, he reached for her waist and slid her into his lap. She came willingly, looping her arms around his neck and weaving her fingers into his hair.
One of his hands stayed at her waist, the other reached up and pulled her other pigtail loose. "You really do look good like this," he breathed.
"You love me," she giggled. "Admit it."
He leaned forward, forehead resting on hers, eyes locked. "Make me."
"Oh, believe me-" Marinette's voice was a low whisper, and Adrien felt a thrill. "I will."
***
Author’s note: This might just be my new favorite thing I’ve ever written. :) I wrote this in response to a poll I took a zillion years ago. It’s finally here! Thank you @ours-polaires, @khanofallorcs and @actuallycannotflirt for beta’ing this one! I know it was long, and I truly appreciate the help!
@tbehartoo
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The Only Antidote is a Kiss
Summary: Scarecrow always did come up with the most whacky chemical formulas to test on people. Red Hood gets dosed with his latest toxin, and the only way to cure it is with a kiss. The only candidate? Long time rival and almost enemy, Ladybird.
____________________________________________________
“No,” Red Hood said, resolutely. “No way in hell.”
Red Robin’s exasperated voice crackled over the comm. “Hood, if you don’t, you’re going to die.”
“Do you think I care? Death is better.”
“I would say that’s insulting if I didn’t feel the exact same way.” Ladybird nonchalantly twirled a yoyo at her side. “Besides, ten minutes is plenty of time to get him someone else.”
“You two are in the middle of nowhere. It’s thirty minutes to the nearest city.”
“Yeah, but the suburbs are always an option. You Bats always seem to miss the obvious solution.”
“I’m not kissing her,” Red Hood repeated.
“I know that you two are…” Red Robin tried to find a more delicate way to word their relationship, “Not always on the best of terms, but you are on the same side right now. Ladybird, you don’t want Red Hood to die, do you?”
Plying Ladybird was always easier than trying to convince Red Hood. The woman had a heart of gold. Today? No such luck.
“He’s not going to die,” Ladybird scoffed. “If he dies over this instead of the many, many, many assassination attempts that I saved him from, I’ll feel insulted. But I’m also not going to help. I’m not going to kiss an unwilling party, and certainly not one with a mug as ugly as Red Hood.”
“You’ve never even seen my face!” Red Hood argued from safely inside his beauteous red bucket.
“Yeah, well you’ve never seen mine either, and yet somehow, you have no issue with calling me disfigured every time our paths cross.”
“You’re wearing a mask. Only people who are horribly scarred wear full face masks.”
“Oh, so you’re admitting you’re ugly then?”
“No, I’m wearing a helmet, not a mask. Big difference.”
Ladybird barely stopped herself from bashing her head against the cement and steel wall. If the action didn’t break her mask, she would have considered going through with it. “God, this is why I’m not going to kiss him, Red Robin. Can’t you use one of those zeta things and drop in a girl for him to make out with?”
“You know they don’t work like that.”
“I wouldn’t know, it’s not like I’m in the Justice League.”
“Not for a lack of trying! We’ve offered you the position at least ten different times.”
“Yeah, on the condition that I get Red Hood to join up too. That certainly doesn’t sound like you guys actually want my help.”
“Nine minutes on the clock,” an automated voice reminded them.
“I say we blow this popsicle stand,” Red Hood pointed a finger up at the cement ceiling.
“Wow, what a stupendously original idea, Red Hood. It’s almost like the next thing out of your mouth might be something vaguely resembling intelligence. Oh wait, that’s right. We can’t get out of this hell hole because there’s three feet of cement on every side of us and we have no weapons that can help.”
“I haven’t had a crack at it, yet.”
“Be my guest. I’ll sit back and laugh at your failed attempts.” Ladybird reclined on a wall. “We both know that between the two of us, I’m the one who’s better at escape and solutions that don't require firearms. You don’t think with either one of your heads, you think with your AK-47.”
“My babies are all I need to get the job done. Your plans are always so unnecessarily convoluted.”
“They’re convoluted so I can cover my tracks instead of leaving evidence, debris, and dead bodies behind.”
“Uh, guys? Can you have your spat after Hood’s life is out of immediate danger?”
“No,” both of them chorused, immediately glaring at each other for speaking in sync.
“I doubt Scarecrow actually came up with a formula that will make you die if you don’t kiss someone of the opposite gender within ten minutes. That seems like the kind of chemical compound that’s featured in all of those really trashy romance novels, except instead of being unable to control your instincts, you die.” Ladybird considered the empty vial on the floor. “I’m confident that Red Hood can ride this out with minimal damage. Even if he does get horny, it’s not like he’s going to go for me-- drug induced state or not, he can’t stand my guts.”
“Can I just say that I don’t want to bank his life on that assumption?”
“It’s not like your life is the one at stake. Just try to get someone out here that can break down this welded door for us sooner, rather than later.” Ladybird gives Red Hood a once over. “Besides, if he does try anything, we all know that I’m more than capable of tying him up.”
#
“Hey, why don’t you use that Lucky Charm of yours?”
“Do you think I didn’t think of that already? That was one of the first things I considered.”
“So why didn’t you use it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that after I do, I detransform within five minutes? Not a big fan of exposing my identity, plus it’s not like anybody’s in any real danger because we’re locked up here. Scarecrow’s tied up, the goons that welded the door shut on us aren’t capable of using their brains, and a team is going to bust us out in thirty minutes anyways.”
For the millionth time, Red Hood pounded his shoulder against the steel weld, hoping that something would give. Nothing happened.
A beep sounded.
“Ten minutes have passed.”
“See?” Ladybird crowed triumphantly. “I was right. Nothing’s--”
Red Hood fell to the floor, clawing at his chest.
“... happening. I jinxed it, didn’t I? I guess I’ll use it, then.”
Ladybird called for a lucky charm. No antidote fell into her hand. Just a sheet of paper, saying Kiss him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Tikki, don’t do me dirty like this!”
“Tikki? Who’s Tikki? What did the Lucky Charm give you?”
A wet cough sounded from underneath Red Hood’s helmet. He started to gasp for air.
Ladybird didn’t like Hood, but Red Robin was right. She had grown fond of him after saving his ass so many times. She wasn’t just going to let him die, especially not when she could help him. With a bone weary sigh, she knelt next to Red Hood.
“I guess we’re doing this, aren’t we? Red Robin, comms off.”
“Off? But Hood sounds like--”
“Off,” she repeated, firmly. “Or I’ll break them.”
The telltale sign of static ceased in her ears.
Ladybird held Red Hood by his shoulders, maneuvering his mask off.
“I hope you’re ugly,” she whispered.
He was not.
#
Even with blood on his lips, Jason Todd was unfortunately attractive.
“Gonna--” he coughed again, the spray of blood accompanied by a wheeze. “Bless me with your face before I die?”
“I can’t believe that you’re still snarky while you’re on death’s door.” Ladybird touched the full face mask that she added during her years as a vigilante in Gotham. She still has the usual Ladybug eye cover, so her identity is safe. But the noh mask provides a sense of safety to her. She’s loathe to take it off, but in order for a kiss to work, it needs to be put aside. With a sigh, she places it on the ground and places a hand over Red Hood’s startlingly blue eyes.
“Kinky,” he spat. Ladybird grimaced. Why she ended up on this mission alone with Red Hood was beyond her, but they always ended up in the worst situations together somehow, anyways.
Her lips descended on his.
Iron and sweat.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her lips with the hand that wasn’t preoccupied with shielding Red Hood’s eyes. “You feeling any better?”
He coughed again.
“Great, so Scarecrow was lying and I didn’t have to kiss you. You were just going to die anyways.”
She placed her noh mask back on, then pressed a button on her comm. “You’re going to want to speed up the whole backup team. Looks like Scarecrow was lying.”
“You’re kidding me. Scarecrow never lies--”
Red Hood sat up shakily.
“I’m fine, Replacement. Throat’s a little sore, but I’m fine.”
“Good to know his MO hasn’t changed,” Ladybird remarked. “I’d suggest that you wipe your face with something. It’s covered in blood.”
“And Ladybird cooties.” Red Hood used his forearm to wipe the blood off. Ladybird had to admit that the man was objectively good looking. The artist in her wanted to take a picture or sketch him. The shock of white hair, symmetrical features, and prominent nose. His eyes had a certain darkness in them, like he had seen the worst of the world, but there was still a clarity to them that said he was fighting against those injustices. “C’mon, you’ve seen my face, don’t you think it’s time to exchange the favor?”
“Backup’s arriving in three,” interjected Red Robin.
“There’s nothing in it for me.” Ladybird tugged the hood of her cloak down lower.
“Isn’t it weird that we kissed and I don’t know your face?”
“No.”
“You really are into some kinky shit.”
“Also no on that.”
“Then why not show me your face?”
“Stop being such a brat.”
“I know I’m older than you.”
“Bratiness isn’t measured in age, but in mental maturity. Which you have none of.”
“Please?”
“I’m almost tempted to take off my noh mask if only because that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say the word please.”
“If I say it again, will you?”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Pretty please, Ladybird?”
“... Fine.” She’d get a laugh out of this anyways, and the team was minutes away from picking them up.
She took off her noh mask to reveal the red and black domino.
Red Hood cursed.
@jasonette-july-2k20
it’s wild that yall are liking my fics when i basically vomit these things up im honestly scared to look back at some of the ones that have been posted because i do not proof read or edit
#poison#jasonette#you ever want to see what's under a mask?#only to find another mask?#Marinette's masks are like those russian dolls#never ending#maribat#jasonette july#jason todd#marinette dupain cheng#miraculous ladybug#dcu
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HE WAS A SKATER BOY.
she said see you later boy.
PAIRING: Skater Sicheng x female reader | Skater Shotaro x female reader.
GENRE: Skateboard, best friends | Fluff, angst.
WARNINGS: Mention of past injuries, strong language, accident, blood, violence, hospital, Jaehyun is a massive asshole, Yuta saves the day.
PLOT: You didn't think that by accompanying your best friend on his first day of work at the local skateboard store you would end up watching skaters fight during an illegal race.
WORD COUNT: +4.1k.
A/N: This is part of the sports collab hosted by @lucas-wongs | this is also inspired by sk8 the infinity that you do not need to know to read.
"Can you come with me?"
You frown when you hear Shotaro's voice, and when you turn your head, you find him in the doorframe, his arms crossed against his chest. Shotaro doesn't live here, and last you heard he didn't have a spare key to enter your apartment.
"I want to ask you how you got in, but I'm not sure I want to hear your answer," you mumble as you get up from your desk chair, stretching your arms above your head. "and why do you want me to come? It's your first day on the job, you don't need a chaperone."
He pouts, letting his arms fall to his sides. "I am stressed, this is my first job!" he says, like it's obvious, and you roll your eyes. "Please?"
"If I come, you better pay for the pizza for the next movie night, okay?" he nods, suddenly regaining his smile, and you grab your jacket. "If your boss, or your coworkers laugh at you because you needed me, I don't want to hear you complain."
"Do you think they're going to laugh at me?" he asks in a small voice, and you heave a sigh, you should have turned your tongue seven times in your mouth before speaking.
"If they laugh at you, it'll be my job, as your best friend, to beat them up, okay?" he laughs softly, and you push him out of the doorframe to exit your room. "Okay, I really need to know, how did you get into the apartment?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "You didn't close the balcony door, so I walked in through there." you found another reason to look for a new apartment.
"Come on, let's go or you'll be late." you put on your shoes, and you leave the apartment after taking the time to close the balcony door, you don't want a stranger to suddenly want to visit your apartment after seeing Shotaro do it.
Shotaro retrieves his skateboard outside the apartment complex, and also his backpack that he left in plain sight. "You have to stop trusting everyone, Shotaro, someday someone is going to steal your things."
"You live in the most peaceful and secure part of town, I have nothing to fear." that's what he believes.
The shop where Shotaro was hired is only ten minutes from your apartment, and when you approach it, you stop walking, thrusting your hands into the pockets of your jacket. "Can you go on your own, or do I have to go inside with you?"
He lowers his head, and he plays with the hem of his sweatshirt. "Can you come in with me, and pretend you want to buy something, so I don't look silly?"
If you knew this is the way your day would be, you wouldn't have asked your boss to give you a day off. Having to deal with unpleasant customers is certainly better than having to pretend to buy something from a store where nothing interests you.
"It's going to cost you a lot Shotaro, and it's only for today, okay?" he nods, and he walks over to the bay window.
"You don't have to be afraid, there is no one in the shop." it's true, on the other side of the glass, you can't see anyone. Which is no wonder, even though the store opened over six years ago, the customers aren't regular, so you wonder how it stays open.
You push open the door, and a doorbell rings, and your gaze lands on the counter almost immediately. "Hello?" a young man has his arms resting on the counter, and his face nestled in between. His breathing is slow and regular. He is sleeping.
Shotaro closes the door behind him, and walks over to the counter. "Excuse me?" he asks in a small voice, and when the man doesn't react, he gently pushes his shoulder. "Excuse me? I'm Shotaro, I'm the new employee."
"What is happening?" the young man asks in a hoarse voice full of sleep, raising his head. He rubs his eyes, yawning at length. "Can I help you?"
Shotaro is moving from leg to leg, clearly nervous. "I am Shotaro, I just got hired."
The young man gets up from his stool which scrapes against the tiles, and he shakes Shotaro's hand. "Oh yeah, the boss told me he found someone else. But from what you can see, we don't really have any clients today, so I don't know what I'm going to do with you."
Shotaro takes a deep breath, and he straightens up a bit. He wants to be confident in front of his colleague. "I can do the cleaning, whatever you don't want to do, I love skateboarding, so being here is enough, even if I'm not doing anything." he basically says he doesn't mind being paid for doing nothing. Understandable.
From where you stand, a little back, you can see the shadow of a smile on the young man's face. "Do you skate?" Shotaro nods. "I was afraid the boss hired someone who didn't know anything about skateboards, so welcome, I'm Sicheng!"
"Pleased to meet you." Shotaro says, and Sicheng finally seems to notice your presence, since you meet his gaze.
"Do you need anything?"
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out, luckily, Shotaro comes to your aid. "I was a little afraid to come, so I asked her to come with me." Sicheng hums, but he doesn't comment.
"You want to stay?" he asks you, and you shrug your shoulders.
"Yeah."
And that's how you started to spend your days off, and your weekends in the skateboard shop.
When you see Shotaro talking with clients, advise them about a skateboard, you tell yourself that he was born to do that, he is a natural. You can't remember the last time you saw him smile so much, and you wonder if his jaw hurts at the end of the day. You like to see your best friend like this.
As for Sicheng, he is interesting.
There are days when he barely speaks, when he answers your questions with grunts that make you laugh, and there are days when it's impossible to silence him. He's nice, he's caring with Shotaro, he always makes sure he feels good and comfortable with a client. And he doesn't hesitate to kick some of them out for asking silly questions.
You still don't know much about skateboarding, but you could spend hours watching Sicheng build a skateboard from start to finish.
A bit like today.
You are sitting on a wooden table where skateboard wheels are strewn about, sketches of boards are balled up on the floor, and on the shelves, and Sicheng is leaning over a workbench, figuring out why the board's wheels stop rolling.
"The wheels are round, they shouldn't stop rolling, don't you think so?" you ask by grabbing one of the sketches that you smooth out. It's an extravagant model, and you remember the client who asked for it. Red hair, red nail polish, the tattoo of a rose, and a bright smile.
"Do you think I don't know?" he mumbles, and you laugh softly, it's so easy to annoy him when he is working. Maybe that's the only reason you don't get bored to death when you're locked in the back room with him.
And to be honest, he is not ugly to look at.
"Maybe there's gravel stuck in the bearings?"
Sicheng sits up, and he turns to you with a frown. "How do you know about the bearings?"
You stick your tongue out. "I listen to you when you speak, Sicheng."
He smiles softly, and goes back to his work. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him picking up some sort of toothbrush to clean between the bearings, and as you predicted, some gravel falls on the workbench. "See? I should be paid for this."
"We have five clients a month, do you really think I can give you money for a simple advice?" he asks with a sigh, and you shrug your shoulders.
"The shop is still open, so your boss has enough money for that, and to pay you and Shotaro."
"I can pay you in gratitude, if you want." you chuckle, it is not with gratitude that you are going to pay your rent, but you accept. Next time you won't give him advice.
"I wanted to ask you, are you and Shotaro free tonight?" he asks, sitting down on the workbench before taking the board on his lap to spin the wheels.
"I am free, and as far as Shotaro is concerned, I have no idea." you answer by tilting your head. "Why?"
"You don't live together?" he narrows his eyes.
"No? Why would I be living with him?"
Sicheng is biting his lower lip, but rather than answering your current question, he prefers to answer your previous one. "I'm participating in a race tonight, and I trust you enough to get you there now."
"What does trust have to do with a race?" you ask. "Is this an illegal race?"
Sicheng is watching you like it's the most obvious thing. "Duh! Have you ever heard of skateboard races?" you shake your head. "They're organized by a rich man who we don't know anything about except his nickname. There's nothing to win, but it's fun to go there. You can meet some pretty cool people."
"I'll come, if I don't risk ending up in jail." Sicheng laughs, swinging his head back, but he bumps into the wall, which makes you laugh heartily. "How do you stand on a skateboard if you bump into a wall so easily?"
This time it's his turn to stick your tongue out. "I'll ask Shotaro."
You get off the table, and you go back to the shop where Shotaro is. He's sitting on the counter, watching a documentary about Tony Hawk on the television. "I see you are working very hard, it's nice to see."
He jumps, but he smiles when his gaze meets yours. "There's nothing to do, and Sicheng doesn't like me to be in the back of the store when he's working." and he is right, because Shotaro asks so many questions that Sicheng has trouble concentrating. The last time he cut his palm deep enough that you had to drive him to the emergency room for stitches.
"Sicheng asked if we would like to accompany him to a race tonight." you say, and Shotaro pauses the documentary.
"A skate race?" you nod your head. "Oh my god yes!"
You roll your eyes, Shotaro is adorable when he's excited, because he almost vibrates. "It's illegal, so we risk ending up in jail, don't smile too much."
"Watching an illegal race, and ending up in jail? That would take two things off my list of things to do before I die."
"See, the kid knows how to live!" you hear the back door shut behind Sicheng, and he rests his chin on your shoulder. "You'll see, we'll have fun!"
The way to the start line of the race is an adventure in itself. The car cannot drive on the steep road, and anyway, it is too crowded for you to be able to drive without taking the risk of running over someone.
"Do you do this regularly?" you ask, taking a deep breath, to avoid showing Sicheng that you are out of breath and that you regret having accepted his invitation.
Shotaro on the other hand looks like a child in a Christmas village. He looks at everything with wide, interested eyes, and a blinding smile. If you could, you would pinch his cheeks.
"Every weekend, sometimes twice a week, it depends on the organizer." he responds by shrugging his shoulders, tightening his fingers on the edge of his skateboard so that his knuckles turn white.
"And have you ever met him? The organizer?" Sicheng shakes his head.
"Never, he comes very rarely, but he has set up cameras everywhere so he can watch the skateboarders." you don't know if it's smart, or creepy.
When you get to the end of the trail, you fold your arms across your chest looking around. There are a lot of people, like a lot. You see hair of all colors, people of all ages, and it's nice.
"Sicheng!" the young man turns and his smile disappears when his gaze falls on a skateboarder. "I didn't think you would come, I heard you were way too busy taking care of an empty store."
Sicheng sighs. "Jaehyun, what are you doing here? I thought you couldn't skate anymore." Jaehyun's gaze falls on you, then on Shotaro before sliding down on the board he has just placed on the ground.
"Oh, did you bring some friends? That's good. Do you skate?" he asks Shotaro who nods vigorously. "Do you want to participate in the race?"
Sicheng opens his mouth to say something, but Shotaro is faster than him to answer. "I don't know, can I?" Jaehyun nods, smirking. "Oh my god, yes!"
"You're new here, so I'll race you, don't worry, I'm nice on the track." he winks at you, and turns on his heel before disappearing into the crowd.
You turn to Shotaro. "Are you crazy? You've never skated on this kind of road, you're going to get hurt!"
It is Sicheng's turn to speak. "You can't race him, he's a savage, he's going to send you into the background from the start to make sure he'll win!"
Shotaro shrugs his shoulders. "It's a good opportunity to try it out on the road, isn't it? And why would he do that, he's going to be in trouble if he hurts me on purpose."
Sicheng sighs. "You don't understand Shotaro. If he hurts you on purpose there won't be any consequences for him. It's an illegal race, so if something happens, if you need to be sent to the hospital , you will be the one in trouble, they won't give a shit if you mention Jaehyun."
"Oh." you put your arm on Shotaro's shoulder, who looks up at you.
"It's okay, Shotaro, you can train on a normal road, Sicheng must have places he likes to go, right?" Sicheng nods.
"I'm going to go for a walk, see if I don't see someone from the skate park." Shotaro whispers, and it's his turn to disappear into the crowd. Maybe you should hold him back, but you don't want to force him to stay if he's angry.
"Who is this Jaehyun?" you ask Sicheng who is approaching you so that he can speak without having to yell above the hubub.
"Jaehyun started skateboarding when he was very young, we actually met like that. It's just that he takes racing way too seriously, and he won't hesitate to push someone from the side of the road if that can allow him a victory. He is not afraid of anything, except defeat. He had an accident a few months ago, and we all thought it was the end of his career, but from what I just saw, it wasn't true."
It's not reassuring, you think, biting the inside of your cheek. "Have you ever raced against him?"
Sicheng laughs coldly. "Yeah. All I remember from the race is waking up in a hospital bed with my elbow and collarbone broken."
You understand why he told Shotaro not to race against him, and you are grateful to him for that.
"Come on, I'll show you around."
To avoid getting lost in the crowd, Sicheng takes your hand in his, and he intertwines your fingers. His hand is warm, and it's pretty nice.
He shows you the places where he fell, where he split his cheek, where he broke his wrist and the fingers of his left hand, and each time you can't help but laugh at the dramatic way he tells his stories. "You'll end up falling apart if you keep racing."
"I know it, my friends all tell me, but it's all I've got. It's the only thing I know how to do, where I'm good at." it’s something you don’t believe. You spent enough time with him to know that he is an artist, and that he wielded the tools like no one else. He has so much more than just his skateboard.
"You're wrong, you're-" you're cut off when a crackling sounds through the speakers is heard, and you turn your head towards Sicheng.
“We have the first participants in tonight's race! Jaehyun, a regular we never thought would ever come back, and a new kid, Shotaro!”
"Shit!" Sicheng exclaims, and he starts to run. At first you are frozen in place, but suddenly fingers are circling your wrist and you are pulled by Sicheng. "Come on, we have to stop him!"
Unfortunately with the people it's hard to navigate through the crowds, and before you even get to the starting track, a whistle blows, and the two boys set off.
"Stop the race!" Sicheng says to the young woman holding the whistle, and she shakes her head.
"No can do, sorry."
Your heart is beating so hard in your chest, that you wonder if it will fall at your feet, and Sicheng is not better. He is unable to stand still as he looks at one of the many screens that show the different places Shotaro will skate by.
You dig your fingernails into the palms of your hands without even realizing it, it's only when Sicheng gasps that you lower your gaze. You broke the skin, and blood is covering the tips of your fingernails. "It's going to be fine, calm down." he says, holding one of your hands.
"What is he doing?" someone exclaims with a mixture of surprise and indignation.
You look at the screen, and your eyes widen. Jaehyun and Shotaro are side by side, and Jaehyun is trying to knock him off his skateboard. "We have to do something."
When you don't get a response, you turn around, and you notice that Sicheng has disappeared. You stand on your tiptoes, and you see him running on the track before hopping on his skateboard.
Suddenly, what you feared is happening.
Shotaro loses his balance, and he falls off his skateboard. A fall is nothing, he could get away with a few bruises, but unfortunately at full speed it's a different story.
Shotaro tries to catch himself, but the way his wrist twists makes you nauseous. His wrist should not be bent like this. His head bangs against the asphalt, and your mouth opens with a silent scream. You have to help him, but for that you need your legs to obey you.
You shake your head, and when you regain the mobility of your legs, you start to run. You don't know if Sicheng saw the accident, all you know is you have to find Shotaro, and get him to the hospital as soon as possible.
When you get to Shotaro, he's still on the ground, unconscious. Sicheng and Jaehyun are a meter or two away.
"You bastard!" Sicheng says, and Jaehyun does nothing but laugh. He must have tripped, because his skateboard is nowhere to be seen.
"This is how it works, Sicheng!" Jaehyun responds with a smirk. "And why are you reacting like that anyway, you did it too, a few times if I remember correctly."
"Not at full speed, and in a bend! It's way too dangerous! You could have killed him!" Sicheng walks up to Jaehyun, and you don't need to see his face to know that he looks threatening, and that he's ready to hit Jaehyun, to make him pay for hurting Shotaro.
If he does, he will be in trouble, and you don't want that.
"Sicheng, we have to take him to the hospital!" Sicheng seems to notice your presence, as he turns his back on Jaehyun. A very bad idea, if you ask me, since Jaehyun grabs Sicheng's skateboard, and lifts it up high, probably about to knock it down on the back of Sicheng's head.
"Behind you!" you scream, and Sicheng falls to his knees, in time to dodge the blow that would certainly have caused massive damage.
"You're going to pay for this Jaehyun, and I promise you'll never get on a skateboard again!" Sicheng growls, and he joins you on all fours to avoid getting hit once more. He knows Jaehyun, he knows he'll try to knock him out at the first opportunity.
"He's bleeding Sicheng, and the car is so far away." you whisper when he's close enough to hear you, your hand resting on Shotaro's cheek. Blood is flowing from his wound to the head, and a tear rolls down your cheek.
"We can't call the ambulances, because everyone will be arrested, including us." then this is not an option. You have to find something else.
"My car is parked right there, I can go get it for you if you want. I'm also going to ask people to open the gates down the track so you don't have to endure the crowds."
You turn your head to the red haired boy who asked Sicheng for the weird skateboard the week before the race. "Please, that would help us tremendously!" you answer, and he disappears.
As promised, he comes back quickly, and he stops the car in front of you. "I'll help you put him in the car." he tells Sicheng who needs a minute to react, but when he does, he puts Shotaro in the backseat, and he sits with him, his head on his knees.
"We'll owe you one." you say, getting behind the wheel.
You drive off the racetrack without a hitch, and after that, it's just a matter of luck. All the lights are green, and there is no one on the road. Perfect.
You stop the car in front of the main door of the hospital, and you go out in a hurry. "I need help!" you say, and two nurses follow you outside. "He fell off his skateboard, hit his head and hasn't regained consciousness since. It's been 15 minutes."
Then it's a total blur.
Shotaro was taken away by several nurses, and you were forbidden to follow them.
It's been over two hours, and you're still sitting in the waiting room, your head resting on Sicheng's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry." he says in a whisper, and you look up at him. "I shouldn't have invited you. I should have known that Jaehyun would be there, and that he would seek to harm me without attacking me directly."
You shrug your shoulders. "You couldn't have known, especially after his accident. You just wanted to please Shotaro by inviting him."
Silence falls, and when the door opens on one of the nurses who took care of Shotaro, you get up from your chair, immediately imitated by Sicheng. "How is he?"
"He is fine." she says with a comforting smile. "The blow to the head was strong, but for some incredible reason he doesn't have a concussion. His wrist is broken, and he's going to have a few bruises. He is going to be just fine, and should be able to leave the hospital tomorrow after one last check up."
A weight slips off your shoulders, and before you know what's going on, Sicheng hugs you for a long, and strong embrace that you didn't know you needed. "Oh thank god."
Shotaro won't be in a race anytime soon, but he'll be getting back on his skateboard before his wrist is even healed.
#nct#wayv#nct imagines#wayv imagines#winwin imagines#winwin scenarios#shotaro imagines#shotaro scenarios
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The Wildest Place You Run (5/?) - Not Far Now
I'm sorry for the delay: traveling and vacation made it impossible to post, but in turn, you'll get two chapters this week (including this). This one is a bit shorter, but you'll see why in the next chapter (spoiler alert: too many action).
As always, a huge thank you to my beta and artist @thejollyroger-writer for correcting my mistakes and making kick-ass art for chapters 5 and 6! Check it out above!
Summary:
Vampires, Werewolves, Mages, and Elves. For centuries, they kept their existence a secret, but the constant rebellions against the strict laws of the Guild had led to a terrible tragedy. In an open clash, it became apparent to humans just what kind of monsters lived among them. Emma Swan loses the love of her life in the first battle of the war. A few months later, while still trying to process what happened, a mysterious and terrifying figure worms his way into her life. But the man is hiding far more terrible secrets than he reveals to her, pulling them both into a horrible situation...
Chapter: 5/? - Not Far Now
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Rating: M
Relationships: Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Read on: FF.net or AO3
Words: ~2k
Previous parts:
Ch 1 II Ch 2 II Ch 3 II Ch 4
.
The next morning she woke up on the couch, curled up, leaning her head on the armrest. Someone, probably August, had covered her with a blanket and left her there. She was used to it, he often disappeared without a word, and he was the only one she couldn't hold it against.
She sat up slowly, and it took her half a minute to discover she was alone.
Again.
She scrambled out from under the quilt and slipped out into the kitchen. Her neck was throbbing, she was cold, and she still felt exhausted despite the few hours of sleep she'd gotten. Her day had started out shitty.
Again.
(There were many recurring things in her life that she would've preferred to avoid.)
As she glanced at the clock to see it was ten in the morning, her eyes caught a yellow note on the fridge, adorned with David's almost illegible scrawl.
I'll be home late. Take care of yourself!
Sighing, she crumpled the paper in her palm and tossed it straight into the bin beside the kitchen counter. She opened the refrigerator and was disappointed to find it contained only a few cans of beer and a slice of moldy cheese.
Furious, she slammed the door and marched up the stairs to change and grab some money. She had to go shopping.
She was already shuddering in apprehension.
Going back outside and among strangers… Great.
She tugged on her black jeans and pulled on a thick, hooded black sweater. Before Neal, she'd never worn flashy or bright colors and after his death, she'd relegated almost all of her more colorful clothes to the back of her closet.
She didn't have much money, being unemployed at the moment. David was supporting her now, which she simply hated. She had been looking for vacancies for a long time, but with her limited experience and lack of a college degree, not to mention the impending apocalypse looming over their heads, her chances of finding something were pretty low. And David was against it anyway; she had no idea why, though, and he never told her the reason. So she had to make do with her limited savings, which was becoming increasingly annoying as David had completely forgotten about the household in the last two months.
She put a small amount of money in her back pocket and her keys in the pockets of her sweater, along with her phone. She put her hair in a ponytail, her curls bouncing with each step she took. She fixed her eyelashes with a swipe of mascara.
She tucked her gun into the waistband of her jeans; after all, one could never know what might happen. She concealed it with her sweater, making it invisible to anyone.
Fog was spreading through the gray streets, the sky covered in black clouds, an ideal time for a short walk through the city center. There were hardly any people on the streets. On weekday mornings, everyone was either at school or at work, with only a few retirees strolling the cobblestone sidewalk.
Emma stuck her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and sketched out her tasks for the day in her head, but the list was pretty short. Shopping was her only agenda today, so she began to think feverishly about what to do with the long hours ahead of her.
She arrived at the tiny little corner store without any plans. She could get everything she needed here. She hated supermarkets.
When she was done shopping, she didn't head home, but to the nearby library. Inspiration came to her somewhere between choosing which can of food to buy. She needed some good books and a quiet place among normal people. Among relatively normal people.
It wasn't five minutes before she was wandering among the bookshelves in the pleasantly heated room, browsing the selection.
No one disturbed her, and at that moment, it felt very good. She continued to hunt for books peacefully, and after a while, she returned to the cashier with a small stack. The young woman behind the counter treated her kindly like she did anyone else, and that was a really strange feeling. Strange, but heartwarming. Maybe she should go out more often and fill out some more job applications. Then she could even live a relatively normal life.
She was already halfway home when her phone started ringing. She rolled her eyes in annoyance and dropped her packed bags on one of the nearby benches. She dug out her phone and looked at the caller ID.
David.
"I'm almost home, I just went shop-"
"Where are you exactly?" he gasped into the phone.
"Near the park on the avenue. Why?" she asked suspiciously. "What is it again?"
Before answering, he repeated her location to someone, then she heard the sound of a door slamming shut. "Elves," came the curt reply. "Dark Elves."
"David, stop talking in riddles!" The icy fingers of fear zigzagged through her spine. She had already had the opportunity to meet with one Dark Elf and she had no desire to repeat the encounter.
"Over the past few months, the Vampires and Werewolves have been plotting against us. They have realized that they cannot defeat us with brute force alone. They've been lurking in the shadows for the last few months, looking for a few allies, and they've found the Dark Elves. Some are already in the city and…" he took a deep breath. "The point is, don't move from where you are now, Emma. Killian will pick you up shortly."
Before she could ask anything, David ended the call. She stared furiously at her phone for a while, then pocketed the device just as it started beeping incessantly. She groaned and fished it out of her pocket again. It seemed she would have to replace it soon, the battery was almost dead, despite it being half full mere moments ago.
But that wasn't the only problem with the device. The signal dropped dangerously, then the thing just shut off altogether. Sultry magic swept through the city. Emma looked up in confusion. Around her, several elderly people pointed to the sky and shook their heads in incomprehension.
Emma looked up as well.
There were almost entirely black clouds floating in the sky, shrouding the entire city in shadows.
So the Elves were really here.
She picked up her bags, slipped her right hand under her sweater, and reached for the handle of her gun. She wouldn't be able to do much against Elves with it, but at least it made her feel a little better. Nervously, she scanned the deserted street. She had never longed this hard for Killian's arrival. Correction, she had never longed for him, period… Until now.
When she thought about it more carefully, she'd never talked to him for more than five minutes. Truth to be told, she hadn't even had the chance. Killian just came and went. He showed up in the most unexpected places, at the most stressful times, and disappeared just as quickly.
Barely a minute later, a black Porsche Panamera stopped in front of her, leaving dark skid marks on the asphalt. She jerked back, startled, and managed to land on her ass in a not very graceful way.
The car door swung open and Killian stared at her, impatiently at first, then noticed her sprawled figure on the ground. A strange smile slid across his face, but she couldn't place why it felt so different. "It's more comfortable in here, lass," he said, patting the seat beside him.
Emma staggered to her feet with an annoyed huff. She considered staining the seat cover with her muddy jeans in retaliation, but she didn't want to be childish. She was about to dust off her clothes as best she could with a tissue when something grabbed her waist and yanked her into the car. The door slammed shut on its own, and Killian stepped on the gas.
"Was that you?" she growled when she finally managed to get herself into a more decent position. At that moment, the seatbelt flew through the air in front of her and snapped into place on the edge of her seat.
"And that too," Killian nodded grimly, focusing on the road.
"Don't you dare do that again! Or at least, warn me next time!"
She really wasn't used to someone practicing magic on her. It wasn't exactly painful or uncomfortable; in fact, the touch of Killian's magic was lukewarm and pleasantly eerie, but it still scared the shit out of her.
"Apologies…"
Finally, she raised her eyes to him, and only now realizing why his previous smile seemed so strange. His face looked completely different. There was not a drop of eyeliner on him, and his stubble was completely gone. He looked so young that way, but she had to admit, she liked his bad boy look better.
Either way, he was a pretty good-looking guy.
And she really needed to stop thinking now.
"What the hell happened?"
"To my face?" he smiled compulsively. "I had to shave because they couldn't stitch up the wound," he replied lightly, as if it was just a usual Thursday for him.
"Wound? Stitch up? But shouldn't you be supposed to heal…?"
Before she could finish her question, Killian turned his face fully toward her. There was a fresh, red scar starting at his temple and extending to the line of his lips.
"Jesus…" she gasped.
The sight of his handsome face disfigured by the scar shocked her greatly.
"Wounds inflicted by Elves don't heal on their own or fast like any other," he shrugged and looked at the road again, but she could see the bitterness in his eyes that she just couldn't place.
She sank as low as she could into the seat, peering at him timidly, then glanced out the window. The city was dark as if it was already night, and she knew for a fact that this was the work of Elves. This way, the vampires could walk around the city without fearing the sunlight.
It was comfortably warm in the car, yet she huddled as a shiver ran through her. She watched the city pass by silently and then she realized…
"Killian, we left the—" she began in alarm, but he seemed perfectly calm.
"We're not going to your house," he replied nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off the road, for which she was very grateful because they were going much faster than allowed.
"Then where?" her eyes widened in shock.
"To the Guild. It's safer there."
"And David? What about him? Where is he now?"
"Calm down, Swan, he'll be there too," he assured her, then gave her an uneasy sideways glance. "It's going to be alright."
Calm down.
It was easy to say but much harder to do. Especially for her, who could get upset over any little thing, no matter how ridiculous.
Despite the low roar of the engine, she could hear the wind outside blowing louder and louder, tearing cruelly at the scrawny branches of the weak trees on the side of the road. Lightning zigzagged through the sky, and the car shook in another gust of wind.
She shuddered in her seat and made herself as small as she could. Only now did she realize what the presence of the Elves meant, and she was scared to death, if she was honest. There had been no example of them interfering in battles on this earth for hundreds of years.
"It's not far now, love, we'll be there soon," Killian encouraged, and she looked up at him again, expressionless, feeling unspeakably miserable.
His face was practically split in two, and he was the one comforting her? She scoffed at herself.
"Okay." She couldn't say anything else, just slumped in her seat and crossed her arms in front of her chest. A shiver ran down her spine, causing goosebumps on her skin, and she felt like her head was being held in a vice. She knew what that meant. She had just enough time to cling to the edge of the seat, and the vision came unstoppable…
#cs ff#captain swan#cssns21#cssns 2021#cs fic#emma swan#killian jones#captain hook#ouat#once upon a time#ouat ff#killian x emma#captain swan supernatural#my fic#thejollyroger writer#TWPYR#captain swan ff#captain swan fic#cs fanfic
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Vigilante
Not once has Purpled ever called himself a hero.
He wants that on record, wants to say it up front. He’s never had any delusions about what he is and what he’s doing.
He doesn’t have the license for it, doesn’t have the morals for it. He’s not even saving that many people.
He’s just some kid running around in pro hero cosplay with his shoddy homemade support gear.
So riddle him this: why the fuck is his vigilante name trending on Twitter under #Swag_forHeroCon?
(—This one’s got a high-stress moment and the briefest panic attack known to man somewhere in the middle. Mind the post’s tags and reply if it needs more.—)
—
It started about a year ago. It’s sophomore year and he’s looking at his options for next year’s classes.
Of course he’s taking AP Calc and everything he thinks colleges wanna see. That’s a given and a no-brainer and he’s not gonna go into detail about that.
No, what matters is that his junior and senior year let him take career classes.
Hero-related career classes.
Because not only is this a private nerd school that he needs his scholarship to afford. It’s a private nerd school that has a dual-enrollment type thing with a nearby heroics school.
And one with a pretty good support course that is now available to him.
He’s always been interested in math and engineering. Support courses are just using both of those to make cool shit for heroes and make hella money while doing so.
He’s done his research. Support gear can cost anywhere from a couple thousand dollars to an arm and a leg and both your kidneys.
And it’s his dream to make that kinda money.
So he talks to his counselor about it, fills out the applications and waivers, takes the program’s entrance exam. And within a week he’s got his new schedule that’s got an extra two hours slapped onto the end of the day.
It’s gonna be so worth it.
—
And it really was.
The beginning of the year was covering what they should make support gear for, how to take the quirks and ideas of the heroes they’re working for and make them actually work.
But also the design process, how to research stuff, lab safety. How to make something look nice while not compromising its utility, costume design, branding. Different materials and their uses, different materials and how to work with them. How to deal with mistakes and set-backs. Avoiding burnout and getting literally burn.
The class was amazing. But his favorite part came later in the year.
The final project.
They were given a made up hero student’s profile and were told to create a support item for them. The file came with their name, measurements, hero name, quirk description, and several sketches of what the fake person looked like and of them using their quirk.
They were given a few deadlines and some profiles came with design requests, but for the most part they were allowed to go ham.
And go ham he did.
His assignment was a kid whose quirk was being able to float just himself. He got a couple sketches of what the kid’s costume already had and it looked like there was a bee theme going on.
So, naturally, he decided to give this kid a pneumatic nail gun.
...
Alright so maybe that wasn’t as intuitive as he thought it was. But the kid didn’t have any sort of weapon on him in any of the sketches!
And there wasn’t any sort of close combat abilities listed in the biography like some of his classmates’s people had, so the further this kid could be from the action while still packing a punch the better.
Hence the nail gun he was designing to look like a stinger.
He did his research. Looked up where the body’s vital organs are and read up on acupuncture. Looked up the damage that stab wounds can do and how fast a thing had to be going to go right through you.
Printed out some human outlines and wrote up a couple sheets that pointed out the “no-no spots.” And basically wrote a manual on how to use the thing and half an essay on why certain safety features were implemented to keep him and the fake kid from being sued.
And then halfway through actually building the thing he got the idea to add a paralytic substance.
And then he hated himself a little bit because he had to find a substance that would be non-lethal and would have the desired affect. And then he had to go to his teacher during his office hours to sit down and explain that yes he had this idea but he’s not entirely sure if it’s a good one.
And he wrote another almost-essay about what he chose as the paralytic substance and why he chose it and what the max amount the average person could take was so that he wouldn’t be liable if it was used improperly.
And then he recorded himself reading all of his paperwork both for extra credit and because apparently the kid’s bio said he was dyslexic and the teacher wanted them to do this as realistically as possible.
Probably would’ve been easier to just change the font but he’s come this far, might as well go the extra mile.
He paints the thing. Gathers up all his research and his concept sketches and his blueprints and his explanations and his recordings.
And he dumps them on the teacher’s desk and enjoys the lull in the class as the final projects get reviewed and graded.
They get to watch movies and Netflix with the TA while the teacher sits in the other room grading them.
He loved this class.
—
He still loves the class but it loses points for the fucking heart attack it just gave him.
Apparently the hero students they made shit for we’re real hero students. Actual, physical people who applied to the heroics department and got in. And may possibly one day be heroes if they didn’t fail.
And were going to come in and see the shit they made that passed inspections. And would be given said shit to use as part of their hero costumes.
In hindsight it should’ve been obvious, but Purpled cut himself some slack there.
At least his guy was nice. A little too excited at 4pm on a Thursday, but given the fact that Purpled just handed him a gun and said he could shoot people, it was understandable.
Purpled felt really good as he walked this Tubbo guy through the instructions again. Apparently he’d already been sent the paperwork and the audio before this. So all that was left to do was remind him about it the important stuff and then taking five wide steps back and letting him shoot at a practice dummy.
...
Well, Tubbo’s aim wasn’t his problem.
F to any villains and civilians in his way.
—
At this point, there’s probably some confusion.
“Purpled, why did you become a vigilante if your support gear inventing future looked bright?”
He’s getting to that!
He needs to talk about his junior year to give context for his senior year.
Which sucked absolute ass.
—
For one, Purpled’s quirk came in.
Now, normally that would be a pretty good thing. Somewhere around 80% of America’s population had quirks.
Four out of every five people had some sort of ability or abnormality that ranged from being able to detach your ear to having super strength. Getting one that wasn’t detrimental to your health, even at his age, was generally a positive thing.
Except Purpled’s actually sucked. Sucked so fucking bad.
Yeah, he was lucky in that he didn’t suddenly grow gills and need to live underwater for the rest of his life or something. But he honestly wished he could go back to a week ago when he didn’t have this quirk.
When he wasn’t constantly being forgotten by the people in his life because of a quirk he couldn’t turn off.
If it wasn’t for the fact that the quirk counselor’s quirk let them detect the use of quirks, he would’ve thought he’d lost it.
People forgetting his face, his name, his existence over the span of a week was hell. He had to show his mother his birth certificate and social security card and his baby pictures so that she’s remember she had another son. Let alone everyone else in his life that he only saw at school.
Oh god his fucking school.
The lengths he had to go to to keep his fucking scholarship was fucking nuts.
Classes were a nightmare with the teachers forgetting about him by the end of the period.
Things eventually got easier when he realized it was an area of effect thing and that he could shorten it to affect people within a few feet of him.
From that point on he just had to social distance from people like his life depended on it. Because his social and academic lives did depend on it.
He didn’t experiment with his quirk beyond that though. He hated it. He did everything in his power to keep it as tightly controlled as he could.
Until the one time he didn’t.
—
He was out to get another notebook because he’d severely underestimated how many notes he’d need to take for one of his classes. It was just supposed to be a quick stop on his way home.
He’d sat on the bus home with his quirk pulled in tightly around him, the force of it a buzzing weight on his skin that he refused to let go of.
He got off at a stop that wasn’t his but was closer to the dollar store he had in mind. He honestly didn’t expect to take more than ten minutes.
Then a guy walked in and loudly told the cashiers to hand over the money.
Purpled wasn’t that close to the front, but he peeked around the aisle and watched the robbery unfold.
The dude had what looked like leaves for hair and was holding the cashiers at gunpoint. There were two of them at adjacent checkouts, neither of them with any visible mutations. They actually might not have quirks.
Purpled has no idea what to do with this information.
His best bet was to wait for the heroes to arrive and stay quiet-
One of the cashiers was looking right at him. Robber guy noticed.
Turned around and pointed his gun at Purpled. Told him to get out from where he was hiding and to kneel on the ground in the open.
And Purpled was scared. He couldn’t move, he’d frozen.
The guy got loud and mad and he still had the gun pointed at him.
Purpled was panicking. His chest felt too tight and his quirk was freaking out. Buzzing harder than it ever has.
He couldn’t hold it. He let go.
...
For a moment, everything was still and everything was quiet.
Purpled felt light, he felt more at ease than he had in months.
Because his quirk was free and loose and everyone else in the room looked so fucking confused. Like they had no idea what was going on.
Like they just forgot what was going on.
And then the heroes arrived. How they knew to be here was anyone’s guess.
Purpled should probably give his statement.
Purpled was probably in shock though. So he forgave himself for shoplifting and not pulling his quirk back in. For just walking right out of the store and down the street.
Nobody shouted at him or called him back, so he assumed they forgot he was there.
He wished he could forget he was in the store for that moment too.
—
There’s a lot of other little things that lead up to Purpled being a vigilante, but those things don’t matter as much.
He drops out. It’s not hard to make people forget he even went to school.
He regularly breaks back into school to steal tools and materials for his projects and just wipes the people who walk in on him doing that shit.
Makes a costume but scraps it and decides to make several replicas of the top twenty’s costumes.
Because he’s realized that the wider he makes his range the less of an effect his quirk has on all those in range. Vice versa.
So the pro gamer move here is to make people forget what they saw the person in the pro hero costume doing instead of trying to make them forget they saw an unfamiliar figure doing shit.
Memory is reconstructive after all. Easily manipulated even without a quirk like his.
And he’s good at making his costumes and altering his appearance.
He probably won’t always do a good job wiping people’s memories though, so he lets it stick that there’s a vigilante that impersonates pro heroes. One that constantly shifts their appearance.
He even gets bold and makes a name for himself.
Swag_.
...
Listen he didn’t say it was a good name-
—
He doesn’t stop a lot of crime. And the people he does save often think they were saved by someone else.
But there’s always that one moment after he managed to save someone where they look at him. And they see him.
And that’s worth everything.
It’s not a selfless motive. It’s not a heroic motive.
But it’s enough of a motive for Purpled.
—
He doesn’t know how he got a following. Doesn’t know how he never noticed.
But he likes it. After the initial shock of seeing himself trending fades, he lets himself soak up all the positive attention.
And then he gets back to work.
#text post#lore post#ask purpled and blued#vigilante!purpled#purpled#purpled bedwars#superhero Au#gun mention#tw gun mention#ask to tag#long post#not proofreading this one
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Reposted from my Wattpad
Xiao x electro yaksha reader
Requested by @yoruna_tokito (on Wattpad)
Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, blood, and death.
Aqua water, golden leaves, and fresh air. A break from your everlasting duty to protect Liyue and its citizens. You sat upon a ledge of a mountain as you took in the beauty of Luhua Pool. The clear and unpolluted waters of Liyue were always fascinating to see, and the trees surrounding Luhua Pool never got old to watch. They aged slowly, turning from the little saplings from thousand years ago to the majestic, large trees that would forever accompany Liyue.
You had lived thousands of years, most of those going towards working under Rex Lapis, who was now known as Zhongli to the residents of Liyue Harbor. The Archon of Geo had rescued you and Alatus, better known as Xiao, from the evil god who had gotten hold of both Xiao's and your weakness, who then made the both of you commit horrible crimes that could never be repented for.
Xiao had been tasked with eating the dreams of his victims, while you had been, against your will, sucking the hopes out of those who opposed your old ruler. It wasn't at all pleasant, to say the least, but to say that the hopes of others didn't taste good would be a plain out lie. Especially back then, when both immortals and mortals who weren't being controlled by a master could freely wish to do anything they liked. You and Xiao both had that right taken away from you.
Before the control of that god, you and Alatus had lived as friends. Quite good friends, who would often visit each other every day. For some reason, Alatus had stopped talking to you after meeting the god who you grew to resent.
You were both later saved by Rex Lapis, who then offered you a job as one of the Yakshas. After serving your duties in the Archon War, three of the Yakshas turned against each other, successfully destroying each other. A fourth had disappeared. He likely caused his own end because of the unbearable pain from karmic debt. This left you and Xiao, the two surviving Yakshas.
Back at the present, you hummed a tune, which you probably heard a few hundred years back, and fiddled with your purple mask while quickly walking away from someone who had just been approaching. Adepti have no need to meddle in human affairs, you thought while giggling to yourself, sounds like something Xiao would say.
For the thousands of years you have been an Adeptus, there was not a human who was as bold and fearless as the one who had just called out to you, telling, almost demanding, you to come closer so that he could sketch you.
"Me? You do realize that my presence alone could destroy you, right?" You were just as confused as you were annoyed. Does he not understand that the Adepti already spend most of their time protecting Liyue and its people? We don't need humans intruding on the days we have to ourselves.
"Huh? I'm the famous painter, Vermeer. You must have heard of me somewhere."
A painter named Vermeer? Didn't ring much of a bell to you. "Painter? I know what a painter is, but I've never heard of any 'Vermeer's in the thousands of years I've been in Liyue."
"Ah. You're one of the th— two surviving Yakshas, am I correct? I expect that someone so old would like my paintings. Many of the elderly people of Liyue enjoy my paintings. Don't you?"
Elderly... old... just who exactly do you think the Adepti are?!? Have you no respect for the very people who protect you? You obviously didn't like to be called old. Indeed, being called old is almost always hated by people, but to you, it felt more like mocking. Something along the lines of 'Haha, you won't ever be able to age and live a normal life.'
"Look, I'll stop bothering you if you let me sketch the basic lines of you. I just need a model and you're the only person who's here right now."
You cave in, agreeing to let Vermeer draw you as long as he stopped bothering you afterward. "Fine. I'll stay for a few minutes. I don't care if you can't finish within that time. I have more important issues I have to attend to."
Vermeer held up his end of the deal, not speaking even once while working on his painting.
"Hey, are you done yet? I'll get going soon. Wrap up your sketch." You didn't exactly know why you wanted to leave, but the man was acting quite weird. He kept checking his watch and looking behind you.
"Uhhh... uuuhhhh... just a bit longer, please."
Please? What a change of attitude from before— Wait. Behind me?!? Who's behind me?
"Well, well, well. Long time no see, (Y/N). If it isn't the other Electro Yaksha. You took my rightful place as the Electro Yaksha."
"Hey, wait up. No one ever took your place. There weren't and aren't a limited amount of spots for the Yakshas. And why are you so upset about the fact that we're both wielders of electro? Above all that, where the Archons did you disappear off to?"
"You've gotten weak. I've been training all this time for this. Hahahaha! I'll finally be the Electro Yaksha!"
"Get that stupid idea of yours out of your head, dummy. I wanted to get along. Didn't you see? None of us ever thought of you of anything less than us five. Why don't you open your eyes and get that thought out of your head?!?"
He goes in for an attack. You dodge. Ten entire minutes into the fight, there still wasn't a clear victor.
"Ah. I'm done warming up. Time for the real fight. Try to keep. You'll probably lose anyways."
You silently curse. That was his definition of a warm up? Last time I checked, he wasn't half as strong as this—
"Ah!" A scream tore itself from your lips. First try, and he already landed a hit on you. Your left shin had been scraped by the long blade of the other Electro Yaksha. You immediately whipped out your weapon, (Y/W). Looks like talking won't be an option.
"Haha, like I said, little (Y/N). Those years you spent lazing around have weakened you quite a bit."
Where did he get so strong? Was he somehow trained by the Tsaritsa? By the Abyss? You tried attacking, but those attacks seem to not take any effect on him. Blood slowly but steadily seeped out of the wound on your left leg, dragging your speed down by a whole lot.
Another cut. This time, he aimed for your dominant hand, and you screamed once again, your panicking voice not at all matching the peaceful scenery of Liyue. Wait, where did that Vermeer go?
Your question was answered by a hand holding on to each of your arms. Vermeer was working with him... for what reason? You kick and trash, but your wounds weren't exactly helping, and you didn't have much energy left.
The other Electro Yaksha had a wicked grin on his face. "Hah, I defeated you before you even had the chance to use your mask."
Tears stream down your normally peaceful face. You cry, wishing that Xiao could help you.
"Don't worry, I'm here now. You can relax." Xiao's soothing voice seemed like a light in the void of darkness you had been swallowed in.
First, he took care of Vermeer. Just a few strikes, and he was unconscious. You stood for a few seconds before your left foot decided to give up on standing. Your body collapsed, and possibly because of the loss of blood. The last thing your eyes saw before blacking out was Xiao's spear colliding with his weapon. Thank you, Xiao.
Your eyes slowly blinked a few times, then opened completely. "Xiao?" You said the first thing on your mind.
A soft voice spoke from your left."That was dangerous. Don't go anywhere without me knowing, please. I can't lose you too."
"I'm sorry, Xiao. I'll train harder. I guess he was right. I got weak."
"He's wrong. You're not weak. I-if you ever wanna train, I, uh, could help you."
"Aww, is little Xiao embarrassed? Anyways, sure. Who else would I train with? You're my favorite person, and you're strong."
"I— thank you."
You threw your arms around Xiao. "I miss being like this. Why did you even stop talking to me? Is it because of the 'sins' you've committed? Have you forgotten that I've done the exact same thing as you? We've both done terrible things, but everything's going to be fine now, Xiao."
Xiao looked down, and, surprisingly, returned the gesture, wrapping his arms tightly around you. "If... if you don't mind... I..."
"Eh? What are you trying to say?"
"I would uh, kinda like to try out a thing called dating...", he finished with a tint of pink on his cheeks.
"Ehhh? Really? I almost thought you hated me."
"Uh— uhh—"
"Are you kidding me? Of course the answer's yes. I've liked you for so long, you idiot."
Xiao blinked, trying to take this new information in. "You have?"
"Yeah. But don't worry, we can take things slow. We have eternity, after all. I suppose that's one good thing about not being able to age. No matter what happens in the future, we'll protect each other. I promise you that everything will be fine, Xiao."
Hope you enjoyed it! Requests for any of the characters are open! (not counting Klee, Diona, and Qiqi, unless it’s sibling!reader)
#genshin#genshin impact#genshin xiao#xiao#genshin x reader#liyue#xiao x reader#yaksha#fanfic#genshin fanfic#xiao genshin impact#genshin impact x reader
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like the movies
summary: he’s the writer; you’re the muse. there’s a cup of coffee somewhere in there, too.
word count: 3.3k+
warnings: fluff & pining—so, a change of pace from my usual angst. :) also: a serious lack of dialogue because i am feeling verbose.
a/n: this is entirely @joemazzmatazz‘s fault. it was her idea (albeit given to me actual ages ago), but she said “do it” and who am i to say no? anywho, i’m relatively uncertain about how this turned out, but have it regardless!
your latte is hot, almost too hot. it burns your tongue on the first sip.
but you welcome the heat and the momentary burst of pain. the weather swirling outside borders on atrocious: freezing rain mixed with snow flurries, bloated, gray clouds, and a thin layer of ice on all surfaces. though the tip of your tongue stings upon that first sip, the heat that rushes to your chest pushes away the dreary weather you’d slogged through to get to the coffee shop.
you’re a regular here. not a regular regular, but regular enough that the interchangeable baristas recognize you and you recognize them. you exchange tight-lipped smiles and nods of greeting when you approach the counter, but nothing more than simple pleasantries. you don’t know their names, and they never ask for yours, but they remember your order: frosted blueberry latte with extra foam. it’s gotten to the point where you can simply walk up to the counter, money in hand, and the barista can repeat your order before you open your mouth.
it’s the little things, you suppose. in this little corner of the world, you feel seen.
today, you have your laptop open, latte pushed to the side, and a cherry and almond scone on a bright blue plate. you resist the urge to pull your foot up on the chair and rest your chin on your knee. though you’re here more often than you’re at home, this isn’t your living room. you settle for sliding your ankle beneath your opposite thigh.
being a paralegal is decidedly unglamorous. sure, it sounds highfalutin to the person sitting beside you on the airplane, but damn, if it isn’t stressful. you feel like a glorified secretary most of the time. pushing papers and getting signatures and making tens of phone calls to people and places that are not interested in speaking to a lawyer isn’t really what you signed up for. at least, it’s not what you ultimately want. it pays the bills for now, though; a partnership… that’ll come later.
you’re lucky enough that you can work remotely, hence your sturdy corner of the café. from where you sit, you watch customers enter and exit the shop. each time the door opens and the little bell tinkles above, a blast of cold air rushes into the cramped space. you enjoy watching the reaction of newcomer—the way they stamp their snow-covered shoes on the wood floor and shiver, turn to their companions with a smile, hurry to the counter to order something sweet and warm. in those moments, you grow wistful, your heart lurching with loneliness. it’s been a long time since you’ve had anyone to meet for an afternoon coffee date, friend or otherwise. your job doesn’t afford much downtime, and what downtime you do have is devoted to menial life responsibilities.
your phone buzzes, and you glance down. a text from your boss. time to refocus.
you work for a while longer, nibbling on your scone, sipping from your latte. the emails pile up, and your phone buzzes incessantly. a headache forms at the base of your skull as you struggle to keep up with the constant flurry of communication.
after receiving a terse email from your boss’s legal partner in relation to something that is no fault of your own, you shut your laptop. a five-minute break; you deserve that much. rubbing a hand down your weary face, you grab your purse, slide out from behind the table, and head for the restroom. in the poorly lit bathroom, you splash some cool water on your cheeks and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. you look tired, feel it too. the dark bags under your eyes bely how little sleep you’ve gotten in the last week, and your shoulders droop under the weight of the world. maybe by christmas…
who are you kidding? christmas is just as busy as any other time of the year. people don’t stop needing lawyers just ‘cause it’s the holidays.
when you return to your makeshift workspace, you immediately frown. you freeze several paces from the corner of the table and glance over your shoulder, tightening your grip on the strap of your purse.
someone had been at the table in the five minutes it took to freshen up.
nothing is gone, thank god. (in retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have left your laptop and phone sitting in plain sight. call it naivety, but you like to think the best of people. however, your line of work consistently reminds you that the bad in people often outweighs the good.) your laptop, though, has been nudged to the side, the movement causing the charging cord to fall out. several drops of dark liquid—spilled latte—dampen the corner of your yellow legal pad.
what truly catches you eye is the square piece of paper resting on your laptop’s keyboard like a discarded feather.
you look over your shoulder again, but the shop is largely empty save for the baristas and an older couple in the far corner. the weather is certainly a deterrent from lingering. perhaps someone had come in while you were in the bathroom and left you a note. had your car been hit? you hope not. you don’t have the extra funds for vehicular maintenance right now and even less time to fix whatever damage had been done.
leaning forward, you lift the piece of paper, and your chest tightens.
it’s a drawing—a drawing of you. blue ink scattered across the page in swirling lines forms the hazy outline of your profile. your chin rests in your hand, and the artist made certain note to emphasize your eyelashes, which are not that long in actuality. at the bottom of the page, a message in curling script: when you are old — yeats
your mouth runs dry, your palms moist with nerves. returning to your chair, you quickly type the words into the search bar of your browser. you remember enough from high-school english to know yeats is a poet, but when the poem loads and you read the words, you feel like you might fall over.
your neck snaps up, cracks at the sudden movement. someone had been here in the café long enough to watch you, to sketch you, and to think of the yeats poem in relation to you.
how decidedly… romantic. like something out of a chick-flick.
despite the warmth in your chest, you shut your laptop, fold the sketch, and shove it in your coat pocket, willing yourself to forget the random happenstance. things like that—serendipitous moments of romance—only happen in the movies. they certainly don’t happen to you.
whomever had left the note, well—at least they’d brightened your day. your mother would call it a gift from the heavens, an angel smiling down on you.
shaking your head, you gather your things and hurry out into the cold, wintery weather. you refuse to allow yourself to go home and daydream. you could use the note as a bookmark, sure, but there was no use in dreaming about the artist. no use whatsoever when you would likely never cross paths again.
except you do go home and daydream. why you ever thought you could keep yourself from mulling over a moment rife with potential is ridiculous.
all throughout the evening—as you make your stir-fry dinner, as you draw your bath, as you change the sheets on your bed, and fold the laundry—you consider the possibilities:
you’d been at the café for a handful of hours, but how much had you truly paid attention to the patrons coming and going? barely, if you’re honest with yourself. you had noticed the older couple when they came in; you’d wondered how they’d managed to get from the parking lot to the warmth of the coffee shop without slipping on the icy sidewalks. you’d noticed, too, a man who looked a lot like how you imagine paul bunyan: massive height, plaid shirt stuffed in worn jeans, impressive beard. no one else of note sticks out in your mind hours later.
what had you been doing all afternoon? hopefully you hadn’t done anything embarrassing. god, sometimes you have this habit of resting your fingers over your mouth in such a way that it pushes up your nose to resemble a pig’s snout. had you done that? sometimes you fiddle with your hair too much and bounce your knees and hum to yourself. you want to sink below the suds of your bathwater when you recall your propensity for talking to yourself.
your thoughts turn fanciful when you finally slip beneath your covers.
maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “you’ve got mail.” only instead of emails, you could exchange notes in a coffee shop and forgo the business rivalry part.
maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “sleepless in seattle”: soft and sweet and really good with kids.
maybe you just have a thing for tom hanks.
you turn your head with a girlish grin, tucking your lower lip between your teeth.
you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t daydream, but how could you not? yeats’s poem filters through your mind like the moon filtering through your curtains: how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face.
with a muffled squeal, you allow yourself a moment to thrash in delight—like a schoolgirl with a crush and a note checked yes i like you tucked beneath her pillow. the idea that someone somewhere notices you, of all people, is simply too much to bear. you feel like your heart will explode and sunbeams will burst from beneath your skin. you feel warm and happy and drunk on possibility.
you settle, then, and sigh, smoothing your hands over the rumpled comforter. you’re a professional, though. a paralegal, for god’s sake. you’ll go back to the café. maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll go back. just maybe—maybe, maybe, maybe—you’ll run into your artist again.
you return to the coffee shop in two days, lugging your over-stuffed bag with you, earbuds snug in your ears. when you cross the threshold, you can’t help the way your eyes immediately scan the customers who have parked themselves in the various sitting areas. you’re looking for your artist, obviously, but you have nothing to go on other than the note tucked away in your jewelry box at home. a few words, a carefully drawn profile—that’s not enough to determine who had created the note from a simple glance.
begrudgingly, you remind yourself once again that life isn’t a movie. there’s no tom hanks waiting for you on the other end of the note. it’s silly to dwell on it any longer, really. you’ll get too wrapped up, too attached, and that wouldn’t bode well for the upcoming holidays.
the table you usually occupy is already taken by a man in a red sweater. his head is bent over his laptop, glasses slipping down his strong nose. you try not to take it to heart; the table was never explicitly yours. with a soft grunt of effort, you drop your belongings in an orange armchair across the room before meandering to the counter. julie (at least, you think that’s her name?) smiles when you approach, and she rings up your order, asking about the weather and plans for the holidays.
once your coffee is in hand, you return to your new seat and relax in the accommodating plush armchair. maybe the man in the red sweater had done you a favor after all. you glance up to look at him. if he stays as long as you often do, his ass will ache by the time he leaves. the wood chairs offer zilch in the way of comfort.
you quickly lose yourself in work, but the idea that your artist could be in the same room as you never truly leaves your mind. you find yourself glancing about the room from time to time, studying those who come and go, wondering if perhaps they were the one who saw something worthwhile in you. no one catches you eye; everyone is too busy with their own affairs, and you don’t blame them.
by the end of the afternoon, you find your latte completely and utterly forgotten. it’s cold when you take a tentative sip, and you sigh. maybe not five dollars wasted, but five dollars you had meant for a hot drink, especially considering the cold weather. rising from your seat, you take the latte to the counter and ask the barista to pour your drink in a to-go cup with some ice. might as well make the best of it, and you don’t like things to go to waste.
when you return to your chair, you nearly drop the plastic cup.
another note.
“holy shit,” you breathe. instinctively, your palm tightens around your cup, and the plastic gives a small crack. you wince and double-check to make sure no leaks have sprung before picking up the folded piece of paper on your messenger bag.
your fingers tremble as you flip open the folded note.
the same blue ink, same hurried penmanship. no drawing this time; only words.
she sat, much as i did, working fervently. i couldn’t help but watch, and maybe that made me a creep, but i’d been called worse. she sat with an heir of regality, her chin held firm, eyes dancing about the room like she owned the place. not haughty or self-possessed. just sure of herself. what did that make me then? alone in my corner? i didn’t like to dwell too long, so i—
the words stop in time with the seize of your heart.
you can’t seem to look away, to look around the room again in search of your artist, your writer. your heart pounds in your chest, flush rising on your cheeks. eyes—you feel eyes on you whether they are present or not. you feel dizzy. never have you felt so… seen, so noticed. not even in past relationships have your boyfriends took such care to notice the minute details of your being.
the strange urge to vomit rises in your throat. you aren’t afraid; you aren’t creeped out.
you’re just… overwhelmed.
so, you tuck the note in your pocket and leave, careful to keep your gaze on the floor as you exit. just in case your writer is still there, still watching.
you’re nothing special, nothing like the paragraph they penned. they should get that through their thick skull before they find themselves disappointed.
you don’t return to the coffee shop until after the holidays.
it’s not that hard to stay away. the hustle and bustle of work combined with the hustle and bustle of family gatherings keeps you from finding the time for an afternoon of solace anywhere, let alone the café.
you must admit that you think of your author often, try as you might to forget them.
by now, you have the cadence of the yeats poem memorized and the prose of the paragraph tattooed on the front of your mind. each time you pass a couple in a warm embrace, you wonder what became of your writer. you wonder if they think of you as much as you think of them; if they ruminate over the possibility of a life that cannot be.
if this were a movie, you would run into your author by random happenstance. you’d bump into them at the market, spill your legumes on the floor, touch hands in your haste to right the mistake, and—boom—as you look up, it would all fall into place.
if this were a movie, you would see them in the library or the post office or the deli or—
—or the coffee shop.
you sigh as you enter the café, wishing for your author to be there, knowing they won’t be. it is enough that you’ve experienced two mysterious love notes; things like that don’t come in threes.
that’s only in the movies.
the café still has its holiday decorations up. twinkle lights hang draped across the ceiling, and music filters over the sparsely filled tables and chairs. in the post-holiday haze, you didn’t expect the café to be crowded. in all truth, the sight of few patrons eases your mind.
less of a chance to run into your author. less of a chance to reveal yourself as the decidedly uninteresting person you are.
you set your belongings down at a side table, and as you reach for your wallet, a presence hovers over your shoulder. frowning slightly, you straighten, prepared to ask the person to kindly give you some space. when you do turn, your heart leaps to your throat, and the wallet in your hand clatters to the table.
it’s your author. you just know it.
there’s something vaguely familiar about the man, about his strong nose and groomed facial hair and crystal eyes. he’s tall, warm looking, like a hot drink on a cold day or a crackling fire. his eyes scan your face as though he is worried, as though he’s uncertain of what he should do now that you’ve actually faced him.
you speak before your thoughts catch up with your heart. “you wrote those notes, didn’t you?”
he nods, and the movement—so gentle, so reminiscent of a small boy on the verge of a scolding—makes you love him all the more. “yeah.” he sighs, lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “yeah, sorry about that. i wanted to apologize. wasn’t sure i’d get the chance, if you’d come back again.”
you shake your head. “no, don’t apologize. please don’t apologize.”
it’s his turn to frown, and he looks up from the table. you lose your breath momentarily. god, his eyes are blue. “when you left last time i thought… well, i thought i’d scared you off.” with a rueful chuckle, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “would serve me right, too.”
“why do you say that?”
“i mean, notes on your laptop when you aren’t looking? intently watching you? kinda stalkerish, huh?”
you can’t help but smile—smile at him, at the nervous twitch of his mouth, at the way he avoids your gaze. “i guess.” on a daring move, you reach out and touch his elbow. when you touch him, he feels like home. “but i don’t want you to apologize. i like the notes. i haven’t thought about anything else since you gave me the first one.”
“really?” there’s a hopeful tone in his voice; it sets your heart on fire.
“yeah.”
“i’m writing a book—a novel, really. i saw you so often that any time i got stuck, i just wrote about you instead.”
you could kiss him then and there. instead, you tell him your name, and he grins.
“i’m gwilym.”
“tell me, gwilym.” you pull out your chair and motion to the café counter. “how would you feel if i bought you a coffee? i want to hear more about that novel.”
“i’d—i’d like that.”
he follows you to the counter, his hand brushing the small of your back.
the barista—matt, you think—looks up from the register and laughs. “holy shit, i won!” he looks over his shoulder. “hey, julie! you owe me a fifty.”
you glance at gwilym, but he’s already looking at you. you smile.
matt continues. “we had a pool to see how long it would take for you two to get together. you were always looking at each other but never at the same time. you knew that, right?” still laughing, he rings up your orders without be asked. “coffee is on us today, guys.”
as you wait for your latte to be steamed and gwilym’s chia to be poured, you tuck your lip between your teeth to stem your widening grin. gwilym is strong by your side, the perfect height for you to rest your head on his shoulder. you look up at him, at the noble planes of his face, and your chest squeezes. when he looks at you again, your chest squeezes even tighter.
maybe life is like a movie after all.
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Wrong
Zib's plan goes off without a hitch. There's no meddling alternates to stop it. Everything is perfect.
Or at least, it should be.
Sort of a sequel to both Best-Laid Plans and Oh Perfect Dib. It could follow either, just assume comic!Zim and Dib never stumbled into the Zimvoid. Likes, reblogs, and comments appreciated both here and on ao3!
Warnings: Some violence, Zib kills Zims carelessly but without any graphic detail.
Wordcount: 2069
Ao3 link
He snapped his fingers. “Drone.”
“Yes, Number One?” Five’s wings fluttered as he stared at Dib with wide eyes.
“Report.”
“Two universal cleansings completed. Zims two and twelve have completed their missions. Seven and nine are waiting for your orders, sir.”
“Good, good.” Dib nodded at Five, who gave a single nod back before stepping back against the wall and looking down to the floor. He was a good little minion. About an inch taller than the average Zim. A good foot shorter than Two had been.
Why was he thinking of that? Two was gone. He’d fulfilled his purpose. There was no need for him anymore. There were literally thousands of other Zims that could take his place.
“Drone.”
“Yes, Number One?”
“Do you…” He trailed off. “Nevermind.”
____
He circled Five, boots squeaking on the shiny floor. Five stayed still as he could with only a mere involuntary twitch of his gossamer wings. Other than those, his antennae bent forward. Dib didn’t like that. They made it look like he wasn’t listening.
“Five, put yourself in line next, and find me a replacement second in command.”
Five’s eye twitched before he nodded.
____
Fourteen was good. Dib liked Fourteen. He was a bit on the taller end but knelt down on one knee when addressing Dib, and was from some kind of medieval dimension. Very loyal so the virus had plenty to work with, meaning there was no delay in his responses.
He kept calling Dib ‘liege’ though, and while ‘Lord Dib’ was kind of nice, it also just struck him as a bit much. Plus the clanking of the armor got annoying and he made a whining noise when it came off when Dib wanted to do tests on him. (He did tests on his second in command a lot. It was more a matter of them being the one that was physically in the room than anything. Two had jumped at the chance even before the virus, and Dib had never dropped the habit.)
____
Twenty-One wore a maid’s outfit. Dib wanted to keep that one just for laughs, but his chest felt funny when he bent over so he had him thrown out with the rest of the Elite.
____
Nineteen, the skater Zim, had an obnoxious accent. Dib didn’t know where he’d picked it up from. He sent him out within the day.
____
Three was literally an animal. Dib has no idea how it had gotten that high in the rankings other than the fact that Zims were morons, although the fact that it foamed at the mouth sometimes told him that it was probably just really violent. He had it incinerated instead of working for the cleansing plan, since it would probably muck things up anyway.
____
Thirty-Two was…
Dib liked him. He wore a tutu, but other than sort of fluttering around as he walked, there wasn’t really anything that bothered Dib about him other than the fact that he was a Zim, and he thought that he was, unfortunately, getting pretty used to Zims by now, especially ones that obeyed his every whim.
“Your drink.” Thirty-Two was down on one knee, head down, and Dib scooped the soda up before setting a hand on Thirty-Two’s head. A rumble echoed around him and he looked up.
“Huh?”
Thirty-Two didn’t say anything, and Dib looked down, realizing that the head under his palm was vibrating slightly. He was purring. Dib blinked down at him, hand drifting to the side to stroke up at his antenna, and Thirty-Two leaned into the touch, purring louder. It sounded like a dying engine.
He had him replaced within the week.
He told himself that he just didn’t like the orange of his leotard, and that was good enough.
____
Just because the only help he had was Zims didn’t mean he shouldn’t expect them to work perfectly well. He’d drained them of all that pesky resistance with the virus and their screw-ups generally disappeared with their control, so why did they keep driving him up the wall? They looked like Zims, but didn’t act like them, that should have been more than enough! He had an army now!
Dib tried surrounding himself with just the ones that weren’t irken, but their voices, even devoid of personality, rubbed a grater in his guts, shredding all the meaty bits up whenever they addressed him.
“Right away, Number One.”
“Of course, glorious Dib.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“You’ve got it-”
“Shut up!” Dib only realized when it left his hand that he’d chucked a piece of scrap metal at- he didn’t even know what number it was. It was some kind of vampire Zim, with a hooded cloak that hung over his eyes and the number collar. The Zim didn’t dodge, the metal smacking into him with a wet thud, and a moment later his eyeball popped out, pink blood trailing down his face. “Just shut up, I don’t want to listen to you, I don’t want to listen to any Zim. Zim, Zim Zim, there’s only you and I’m sick of it!”
The Zim didn’t say anything, and Dib’s fists balled up, nails digging into the soft flesh. He could feel the crescent dips from the last time he’d made fists, nails sharp enough to dig in and it hadn’t been enough time for the Pak to have healed them. He was getting annoyed more and more easily these days.
“Well? Going to take me insulting you?”
“You told me not to speak,” the Zim droned, cloak rustling as he shifted slightly. The eyeball was still dangling loosely from the optic nerve.
“Right. Right, I did do that…” He waved his hand. “Pop your eyeball back in.”
The Zim did.
"Tell me what you think of me."
"You're perfect and I'm honored to serve you, Dib." Blood kept dripping down his face, sliding under the cloak and out of sight.
He was sent off for the plan a few hours later. The fact that he was injured and that might affect his usefulness for the plan didn’t really cross Dib’s mind, he just wanted him gone for how he made something churn in his stomach. (Especially when he saw him from the corner of his eye.)
____
None lasted for more than two days. Why would they? Dib had a very large supply of puppets to use, why would he waste time on any individual one that wasn’t measuring up? He deserved the best, after all.
(His left eye had started to develop a persistent twitch.)
He tweaked the programming, made them slightly less robotic. It was just for something to talk to. He was sacrificing his own time to help cleanse the universe, he should have someone to talk with, even if it wasn't very intelligent conversation. He was still talking to himself in essence, but it was a little less blatant, at least. It wasn’t like they had enough will left to pry away, especially not now that he was on the fourth iteration of the virus.
“What do you plan to do when this is done?”
“Hmm?” Dib pulled his goggles up from welding something on one of the newer ships. “Oh! That’s easy. I’ll just…” He trailed off, the confidence in his sentence dying in his throat. “I’ll find another universe to call home. Maybe I’ll find some cute ghost-hunting girl or something, I dunno.”
Zim- some kind of supervillain one, he had a cape- tilted his head to the side. “Ah. What would you want in a companion?”
“Easy. I’d want someone who listens to everything I say, but also has ideas of their own so I’m not just talking to a brick wall. Talented in combat and fun to spar with, I’d need that if I take them on paranormal expeditions. They have to put me first, I don’t want to be ignored ever again. It doesn’t even need to be a human, honestly- I’m sick of people, and all I have to do is take one of the ships and go into one of the cleansed dimensions. Maybe a vortian or something.” He patted the Voot he’d been fixing up.
“That makes sense, Number One. You would find someone who deserved you, I’m sure.”
The Zim gave a strained, programmed smile, and there was a flash of purple.
“So, what’s the plan when we’re ready?”
Dib’s heel bounced, toes settled down inside of the heavy metal Zim-suit as he shifted on his throne.
“I’ll be sending you all out to make things right. You’ll be changing everything, and conquering those inferior people.”
Two grinned. “Oooh, I can’t wait! It’s lucky I followed that signal here to you, Number One! Your training is shaping us all up, and I really feel like the statue out in the lobby is really helping raise morale. I’d follow you anywhere. You’re really doing something special, and I’m honored to be a part of it!”
Dib leaned forward, petting between Two’s antennae, and heard as much as he felt a purr rumble through his body. It took him a few minutes to pull away.
“Number One?” Zim sounded concerned, and Dib shook his head to clear it, the memory falling away like pixels in an etch a sketch.
He wasn’t concerned, though, was he? He had a program telling him to sound that way.
The same program that had told a thousand other Zims to march to their deaths for him.
Well, they were useful now, why should Dib care? A Zim lost was a world gained, a universe saved from irken tyranny! He was doing the right thing! There was a sharp pain in his temple, and Dib automatically aimed a gun at Zim, sure it was his fault, before realizing that he was tugging at his own hair spikes.
He shot Zim anyway.
It didn’t help.
(It didn’t help the next three times either, Zims walking in, falling back, and getting hauled off by the next one in line.)
____
His chest ached as he hung over the balcony, watching the Zims toiling on the ships below. The murmur of noise as they repeated what they were supposed to be doing was a dull drone, making his ears antennae head hurt.
“Two would have done this better,” he muttered to himself as one of them ran into another, and then a chill ran up his spine.
Two had died months ago, why was he thinking of him now? He’d fulfilled his purpose. He’d done more than enough.
More than enough. He’d been throwing himself at Dib even before the virus, so eager for a leader but one of the only competent ones of the lot on his own, the leader of the elites but happily subservient to Dib nevertheless.
Dib had rewarded him by having him kill himself and every single member of his own filthy race. Saliva welled up in his throat, but he swallowed it down, claws nails clacking on the metal of the railing before gripping it tight enough to twist it beneath his palms.
“I was right,” he said aloud, staring down at the Zims working. They were practically a singular mass, none of them important enough to matter. He’d throw them all out into the void of space in a second. None of them had ever done anything worthwhile.
(None of them had spent months talking to him like Two had, complimenting and worshipping and admiring him, bringing him sodas when he coughed and making him laugh by frying the weaker Zims in the flamethrowers a few extra times.)
“I was right.” The words were a little louder this time. None of the Zims turned. They had more important things to do.
“I was right.” He’d just been following his plan, and it had worked, hadn’t it? Everything had been exactly as he’d imagined it would.
“I was right.” Two hadn’t even turned back when he’d sent him off. Why would he have? He was following orders, and the virus was flawless. Dib had complete control of everything. He still did. He was fine. It was fine. It was perfect!
“I was right.” He was right. He was perfect. He had done something good. He was right. He was right.
Right?
The metal in his fist crumpled like tissue paper as he stared down, down, down, and vomit welled up in his throat.
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Beautiful Dreams
Author: @ameliaodair
Prompt: Katniss and the children are down with a cold. Peeta takes care of them. Brings them Lamb Stew and favourite baked goods. He draws colouring pages for the kids but all are colouring. He puts in a fall realted movie. As all who are sick are snuggled together in the master bedroom. Katniss says shes cold Peeta goes and gets more blankets walks out of the room to get more comes back and looks at his wife and children all cuddling together watching the movie and thinks how did he deserve this. [submitted by @katnissandpeeta125]
Rating: G
Author’s Notes: Thank you @eiramrelyat for betaing :)
Word Count: 1977
___________
“Thanks, dad. Katniss caught the kids’ cold and woke up feeling pretty miserable this morning,” I tell my father, explaining the care package I am picking up after placing the order at the butt crack of dawn. It is filled with all of her favorite foods; two pints of lamb stew, a dozen cheese buns, and half a dozen mini rolls of Mallorca sweet bread for the kids.
“The kids are feeling better, though?”
“They’re on the uphill slope,” I tell my dad as I climb into the driver’s seat of my car. “I better hurry up and get back before the kids destroy the house. I love you, dad!” I yell out to him before shutting the door behind me, and wave through the window as I pull out of the parking lot.
“Daddy, Daddy!” Stella yells excitedly as soon as I open the door. She runs up to me and wraps her tiny arms around my legs⎯ nearly knocking me down in her all too adorable Winnie the Pooh pajamas.
It utterly blows my mind at how easily children bounce back after being sick. I remember around a year ago when Stella had the flu. It only took her two days before she was running around, bouncing off the walls and full of energy. Yet, when Katniss and I were run down with fevers, it had been almost a week before we could muster the energy to simply lift our heads from the pillow. Thank goodness for our wonderful parents who live less than five minutes away, or I do not know what we would have done.
“Hey sweetheart, where is your brother?” I ask her, making my way into the kitchen to place the care package down on the island.
“In his cwib, daddy,” she tells me matter-of-factly, giving me a slight roll of her eyes as if I should already be aware of this information. Scooping Stella up, I raise her in the air and blow a raspberry on her belly.
“Why don’t we go check on him?” I ask her once her giggles subside, then I carry her into her and her brother’s room and set her down.
Lucas is sitting up in the corner of his crib, hugging one of his favorite stuffed animal teddy bears. At the sight of me, he erupts into the most adorable toothless grin, seeming to emanate an almost iridescent light in the process.
“Come on big guy, how are you feeling today?”
“Da-da. Ma-mee!” He chirps, grabbing onto the rail of his crib to steady himself while holding his stuffed teddy bear out to me. I reach in the crib to scoop him up, and the three of us make our way into the kitchen. We stop at mine and Katniss’s bedroom first, and I crack the door open, poking my head in to peek in on her. But no matter how sick she is, her hunter’s instincts are always as keen as ever, and she lifts her head groggily from her pillow.
“Peeta, are you okay, the kids—” She croaks, her froggy voice sounding no worse for the wear.
“We’re okay, I was just going to heat up some lamb stew. You want some?”
“That sounds amazing. Will you guys keep me company?” She whines in her sick throaty voice.
“Of course, just give us a few minutes and we’ll be in here.”
“Okay.” She moans and her head collapses to the pillow, gravity getting the best of her.
Once we are in the kitchen, I strap Lucas into his highchair while I heat the lamb stew.
“Daddy, forgot to get dressed!” Stella squeals, already trying to peel off her nightgown.
I pour the lamb stew into a pot and set it on the stove to simmer for a few minutes. “Honey, remember, we’re having a sick day, pajama’s only,” I playfully scold her, twirling around like one of her ballerinas to show off my own pajama pants.
“Do you guys want to watch a movie with me and mommy in our bed?” I ask Stella, raising my voice an octave near the end to make it sound more enticing than it actually is.
“Wif lots of bwankets and piwwow’s?” Stella beams, her eyes lighting up as if it’s Christmas morning.
“No—” I begin, frowning and pretending it’s a bad idea and my heart sinks when I see her eyes sadden a bit, so I quickly brighten my face with a radiant smile, “—with lots and LOTS of pillows and blankets!” I finish quickly and watch as her eyes return to their previous state of sheer excitement.
“And coworing, daddy?” she asks, already running into the playroom to collect her crayons.
Lucas is squirming in his seat, already bored of sitting there with nothing to do, so I hand him a wooden spoon to bang against the tray of his highchair. Stella returns with her container of assorted crayons, and I frown at her, wondering why she didn’t bring her coloring books.
I stir the lamb stew and test it out on my tongue, making sure it’s hot enough, and then give my attention to Stella.
“You forgot your coloring books, sweetie.” I point out.
“Siwwy daddy, you draw the coworings.” She grins, shaking her head and pointing to me.
“Oh, okay,” I concede, shrugging my shoulders.
One rainy day a few months ago, Stella was flipping through a coloring book, and noticing her frustration after the third time, I asked her what was wrong. With a disappointed face, she informed me that the coloring book didn’t have the specific image she had in mind, so I offered to draw it for her. Ever since then, Stella refuses to color in the pre-drawn coloring books⎯ preferring my sketches instead, which I suppose I should be proud of. My daughter does have exquisite tastes.
“I think it’s done, are you guys ready?” I ask the kids after scooping the stew into two bowls and placing them on the food tray. I remove the tray from Lucas’s highchair and pick him up to set him down on the floor.
“I’ll carry our food and drinks. Stella, will you help your brother? We’ll come back for the rest after we eat.”
I carefully pick up the food tray which contains two bowls of lamb stew, a plateful of cheese buns, and the sweet bread, then motion for Stella to follow me into mine and Katniss’s bedroom. When I look behind me to make sure they are not far behind, my heart swells with an inordinate amount of pride as I see Stella crawling on the floor next to Lucas. She’s making a game of having him chase her into our room, and I cannot help the ear-splitting grin that overcomes my face⎯ nor do I want to.
Katniss is already sitting up in our massive bed and has made room for the three of us to climb in with her. I hand her the soup and she takes it greedily⎯ lamb stew being her favorite. Stella climbs in first and scoots up to Katniss, then I pick Lucas up from the floor and swing him in the air and plop him onto the bed. He bursts into a contagious round of giggles that Stella catches for a moment.
Once the kids have calmed down, I climb in next to the kids and we all situate ourselves under the covers, getting ready to have breakfast in bed as a family. Stella grabs her own piece of bread and takes a bite into it.
“Peeta, will you hand Stella a napkin? I don’t want crumbs—” Before Katniss is able to finish, I already have a towel wrapped around Stella’s waist, ensuring that it will catch any pieces that do not make it into her mouth.
Katniss turns her head to meet my eyes and mouths the words ‘I love you.’ I can’t help but lean over the kids and plant a kiss on her forehead. “I love you too.” I tell her, meeting her eyes.
“Daddy, you fowgot me!” Stella mumbles with a mouthful of bread, glaring at me with those beautiful bright blue eyes that resemble my own.
“One for you—” I tell her, kissing her cheek, and then move to Lucas, “And one for you.”
I begin pinching off pieces of the sweet bread dipped in lamb stew and feed it to Lucas in between bites of my own.
“You guys want to watch a movie?” Katniss asks after turning her bowl up and slurping the last remnants of her stew.
“I want Winnie-Pooh!” Stella squeals, scrunching her shoulders up excitedly.
“Winnie-The-Pooh it is!” Katniss says excitedly, but I see her rolling her eyes behind Stella’s back. Stella is obsessed with Winnie the Pooh, and we have probably watched ‘Winnie The Pooh’s Season of Giving’ at least fifty times since the beginning of October. And since Lucas is too small to voice his opinion yet, Winnie The Pooh it is.
Once everyone has finished eating and are moaning over their full bellies, I clear the food from our bedroom and sit the food tray on the counter in the kitchen. I save the dishes for later, eager to return to my amazing family. Stella disappears for a moment, returning with her container of crayons and my sketch pad.
“Dwaw Pooh, daddy?” she asks me, her eyes so wide and blue⎯ how can I say no? I scoop her into my arms, hugging her tightly, and place another kiss on her cheek.
“Of course, baby girl.” I release her and she snuggles up to Katniss while I sketch her an image of the famous Pooh Bear. She accepts the picture and secures it on her clipboard and begins coloring away.
“No, Lucas, we don’t eat crayons, we color with them,” I tell Lucas, giving him his own piece of paper and showing him how to utilize the crayons. Fascinated with the array of colors, he begins fashioning his own masterpiece while we watch Winnie the Pooh.
Stella is exhausted by the time she has colored in every bit of white on her paper, as is Lucas. Tired baby that he is, he nestles himself onto Katniss’s chest, while her chin rests on the top of his baby-soft hair. She leans up to kiss the top of his head, inhaling his signature baby scent.
“Are you cold?” I ask Katniss, but I already know the answer as I feel her shivering next to me.
“I’m okay.” ‘Liar.’ I think to myself.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, popping out of bed before she has time to object and run into the playroom to search for her favorite blanket. The kids were making a fort a few nights ago, so it must be in here somewhere. It takes me a little longer than I expected, but I finally find it.
Scooping it up, I make my way back to our bedroom but stop myself in the doorway⎯ my heart fills with so much joy I think it may explode on sight.
Sitting before me on our bed is my beautiful, amazing wife, fast asleep and lightly snoring, with Lucas curled up on her chest just the way he did as 0a newborn. Stella is scrunched up on her side with Katniss’ arm securely around her back. And all three of them are fast asleep.
Standing in the doorway, witnessing this perfect family we have created, I grin from ear to ear, intoxicated with so much love, wondering how I got so lucky for these amazing creatures to be mine. I slip into bed next to them and kiss each of their heads before spreading the blanket out to cover all of us. And although reality can’t get much better than this, I fall asleep, awaiting beautiful dreams.
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For @emily229 the biggest Duck stan I know since ‘07 <3
I wanted to write something Duck-centric but everyone ended up coming in because... well I love them your honour.
tw: mentions of blood and injury
After the battle, after Slam and Duck’s celebratory high five, after Lexi’s warning shout, after Duck was unceremoniously shoved hard to the ground and a gunshot rang much too loud and much too close for comfort, after Lexi’s scream, after Duck shakily turned with his ears still ringing to find Ace on the ground, after Lexi and Tech’s hands were stained a dark red from trying to hold their leader’s life from slipping through their fingers, after, after all that…
Duck stood by the side of Ace’s bed. The scent of antiseptic and bleach-clean sheets thick in the infirmary air, the beeping of the machines Tech had hooked up to their leader the only sounds in the room other than their breathing. The mallard fidgeted with his hands, clearing his throat, “Does it, um, still hurt?”
Ace shook his head, “I… don’t know.” He had woken up not five minutes ago and still seemed somewhat out of it, if the almost curious way he was peering at the bandages wrapped around his stomach was anything to go by. “I passed out, I think? I can’t remember the actual pain.”
(Duck remembers. He remembers Lexi screaming and Tech cursing and Slam’s absolutely devastating howl. He remembers that in contrast to the chaos around him, Ace had been absolutely, devastatingly, silent.)
“Yeah,” Duck nodded. He shivered despite himself. “I guess, I- uh, I owe you. For doing that. Saving my life, and stuff.”
Ace looked up. His expression might have been one of surprise if it wasn’t for the meds still clouding his eyes, “You don’t owe me.” He spoke slowly, “I was the closest. Any of us would have done it for each other.”
Something hot crept into Duck’s chest, climbing into his throat and threatening to seal it close. He gulped it down. “You could have died.” Because of me. For me.
Ace shrugged, although the movement was just as slow as his speech. “We gotta look out for each other.”
(Lexi scrubs her hands until they’re red and raw and she keeps scrubbing because she swears she can still smell the copper tang of blood and see the red from where it had seeped under her uniform. She’s still shaking when she slips into her pyjamas, still nauseous as she walks down the corridor towards the kitchen for a quick snack before heading back to the infirmary. Slam stands at the table and turns when she enters. He doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms and lets Lexi step into them and sobs.)
Duck rubbed the back of his neck. His chest still felt tight even as Ace’s words chipped at something deep within him, a wall of protection and indifference that he had spent years cultivating. “Um, yeah. Thanks. But I do owe you.”
“You don’t,” Ace repeated. “We’re a team now, it’s what we do. We gotta have… each others… back.”
(Rev sets down a mug of hot tea beside Tech. The coyote barely looks up from his screen, fingers flying across the surface before he pulls up a sketch of a new uniform onto the holo-projector. His expression is grim, his focus single-minded. He has to design a bulletproof uniform. A fireproof uniform. A uniform that could withstand high temperatures and icy tundras. If he didn’t work he was going to drown in the guilt of not thinking of this sooner. Much sooner. He should have been faster, should have taken the bullet, not Ace. He can heal. His teammates could not. So he works, because if he doesn’t he will scream.
Rev sets his hands on Tech’s shoulders. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes the coyote’s shoulders in support.)
Duck peered at Ace’s face, the drooping eyelids and the yawn that he didn’t even try to fight back. He pulled up one of the many chairs in the infirmary and settled into it, “I’ll, uh, stay with you.”
“You don’t,” another yawn, “have to.”
“Tech said someone should.” That was a lie, although Duck could admit that it wasn’t a bad idea. “Besides, someone should make sure you don’t end up karate chopping the machine in your sleep again.”
“Mhm… too tired…”
Ace was out like a light by the time the last syllable died on his lips. So he didn’t hear Slam and Lexi walk in a few minutes later, holding mugs of hot cocoa that they wordlessly offered to Duck. He didn’t hear Tech or Rev come in from the adjoining laboratory, blankets tucked under their arms. He didn’t stir even when Slam pulled in two couches from the living room and the team fell asleep in varying stages of cramped, limbs hanging off and blankets tangled around each other, until the only sounds in the room was the mechanical beeping of the machines and their slow, steady breathings.
#loonatics unleashed#danger duck#ace bunny#lexi bunny#slam tasmanian#tech e coyote#rev runner#ficlet#peace signs because I have two term papers to write and instead I'm still fixated on Team Dynamics
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On Bugs
so for creative writing class we were told to imitate Amy Dillard’s writing style. This is the essay on bugs that I ended up making. Not Bleach, I know, but I thought someone might enjoy it.
This took so long to write oh my god ;-;
also, I am fully aware that not all insects are bugs, and that spiders aren’t either of the two, but. bug is much more fun to say.
Word count - 1500 on the dot
@despairforme THE BUG ESSAY. IT’S HERE.
@onenicebugperday you inspired me to write a four page essay about bugs i hope you’re happy
When I was in third grade, I dropped a dandelion down the back of my classmate’s shirt. She was upset, having thought the rather inconspicuous dandelion was a daddy long-legs spider. She’d screamed, slapped me on the chest in an attempt to escape her arachnid harasser, and had decided to wage war against me for the rest of our time together in school.
I never was afraid of spiders the way she was. Spiders and snakes and all sorts of bugs, so long as I could be assured they weren't poisonous, had always held a special place in my heart - and, more often than not, my hand. Growing up in woody, wet Germany gave me a healthy dosage of ladybugs, crickets, and snails at a young age, and I never looked at a bug with anything other than fascination.
It’s the middle of winter, now. There aren’t many bugs around. Forty-two little silhouettes in the light above my desk, but none of them move, empty exoskeletons like shells. They’re probably dry, and if I touched one I’m sure it would crumble under my fingers. There seem to be more of them every time I look up; it’s the middle of winter, so the warmth of the indoors must be especially tantalizing. Right now, there isn’t any wind outside, but the world seems to be painted in shades of grey. Even looking outside makes you feel cold, and the drifts of iced-over snow outside of the window just emphasize this.
I have mixed feelings about winter. I love the snow, love having an excuse to stay inside wrapped in blankets on the days I don’t have school. I love that there aren’t mosquitoes to follow me around - I must taste good to them, since they always seem to swarm me. But the lack of the bugs I do like - spiders, caterpillars, grasshoppers, even the jeweled dragonflies that swarm our canoes in summer - makes winter feel especially harsh.
When I’m feeling more grey than usual, I turn to the internet to soothe me. My computer has a tab open - one nice bug per day. The third picture that appears on image search is a gorgeous skeleton leaf moth, the row under that containing a domino cuckoo bee. I smile, looking at the pictures. A photo of a hissing cockroach wearing a tiny paper party hat jumps out at me, curled around a leaf. I click on the picture, save it to my gmail by emailing it to myself. I’ll take some time to admire them later.
The bigger the bug the better, of course. Small bugs are hard to track, and the idea of one getting somewhere without me knowing about it gives me chills. That’s probably why I hate ants; they swarm up your legs and into your shoes and socks and it takes far too long to extract them all, and you feel phantom itches on your body for the next day or so.
The fear of ants is called myrmecophobia, and often goes hand-in-hand with entomophobia - the fear of insects. When I was young - still in Elementary school, at a time before my decision to quit soccer - I’d practice with my mom in the field a bit southeast of the elementary school tucked at the base of the mountain pass. The playground had been north of us. I always wanted to go back to the playground. The whole complex had been a good half hour’s drive from my house, so we didn’t go there often, but it had an excellent jungle gym and some new swings. It got hot easily, out there under the sun; if I didn’t bring water, the ninety-degree weather would feel twenty degrees hotter, the sort of heat that makes you lightheaded and grumpy.
But my mom had told me to play soccer, and she wasn’t the sort of person who you could say no to easily. I tried, of course, in futile attempts that would end with me in tears and my mom seething, but always ended up on that field, kicking the ball back and forth as my mom chastised me for skipping to the goal. Skipping, apparently, was slower than running.
I’d hated soccer.
It was one of those days that solidified my fear of ants. Wyoming doesn’t have fire ants or most other nasty biting bugs, so I was never in real danger, but that didn’t stop the whole experience from being traumatic. My mom, of course, had laughed about it later; it seems to be a habit of adults to take the irrational fears of children lightly. The ants crawling up my leg had probably been just as afraid of me as I was of them, but knowing that didn’t help any. Adults will tell you that the shark that bit off your arm was just as afraid of you as you were of it, but that doesn’t change the fact that your arm’s gone.
I’d been unlucky enough to step right in an ant nest, the sort that stays hidden by the short grass until something, or someone, disturbs it. It hadn’t looked different from the regular ground from my five feet, but the moment I felt a tickle on my leg, I knew.
I’d screamed. I think anyone would have screamed when confronted with one of their worst fears, so I never was ashamed of my reaction, even if I’d hated the exasperation and faint amusement on my mom’s face. The ants had come right off, lady fortune smiling on me that day, and I hadn’t found any tiny ant corpses in my shoes when I took them off that afternoon - a rarity; ants always seem to turn up in unexpected places post-encounter. I’d been paranoid, though, and had hopped around on one foot until I was a safe distance from the nest before shoving my hands down my socks to search for any lone ants. There were none.
I refused to resume play until I was positive there were no ants on me, of course. Even when we started the game again I was wary, taking light steps and watching the ground like a hawk for any sign of another insect. It had taken the fun out of the game pretty quickly, and we went home soon after.
The internet goes out for a moment, and the photo of the mantis I’m looking at shifts to a grey screen. I frown, take a second to stand up and stretch. My legs and shoulders are especially sore. By the time I sit down again, my picture has loaded again, and I scroll to the left to see a swallowtail butterfly looking out of the screen at me. They have yellow fur around their eyes and antennae, and look vaguely curious. This picture also goes to my saved folder to look at later, and I keep scrolling.
When I was in second grade, we studied bugs in science class. Not extensively; there’s only so much work you can get done as a scatterbrained second grader, and bugs weren’t on the top of my list of priorities. But we studied them, and after a few weeks our teacher imported seven Madagascar hissing cockroaches to be our class pets.
Nobody in my class was afraid of them; I think we were too young to be afraid of something as hideously cute as those little insects. They remind me of pugs now, disgusting in the sort of way that makes you want to coo over them. We’d kept them in a little glass terrarium in the back of the classroom, and took them out during lunch break and sometimes to sketch them during art. Our teacher had told us how to tell the males and females apart, but the information had gone straight in ear and out the other, like water through a sieve. There are two things I can remember about them now: first, that they would shed their skins sometimes and we’d have to clean out their terrarium; second, that if you poked their heads, they’d hiss.
The second thing was the most important to my little second-grade brain. My classmates and I took great satisfaction in poking the cockroaches and watching them puff up and make little hissing sounds like air coming out of a tire. They’d always make their funny wheezing sound, and we’d sit there for minutes on end - the longest amount of time our young minds could stay on track for - and tap them, giggling uncontrollably as they got progressively more frustrated.
I like bugs. I’m no entomologist, I would never spend my days in the wild watching them through magnifying glasses. But I still like them. Their colors remind me of spring and summer, and I love their size - perfect to pick up and put on a fingertip. They’re much more simple than people, never worried about money or jobs or politics. They have no worries, no fears.
I would love to be a bug.
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← ONCE THERE WAS AN IDEA TO BRING TOGETHER →
Trust isn’t easy. It’s even harder when you trust somebody and they let you down; the younger that you are the bigger the impact that it has on your life. Michelle Jones-Watson -- although she prefers to drop the latter -- learned how hard it was to trust people at a young age. Born June 10th, 2001 as a resident of New York City, Michelle had a difficult home life after her father dipped out on her and her mother. That being said, the Jones women did well for themselves and Michelle, who chose to go by MJ, become withdrawn, guarded and sarcastic. She hid in her books to avoid social interactions and soon became known for her biting wit.
After applying and receiving admission to the Midtown School of Science and Technology, Michelle joined the Academic Decathlon. It was there that she first met Peter Parker and observed him from afar during their sophomore year as a result of his odd behavior. Although she was far from popular in school, MJ didn’t care. She sketched people in distress and read when she was supposed to be doing physical activity. Her starring moment came during the Academic Decathlon National Championships. Parker had no-showed the event, but MJ swept in with the winning answer at the last minute and Midtown Tech took the trophy. They later went to the Washington Monument to celebrate; as an activist, however, MJ refused to go inside and later watched as Spider-man saved her classmates when danger.
It was at this point that Michelle was beginning to vaguely wonder if Peter was the mysterious Spider-man. Spider-man, a New York based hero, had just happened to be D.C. at the same time as of the school. Furthermore, Peter was absent from events and Spider-man showed up. Michelle continued to observe Parker but sitting through detention with him and noticing his absence at the school dance after Spider-man went to fight the Vulture.
Then, a scandal rocked Midtown Tech. Liz Toomes, the beautiful and popular senior who was captain of the Decathlon team, was the daughter of the infamous Vulture who had been committing crimes around New York. Liz and her mother had no idea about Adrian’s secret life, and after he got arrested the two moved to Portland. The Decathlon team needed a new captain, and much to her great surprise, Michelle was selected.
Cue the Blip.
One moment she was reading. The next, she was back. Five years had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye; 2018 had turned to 2023. Half of the world had been reduced to ash by the Mad Titan Thanos, and it had taken the Avengers half a decade to reverse it. By some weird coincidence, most of MJ’s friends had been Blipped as well; Ned Leeds, Peter, Betty Brant and Flash Thompson had all been turned to dust. Although they had partially finished the semester, Midtown Tech decided the Blipped students would need to redo their Junior Year during the 2023-2024 school year.
It was during that year that Michelle’s father reentered her life. She had no desire to start going by ‘Watson’ again, but he was changed post Blip and did desire to be in his kid’s life. Afraid to be hurt again, Michelle agreed to let him in on her terms and at arms length. The two were on fine terms when she left during the summer of 2024 on Midtown Tech’s sponsored science trip to Europe. After getting to know each other a little better, Michelle found herself beginning to develop feelings for Peter. She was hoping to spend more time with him, but fellow classmate Brad seemed to feel the same way for MJ.
While in Italy, the group was attacked by a man composed of water. They were conveniently saved by Spider-man, and Michelle kept an eye on both him and Peter. Although skeptical, the two did share a few quiet moments with one another as they prepared to go to France. Their trip was rerouted, however, and the school group ended up in Austria. Forced to go to an opera instead of a festival, MJ was supposed to sit by Peter but he got cagey and left. She ditched the performance and followed him; while having to flee from another Elemental monster, MJ found what appeared to be a small camera covered in webbing.
With all the chaos, the trip was canceled due to parental concern. MJ and Peter decided to take one last private walk together, and when it looked like Peter was going to reveal his identity Michelle jumped in and beat him to it by announcing she already knew. Peter, who was going to tell her that he liked her, was confused and Michelle admitted she hadn’t been one hundred percent certain, so it was a surprise. Lying to hide the fact that she was uncomfortable, MJ claimed that she had only watched Peter because she wanted to see if he was Spider-man and not because she was interested in him.
While on the bridge, the two accidentally activated one of Mysterio’s drones and saw a projection of an Elemental. Realizing Mysterio was behind it all, MJ and Peter returned to the hotel so Peter could change. It was there that they bumped into Ned and MJ revealed that she was now in on the secret. While Peter rushed to Germany to find Nick Fury, Michelle and the students were taken to London before they could go home. Little did they know, Mysterio had men in place to kill them and Flash, MJ, Ned and Happy Hogan fled the drones and locked themselves in a medieval weapons room. Armed with a mace, Michelle admitted she was addicted to being brutally honest and had a hard time letting people in. Spider-man managed to save the day before the group was killed, and MJ reunited on the bridge with Peter where the two finally shared a kiss.
With Mysterio dead, the Midtown Tech kids finally returned home. Peter had given Michelle a Black Dahlia necklace that he had bought in Italy; even though it broke, she put it on and decided to wear it as a remembrance of the trip. The two flew home together and spent the next few weeks as a happy couple with Peter meeting MJ’s parents. One day, Peter asked Michelle if she would like to try web swinging with him. Despite her fear of heights she agreed and spent a few terrifying moments in the air. They had barely made it back to the ground before J. Jonah Jameson took over the MSG screen to share a doctored video clip of Mysterio before he died. In the video, it looked as if Peter had called for the drone strike in London. It was then that Mysterio did the worst he could from beyond the grave: he unmasked Peter.
The two were instantly swarmed. Peter grabbed MJ and they had to flee from skyscrapers to the subway in order to get away. In the days after it was sheer chaos. MJ, Ned, May and others close to Peter were all brought in for questioning, but MJ remained tight lipped. She and Peter did their best to communicate via video, and when it was time to start their senior year they entered the crowd of paparazzi and hecklers hand in hand. It was hard for a shy person like Michelle to deal with the fame, but she told Peter she wouldn’t change a thing.
Unfortunately, life became difficult in ways she hadn’t expected. When she, Peter and Ned applied for colleges they were all rejected from every one due to the “controversial nature” of things that had happened. MJ, who had tried to be optimistic about their first choice of MIT, realized her mantra of expect disappointment so that you’ll never be disappointed should have been listened to. As upset as she was, she never expected Peter to break the Multiverse to fix the problem.
It was explained on the way to Doctor Strange’s Sanctum Sanctorum. Peter had botched a spell the Sorcerer had been doing to make the world forget he was Spider-man. As a result, people who knew Peter Parker was Spider-man were coming into their universe from various ones. In all the cases, they were villains who had died fighting Spider-man. Peter was determined to help them instead of sending them home to die, and Mj and Ned did their best to help. They eventually lost contact with Peter but kept the spell that would send everyone home and Strange’s Sling Ring.
Unsure of where to go, MJ and Ned ended up at his Lola’s house while they waited to hear from Peter. After realizing that Ned could use the Sling Ring to make portals the two attempted to find Peter Parker... only to find two Peter’s, both from other realities. When they saw on the news that the apartment where Peter and May had been hiding had been destroyed and that Peter’s Aunt May had died, the Peter’s helped MJ and Ned realize that their Peter would be hiding on the roof of the school. Reuniting with her boyfriend, Michelle comforted him before the three Peter’s took the lab to come up with ways to cure the criminals.
The plan was simple. Once the Spider-man lured the five villains to the currently being renovated Statue of Liberty, they would toss the magical device through the portal to MJ and Ned while they administered the cures. The only problem? Ned couldn’t close said portal. He and MJ were still working to get it closed when a rampaging Lizard came in and chased them onto the scaffolding. When MJ lost her footing and began to plummet to the ground below Peter dove after her without hesitation. He had almost reached her when Norman Osborn’s goblin glider knocked him out of the way. She would have hit the ground had another Peter not swept in and saved her at the last second.
What happened next was outside of MJ’s control. The broken spell was causing everyone who knew Peter was Spider-man to be drawn into the reality, and the number was infinite. Peter made the ultimate sacrifice by having Strange cast another spell that would make everyone forget who Peter Parker was, almost as if he didn’t exist. As soon as Peter broke the news to her MJ was panicked. She didn’t want to forget him or what they had been through. He promised to find her, and MJ told him she loved him before refusing to let him say it back. He could say it when he found her, she instructed. They shared a kiss and then ....
High school students Michelle Jones-Watson and Ned Leeds were picked up from the Statue of Liberty after being bystanders in a Spider-man battle. With only a cut on her forehead, MJ was told she was lucky. Life returned to normal after that. She and Ned were both accepted into MIT. MJ went back to work at the bakery; it was there that she met Peter Parker, a sort of cute but very awkward boy who wanted a coffee. With the encounter being nothing special, MJ set her sights to the future. Trust will always be hard for her. Waking up from the spell will be a test of that. For now, however, Peter Parker’s just another face on the other side of the register and she’s just a normal girl untouched by the world of heroes.
← A GROUP OF REMARKABLE PEOPLE TO SEE IF THEY →
As it stands, Michelle has no idea that she loved Peter Parker. She’s working on finishing her senior year of high school so that she can graduate and go to M.I.T. with Ned and Flash Thompson. It goes without saying that when she learns the true Michelle will be furious at Peter. He promised to find her and instead let her walk around enchanted. Maybe he thinks her life is better without him, but that’s not for him to decide. She’s only living part of her life and needs to be woken up.
← COULD BECOME SOMETHING MORE →
PETER PARKER brought MJ out of her shell. She figured out he was Spider-man and the two eventually started a romantic relationship. Peter was the first person that MJ ever felt that way for, and wouldn’t have changed a thing about their relationship despite the troubles that came with him being Spider-Man. He promised that he’d find her and he did. He just didn’t follow through and tell her the truth. MJ may not be able to remember now, but he’s got another thing coming when the spell is broken. She loves him. That and trust don’t come easily to her. He shouldn’t betray the faith she has in him.
NED LEEDS and MJ were friends of Spider-man. Now, they’re just friends. They remember meeting through Decathlon and happened to be in the same place when Spider-man fought at the Stature of Liberty. There’s a few holes that the spells have glossed over. All MJ and Ned know is that they’re excited to graduate and attend M.I.T. together.
STEPHEN STRANGE casted the spell that erased MJ’s memories of Peter. Unfortunately, they also erased Strange’s memories of Peter. Had she remembered, Michelle would have gone back to the wizard to get him to reverse it. Instead, neither know what they’re missing.
← & IF WE CAN’T SAVE THE WORLD →
MIDTOWN TECH is the present but M.I.T. is the future. It’ll be weird to leave New York, but there’s not much holding her back. Sure, things are better with her family, but her friend (and Flash) will be going with her. It’s not like she has a boyfriend to leave behind. That’s the nice thing about being a civilian. You have less responsibility, even you have less power. The last thing Michelle would want is to be cast as a damsel. M.I.T.’s probably safer.
← WE’LL SURE AS HELL AVENGE IT →
✗ AGE → 17
✗ MULTIVERSE ORIGIN → earth-199999
✗ SNAP STATUS → blipped
✗ FACECLAIM → zendaya
✗ AVAILABILITY → taken
← WHATEVER IT TAKES →
FUN FACTS: still wears the broken spider necklace from peter but doesn’t know where it came from. occasional mace wielder.
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Curtain Call
Act One, Scene Five
Sirius knows he’s petty. Extremely so. Petty enough to send the elevator all the way down to the ground floor so that Remus has to either take the stairs or wait, at least.
What Remus said is still wheeling in his mind. Remus kissed someone else. It hurts, yeah, but he’ll put on his brave face. He’ll move on.
The thing that hurts most—the thing he can’t ignore or get over—is that he’s not sure whether he’s more upset that Remus cheated, more upset that Remus dumped him, or more upset that Remus didn’t give him the chance to break it off. Remus should have owned up to it, and he should have given Sirius that choice. It’s like he said when before he left the staff room—maybe he would have ended things, maybe he wouldn’t have.
He should have at least had the option to break Remus’s heart like Remus broke his, but instead Remus just broke his twice.
Sure enough, Remus is five minutes late to the seminar, and Sirius knows that Lily’s pissed. What he doesn’t know is whether she’s pissed at Remus, or if she’s figured out that Sirius is the reason behind the delay and is pissed at him. She seems the type to just know these things.
He’s pretty sure he’s not imagining her glare in his direction when she says, “We’ll start in a minute or two; John will be back by then with the papers we need for today’s lecture,” but he decides to ignore it. After all, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s ignoring his problems.
Well, and running away from them. It depends on the day and what mood he’s in.
He also doesn’t miss the fact that when Remus does return, he pulls the classic ‘take one and pass it on’ instead of handing out the papers one by one. It’s probably so that he doesn’t have to look Sirius in the face.
When the stack reaches him, Sirius has to reach back a whole row of seats to get to the next person. He almost tips over in his chair, but manages to save himself a sore tailbone—and a whole lot of embarrassment—at the last minute.
The page is split into five sections: theme, topic, setting, characters, and story objective. He remembers, vaguely, learning some of this in grade seven, but that’s where his memory blanks. (What the everloving fuck is a story objective?)
Apparently he’s about to find out.
Lily claps her hands together in an incredibly teacher-like way. If he didn’t know better, he would have a hard time believing this is the same woman who so aggressively played matchmaker (or maybe she was actually trying to drive them further away from each other; thinking back on it, Sirius can’t actually tell) only a few minutes before. “Well,” she says, addressing the room at large, “who can tell me what a theme is?”
There are a few raised hands, and she calls on the boy just behind Sirius, with chocolate-brown hair and more freckles than he can count. “It’s what the story is about. But like, in an abstract way.”
“Very good.” Lily takes a whiteboard marker out of her jeans pocket. Turning to the board, she draws a T-table, labeling one side theme and the other topic. Under the first heading, she writes abstract, and, across from it, concrete.
“Theme and topic are often confused, because they’re both what a story is about. But—what’s your name?”
“Benjy. Benjy Fenwick,” says the freckled boy.
“But Benjy here has hit the nail on the head. The difference between theme and topic is that a theme is abstract—a concept, or an idea, or a feeling—while a topic is concrete—such as a person, place, thing, or event….”
Sirius begins to zone out. Absentmindedly, he grabs a pencil and begins sketching on the smooth, polished wood of his desk. A circle, an oval, a line here and there, some shading—slowly, his doodle begins to take shape. By the time Lily says, “Now, who can give me some examples of a good story theme?” and people start calling out their answers, he’s perfected the glint in his anime-style eye.
“One last one. How about you, by the back, with the Blue Jays shirt?”
(Of course she’s pretending she doesn’t know his name. Lucky him—he’s always wanted to be demoted back to ‘hey, you.’)
His head jerks up. “Uh, relationships,” he says, because he’s a walking cliche and, yes, of course that’s the only thing on his mind. Why wouldn’t it be?
“There’s an interesting one.” She adds it to the board, right underneath hardship, pressing hard enough that the nib of the pen squeaks. “It could technically be counted as a topic, too, but it works well as a theme.”
There’s a pause as she looks around, seemingly searching for a suitable place to put her pen. Finally, she gives up, tucking it behind her ear.
“What I want everyone to do now is think carefully about what theme they want to write about. You can pick as many as you want, and you can add more later, but it’s easiest to focus on just two or three. You can pick one of the ones we came up with here, or it can be something totally different, but make sure it’s something that speaks to you.”
Her words resonate in Sirius’s mind. Something that speaks to him? He starts to write, his large printing cramped in the tiny box, and he gets halfway through the second C before he erases it again. He has to think for a minute. He doesn’t want to write about success, not when there’s so little of it in his life right now, but he doesn’t want to write about something dark, like suffering, either.
Loss, he puts down with finality. On second thought, he adds healing. And then, just because he feels like it, friendship.
The clock on the wall says they have twelve more minutes before they’re finished; he wonders what else they’ll do before the class ends. Right now, the only sound in the room is the quiet scratching of pencils—soothing, he must admit, even though he personally prefers the excitement of applause—and it seems as though he’s the only one who’s finished.
He lets himself look around, his eyes flickering from the clock to the whiteboard to the person sitting to his left. They dart to the door at the other side of the hall, and forward to where Remus is... staring right back at him.
The two lock eyes for a good fifteen seconds before Remus lowers his gaze to the floor. It’s not much of a victory, Sirius knows, but it’s a victory nonetheless.
So why doesn’t it feel like one?
There’s not time to burrow any deeper into his own thoughts, however, because Lily is writing once more on the board. Unfortunately for him, he can’t see what she’s written—even when she turns around—because her head is in the way.
“I assume most of you have your themes, and even if you don’t, you can always come back to it. Right now, we’re going to move onto topic—surprise surprise, also what the story is about, but this time on a more concrete scale. Let’s take Romeo and Juliet, for instance, because I’m fairly sure it’s a story we all know. Does anyone have any idea what the topic is?”
Silence.
Sirius, usually the self-aware one in any situation (but apparently not this one), knows there are two possible reasons as to why he raises his hand. Unfortunately, he does not know which of them it is. The first is simple—he’s confident has the answer, and he wants to share it. The second is both a little more complex and a little more likely, and that is that he doesn’t know what the answer is and maybe, just maybe, he wants to prove to Remus he’s not afraid to take risks.
Either way, his tentative “Love?” is declared—spoiler alert—incorrect.
“Wrong,” Lily says. “Love is a theme, not a topic. Try again.”
Well, he wasn’t expecting a second chance. (It seems he only ever gets them when he’s unprepared.) (Maybe there’s a lesson in that.)
“Um… people in love?” If the first answer wasn’t right, this one won’t be either. He knows that. But it is, frankly, all he can come up with.
“Ding-a-ling-a-ling,” Lily deadpans, which actually sounds a little funny in that accent of hers. He’s not going to mention that, though, because he’s on pretty thin ice already where she’s concerned. “Correct. Yes, maybe they sound like basically the same thing, but they’re not. The way I like to put it is this: if you can draw a picture of it, chances are it’s the topic. If you can’t, chances are it’s the theme.” After a moment, she adds, “I probably should have said that at the beginning. Whatever.”
This causes Remus’s lips to twitch up into a smile. In fact, it’s only just now that Sirius realizes he’s watching Remus at all—he could have sworn he stopped—and he forces himself to look away.
But he really can’t deny it any longer. He really can’t deny that that little smile, happy and pure with just a hint of mischief, still makes his heart pound and his brain turn to mush. He really can’t deny that despite everything—despite the breakup, and the recent confession, and the promises made late at night that he’s getting over this, he really is…
He’s still in desperate, painful, middle-grade YA novel love with Remus/John/does-it-really-matter-what-his-name-is Lupin.
#wolfstar#sirius black#remus lupin#lily evans#remus x sirius#muggle au#university au#I really hate this chapter but whatever#it needed to be published
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