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darker-soft-starker · 4 years

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Starker High School AU, Pt 3 (Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 4, Pt 5)

-----

There were two things in life that Peter was unequivocally certain were true.

Number one was that Monday mornings were a universally despised, unpleasant experience that no weekend could ever ease the pain of having to endure.

And number two: Sit-ups were a specific and profound mechanism of torture that no person should ever be required to engage in, recreationally or mandated.

Of course, it would be just his luck that the two were combined on this very Monday morning.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was, Peter thought, hands curled at his temples as he pushes himself into a sitting position, falling back onto the dewy grass with a thud that steals the breath from his chest.

Bucky, holding his ankles, encourages him to complete his set.

“I can’t,” Peter gasps, his stomach trembling as he pulls himself up again. “I - oh fuck - I hate this. I hate exercise.”

Bucky squeezes his ankles tighter. “C’mon, Parker, only three more. You can do it.”

Peter shakes his head, even as he pulls himself up again with a pained groan.

“No, I can’t. Make it stop.”

“Two more. You got it. Sit-ups are not the boss of you.”

“Yes - ahh - they are!”

“One more!”

Sweat pours down his neck and his muscles protest as he pulls himself up for the last time. He gets probably only most of the way up before his gravity slams to the ground.

Bucky slaps his bare calf encouragingly as Peter stares up into the glaring morning sun, arms splayed out, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Oh, god. Never again. That was the worst.

Covering his eyes with his quivering arms he wonders if maybe coach will indulge him just this once. Maybe he can stay here until training is over, perhaps curl up into a ball and try to blend in with the grass so that no one sees him or subjects him to any more exercise.

Except Coach Danvers is already yelling at him to get off the ground and get moving.

He smacks his hands over his ears but it’s no use.

“Get up Parker, last warning!”

“Respite!” He yells back pleadingly, curling in tighter upon himself. “Please!”

Her whistle pierces the air.

“Now!”

Coach has been on edge all morning. Her harsh has turned razor edged in the face of their upcoming match against Kingston this Thursday, reminding the team of her expectations, tolerating nothing other than complete dedication.

Which, whatever.

Peter’s dedicated, okay? It’s Monday. He dragged his ass out of bed to be here at an unholy hour, exhausted and bloated from his indulgent weekend, didn’t he?

Erring on the margin of spite towards Danvers and self motivation, which he suspects is her aim, he pushes himself back up. Taking each of Bucky’s ankles in his grip, he starts counting as Bucky begins his set.

Not that he needs the assistance, Bucky proves his strength by ripping through the set like a bull stampeding through a brick wall. He doesn’t even break a sweat. Dude’s crazy athletic.

It’s really not fair.

As he mentally counts the reps, Peter thinks Bucky’s the kind of fit that Peter both hoped and never hoped to be. He’s effortlessly capable at any physical task, but he works hard for it, harder than Peter would ever dream of working, dedicating hours to gym time and conditioning. Bucky’s not even out of breath when he strikes up conversation.

“How was your weekend, PP?”

“S’okay. Played Mario Kart with my Aunt all weekend.”

Bucky grins as his upper half rises to meet his knees. “Oh, party animal. She doing okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good,” Peter grins wryly, taking one of his hands from the other’s ankle to push the sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “Kicked my ass though. She always takes Toad.”

“Switch?”

“Nah, GameCube. How was your weekend?”

“Boring. Parents were home all weekend and wanted some ‘family time’.”

“So, you just watched The Voice all weekend?”

“Yup.”

“Nat sneak in after?”

“Yup. How’d it go with Stark on Friday?” Bucky accepts Peter’s hand as he finishes his set. Peter pulls him up and pats him on the back.

The set off in a jog to complete a lap of the field, Coach yells that only five minutes are left, urging them to pick up speed. Peter’s lungs burn when he speaks.

“It was fine.”

Bucky looks at him dubiously, flyaways whipping at his face.

“Well not like, fine-fine, but no bloodshed. See? All limbs intact.” He holds his arms out mid-sprint.

“Wow, so you’re basically best friends now.”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands and braid each other’s hair?”

Incensed, Peter shoves at Bucky to the sound of his snickering,

“Ew, stop, I just had breakfast. Look, the first experience was painful enough. Can we move on? I really don’t want to talk about it.”

---

“And then he hit on my Aunt,” Peter complains in the showers, soaping up his chest. “Literally right in front of me. Who does that?”

“Did she flirt back?” Bucky asks, dipping his head into the spray.

“What? No. He said he was just trying to get under my skin,” he puts his head beneath his own shower head, the water pleasantly lukewarm against his heated skin. “I mean, what kind of psychopath does that?”

“Yeah, but your aunt is super hot though,” Wilson says to his right. “Stark’s an asshole, but he’s not crazy.”

There is a general murmur of agreement around the showers.

“I’m going to need you all to shut up right now,” Peter warns, turning to point at them all. “Keep my aunts name out of your mouth while you’re washing your balls, alright?”

“You heard him, move on,” Rogers cuts in, offering Peter a sympathetic smile.

He nods gratefully as conversation quickly turns to girls, grades and the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. There was a reason why Peter was on Roger’s side all these weeks ago, he thinks, observing how the entire team respects his command without query. The guy was just interested in doing the right thing, and that’s pretty cool.

By the time they’re all dried and dressed, the topic is forgotten, much to Peter’s relief. He’s nearly late to first period though, too busy watching Wilson and Barnes smack each other with wet towels and attempting to tame his unruly curls into something resembling neatness. He’s not proud of the amount of gel it takes, but it’s what he’s got to work with.

It’s not that he’s obsessed with his appearance or anything, but he has a routine that he sticks to. Gel and lots of it.

Once, in third grade, Flash pulled one of Peter’s tightly coiled ringlet between his fingers, pulled on it and said oink. Peter still had some lingering baby fat at the time and so, as cruel as children can be, Peter was donned Piggy Parker for a time afterwards. Sometimes Porky Parker. They’re friends now, but the oinking and snuffling that followed him around the playground still haunts him.

Anyway.

On the way to first period Rogers walks alongside him down the hall. They have English together, but usually make their way separately. It kind of weirded Peter out for a moment because while they’re team-mates, they’re not really friends.

“Heard you got paired with Stark for an assignment,” the other boy says, his wry smile caught between amused and sympathetic. “That’s shit luck, Parker.”

“You’re telling me,” Peter agrees, waving to Ned and Betty as they pass. “Dude’s a freakin’ prick.”

Rogers bumps their shoulders together.

“You said it. Want me to have a word with him, get him to back off?”

“Nah,” Peter shakes his head. “I can handle Stark, he’s just some bored rich kid looking for a fight. Besides,” he gives Rogers a once-over, “pretty sure you’re supposed to keep your distance after your last brawl with him.”

“True,” he concedes, clamping Peter’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze as they stop before their room. “But we’re a team, alright? Just say the word and I’ll encourage some sense into him. Promise to be gentle.”

Peter clamps his hands over his heart with a flair of drama, despite being truly touched. “You’re my hero, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers rolls his eyes and shoves him into the classroom.

“Alright, smartass. Let’s go.”

Inside, he smiles sheepishly at Mrs Perez who glowers at them for their lateness and takes his usual seat between Clint and Shuri. He signs a good morning to the former and smiles at the latter, who is staring down at her desk with disdain.

“What’s wrong?” He nudges her chair with his foot to grab her attention.

“The curriculum.” She raises her head and points to the board miserably. It reads Lord of the Flies.

Oh, great. He could use the nap.

Peter smiles sympathetically, opening his nearly full notebook up to a blank page. “How was your weekend?”

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“Mmm,” She nods, gesturing airily. “You know, eh. Oh, oh! I heard you spent the weekend getting cosy with Stark,” Shuri follows, pretending to search through their textbook. “Wow, that’s a three-sixty, PP. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What?” Peter hisses, voice lowering when their teacher looks around as roll-call commences. “That’s not -- ”

“Parker!” Perez yells for roll call.

“Present!”

Shuri snickers as Peter’s hand shoots up.

Lucky for him it’s the last he hears of it.

Kinda.

---

His next class is Bio with MJ who, thankfully, says very little through class. She inspects him with bleary eyes when he enters, nursing a coffee in her hands, always earlier than Peter who has to come from the other side of the school.

Peter’s grateful for the reprieve. When she does speak to him, it’s to borrow a pen or to offer him a sip of her coffee. It’s not a lab class today, only note-taking and listening to their teacher drone on about plant anatomy in the same monotone, so he accepts the bitter black coffee without hesitation.

It’s only then that he ventures to initiate conversation.

“So,” he begins precariously, doodling in his notebook, “how was your weekend?”

She shrugs, appearing more awake than earlier. “It was okay. You?”

“It was okay.”

And that was that, he’s relieved to note, companionable silence falling between again as they turn their attention to their teacher again. It’s not until they’re packing up their books at the end of class that MJ speaks to him again.

“See you at lunch?”

“Yeah, dude. Save us a table?”

“You bet. Oh, and by the way, I heard Stark is gonna be your new step-daddy. Congrats.”

Peter groans.

“How do you -- you know what, no,” he says, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and making a x with his arms. “Nope. No more talking about Stark, he is persona non grata. I’m traumatised enough.”

MJ pushes his glasses up after they slipped precariously down his nose during his declaration. “You’re so dramatic, dude.”

He bumps their shoulders together on the way out of the room and shakes his head.

“Why do people keep saying that?”

---

Ned texts him during recess; Peter is taking an extended break in the bathroom despite not needing to be there, but he’s definitely not hiding, nope. He’s just chilling in the cubicle.

< heard stark spent the weekend < lol wtf < plz verify < actually i don’t want to know < no wait i do tell me < dude

< hello?

----

Traitors, all of them.

He wonders if he should leave this school and start anew elsewhere.

---

Here’s the thing.

As much as Peter loves his friends, he has limits to how long he can spend with them before needing a time out.

They’re his motley crew of village idiots. Some he’s known since first grade, like Ned and Flash, others only since he came to the school and subsequently, the football team.

This school headhunted him because of his academic merit. With his pursuit of scholastic excellence - and the fact that some of his best friends would be attending the school, he applied for and was awarded a scholarship. It was a no-brainer - he had big dreams and even bigger expectations of himself to achieve them and he wanted May to be proud of him.

Which was why when it was suggested that he try out for JV, having exhibited some physicality during gym class, he decided to give it a try. It would look great to have on his applications, he was assured.

So he did. Somehow his wiry frame and years of gymnastics was considered an asset and he was promptly recruited by Coach Danvers. At first he deeply regretted the additional commitment -- the early hours, the soreness, adapting to the internal culture within the team. But he’s persevered and he’s glad that he did.

And for the most part, he copes okay. He can juggle football obligations and after-school activities and the odd tutoring jobs here and there and stay sane, right?

Sort of.

Because as grateful as he was for his broad circle of friends, Peter was still, at heart, an introvert. And right now, his social energy is running on fumes.

It’s because of this - and nothing to do with the relentless questions about Stark - that Peter retreats to the library at lunch that day.

Nestled away in the dusty, back corner, near the collection of old encyclopaedias that nobody reads, are an assortment of bean bags. It’s away from the main area, quiet and disregarded by most. It used to be a thriving recreational area way before Peter’s time, but there wasn’t any maintenance to it over the years. Now the bags are old, terribly lumpy and are speckled with suspicious stains, the fabric is thinning and aged. Most people purposefully avoid the old rec area, which is why Peter likes this spot best. It’s his secret hiding space.

He prepares to disassociate for the next forty minutes by getting comfortable on his favorite bean bag and popping his earphones in.

Next, he retrieves his slightly soggy ham-tomato sandwich from his bag and takes a large bite after unwrapping it. The first burst of tomato hits his tongue at the same time as the music begins.

Ah, to be alone.

Closing his eyes, he allows his body to sink into the bag and for his thoughts to wander freely.

Of course, because his luck is as poor as he is, his seclusion lasts all of three songs before someone else enters into his space. Well it’s not his space, technically, but it should be.

When Peter creaks an eye open to see who is intruding he’s surprised to see Thor perched on the bean-chair opposite him. They catch each others stare and smile.

Well, alone time is overrated.

Maybe his luck isn’t down the drain after all - because this is his opportunity to prove he isn’t a total fumbling loser. He doesn’t know which deity he pleased to be alone in a quiet corner of the library with Thor, but someone up there is clearly looking out for him.

He wants to say something, to strike up a conversation that might make Peter seem cool and only casually interested - something that would make him sound both smart and like, available.

But not too available.

With little success, Peter wracks his brain for the best opening line but frets because he’s ever been cool or collected a day in his life. And great, now he’s just been sitting there smiling for like two whole minutes like an absolute weirdo. Come on, Parker, say something!

Thor acts well before Peter has the chance to say anything, pointing at him, his mouth moving with words Peter can’t hear.

Realising a moment too late that his earphones are still playing music from his phone, Peter hurries to tug them out if his ears, smacking himself in the face in the .

“Sorry, I was --” Peter gestures to his ears, hands shaking, cheeks going hot. God, Thor is talking to him. Him! Peter Parker! “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I like your shirt!” Thor replies, way more loudly than what would normally be socially acceptable for a library, but Peter does not care. Thor likes his shirt.

“This?” He asks, gesturing downwards to his shirt where crumbs are dusted at the collar. “You like Nirvana?”

“I do not know Nirvana,” Thor smiles, “but it looks very cool. Peter, right?”

“Uh yeah,” he nods, face positively flaming because again, he knows Peter’s name. Quickly sweeping the crumbs from his shirt, he extends his hand out to the older boy who shakes his hand. Holy shit. Be cool. “I’m Parker -- I mean, Peter. Yes. Nice to be here. I mean, nice to be speaking. To you.”

Even as Peter’s arm is roughly jostled with Thor’s exuberant hand-shaking embarrassment crawls up his neck, and he wants to disintegrate into the bean bag where no one has to witness his persistent, glaring awkwardness. Palms sweating, Peter has to bite his lip to stop himself from commenting on how big Thor’s hands are.

Stop it, he scolds himself, be normal, play it cool.

“Thor, right?” Peter asks, as if he didn’t doodle their initials together in his notebooks. “You were at training last week.”

“Yes, you fell on your face,” Thor nods, gesturing to the yellowed bruising on his jaw, “I saw.”

“Oh, okay, so you saw that! Uhh -- ” Peter waves a hand at his face, laughing nervously. “This? It’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”

“You are clumsy,” Thor states, not unkindly.

“Well, no -- I mean, yes --” Peter tries to come up with an explanation, but falls short. “I’m not always a klutz, promise. Just sometimes.”

“Happens to the best of us. Well, not myself, but you know, generally speaking. In any case, I’m happy to see you’re okay.”

Thor unzips his backpack then and from within it retrieves a truly gargantuan protein shake, followed by a sub wrapped in foil so large it could be the same size as Peter’s forearm. Sneaking a look down at the remainder of his own lunch, his pickings look pretty slim in comparison.

“Sorry,” Thor says. “Just peckish for a snack.”

Peter watches, dazed, as the older boy consumes half his sub in a single bite, washing it down with several mouthfuls of his shake.

A snack.

“You’re fine. Anyway, football isn’t really my forte,” he admits after a moment, drawing his knees up. “I mean, I’m okay at it and I like it, but it’s not really what I’m best at, y’know?”

The blond boy nods, “I’m on the varsity team,” he proclaims, wiping his mouth. “Whatever that means.”

His accent is so thick it takes Peter half a moment to figure out what it was that he said.

He’s not sure if Thor is being serious or not but the one question Peter has is why is he so fucking cute?

A silence follows, albeit not an awkward one. It gives Peter the opportunity to inspect the older boy, nearly a man at his height and stature, of course helped along by the generous distribution of facial hair across his lower face.

“Uh, did you play football back at home?” Peter asks, keen to keep conversation going. “Soccer?”

“Oh yes,” the boy nods. “Soccer, tennis, volleyball. Water polo. Badminton.”

“Wow,” Peter blinks, “that’s a lot of sport. You’re like the whole Olympics here.”

He’s awarded with a lazy grin for that comment. Thor, to his credit, doesn’t appear to be boastful about his physicality, seemingly a result of his passions instead of a product of vanity.

“Close enough, I suppose. What else do you play, besides football?”

“Uhh --”

Oh god. How is he supposed to respond to that when the idea of doing additional sports outside of football is abhorrent? He can’t tell Thor that. Surely he can fake a common interest. Think of something, Parker, think, think.

The first bell rings, saving him from having to provide a potentially humiliating answer, seeing as all how all that could think of was chess, or PC. Both of which are true and accurate, but not exactly something he thinks that would make him appear more attractive or endearing.

Thank god for fifth period.

“To be continued?” Peter asks as he picks up his backpack, just a little hopeful.

There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs, moment filled with odd squeaks of polystyrene as they attempt to stand.

Thor nods and to Peter’s surprise, doesn’t immediately rush to get away from him. There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs with, odd squeaks of polystyrene as they stand. Instead, he accompanies Peter all the way out of the library, walking alongside him into the main hallway where a flurry of students are intersecting to get to their next class, walking alongside him.

Heads turn to watch them as they depart the library and enter the halls. For a moment, as kids part like the red sea to make way for them - for Thor - Peter wonders if this is what it’s like to be famous. Or to be on the arm of someone famous. It certainly feels like it, because even though the revere isn’t for Peter specifically, it seems like the weight of everyone’s awe is on them.

He doesn’t like the attention. But he likes Thor.

To his delight, the older boy follows him to his locker. Embarrassingly, it sticks when Peter tries to open it, as it usually does. He struggles with it for long, humiliating moments before Thor opens it with one hand.

“Thanks,” he says, blush creeping back up his neck. “You’re like, crazy strong, dude.”

Thor flexes and inspects his own bicep, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, smiling roguishly. “Back at home I used to lift my brother for weight training.”

“You what?”

“A story for another time,” Thor shakes his head, shuffling closer to be heard over the traffic of students. “Anyway, I should be going. But there was something I have been meaning to ask you, if I may take a moment --”

Peter freezes. Oh my god, this is it, he thinks.

It’s happening.

“-- seeing as you and I have similar interests and we seem compatible, it would please me greatly if you would agree to --”

Heart racing, Peter turns, a fervent yes already on his lips.

It dies when there is a loud call of his name in the hall.

“-- Hey, Parker!”

Whatever Thor was going to say wilts at the interruption, seemingly forgotten as he waves at the intruder. Peter turns to see who called out for him and instantly wishes he didn’t.

Heart dropping to his stomach, he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs.

This is his luck.

Never has he wanted to melt into the floor and die like he does right now as Stark approaches the pair in quick strides.

Hands shoved into his jean pockets, Stark’s wide eyes dart between them inquisitively, a shadow of a smirk crossing his face, disappearing just as quick.

“Well, pardon me. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tony places a hand on his heart and leans on the locker next to Peters. “Thor, barely a pleasure as always.”

“Stark,” Thor nods.

Tony simpers, smile saccharine sweet and gestures to an uneasy Peter.

“I am just so sorry to intrude, but would you mind if I spoke to my husband here? He’s such a slippery one, aren’t you, sweetums?”

Thor looks between them, head going to and fro like a pendulum.

“He’s not my husband,” Peter rushes to assure, acutely pincered between Thor’s confusion and Tony’s mischief. “I mean he is, but it’s for an assignment. We’re not really -- it’s not real. I don’t like him.”

Tony exhales heavily, looking at Thor with dismay. “That’s not what he said in our wedding vows.”

Peter wants to punch him in the throat.

“I understand,” Thor smiles, patting each of them on the shoulder. He dips his chin and catches Peter’s eye. “To be continued?”

“Y-Yeah,” Peter nods enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically, he thinks, as his aim is to pretend to be cool and disinterested, but he doesn’t even care because maybe not all is lost after all. “To be continued. See you.”

All of the pomp bleeds away from Tony as Thor walks away, his posture turning into a slump against the locker.

The smile drops from Peter’s face. He sends Tony a heated glare as he retrieves from his books, shoving them into his bag.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, slamming his locker shut. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” the other boy shrugs. “What can I say, I’m delightful.”

“You’re deplorable.”

Tony gasps in mock offence. “Deplorable? Good lord, Parker, is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“If the shoe fits,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I have to go to class. Say what you want or move out of the way.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. C’mon, what were you and He-Man grunting about, hmm? Grr, me big, you tiny?”

“Unless you have a point,” Peter asks, pointing to the main hall, “I’m leaving.”

Tony puts his hands up in surrender, however the glib expression doesn’t quite leave his face. But at that moment Peter doesn’t have it within him to care, he’s not here to entertain him and sooner they get this over with, the better.

“Alright, alright, buzzkill. Come outside, I have to talk to you about the assignment.”

Peter looks at him, perturbed.

“I need a smoke,” he explains, tutting at Peter dispiritedly. “Also, don’t lie, I know it’s your free period.”

He doesn’t wait for Peter to respond, heading straight for the double doors that lead to the courtyard at a sedate enough pace for Peter to follow. Nonetheless he jogs a few paces to catch up after debating whether or not it was a good idea to follow or if he should hide in the boys bathroom.

Again.

It’s fairly chilly out, the wind whipping through his clothes. He wishes he had a scarf or gloves or something, opting to shove his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hooking the hood over his head.

“How do you know it’s my free period?” he queries loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“Because,” Tony turns to walk backwards, the breeze whistling around them, “it’s also my free period and you always stink up the library so I can’t go there,” he rounds the corner to lead Peter to the shaded area behind the auditorium where a few students are lingering, most of them smoking.

“And you take the best seat. Personally, I think it’s selfish. I can’t possibly sit there after your ass has warmed it.”

Willing himself to not rise to Tony’s level of pettiness, he crosses his arms over his chest as they come to a stop. The wind is at full force now that the surrounding buildings aren’t taking the brunt of it and it is cold as all hell, although Tony’s in a black t-shirt and doesn’t look affected at all, probably because he’s cold-blooded or warmed by hellfire.

Tony cups his hands over his lighter to protect the flame from the breeze, struggling briefly to light his cigarette. Once the end is properly alight, Tony takes a drag while staring at him.

His hand comes to rest at his thigh, smoke rising idly from the cigarette. After a moment, he exhales the smoke in Peters direction.

“Wow. You’re disgusting,” he waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the smell. “Don’t you know second-hand smoke can kill?”

"Yes. Do you want a drag to speed up the process?”

“Don’t be a dick,” he says as Tony seems to find himself funny, offering up the cigarette in jest. Peter has half a mind to snatch it out of his hands and stomp on it. “I know that’s hard for you.”

“I’m joking, okay. I thought the wind would redirect the smoke. My bad.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, the assignment? Still waiting for whatever was so urgent."

Tony takes another drag, flicking ash to the ground before answering.

“I booked an appointment with a realtor for tomorrow after school.”

That has Peter’s curiosity piqued. “Really? Where?”

“LIC. One of the agents has agreed to be a reference so our domestic nightmare can be officially documented. Yay, go team.”

“Yay,” Peter deadpans. “What time?”

“Appointment’s at four-thirty,” Tony retrieves his phone from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Give me your number and I’ll send you the details.”

Peter accepts it with a grimace. It’s warm from Tony’s body heat. Ugh.

“And now you can say: ‘thank you for being proactive, Tony, you’re so much better than me, Tony’.”

“Thank you for being proactive, Anthony, even if you’re a self-aggrandizing jerk,” Peter mutters, voice getting progressively more sarcastic.

A wide smile blooms on Tony’s face, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re welcome, Parker.”

He is going to let that one go, Peter decides, feeling magnanimous on spite of the circumstances. He’d never admit it, but he’s kinda surprised by Tony’s apparent initiative, and even genuinely a little grateful that the other boy has arranged this so quickly. Or even that he thought to arrange it at all - field research was one of the highest scoring components on the rubric for this assignment.

Eyes flicking up for a moment, he assesses the other boy. Maybe he’s not as much of a slacker as Peter thought he was.

Tony, slumped against the brick wall, rubs his stomach and burps quietly.

Or maybe he is.

Nevertheless, Peter types in his details and saves his contact in Tony’s phone as Your Better Half.

Peter isn’t too much to look at, he knows, but he’s not the weak link here.

Tony accepts the phone back and wipes the touch screen on his shirt before pocketing it.

“Alright then, meet me after school tomorrow in the parking lot. Don’t be late,” he flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it to put it out. Tony bends at the waist then to pick up the stub, clutching it in his fist for later disposal instead of leaving it as litter.

That surprises Peter a little, it’s more thoughtful, conscious a gesture than he would have expected to come from Stark. Not that he’s ever personally seen such behaviour from him, but it wouldn’t be a stretch with his devil-may-care attitude. Would it?

He’s about to make mention of heading back inside when Stark takes two purposeful steps towards Peter, bridging the gap between them.

Peter freezes on the spot, breath caught in his chest as Tony brings them nose-to-nose.

He flicks his eyes down at Tony’s lips when his solemn expression morphs into an impish smile.

“Dude, what -- ?”

While Peter is distracted, Tony’s hands dart out to grip the strings of Peter’s hoodie, tugging them until the hood shrinks around his face.

“Do me a solid and try to wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re a step away from lining up at a soup kitchen, okay? Y’know, something nice.”

Peter smacks his hands away furiously, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Tony backs away, snickering.

“You really get off on being a prized piece of shit, don’t you?” he mutters, somewhat self conscious as he tries to correct the hood. “Poor jokes, that’s real nice. Sorry not all of us were born wearing Balenciaga.”

He continues to struggle with it as they move away and head back towards the main building, pushing it off his head altogether.

“Calm down, Charlie Brown, it’s not that deep,” Tony says drily, although his flippant demeanour softens significantly. “I have no doubt that you’d still manage to look like a hobo even if you were loaded, okay. You just have that grubby vibe.” Tony claps his hands together. “So, tomorrow. Meet me in the parking lot. Yes?”

Inside, away from the wind, Peter is still helpless to quell the hurricane that is Tony Stark. He gives him a tired thumbs up.

With that Tony sets off in the opposite direction, leaving Peter to wonder what the hell just happened, and what his life has become these last few days.

“What a jackass,” he says to himself.

Now alone, he rubs his hands up and down his face, fruitlessly attempting to scrub away the memory of Tony close to him, eyes warm with mirth, the heat of his body up close and the smell of nicotine on his breath as he quite literally tugged Peter’s strings. It takes longer than he likes to will the image away and to calm the furious beat of his heart.

Furious; a feeling Peter is becoming progressively more familiar - and uncomfortable with.

Ben used to say that being angry at someone was allowing them to take up space in your head, rent free. He was right, because it never served Peter well to house animosity when acceptance was kinder to his soul and psyche, and to others -- but he can’t help it with this guy. Tony Stark is like an ear worm of the brain. He has this completely obnoxious way of making himself front and centre despite Peter’s best efforts to cast him to the sidelines.

While he’s willing himself to move on his phone vibrates inside his pocket with a new message.

> ur not my better half, loser > why r u like this > nvm i already know lol. > remember, don’t be late 2morrow

Peter, just a little satisfied with himself for getting under Tony’s skin, saves his contact as Tiny Stank and types back quickly, eager to get back to his seat in the library - assuming Stark hasn’t already occupied it - and make the best of his remaining free period.

< whatever helps u sleep at night < also, plz lose my number after this is over

> way ahead of u, princess > say hi to aunt may for me

Ugh, Peter cringes, pocketing his phone without replying.

That guy is the worst.

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends, @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix

#starker #ironspider #high school au #tony stark x peter parker

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horansqueen · 4 years

Text

Stuck With You - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 : SICK OF ME (already)

College Enemies To Lovers AU

characters // masterlist // story page // tag list (to come soon)

Why can't you just admit it, you've had it, you're sick of me, you're fed up with my almighty attitude... sick of me. So you got your problems, so you've got your worries, do you have a conscience? do you have a need? well I'm sick of you too.

Switching universities in the middle of the year was probably the worst idea I had ever had but at the same time, I knew it was exactly what I needed. New place, new teachers, new friends, new everything, and even if I normally hate changes in any size, shape or form, this time, I was happy and ready to start over.

If It was possible, I would erase the last two years of my life gladly in a heartbeat. I had so many regrets and the feeling of guilt seemed to follow me everywhere I go. Have you ever had this feeling that everyone is looking at you? That everyone is talking about you? Secretly judging you? In my last college, that was the feeling inhabited me twenty four seven. I couldn't get rid of it, and It was slowly driving me insane.

I needed this change. I needed to be somewhere no one knew me, to start from scratch. I deserved it.

I stared at the piece of paper in my hand as I walked up the stairs and frowned when some random guy bumped into me, pushing me against the wall despite himself .

"Sorry." he just said, frowning too, before rushing down the stairs.

"Whatever." I whispered to myself.

It was true, I was never the kind of girl to enjoy being the center of attention, but in this new school, no one knew me, and all my life, everyone had told me to just 'be myself'. Unfortunately, it had always failed me, so perhaps, trying to be a bit different couldn't be bad? I finally reached the right floor and walked slowly in the wall, my eyes moving from door to door. My heart skipped a beat as I stood in front of what would be my room for the rest of the year and I placed my bag on the floor. I had managed to stick all my stuff in my brother's old sports bag and it was a miracle, but now, I was not sure the idea was a good one. After all, I could clearly remember the smell of my brother's hockey equipment and secretly, I hoped the odor didn't stick to it. I was so used to the smell that it was possible that I just didn't notice it anymore. With luck, my new roommate wouldn't comment on it, or even notice it. I made a mental note to spray my bag with my favorite perfume and took a big breath before knocking.

I heard movements and a curse word coming from inside, making me hold my breath. My mind went blank until the door swung open and a question immediately popped in my mind. Should I even have knocked anyway? After all, it was my new room, too, and it felt a bit ridiculous to knock, but what if my roommate was busy or half-naked?

I just stood in front of a brunette who frowned at me and I sent her a shy smile before clearing my throat. I was nervous, and I knew it was normal for me to be, but I didn't want to show it. I relaxed my whole body, making my shoulders fall, and raised my eyebrows.

"Wrong door." the pretty brunette just said to me before taking an other swing at the door.

It closed in front of my face in a loud noise making me scoff in surprise. If I wanted to be respected, which was something I clearly lacked at my old college, I was going to have to demand it, no matter what it would cost me. I breathed in, my smile now completely gone, and knocked again. A few more curse words and the door opened again, showing the same girl but now more annoyed.

That makes two of us. I just thought, letting out a louder sigh of annoyment.

"I said wrong door." the girl repeated. "Go."

She tried to close the door again but quickly, I moved my foot to stop her and placed one of my hands on the frame, taking a step closer.

"This is the right door." I argued, moving the sheet I had been given as a proof. "I'm your new roommate."

The brunette's frown turned into an amused smile and she chuckled slightly, crossing her arms on her chest. I used those few seconds to study her and I had time to realize how beautiful she was. It suddenly made me feel self-conscious but I barely had time to compare myself. She turned her head and yelled at someone in the room.

"Dude, you have a new roommate." she let out a bit louder. "And she's got boobs, too." she added before turning to me. "Sort of."

It took only a few seconds for a guy to appear. I frowned as his eyes moved from my eyes down to my chest and legs before moving back to my face. His lips curled into an amused smile too and he raised his eyebrows in a condescending way. I hated him already. I just hoped he was not dating my new roommate, or I knew I'd have to see him more often than wanted.

"Wrong door, love."

I sent him an annoyed smile but before I could say anything, the girl kept talking.

"It's worse than that, you're in the wrong building. The girls are on the other side of campus."

I frowned, feeling my heart suddenly jump in my chest, and moved my sheet up to read again what was written. I read it twice, three times, four... and when I looked up, both of them were still staring at me with a big smile. I could read in their eyes that they thought I was stupid, and I had to admit I did feel ridiculous, but I was not going to let them know.

"This is the right building, and the right door."

With an other chuckle, the boy snapped the paper of my hands and I let out a "hey!" before his eyes met mine again.

"Can I?"

I didn't answer and his gaze left mine to focus on the paper. After a few seconds, he frowned and finally looked back at me.

"There's definitely a mistake." he argued. "You're a girl."

"Wow, Sherlock Holmes got nothing on you." I replied with sarcasm, making him frown at me. "I'll get this sorted out. And hopefully I don't have to see you both ever again."

"Wishing the same thing." the guy just replied before pushing the door roughly.

It took me by surprise and I held my breath as it closed. I finally sighed and rolled my eyes. It was the second time a door closed in my face today and I hoped it was the last time.

---

An other door had closed in my face on that day but this time, it was metaphorically. They had, in fact, made a mistake. Apparently, Devon Eaton sounded like a boys' name and my file had been placed in the wrong category. It was pathetic how this seemed to be the story of my life and after arguing for way too long, they made sure I was on the waiting list for a place in the girls' dormitory, as if it made any sense to leave me with a bunch of horny, immature and just-out-of-their-teenage-years boys. What was this? A bad tv movie?

The worst was that I actually had to go back to the room I was assigned to, meaning that my roommate was not the pretty girl, but the annoying boy I had met and somehow, it made my day even more horrible. I stood in front of the door, staring at it for a few minutes, not really daring to knock at it as I anticipated the face of the guy I had argued with about an hour earlier.

"Come on, Dev." I whispered to myself, breathing in and closing my eyes. "You're not the shy and soft girl you used to be. You're a stronger version of yourself, now."

That pep talk seemed to be something I repeated a lot recently and normally, it helped, but this time, I could literally feel my heart threatening to jump out of my throat. I jumped when I felt a hand gently placed on my arm and took a step away, my eyes meeting light blue ones.

"Sorry love, I didn't want to scare ya."

I sent the guy a small smile and licked my lips. "No, it's cool, no problem."

"You know darling, the girls' building is on the other side of campus."

I raised my nose up and nodded. I felt like I was going to have to explainb my story a lot in the next few days and it was annoying me.

"Oh I know, there was a mistake. Apparently, i'm stuck here with the boys until there's a place with the girls."

The cute guy's lips curled and he chuckled. "Fook, is that a bad tv movie?"

I chuckled in surprise and raised my eyebrows before nodded again. "Yea! That's exactly what I thought too!" I let out with a smile. "Devon."

"Nice to meet you, Devon. I'm Louis." he let out before turning his upper body and pointing a door. "That's me room. You're always welcome if you want to escape this mess." He then pointed my door and I grimaced. What did he mean exactly and did I really want to know?

"Let's just say me and him didn't have a good start."

Louis nodded slowly, sending me a sorry smile after diving both his hands in his pockets. "Is that why you've been staring at the door for about ten minutes now?"

Had it been that long? Really?

"Mm, yea, I guess." I replied, raising my nose up in a grimace.

"Hey, it's your room too, so don't let him intimidate you." Louis added, taking a step closer. "Here, let me help you."

Without asking, he knocked at the door and I held my breath. I thought my heart would stop beating but instead, it started thumping in my chest so loud I thought everyone was able to hear it.

"You're welcome!" Louis added with an amused smile.

I thought he'd run away but instead, he waited with me by the door and it seemed to suddenly calm me. It felt good that a stranger was ready to be there for me and I tried to remember if it ever happened to me before. I decided that it never did just when the door opened again. This time, the guy seemed to be alone and his eyes fell on me before he glanced at Louis.

"Does that mean I'm stuck with you?"

I tried not to show how annoyed I was and just licked my lips, letting my shoulders fall down. "That's not how I would actually say things." I just replied, making him raise his eyebrows.

"And what would you say, princess?"

In his mouth, the word sounded totally pejorative and I knew that he was trying to insult me. I was never qualified as a 'princess' before, whether it was nicely, or meanly, but now that I had heard it, I knew I deeply hated it.

"I'd say that I'm stuck with you."

Louis chuckled next to me while my new roommate's lips curled again. "Well, I guess everything is relative, isn't it."

We stared at each other for a while and I finally raised my eyebrows. "Are you gonna let me in?"

The more amused he was, the angrier I was getting, but there was no way I would show him how easily he could get on my nerves. I had the feeling it would make him way too happy and a bit scared that it would incite him to continue and make it worse.

"Niall, come on." I heard Louis next to me as he took a step closer.

I could feel the skin of his arm brush slightly on mine and held my breath. When was the last time I actually had human contact with someone that was not part of my family? Niall's eyes moved to my new friend and after a few seconds, he moved away and pushed the door more open.

"Alright, of course." he gave in with a sigh. "It's your room too, apparently."

I turned to Louis who winked at me and pointed his door again. I loved the way he didn't need to say anything but I still understood everything he wanted to tell me. I nodded and sent him a smile before taking a big breath and walking in. I let my bag fall next to one of the beds and started unpacking. I could feel Niall's eyes on me and it was making me nervous. I didn't want him to look at me, I didn't want him to even acknowledge my presence and at the same time, I wanted to study him, too. I wanted to look at his side of the room and find out what kind of person he was, even if he made every nerve of my body quiver in annoyance and displeasure. I was sort of fascinated by him and irritated at the same time. I hated this feeling but I couldn't help it.

"Is that really your bag?"

I turned to him and my eyes met his for a second, making my heart jump in my chest. "That's a stupid question."

"I'm just asking because I've never met a girl who smelled that bad."

I could have told him it was my brother and that he played hockey, but then he would find out things about me and would probably end up asking more questions, and I was not in the mood for that at all.

"Thank you." I just said without looking at him before he chuckled.

"So how long will I be stuck with you?"

"I'll be stuck with you until there's a vacant place in the girls' building." I corrected him and answered his question.

"Why did you switch college in the middle of a year?" he asked, still sitting on his bed. "Did you get kicked out? Wouldn't surprise me, that cheeky attitude probably didn't help. Got you in trouble, didn't it, darling?"

I wanted to tell him that if someone's attitude would cause them problems, it was probably his but when I glanced at him, I noticed he was holding himself with his arms a bit behind on the bed, his knees slightly spread, and the almost-laying position he was in made me feel slightly uncomfortable. That's when it hit me that I would have to share a room with a boy for at least a few weeks.

"You know what you're talking about, don't you?" I finally replied, rolling my eyes. "Pretty sure your narcissistic nature got you in a few problems yourself."

"Actually, everyone loves me."

When I turned to look at him, he was sending me a smirk and I knew why everyone loved him. Oh yea, he was an annoying prick, but he was extremely charming and what emanated from him was something that could draw anyone to him. Not me, of course, but everyone else. Personally, I didn't want to kiss him, I wanted to hit him behind the head. I wanted to slap away that smirk off his face. I wanted to-

"Stop staring, darling." he laughed, making me feel suddenly extremely stupid. "Five fucking minutes and she's already in love."

"Oh you wish." I just let out without thinking, sending him a frown. "That's not gonna happen."

He got up and I allowed my eyes to roam on his face, noticing the way a lock of his light brown hair fell gracefully on his forehead. Who the hell looked like that in real life? As if he could read my mind, he passed his hand in his hair but the lock fell back where it was and I blinked a few times. He was so close that I could smell him : the mix of expensive perfume and something else I couldn't pinpoint. Perhaps it was his personal odor and I hated to admit that it smelled amazing.

"If you say so."

The more I stared at him, the more his lips curled, and I suddenly wondered what he could read in my face, or even in my eyes. I could easily hide my feelings and I was used to do it, then why did it feel like he could read my soul?

"Don't worry, you can take all your time to unpack tonight." he added, taking a step back. "There's a party and I may not even sleep here. The room's yours."

He turned around and grabbed his keys and phone, putting everything in his pockets before turning around and raising his eyebrows at me. Did that stupid smirk ever leave his lips? Probably not. In fact, I bet he still had it when he was asleep.

"Have a nice night, Devon Eaton."

Moving gracefully on his heels, he turned around and left, the door closing behind him. It's only when he was gone that I realized I was holding my breath and I filled my lungs with air again. It took me a few seconds to understand how he actually knew my name but I remembered he actually checked my file earlier and I pressed my lips together, remaining motionless next to my bed. My name sounded so different in his mouth and I was not sure why, but I couldn't pretend I didn't like the fact that I could get used to this room without having Niall watching my every move. He was intimidating and I had to find a way not to go back to the person I used to be. There was no way I would let Niall (or anyone) walk all over me. I was a new person, and the new Devon wouldn't let anyone intimidate her, especially not a cheeky boy, no matter how charming he was.

#niall horan #niall horan fluff #niall horan smut #niall horan fanfic #niall horan fan fic #niall horan fanfiction #niall horan fan fiction #niall horan au #niall horan enemies to lovers #niall horan story #niall horan writing #swy #my fanfics

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

From horny twitter: Hermann writes a very very detailed review of a vibrator online

not sfw below cut!!!!!!!!!!!

----------------------------

Now, usually, Newt doesn’t mess around when he’s on the clock, because that’d be very unprofessional of him and that’s totally not who he is, but he’s in a little bit of a rut with his current project and could use the distraction. Online shopping is his favorite go-to distraction these days: he can lose himself in size charts and color options and hunts for coupon codes and forget, even for a few minutes, that the end of the world is accelerating towards them at an intimidating rate. Plus, he can write off half his shit as work-related expenses. Win-win. Though maybe not this particular search.

Newt has a pretty reliable arsenal of sex toys he’s used on rotation since he packed up and shipped across the world for the PPDC, but the ten-year warranty vibe he’s used since PhD #3 (and his favorite of the bunch) finally crapped out on him last week after a historically intense fight with Hermann got him historically wound up. Eleven years ain’t bad. After testing out a different charger, poking around in the wiring, and even going so far as to zap it a few times with some sorta-stolen drift tech to see if it stirred any life back into it, he finally decided it was time to just mourn, move on, and buy a new one. (Even if, unfortunately, his particular favorite model was discontinued when the company’s factory was destroyed in a kaiju attack and they never quite managed to recover. More casualties of the war.)

The sex toy market is truthfully booming during the apocalypse. It makes sense, Newt guesses—anything for a distraction. Personally, for Newt, orgasms tend to dampen his own existential dread, even if it’s just for a few minutes. He scrolls idly through a few Top Ten For 2023 listicles on various sex magazine websites to see if anything jumps out at him (some of the recommended toys are dildos he already has, and vibes that are a little beyond his k-sci paycheck), just hoping for something to jump out at him. Apparently he missed out on a limited-edition run of jaeger and kaiju-themed vibes and dildos that came out in early January, which he’s honestly a little pissed about—he’s the top expert on kaiju biology, god damn it! Didn’t anyone want to consult with him about their hypothetical junk? Accuracy matters.

“It’s all off,” Newt mutters grumpily as he examines a 360 view of one of the kaiju dildos. Trespasser. “It’s not even the right color. Fucking amateurs. Did they even try?”

“What are you doing?” Hermann says.

Newt slams his laptop shut. Hermann decided to cut his lunch break short today, apparently. “Shopping,” he says.

“You sounded awfully angry about something, is all,” Hermann says. He clacks over to his half of the lab and shrugs off his big parka, then pauses. “Do you need to...talk about it?”

“No,” Newt says.

Hermann breathes out in obvious relief. “Good,” he says.

He takes his usual spot at his chalkboard and resumes his calculating. Newt re-opens his laptop and scrolls away from Trespasser before he can make himself angry over anatomical inaccuracies again. The jaeger vibes from the collection are pretty cool, actually; the designs are a lot cleaner, and their artistic license is a lot more forgivable. The highest-rated of the set is one obviously (but not enough to invoke copyright infringement, if that can even exist for a jaeger) modeled off of Coyote Tango, with like, a million different settings, and an astronomical cost to match. Newt eyes it enviously. He could be shoving that up his ass right now if he’d just signed up for a stupid email list last year.

He follows the link to Amazon to read through some of the reviews enviously, too. Life-changing; best money ever spent; warranty lasts a lifetime. Ten stars across the board. Sold out, obviously. No idea when it’ll be back in stock. He could get the Striker Eureka model for twice the original cost as when it came out, if he wanted, but the idea of constantly having to associate the twenty-something punk Hansen kid with his intimate affairs makes him shudder.

A nine-star review for the Coyote Tango model from someone named MathLover69 is the only one to make Newt really pause, on account of how absolutely insane it is.

I saved quite a few paychecks to purchase this vibrator, and though the cost is steep, I must say it is absolutely worth it. As opposed to my normal vibrator (here another vibe is linked, and Newt’s eyebrows jump at that price, too), which has only five settings, an admittedly bulky body, and average battery life, the CT2023 has a generous ten, a sleeker design, and charges fully in a matter of minutes. The orgasms I have experienced while using it are higher in quality (and more numerous) than any resulting previously from masturbation, though I have not tried beyond setting six yet. It also works wonders for stress relief. (I have an incredibly irritating colleague, and nothing calms me down so much as a quick round with the CT2023 after a spat with him.)

The body is versatile enough to be either inserted into one’s—

Newt feels heat rise to his cheeks in spite of himself, and he skims the second paragraph of MathLover69’s review to get the gist of it—that there are, uh, plenty of ways to utilize the vibe, that it’s discreet and small enough to wear to work (if you were inclined to do so, as MathLover69 implies he might’ve been) and that when combined with the Yamarashi dildo, the pleasurable experience increased tenfold. Talk about oversharing. Jeez.

My only complaint would be that the design is a poor approximation of the real Coyote Tango, and for that I’ve docked a star. I would recommend this product.

“This guy is a total nut,” Newt says to himself.

“Hm?” Hermann says.

Newt considers the implications of showing Hermann the vibrator listing: Hermann will know he was shopping for sex toys, Hermann will know he was shopping for kaiju and jaeger-themed sex toys, Hermann will know he was shopping for kaiju and jaeger-themed sex toys during working hours a mere ten feet away from him. Embarrassing, but on the other hand, MathLover69’s review is too funny to not share with someone else. “Hey, Hermann,” Newt says, angling his laptop towards Hermann. “Look. Who comments shit like this?”

Hermann descends his ladder carefully and inches up behind Newt’s shoulder, squinting at his laptop screen. He immediately turns bright red. Newt must’ve offended his Victorian sensibilities with the mere suggestion of self-abuse. “Oh,” he says. “Er.”

“Way TMI,” Newt says. “Listen to this line. ‘With the Yamarashi toy inserted into one’s mouth, and the CT2023 inserted up one’s—'”

“Well, how else is one meant to review a masturbatory aid?” Hermann snaps, surprising Newt. He looks oddly flustered. “Details can be—er—helpful. Can’t they?”

“Sure, dude,” Newt snorts. “Except they’re obviously just screwing with people. They literally have a 69 in their username.” He taps at the MathLover69, and doesn’t mention—on behalf of Hermann’s delicate mathematician feelings—that the MathLover part is obviously meant as a joke too.

“Well,” Hermann says. “Perhaps it’s just his—er, their birthdate.”

Newt turns around to stare at Hermann, taking in his red cheeks, his red ears, and the gaze he’s fixed steadily on his shoes. It’s all Newt can do to not to gape at him. “Hermann, you’re kidding,” he says. “Right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermann says.

“You didn’t,” Newt says.

“I,” Hermann stammers. “Well—”

“I didn’t even know you—”

“That I what?” Hermann says.

Newt gives a half-shrug. Hermann doesn’t seem the type to engage in any sort of vice, let alone this kind. And especially not with the type of sex toys he apparently gravitates towards. (If Newt was a little bolder, and had a little less shame and care for hygiene, he might ask to check out the Yamarashi, because anatomical inaccuracies aside, wow that sounds awesome.) “I mean, you know,” Newt says. “You’re kinda you. No offense.”

Hermann takes offense. “I am human,” he says. “I am allowed to masturbate, Newton, and I was merely attempting to educate other customers about the—product—with my thoroughness.” He adds, awkwardly, “My review was voted very helpful, as you can see.”

“Okay,” Newt says with a grin. “I get it. Sorry.”

Hermann marches back over to his side of the lab with a scowl. Newt waits until he’s sure Hermann’s not watching him, and is too distracted by muttering angrily under his breath, to bookmark MathLover69’s page of reviews.

It turns out (as Newt revisits the page later that night, in the privacy of his bunk) Hermann buys and reviews a truly staggering amount of dildos and sex toys, and on top of that, has absolutely zero filter behind the wall of anonymity. It’s to the extent that some of his reviews read like goddamn sexts.

It took me three occasions to successfully work myself up to taking in the entire length…

My orgasm was so pleasurable I alarmed my colleague with the noise I made, who believed me to have injured myself…

The highest vibration setting is a bit of a disappointment…

These are excellent for double penetration…

It also turns out Hermann is a veritable sex fiend. Or at least a masturbation fiend. Judging by his reviews alone, Hermann’s purchased more than a dozen different toys in the past three years alone. That’s four a year. One every three months. That’s not even including buttplugs, which (according to other reviews) he sometimes just wears into the lab (“work”) for the hell of it, which Newt isn’t even going to think about right now. How the hell has Hermann kept this much of his life under wraps? When the hell does he have time to jerk off as much as he apparently does? No wonder they never seem to have any fucking funding; all of Hermann’s paychecks are funneled directly into his—well.

Newt recalls the faux-injury incident Hermann mentioned in a comment with mild embarrassment. No wonder Hermann had been so weird and flushed when he opened his door, and made excuses to say bye to him so quickly—Newt just caught him (oh, boy) immediately following the best orgasm of his life. Well, mild embarrassment, and a little more than mild arousal. What Newt would’ve given to have been there five minutes earlier, to watch Hermann in the act of the best orgasm of his life, to maybe even be the one to cause it…

What Newt would give to use Hermann’s fancy-shmancy vibrator on him, or literally anything from his giant masturbatory arsenal. Or even just watch him use it on himself. Hermann’s just so damned buttoned-up and uptight—it’s all about the contradictions. Juxtapositions. Newt unzips his jeans and sticks his hand down his boxers. “Stupid Hermann,” he moans, as he begins to bring himself off to the image of Hermann with that stupid kaiju dildo down his throat and that stupid jaeger vibe up his ass. Negotiator of peace between the two? Stupid joke, stupid Hermann. Or maybe he’s picturing Hermann showing up to the lab, all plugged up and loose from using a different vibe on himself that morning. Or maybe Hermann pushing two dildos into himself at once. How the hell can he even manage that? Ass his size— “Oh, goddamn it,” Newt moans again, and comes all over his hand.

Whatever. It’s not like Hermann’s ever going to find out about this.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #not sfw ////

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diyunho · 4 years

Text

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 3

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Same day, later in the evening

“What are you doing, Pumpkin?” The Joker crawls next to you although he has an idea about why you look upset.

You’re on your tummy scribbling on a piece of paper and he can tell you are concentrating hard while working on the current project: writing down your name. Only got the first three letters then the rest went blank.

“I….I can’t think…” you intensely stare at the blue pen in between your fingers.

“Of course you can!” J reaches over so he can guide your arm since it’s clear you need help. “There you go… done. Now try to copy it bellow, alright?”

“Hm?”

“Try again Princess,” he taps on the sheet and watches Y/N struggling to imitate the word. “Well done!” The King of Gotham praises. “Wanna give it a shot with a few more simple words?”

“Mmmm…” you debate. “OK?...”

You analyze The Joker’s movements as he depicts four letter words, one of them getting your attention in particular.

“Love?” you smile, happy you deciphered the meaning.

“Yes, a basic…”

“Love?” you scoot over, more and more excited and it clicks for your boyfriend.

“It’s just an example for you to exercise and relearn how to write, understand? It doesn’t mean anything!”

You giggle and touch his nose with yours.

“Love!”

“No Pumpkin! I don’t love you, how did you get such atrocity from my note??!! It has no hidden meaning! I barely, from very afar, remotely, not even similar to love, sort of like you and that’s it!”

You snicker and quickly slide to grab the yellow teddy bear, whispering in its ear:

“Love.”

“Aren’t you listening Princess?? Don’t start fake rumors!!”

Still…Y/N lives on her own little planet and her damaged brain grasped a wonderful concept despite The Clown vehemently dismissing his actions.

“Serves me right for being supportive,” he grumbles and resorts to diversion, the best weapon against your new found logic.

“Wanna read to me?” he points at the pile of children’s books resting on the nightstand: they are the best to use in your present circumstance.

“… … Read?... ” you ask, confused.

“Here,” J picks a random publication and gives it to you.

Might as well fully take advantage.

“Spoil me!” he buries his cheeks in your cleavage, guiding your free hand towards his green locks.

You never figured out how he doesn’t suffocate with his face glued to your skin; sometimes he sleeps like that for hours. Must be a special talent.

“The … ummm… the…. The duck…” you read the first page and massage his scalp, frowning at the words you can’t make sense of. “Cross… … crossed?...”

“Yeah,” The Joker’s mumbled voice agrees.

“… the… g-glass…” you stutter at the sentence.

“Grass,” J corrects you.

“Hm?...”

“Grass Pumpkin, not glass.”

“Ummm… grass…” you continue to read the best way you can and he rectifies your errors until no more sounds emerge: The King is softly purring, a clear indication he’s dreaming.

You toss the book on the floor, fed up with the difficult task of organizing your thoughts; pampering him is better. You slowly tilt his head backwards so you can kiss him: The Joker frowns in his daze and you pinch his butt, chuckling.

“What is it?” he opens one eye and you pull down on his boxers. “Princess, we had sex an hour ago. Do you think I run on batteries?” the complaint is fast to follow.

... … … Batteries?... …

You jump from the bed and stump to the closet, fumbling around for a couple of minutes before returning to a puzzled Clown.

You stretch the elastic of his underwear, dropping two batteries you snatched from the flashlight inside.

“How… how long do we w-wait?” you innocently ask.

The Joker bites his lip, attempting to contain himself yet he can’t: he bursts out laughing at your quirky solution while dragging you on top of him.

“You’re the funniest and smartest person I know, Pumpkin!” he cracks up, actually convinced he’s telling the truth. “Who’s my clever girl, huh?”

He’s talking about a girl again…What girl?...

Y/N peeks behind her and J reminds his baffled half:

“For God’s sake, Princess! I’m talking about you; you’re my girl! Can you get my phone?” he gestures at his mobile ringing by your pillow.

You give the cell to J, ignoring his conversation with Frost: you keep kissing him with the sole purpose of getting undivided affection.

“I guess Adam is here to pick up the cars you damaged,” he finally ends his chat. “Let’s go supervise the process. Don’t be disappointed, Pumpkin, we’ll have fun later. It’s your fault for destroying my collection!”

****************

The Joker watches his crew sweeping the concrete in the garage: broken glass, pieces of metal and debris scattered on the pavement after his vehicles were hauled inside huge trucks in order to be transported to Adam’s workshop for repairs.

“Thanks a lot, Y/N!” he growls, frustrated.

“Y-you’re welcome,” you serenely reply without a care in the universe.

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me, Princess!” he huffs at your indifference.

“Love,” you confess to the fluffy toy squished in your embrace.

“I heard that and it’s an aberration! Why do you keep persisting with this nonsense?! I’m literally stating the opposite!” J admonishes but who’s listening to him?

Not Y/N.

“Nolan is texting me,” he changes subject. “He wants me to meet him at his warehouse to inspect the boxes of ammo for the deal. Will you accompany me?”

“Hm?”

“Car ride?” The King of Gotham simplifies his request.

“U-hum!” you nod, preparing to enter the purple Lamborghini which luckily wasn’t in the garage when you smashed J’s cars.

“Frost, if you see me parked up the street in the driving alley, don’t come investigate, got it? This woman’s been pestering me for extracurricular activities, might not make it inside the mansion.”

“Of course, sir!” Jonny finds it wise to consent to his boss’s rambling.

“Tell everyone: if the Lamborghini’s rockin’, don’t come knockin’!”

**************

You’re sitting on J’s lap, completely blocking the arrangements happening at the table: you’re more preoccupied with your game than whatever it is they are negotiating about.

“What are you playing, Y/N?” Nolan curiously inquires because your thumbs are surely moving at a crazy speed on your cell’s screen.

“Hm?” you stop and gaze his way.

“What are you playing?” the man repeats.

“Mmmmm… Tetrixx Bricks.”

“What level are you on?” Nolan leans over, his eyes getting big at the revelation. “Holy shit, Y/N! How did you make it this far??! I’ve been striving to pass level 98 for a month!”

“She’s smart, that’s how!” your boyfriend sassily underlines.

“Do you think that you can help me?” the guy slides his phone in front of you.

“I’m sorry, is this a gaming party or a business matter?!” The Joker scoffs.

“Well, we’re pretty much done: we accepted the terms, we just have to move the merchandise in the morning.”

You are already matching the colorful blocks on Nolan’s game, his face ecstatic when the obnoxious song announces with great fanfare: “Level Up!”

“Holy cow!!!!” he shouts and you return his phone. “Thank you!”

“Hey Y/N,” one of the mobster’s henchmen dares to voice his demand. “Would you help me too? I’m stuck on level 76.”

“I’m dead on 105,” another goon mumbles under his breath, stepping in the line forming to your left.

J would normally cut off this useless waste of his precious time yet he can’t deny the gratification building up in his heart: heavens knows how it feels to be trapped inside your own mind and his girl has definitely battled unimaginable odds to be where she’s at right now.

Living with cognitive impairment is not easy, but she’s still here and it beats the alternative.

“Good job, Pumpkin!” The Clown boasts at the long string of cell phones parading through your fingers while you aid Nolan’s team leveling up on Tetrixx Bricks.

And somehow his hands are holding you tighter, not even bored with the random outcome of his meeting.

**************

You escaped on the terrace for a break and J is discussing the last details with your host: tomorrow you have a routine checkup, thus he has to wrap it up soon.

“Out of my way, half-wit!” Derek aka Nolan’s oldest son pushes you. Would he have done it if you were the same individual from almost a year ago? Nope. Apparently he believes he’s entitled to take advantage of Y/N since she’s alone outside.

“Why did Mister Joker bring you anyway?” he lights up a cigarette, annoyed. “Stupid monosyllabic bitch!” he ogles your summer dress, swiftly lifting it. “Are you wearing diapers?” he chuckles as you walk backwards, trying to process what he’s throwing at you. “Come on, show me!” he approaches and carefully scouts the premises to ensure you two don’t have company.

Perhaps the neurons in your brain are overcharged for the moment; nevertheless, they warn of imminent altercation: the dude’s a total douchebag.

“Are you shy?” Derek grins. “C’mon, lemme see!! Oooohh…fuuuuck…” he bends over in pain when your knee unexpectedly kicks him in the crotch: you used all your strength and he drops down, curling up in a ball. “God…dammit!” Derek shrieks at the defense he didn’t anticipate.

“I…I’m not wearing diapers!” you stammer and because he landed on the edge of the pool you roll him in the water also.

The loud splash makes The Joker wave at you, glad he eventually found you: he’s been searching around the warehouse for the last 5 minutes.

“There you are! Quit playing around, Pumpkin; we have a swimming pool at home!”

You rush by his side eager to bail before the asshole pops up from the bottom of the pond.

“Sushi for dinner?” J suggests and Y/N is not the type of individual to reject one of her favorite dishes.

“I…I love sushi,” you smile elbowing him. “Love.”

“Don’t start with me again!” The King barks at your obvious hint.

*************

“Are you eating the last piece?” he glares at your salmon roll.

“No,” you offer the treat to him. “You…you need it more,” Y/N verbalizes her concern regarding his well-being.

“Can’t disagree, Pumpkin. You exhausted me you naughty girl,” J pretends to be super tired. “What can I do? Princess wants, Princess gets,” he inhales, resigned.

You’re not focusing on his whining: frankly, your intellect has been challenged enough for today. You cuddle in his arms while he chews on his food and watch TV without paying attention to the movie.

“Don’t forget tomorrow morning you have your doctor’s appointment,” J mentions. “I have to stay and wait for the guns I purchased from Nolan; you’ll have to manage without me. I’ll send an escort, deal?”

“U-hum.”

“Don’t yawn, Pumpkin. I’m the one that should yawn,” The Joker scratches his thigh. “This move sucks,” he pouts and turns off the TV. “I have a better idea,” he chooses a kid’s book from the stack. “Read to me.”

You open the textbook and although your brain is overwhelmed, you still make an effort for his sake.

“Mmm… Rainy… sky… Skies?...”

“Yup,” he turns on his side and nuzzles in your hair.

“Float over…hmm… t-town…”, your voice echoes in the room, soothing a worn out Joker.

Strange he can’t properly rest unless you read to him: after all J barely, from very afar, remotely, not even similar to love, sort of likes you.

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker x reader #the joker imagine #the joker fanfiction #the joker jared leto #the joker suicide squad #jokerleto #joker #joker fanfiction #joker imagine #joker suicide squad #dc #dcu #mister joker #mister j #Mistah J

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connorspiracy · 3 years

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Seance In The Library || Connor & Leah

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Public Library PARTIES: @connorspiracy & @phoenixleah SUMMARY: With the time for the second exorcism of Nadia/Cordelia looming closer, Connor goes looking for knowledge. Leah is happy to assist.

Blanche had been fucking stabbed and Cordelia was still out there, and that knowledge filled Connor with even more extreme sense of urgency. Nadia had been practicing her possessions, so it was almost time to put things into practice. He knew he’d have another exorcist for help, but he still wanted to do his research. There had been so much going on recently; Bloody Mary, Adam’s full moon mania, Jasmine’s Larry Bob problem, that it was tough to keep up. It was his fault for not getting it right the first time. Blanche could have died, all because he’d messed up. Nadia was still floating around in ghost form somewhere, and that spiteful little poltergeist was taunting them on Nadia’s social media. They’d dug through every fucking book in Rio’s library and he still hadn’t found anything that would help with Cordelia. It was time to branch out. That was what brought Connor to the definitely-regular library, wandering around the occult section, probably looking like a right weirdo. It had probably been a good few minutes before he caught the eye of someone who looked like an employee. “Oh, hey,” he said, putting on his best charming smile, doing everything he could not to look like an out-of-place dodgy creep. “‘Scuse me, love,” he said, not to be demeaning, but just because it was how posh London boys spoke. “Do you have anything on exorcisms, or possession and stuff?”

More often than not, when someone was wandering around the so-called ‘fiction’ occult section in White Crest Library, Leah found that they were looking for help with real, and often very urgent problems. It was easy to tell apart those who had an obsession with all things weird and were looking for a good read, and those who actually needed information, whether it was by body language, facial expression, or even something more subtle that she couldn’t put her finger on. She was glad the library was there to help. The problem was, it was usually hard for the average person to decipher between what was actually fiction in that section, and what was written by real, legitimate authors that could offer invaluable information. It was for this reason that she usually hung just beyond the section whenever someone made their way there, ready and willing to offer help if ever the situation arose. She smiled at the patron politely, a bit taken aback but intrigued by his accent.

She licked her lips at his question, looking at the shelves they were both standing in front of. “Oh, we have a ton on all of that”, she said, raising her eyebrows. More than the average library, certainly. “Some would say we have too much on that subject”, she teased, pulling out one of the books in front of them, scoffing at the pictures on the cover. “These here are all pretty poorly written”, she commented, handing him the book in question. “But if any of that stuff were real, and well, of course it’s not… But if it were, you’d probably find the more legitimate works over this way”, she said, leading him toward the shelves a bit to their right. “Are you planning on possessing someone? Or just getting into the nitty-gritty of our weird town and looking to read about the occult?”

Connor had a pretty good instinct for people, and he could tell upon meeting the young woman (Leah, according to her name tag) that she was keen to help. There was a certain brightness about her, a glimmer in her eye that spoke of curiosity and kindness. He felt himself smiling almost without meaning to. "A ton?" he repeated, chuckling. "Well, a ton is what I'm looking for." He couldn't help but smirk a little at her real-but-not-real description of this particular section, following her to what she called the more legitimate section. "Oh, it's definitely real. You know exactly what I'm looking for. Thank you." There was really no use in holding up pretenses when he was all over the internet.

"Me? No, no, I'm not the possessor. I'm an exorcist. I'm looking for something a bit different, you see. Something that's probably a bit... weirder? It's less taking the wrong soul out of the body and more putting the right one back in. Does that make sense?" He realised how that sounded, holding up his hands and shaking his head. "Um, not necromancy. Shit. Jesus. No, there are no dead bodies involved, fortunately. Definitely possession. But more... if the exorcism yeeted the wrong person, and you have to put it back."

This man definitely knew about the realities of White Crest, based on his reaction, but Leah wasn’t one to reveal her knowledge of them as well, especially not to a patron and a stranger. He didn’t have to play along with her game of ignorance, but Leah fully intended on upholding it as long as realistically possible. For now, she brushed off his words about her protest of reality. Her eyes widened, not used to someone being so open about necromancy, of all things. She was about to ask if he was trying to reanimate a corpse, when his elaboration made it clear that wasn’t exactly what he was talking about. She laughed, surprised that he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.“Okay, not so simple, then”, she said, letting out a breath and trying to think. “Is there a wrong soul inhabiting the body right now, though? Because I think, if this were real, you’d still need a way to get that one out, no?” She worked while she talked, pulling books out of the shelves here and there as she got more ideas of what might help. “What if you found a way to help the right soul back into their body by… teaching them how to possess? If they were possessed in the first place, why not do to the wrong soul what was done to them?”

It struck Connor that perhaps he shouldn't have been so honest about Nadia's predicament, but how else was he going to get the help he needed? It wasn't like he was naming names. He made it a habit to almost never be dishonest about the supernatural, whether people wanted to know or not. "Not simple, no." He perused the shelves, flicking through the first book, page by page. "Wrong soul out, wrong one in. I was supposed to expel the other. I'm not sure what happened." The corners of his lips curved into a grin when she mentioned teaching Nadia how to possess. "You're not the first person that's had that thought. We're working on it. Just thought our lost soul could use all the help they can get."

Leah let out a breath, watching the man carefully. “I’m with you on that, the more preparedness you can get for a situation like this, the better.” She placed the books she’d been piling on the table nearby with a thud, her face turning serious. “Are they a friend of yours, then?” She’d read in the scribe journals about a similar situation many times- souls inhabiting bodies that weren’t their own, loved ones desperate to get the right soul back to where it belonged, but it wasn’t always easy- nor was it always successful. “I’m sure you’re aware that what you’re trying to do is very dangerous”, she said, dropping the pretense she knew the man didn’t need for only a moment. “I have some… loose information on the subject in the basement that might offer extra guidance, if you’re willing to wait for me to make some copies.”

“The floating, bodiless spirit? I dunno if I’d call them a friend. Lots of people I know are friends with them though. I wanted to help.” He was probably sharing far too much information, but Connor rarely ever saw the need to lie. Either people accepted his words or didn’t, but he rarely sugar-coated them. “Dangerous, ha, yeah. You could say that.” The spirit trapped in Nadia’s body was a murderer. She was a poltergeist. Those factors alone were dangerous enough without adding exorcisms to the mix. “Oh, you have a basement?” Where they kept the good stuff, no doubt. He made a mental note of it. “That’d be sound. I can come and help, if you want?”

“A friend of friends, then”, she said with a smile and a nod. Leah could understand the sentiment of wanting to help someone, even if she hardly knew them. She supposed that was why she enjoyed the job she had so much. “Have you done this sort of double reverse exorcism before?”, she asked, curious. The dude clearly knew what he was talking about, but something like this was almost unprecedented. If something similar had happened in White Crest recently, she hadn’t heard about it. Her expression turned serious when he asked about the basement, and she hoped he didn’t notice the way her body stiffened. “A small, sparse basement, yes, to hold lose works that wouldn’t fit in any sections up here. It’s off limits unless you’re a certified employee”, she explained shortly. “I’m sure you understand. We all have protocols we need to follow.”

"Yeah, friend of a friend." And those friends (especially that angry Kaden guy) would probably kick Connor’s ass if he didn't fix this. He tried to let his genuine interest in the conversation with the young woman overtake his fear of what would happen if this went wrong again. "I haven't. It's pretty exciting. If you ignore the potentially horrifying consequences of it going wrong," he said with a vague chuckle. "You don't seem to be acting like I'm fucking bonkers, by the way. I appreciate that. It's refreshing. White Crest Lifer?" Not that living here meant you had to believe in the truth about the town. He’d met far too many who would rather bury their head in the sand and not think about what they might get bitten by. Literally.

Leah leaned against a wall as the man spoke, now fully fascinated at the prospect of what he was trying to do. If it meant saving someone’s life and letting someone else’s soul pass on, she wanted to be as helpful as she could. “But you can’t not try”, she said, understanding. “Not trying feels worse, somehow, than trying and failing.” At his next words, she glanced around them, making sure to confirm that no one was in earshot of their conversation. As a scribe, it felt like a betrayal to open up to a stranger about her awareness of the supernatural so willingly, but as a phoenix, it felt kind of invigorating. Her expression was soft as she answered. “Sometimes it’s nice not to have to hold up appearances”, she said. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and believe it or not, the library is where a lot of people turn to get help with this sort of thing.” She looked at the book she’d laid out for him, knowing they wouldn’t be enough. “How about I go get those copies for you, hmm? I’d like to think they’ll be really useful.” Without a second glance, she flashed him another smile. As she quickened her pace toward the basement, she held the key in her hand firmly, ready for the familiar motion of unlocking the door that held so many of White Crests secrets underneath.

“Exactly,” Connor said, a little more serious than he’d been moments before. The happy-go-lucky casual conversation vibe could only stay at the forefront for so long. “I had to try the first time, even though it went wrong and my friend was upset with me for buggering it up. Now I feel even more motivated to make sure I get it right.” Connor returned Leah’s smile, grateful for her help. “I never keep up any appearances, ever,” he chuckled. “I literally have a whole YouTube channel talking about ghosts and exorcisms and stuff, so secrecy isn’t really my strength, but…” He looked at her with a small, sincere nod. “I really appreciate this, okay? I really think we’re gonna get it right this time.” He didn’t have a choice. Not succeeding was unthinkable. He wouldn’t fail Nadia again.

#paras #with: leah

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 21: The Victor

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The mastermind behind the attack at the Ball is revealed. The Council enters the 21st century.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“You claim to be innocent yet where you go these wretched abominations follow!”

“What— do you really think —!”

“Save the blame for later! Kill the thing! Nadya — get out of here!”

She doesn’t want to leave them behind. Not again, we’re not that lucky, her deepest fears scream. But Kamilah isn’t having it — pushes her back towards where they came with a vampire’s strength that makes her stumble to catch her feet.

Nadya hooks her fingers on the doorway and dares a look back.

It’s one Feral versus four vampires. Three of which are over two thousand years old. She isn’t surprised that the attack is over before it really begins — watches Isseya and Kamilah grasp it’s skeletal arms from behind and pull until she hears something break underneath the skin even far away.

Then two more writhing beasts enter; push over each other in their haste to consume, devour.

“KAM—!”

The rest of her scream falls flat. Drowned in a palm against her mouth. A strong arm grasps her from behind and yanks Nadya sharply back against a figure of hard stone.

Nadya looks up into the face of her attacker and screams.

“Now now, Miss Al Jamil,” croons Vega with fangs and fury, “let’s leave them to it. You and I have a polite conversation to finish — elsewhere.”

Before she can attempt another futile scream he whisks her into the museum’s depths.

There’s a fire in her lungs. No — not a fire — an inferno.

Nadya stumbles over a curled edge of a floor rug. Manages to catch herself before she can fall and pushes her screaming limbs against their protests to carry her further through the stacks of the Musea Sanguis.

“Ooh, that looked like it hurt. But good save, Miss Al Jamil! Good save indeed!”

Vega’s laugh taunts her — echoes off the walls and on every shelf she passes.

He’s getting his rocks off; he has from the moment she wrenched herself free of him and took off in an unknown direction. Anywhere, literally anywhere, was better than in the clutches of a man like him.

She knows he can smell her fear. Taste her blood on the tip of his tongue. Hear every raggedy breath she takes and the thudding of her racing footsteps. He’s just giving her a bit of time before killing her.

He wants it to last.

It’s like playing cat and mouse. If the cat were actually a highly-intelligent tiger and the mouse was missing its front paws.

Nadya rounds a stack and presses herself against it — holds her breath until she goes red in the face and the biological will to survive takes over and forces her to inhale. Sweat beads in thick teardrops down her face; into her eyes — makes it impossible to see through the salty sting.

She presses her knuckles into them until it feels like her eyeballs might pop. Blinks away the stars in her vision…

Vega grins down at her not an inch away.

“Boo.”

He could reach out to snatch her but doesn’t. Nadya feels the give of his body as she shoves him back on instinct and resumes her flight towards freedom.

Vega inhales with the whole of his chest and lets out another bellowing laugh.

“Divine — simply divine! I had no idea how much I missed this — the hunt, the chase, the capture! Run, girl, run!”

Nothing looks familiar. Nadya can’t tell if she’s just gone in a large square or somehow put herself in a different part of the museum altogether. If she’d been able to keep her eyes open when Vega stole her away… if she’d just tried to fight harder maybe.

But those negative thoughts don’t blend well with the headache pushing its way back between her temples. It’s not a real reason to stop thinking them but if it works; it works.

She just has to get back to Kamilah and Adrian. Or keep running long enough for them to find her. She just has to hold on.

A left, a right, then another right and Nadya’s suddenly a sitting duck; standing in the middle of the shelves with a dim crystal chandelier gathering dust overhead. Even if she could hear anything over the blood pounding in her chest she doubts Vega would let his steps make any sound.

Fuck.

In her moment of panic Nadya does the first rational thing that comes to mind: takes a page out of Lily’s book (not that Lily has spent much time on the run from evil villains in real life… that she’s aware of) and tries to think of what she’d do if this weren’t an actual life-or-death situation but instead was just another messy video game filled to the brim with pixels of blood.

There aren’t any health potions in sight. She doesn’t have a transparent map of the Musea overhead guiding her. But if she tries really hard Nadya’s pretty sure she can imagine daunting chase music on a loop in the background.

Breathe Nadi’, breathe.

The imagined echo of Lily in her head is giving some great advice. Makes Nadya stop, focus, and breathe.

“A vampire is never unarmed. Find a weapon of your own.”

Something catches the light out of the corner of her eye. Nadya turns and — really can’t believe her luck — gives an audible sigh of relief at the sight of a sword propped up on display in the middle of the path. Held aloft on a podium by two silver brackets carved to in the shape of bird claws and just underneath shorter shelves packed to the brim with tightly-wound scrolls.

She’s an inch away from grabbing the jewel-encrusted hilt when the smallest thread of common sense kicks into overdrive.

That voice did not sound like Lily — not at all.

But… it wasn’t wrong. Right? Vega’s got centuries on her; the strength to snap her like a twig and fangs that would cut through her flesh like butter.

So Nadya takes the sword in hand — in both hands when she struggles with the weight of it; definitely different than Jax’s katana — and tells herself repeatedly that she’s not listening to the feeble croaking horror-movie voice that’s decided to make itself comfortable in her head.

Too many people are doing that lately; chilling out in her noggin like it’s a hostel or a Brooklyn bed’n’breakfast. Only the freeloaders aren’t welcome and definitely aren’t paying rent.

In the distance Nadya spots a familiar ruined archway and sobs in relief.

But she’s not even two steps forward when Vega emerges from a row with feigned surprise. Though it turns real at the weapon she has in hand.

Only he laughs at it; doesn’t see a desperate life with a sword but rather a child with a stick. “What exactly are you planning on doing with that,” he croons, “besides dragging it around like dead weight? Do you even know how to use it?”

Nadya’s own ferocity surprises her. “I think ‘stick the asshole with the sharp end’ is pretty straightforward.”

She holds the weapon between them but Vega steps forward unperturbed.

“I’d applaud your effort if it weren’t so useless. You’ve never used a weapon like that in your life — that much is painfully obvious.” He stops Nadya from raising the blade higher with nothing more than the tip of his finger holding it steady. “In fact I rather doubt you’ll use it now.”

“You’d be mistaken.”

“Then prove it.”

He’s called her bluff. Already her arms start shaking with broadsword’s weight; teeth grit in focus.

“Go on,” he jeers again, “prove yourself. Not to me — I couldn’t care less about one more sack of blood. Yet despite your fragility you’ve managed to enchant Raines — though I can’t say I’m surprised — and Sayeed.”

“Dude—seriously—shut up.”

“Run him through. Or cut out his tongue for his insolence. But I should think you aren’t quite ready for that kind of violence yet.”

Vega can’t hear the voice in her head; continues on, “There’s nothing impressive about you. Unless I’m missing the obvious.”

“Never underestimate an opponent. Show him his mistake.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate me…” Her voice wavers. Makes Vega bark a laugh.

“When there is so little to underestimate as it is?”

“Do it. Run him through.”

“Perhaps there’s a delicacy to you I’ve overlooked. They’ve tasted you; Raines and Sayeed. Haven’t they?”

“Do it. Do it now!”

Vega stalks closer; practically presses the sword into himself.

“Maybe I’ll see what I’m missing…”

“Stop! Stay away from me!”

“Do it! Do it!”

She’d like to say fear, panic, and a sudden courage she didn’t know she had made her do it; made her swing the sword. But being honest with herself… Nadya isn’t so sure it wasn’t the voice compelling her into action.

If only it could compel her into some talent, too.

The sword swings in a half-arc; wrenches up and away from Vega and tries to carry Nadya along with its weight. But she holds fast. Pants every breath like she’s just run the breadth of Manhattan Island.

Vega stands before her impossibly still. A drop of crimson running down the slit in his cheek like a coppery teardrop. Even though the wound heals the evidence remains.

“A disgrace,” the voice comments in her thoughts, “though you managed to wound him nonetheless.”

And yes; war is still terrible and weapons are still terrible and whether it’s a club or a sword or a gun she still is against the violence in the world. But wow did that feel good. It felt freeing.

It felt empowering.

Vega, however, doesn’t seem to think so. Instead he looks like he’s done playing games. Upper lip curling back in a savage snarl.

“Run.”

Nadya flings the sword at Vega in a panic — if she lives through this she’ll call herself names later for that move — and flees.

The hunt resumes. This time pure adrenaline and hunger. He kept to the edge of catching her for his entertainment before but she knows that all it will take is one grab of his hand and that’s it. Game over.

“Turn.”

She’s not listening to the voice — turning just happens to be a good idea. Not running into a dead end is a very good idea; a very very good idea.

“Turn again. Double back.”

What? Hell no. But there’s a heavy thud beside her and Nadya rounds on the other side of the bookshelf just in time to avoid Vega’s wicked grasp and a tidal wave of tomes fall on thin air instead.

So… maybe she’s just going to take directions from her unconscious. Better safe than sorry. Especially when sorry really means dead.

Nadya doesn’t break pace — turns when she’s told and hides behind this canvas and that display. Like there’s an omniscient watcher on high (she chances a look up at the rafters but sees only shadow) helping her navigate the labyrinth.

Only it takes her a moment to realize she’s not being led to freedom or safety. Nothing around her looks even remotely familiar. She’s being led into the depths of the Musea hidden in shadow. Being led not just away from Vega… but towards something else.

“Turn now!”

Her feet move on autopilot — careen her right into a dead end.

“Dammit!” She shouts without thinking — looks hastily behind her like Vega should be right there. Actually… he should be.

She just gave herself away so why isn’t he there?

Her panic doesn’t subside — not one bit — but her racing heart calms enough to cure her tunnel vision. Gives her a moment to focus on where she is. Where she’s trapped.

She’s somewhere in the back of the Musea. Maybe an archive or something. For the last five hours (or maybe it was five seconds; time passes differently running for your life) she’s only passed stack upon stack of books and volumes and scrolls placed in haphazard balance with the utmost care.

And in every dead-end alcove there’s been some sort of table covered in contributions yet to be sorted. But not this one.

No — Nadya and all her amazingly crap luck turned into the alcove with a giant black coffin against the wall.

It vaguely reminds her of the tomb Adrian had placed Lily in for her Turning. Heavy stone carved together as both a place for mourning and rebirth. But where the coffin in the Raines Corp. basement was allowed to show age and weather this one isn’t. The edges are still sharp — like one touch would slice her hand open.

And that’s not even beginning to unpack the large iron chains polished to a glossy finish wrapped in an endless coil around the thing. A padlock with five key holes the size of both her fists resting near the top like a metal heart.

You chain something up to keep people out. You go that hard on a lock, though, and immediately you know something is being kept in.

Yet even with that fact in mind Nadya finds herself stepping towards it. Deeper and deeper into the alcove and into the alluring obsidian void the polished surface reflects. Her mirror image — disheveled and pale; just a hairs breadth away from dying of fright — reaching out with her in sync towards the lock.

She can open it. She just knows. Knows that like she knows she shouldn’t but wouldn’t it be all right to have just one peek — just one…?

“Just one…” Nadya whispers. Her reflection whispers.

Both Nadyas are fixated on the lock. Ignore one another for the promise of what lies trapped within. Of the safety it could provide for them if it was let out.

Both of them almost miss the blurry figure behind them. Almost.

She whirls around too late. Scream lost, choked in her throat as Vega doesn’t just grab — but squeezes. His eyes shaking in his skull; face red and a vein in his temple throbbing. She claws and claws with all her might but nothing works.

Then the floor goes out from under her. The back of her head hits the onyx coffin with a violent thunk. Nadya feels an unfamiliar warmth slip down her skull to tickle the nape of her neck.

But even as things start to go fuzzy around the edges Nadya notices right away that Vega isn’t focused on his conquest. He’s too busy staring at the image of himself in the coffin’s surface.

“Endless corners to hide in, rooms to get lost in, weapons to arm yourself with… and you choose this.” For a man who prides himself on his presence there’s something different about him, now. She struggles with the right word for it.

He’s… smaller. Shrinking himself back in the presence of, what, of her? No. Not when he’s been howling and batting her around like lame prey.

Vega’s eyes roam; take in every chain link and corner behind her. “What stories have they told you of him? Did they regale you with his glory days and conquests? Did you see a knight in golden armor set free to slay your enemy out of sheer gratitude? Did Raines tell you of the innocent blood they bathed in together?”

It’s the black casket.

And she knows, now, who rests inside. Like all things — she has always known.

“I may not know what Adrian was like before —” every word like a serrated knife against her lungs; struggling to speak even as his grip tightens, “—but you’re wrong Vega. He’s, ack, he’s a good man. He’s not Gaius. Not even a little.”

He barks a laugh. Spares her a glance for only a sneer before he fixates on the slab again. Like if he dares look away somehow the evil inside will slip free of its bonds and roam untethered.

“Such deluded arrogance.”

Nadya tries her best with struggling survival — and really, she doesn’t have to try that hard — to give him every ounce of hatred she has in one look.

“Why — why?”

He humors her even in the haze of his fear. Slackens his grip but raises her higher. The chains dig against Nadya’s spine; the blood from her head smears the perfect surface.

“Squeak louder little mouse,” Vega jeers, “it will be your last to be sure.”

Nadya swallows against his palm. The air thick and dusty in her lungs.

“Why?” she croaks. If any word is going to be her last it’ll be that. Whether he gives her an answer or not. She tried. God, did she try.

Whatever it takes. She did whatever it took. Even this.

And he tells her.

Either because he’s a great literary villain or because he pities the gasping half-dead thing she’s becoming under his hand; he tells her. Whispers it so only she can hear. But she’s not the only one using her ears. He’s a fool to think they’re alone.

“I did what must be done.” Vega pulls back and there’s absolution lurking underneath his hunger. He’s glad she heard his confession.

She regrets wasting her last word to ask.

He squeezes. Sticky blood wells up underneath his fingernails. Smears an imprint of his palm against her throat. Nadya opens her mouth to scream — however silently — and Vega mirrors her with his fangs reared for the kill.

Then there’s a knife on the tip of his tongue. Not another metaphor — she’s on the verge of the end it’s no time for metaphors — but the real deal. Vega’s blood splatters on her face, on her lips, and uses up the last of Nadya’s energy to make her recoil from the horror of it.

The knife’s point twitches and shifts — left to right, right to left — and wedges the top half of Vega’s skull off with little respect or grace. Like a mechanical claw his hand opens and the stale air never tasted so good as it does in that first breath she takes falling to the museum floor.

On her hands and knees Nadya blinks through the sting of vampire blood in time to gaze one last time into the face (well, most of it) of Adam Vega. Watches his lifeless eyes fixate hollow on the wall behind her before it crumbles into ash.

His body follows shortly after; knees buckling but it withers and wastes in blanketed silence over Nadya’s crumpled form. She closes her eyes, struggles to hold her breath when her lungs are still remembering how to work right.

God forbid she inhale any of the creepy jerk.

When she’s sure she won’t go blind on Vega-ash Nadya opens her eyes to a familiar hand reached out in offering.

“Your companions are scouring the Musea for you.”

Valdas gives her the time she needs to collect herself. Doesn’t retract his hand while she takes deep, reviving gulps of oxygen and helps pull her up on trembling legs. And when she buckles he’s there to catch her. Not in comfort or kindness; but in stiff obligation.

Being this close to him again she can feel that endless void in his breast trying to reach out to her. It’s enough motivation for Nadya to forcibly stand on her own two feet.

She wipes off her face with a sleeve. Tries not to think too much about the way Vega’s ash clung to Vega’s blood before it dried.

Holy…

“You —” rapidly looking between the Nadya-shaped outline on the carpeting and her rescuer, “— you saved my life.”

Judging by the look in his immortal eyes, though, that’s just a bonus. She chooses not to think too hard about it.

“Two birds with one stone.” Is his clipped reply.

“I thought you were going to…”

“‘…to…?’”

“— to confront him. For using you and Isseya.”

The vampire looks down at the remnants with calm passivity. Nadya wants to be angry; wants to be fucking stoked he’s gone. But something about how Valdas isn’t even sparing Vega’s death another thought resonates with her.

Or maybe it just resonates with the part of her that’s the part of him.

“No.”

And that’s that.

Then it hits her like an aftershock. Your companions are looking for you. Kamilah and Adrian — they’re alive! And even though she has no idea how to begin going about finding them in this maze from hell she starts forward.

Only to be stopped by Valdas’ grasp on her arm.

She looks back, “hey, what —” and finds him turned away from her; fixated.

Nadya’s done everything in her limited power to forget the dark black casket is there. Not an easy task; like seeing a canvas with only one subject and trying to convince herself the display is blank; like there’s a hole in her world because it doesn’t — shouldn’t — exist.

She chides herself mentally for thinking it was that easy.

Placing her hand over his Nadya tries to coax him with her. Kind of impossible since he’s like a load-bearing pillar.

“Come on,” she urges harder, “help me find the way out of here.”

She might as well not be talking at all.

When Valdas finally speaks his words make her shiver deep in her bones.

“So this is where they put you.”

She’s not dumb. Knows he isn’t talking to her. But really doesn’t want to stick around in case what he’s talking to decides to, you know, answer.

“Valdas, please. Come on.”

“To think… that which once waged impossible wars on immovable heavens could be chained. Locked away. Forgotten…”

“Val—Valdemaras, please…”

Something about his name brings him back from wherever the siren’s call of the tomb tried to take him. When he looks at Nadya she holds her breath while each blink changes his eyes — red to honey and back again.

“He led you here.”

Nadya nods — doesn’t want to say it aloud. Was able to push that knowledge back by struggling for her life but with Vega gone she has to face facts.

She knows who is in there. And she knows he led her here — to his prison.

But she won’t continue to play the pawn. Not after all this.

“Let’s go.” And she’s lucky for one step — it’s getting kind of frustrating. “Good; now the other foot.”

Real smart Nadi’. Patronize the crazy old vampire who just killed the guy who was gonna kill you. Excellent survival skills there.

It works (though she tries her best not to be surprised; like it was her plan all along). She doesn’t know if Valdas looks back until the coffin — call it what it is: a prison — is out of sight but she doesn’t give it the satisfaction.

Together they venture back through stacks and shelves. Nadya keeps him close — or keeps close to him, she’s not picky — in case any more of Vega’s Feral friends are hiding out of sight.

And just when things start to look familiar — no way this place has two giant taxidermy Minotaur heads in a glass case, right? — she hears a familiar voice and sobs.

“Nadya?! Nadya where are you?!”

“I’m over here, this way!” She calls out to Adrian with actual hope and relief. “I’m okay Adrian, I’m okay!”

“Kamilah —”

“Yes yes, I heard her too. This way.”

Because it would only make things more difficult (and secretly because she’s reached her body’s step-count for the day and really doesn’t want to collapse like a damsel in Kamilah’s arms) Nadya stays rooted in place.

Has to choke back the tears in her eyes as she dares to think everything might just be okay.

“What did Vega whisper in his final moments?”

Dammit. She tries not to flinch. Couldn’t they just leave well enough alone and just… forget it? Can she not have one little slice of victory pie?

Valdas doesn’t have to ask twice and he knows it. Waits with unerring patience until Nadya looks back at him through her curtain of ashy hair.

Don’t make me say it.

The look in his eyes speaks volumes.

“Nadya — once more!” This time it’s Kamilah who calls out to her and she’s much closer. Not close enough.

“Over here!” Maybe she’ll get lucky. Maybe they’ll find her before Valdas gets impatient.

But she’s used up all her luck. Valdas’ lips quirk downward.

So Nadya wets her lips, conjures up the last bit of courage she has, and tells him. “He said…”

“You know nothing of the kingdom of blood; of the vast hills strewn with bodies in His wake. We made a mistake when we chose to let him suffer for his crimes — I knew it. We all knew it. But we let him live and now we will pay the price for our vanity.

“He’s coming. And He will not stop until His kingdom is finished. Until His Soldier and His Queen return to His side. I tried to stop Him — I tried to break the cycle before it had the chance to begin. I did what must be done.”

There’s an exhale behind her; Adrian’s noise of relief. Then Kamilah’s hurried footsteps.

“He said he was jealous of Adrian’s status. Probably some long-running rivalry I don’t understand. Thank you for saving my life — again. I mean it.”

Nadya turns away and feels her held-back tears finally start to fall.

By Jax’s third prolonged sigh Maricruz has had enough.

“Stop. being. a. child!” She smacks his shoulder with every word and judging by his flinching it’s not a love-tap. Finally he uncrosses his arms to hold them up in is defense.

“All right, stop!” Doesn’t stop him from sending another scowl towards the conference room doors and the vampires beyond. “I just think it’s kind of jilted. She didn’t even put up a fight and what do they get; a bunch of Ferals to wail on.”

Nadya blinks; pretends like she’s cleaning out her ears with her little finger to make sure she’s hearing him right.

“You’re mad you didn’t get to fight?”

“Well —”

“You’re mad you didn’t have to risk your life — or worse if they’d bitten you — and instead got the easier job? Am I hearing that right?”

But before Jax can defend himself Lily returns with pilfered goodies from the lobby coffee cart. Throws a bag of onion-flavored chips Jax’s way to placate his aimless frustration.

“Don’t even try to reason with him, Nadi’,” she chides while handing the human her much-needed caffeine, “he’s a sucker for violence. Why else do you think he carries around that stupid sword, like, legit everywhere?”

She’s got a point. Nadya sips her coffee while looking him over as if for the first time. It’s doubly satisfying when he squirms under her gaze; adjusts a slip of his shirt hanging out under his zipped jacket.

“I figured it was for the aesthetic.”

The girls break into short-lived laughter at his expense.

Short-lived only because not long after the conference room door opens. Adrian gives a grim jerk of his head for them to enter.

Nicole is still tied to the chair at the head of the table — “Jump rope, really?” “Good thing Lula left it in the van.” — only she’s no longer struggling against her bonds but instead sits slumped over; unresponsive.

Nadya immediately finds comfort at Kamilah’s side. She just can’t help looking at the woman with concern.

“Is she…?”

“She’s merely unconscious. Don’t fret.”

“Hey there’s no fretting here,” she swallows her scalding brew, “I just…”

But Lily’s already got the same thought — best best friend ever — and pushes a single finger to Nicole’s head to raise it. Sure enough her eye is ringed a mottled blue-and-purple. Lily flashes her a thumbs up.

“Wait — you really did punch her?” Adrian asks as he closes the door behind them. “I thought she was making it up to make you look bad.”

Nadya looks to Kamilah. Kamilah who had very much been there when the famed punch occurred.

The woman simply shrugs. “I believe in basking in one’s victory over an enemy. You deserved this at the very least.”

Okay, that’s cute. Makes Nadya flush slightly and nudge herself closer against Kamilah’s side. Though her expression remains impassive Nadya feels the ghost of a touch at her lower back. That’s more than enough.

Jax fake-coughs. “A-hem. So, are we gonna get to it?”

And pettiness aside Nadya, too, is itching to hear what the pair learned in their interrogation of Nicole. If only so they don’t ask her if Vega explained anything important before he was killed.

In the short months she’s known Adrian she’s gotten familiar with his expressive attitude — especially when it so starkly contrasts with Kamilah’s reserved nature. She’s seen pretty much the entire emotional spectrum and what it comes with; the good and the bad.

But whatever has him so quiet, terse, tight-lipped? She hopes that when all this is put to rest she never has to see him like this again.

There’s a burning darkness hanging behind his eyes as he rests his weight on a pair of chairs; looks over to Nicole with tension trying to come out on top over immortality in the creases of his furrowed brow.

“He promised her his next clan opening — to start with.”

Adrian had willfully looked with a blind eye to just how much Nicole wanted to be Turned. He keeps trying to blame himself; “If I’d just taken her a little more seriously,” but neither Kamilah nor Nadya let him fall into the well of self-pity for too long.

It was Turning Lily that set her over the edge. Unable to look past the dire circumstances (and the fact that Lily hadn’t taken the Clan spot anyway) she decided enough was enough and went to the next best candidate to help her continue along her current uphill trajectory.

Vega was the obvious choice.

Especially when he revealed some plans of his own; plans that required getting Adrian out of the way, Ideally on a permanent basis. “The one thing she couldn’t tell us was what he was working towards,” Adrian explains, “When Nicole wants something she’ll find a way to get it. But she couldn’t crack him.”

“How do you know she’s not just keeping it secret for leverage?” asks Mari; rightfully so too.

Kamilah hums. “Trust me. I pulled everything out of her she was able to give.”

It was Nicole’s idea to tie the rise in Ferals to Adrian’s experiments. Apparently being one step below the top just wasn’t enough. She forged results and data — and when the time came for there to be a body count alongside the paper trail Vega was there to help.

“As for the Ball…” Defeat hangs heavy on his shoulders. “They knew it was a risk but also that if they pulled it off my fate would be all but sealed.”

“Vega was willing to risk his life — risk the Council, risk everything — to pull it off. The lives lost as a result are on his head.” adds Kamilah. The look she gives Adrian is probably her version of reassuring. It’s decidedly less so.

Nicole had used her access to Adrian’s labs to take a vial of Feral venom from testing — “similar to the venom in our blood that Turns humans, only corrupted with the Feral taint,” — and with it eliminated any exposure risk on Vega’s part.

Nadya thinks of Megan writhing prone and desperate in the middle of the ballroom; remembers hearing Brandon’s sobs of grief beside her on the train back to the city. Then there’s an icy hand over hers and she looks down to see her own fist clenched — white-knuckled rage held just below the surface.

The look Kamilah gives her is silent but questioning. “I’m okay.” She reassures. Maybe soon she’ll even start to believe it.

The rest of Nicole and Vega’s combined master plan they were pretty much there for; the trial, the lies, Vega relying on the Trinity to stab Adrian in the back for their own sakes and them falling right into his expectations. For her help and testimony not only would Nicole be Turned but Raines Corp. would practically land in her pocket.

“And now it won’t. Hooray, now can we please go home?” Jax rolls his eyes as he says it — still angry about the lack of action on his end.

Adrian’s holding something back — Nadya can see it. If they had more time she’d pester him until he popped but there’s so few precious hours until dawn… and there’s one more thing they need to do.

“But hold on a sec. You’re both still wanted —” Lily points at Kamilah and Adrian, “— so why would the Council of Ass-Clowns agree to meet with you? And have it not be, like, you know… a trap.”

“Plans have already been set in motion. But we should hurry.”

Kamilah doesn’t waste any time — practically drags Nadya with her until they’re all on Raines Corp’s front steps.

Jax gives them both a curt nod. “Then this is where we part ways.”

“Actually…” and Jax really doesn’t like how Adrian leaves him hanging on a single word; really really doesn’t like the look he and Kamilah share.

“No. No way.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to. I’m done trusting you two.”

Nadya can’t help but be disappointed. “Jax, just give them a chance.”

“Why should I? So far there’s been a whole lot of risk and very little reward.” Yes, he’s referring to the lack of violence. Which frankly Nadya’s starting to get tired of.

But before she can try to sway him further Adrian steps forward with a hand out in offering. Gives Jax an earnest look.

“Because I don’t forget my debts… and because I think I know how we can make change happen. But it’s now or never.”

It’s like the last five minutes of a show and there’s a whole plotline left untouched. She watches with near nail-biting anticipation as the men size each other up. As Jax’s eyes narrow in suspicion and he starts to object.

“I —”

This time when Maricruz hits him there’s nothing gentle about it. Lily has to smother her fit of laughter while the Clanless square off.

“Fuck your pride, Jax. This is about everyone and somewhere deep down I know you know that. So put your dick away and shake the man’s hand, dammit.”

It’s not the longest speech; nor the most heartfelt. But it’s sure damn well effective.

“You’d do well to remember you’re in our city.”

“Yeah. You can’t just summon us on a whim!”

“And yet here you are.”

“I can’t believe I left a fucking massage for this shit.”

“Oh — will you just shut up, Priya?”

“What did you just say to me?!”

Any louder and they’d echo over Central Park; statue-topped hidden entrance or no. But it’s no surprise. Still they continue down into the Council chamber — into the pit of vipers that awaits.

Valdas and Isseya stand in the center of an oblong triangle of Council members; each colored in varied levels of frustration.

Kamilah is the first to emerge from the stairwell — her presence cuts the Baron off mid-snap at Priya.

“You little cu — Kamilah?”

All eyes turn to watch the rest of them enter. Nadya watches the Baron go a violent shade of red at the sight of Adrian — but when his eyes land on Jax he’s positively ready to burst.

“You! Clanless whelp! How fucking dare —”

He cuts off like something out of a film. There’s nothing else to do, though, what with Isseya suddenly at his back with two dangerously strong hands pressing down on his shoulders. Nadya knows firsthand just how hard she can squeeze.

Isseya leans down and purrs into the Baron’s ear; “Sssh… I’m tired of hearing your voice.”

The Baron shuts up.

As they approach the center of the chamber Adrian offers his hand for Valdas to shake.

“Thank you for doing this last favor.”

Valdas doesn’t take it. “Consider this your repayment for bringing Vega to me. I would have loathed having to hunt him down myself.”

It’s enough to draw attention away from the fact that Adrian’s there — Lester looks around as though he’s just now noticing Vega’s absence.

“What have you done?” he barks.

Valdas takes the answer; “Punished the guilty.” then back to Adrian, “Do not call upon us again. Unless… you wish to repeat La Soirée.”

The cavern’s sudden silence is deafening as Valdas cups Adrian’s jaw in hand and presses a firm and chaste kiss to his lips. Even Adrian isn’t sure how to respond — simply stands there and accepts it rather than giving back. There’s an almost seductive quality to the way Valdas strokes Adrian’s bottom lip with his thumb before pulling away.

“Come, my love.” He calls for Isseya with a crooked arm. She’s gone from the Baron’s space in a blur — but not before stealing a far less innocent kiss from Adrian as well — to take Valdas’ arm in hers.

As they pass Isseya turns to watch Nadya with bright eyes — their endless depths showing only one thing: hunger.

“Enjoy your gift.” She whispers.

The Trinity leaves — and every person present watches them go.

What gift she means Nadya doesn’t know. But she can’t shake the feeling that they’ll meet again.

Or is it that they’ve met before?

The spell breaks as soon as the vampires of New York are left alone. Fangs on the edge of bearing, sides already being taken. The tension is a thick fog and it’s just shy of choking them all.

Kamilah assumes the rigid posture of the eldest and addresses them calmly. “Adam is dead.”

“Yeah,” Priya snorts, “we figured that much out for ourselves.”

“I won’t say he didn’t deserve it. He was willing to do the same to me for his own ends.” counters Adrian firmly.

“He wasn’t guilty of Council treason.”

The look Adrian gives Lester is colder than Nadya’s ever seen in him.

“Neither was — am — I. He and my former VP conspired together to blame me for their own ends.” A shadow crosses his expression and Nadya’s heart leaps a beat or two. “Nicole only cared about being Turned. I still don’t know exactly what Vega got out of framing me… but I was framed.

“I admitted to everything I did behind your backs. To experimenting on Ferals, to hiring the Nighthunters. But Vega used my research to Turn other vampires Feral and placed everyone at the Ball at risk.”

Priya rolls her eyes. “Why would he put himself in that kind of danger?”

“Because he was insane.”

“Or stupid…” Lester mutters. And Nadya’ll give him that.

“He used everyone. He used the Trinity’s clout to make me seem guilty and used your fear of the situation and our infighting to turn you to his side.”

“And if you’re still there,” warns Kamilah, “I’ll have you join him.”

Her threat isn’t thinly veiled in the slightest. But neither is her strength; which she wears like a proud cloak in front of the Council. No one says anything against her.

“Pssht, infighting…” the Baron mutters under his breath the, but before Kamilah can make good on her words Adrian throws out an arm to stay her hand.

“If you don’t see it then you’re only blinding yourself,” he insists, “because I think something like this was a long time coming. Think about it — we formed this Council not out of want but out of necessity. At the time we didn’t even like each other. The only thing that bound us all together was —”

“Getting Gaius out of the way and saving our own skins?” offers Lester. And Adrian nods.

“— Yes. The Council was the only thing between order and a chaos that could have destroyed everything. And I believe Vega sought to bring that chaos back to form. Trust me… I would have much rather had him stand trial for his crimes.”

But he had to go and run afoul of the Trinity. Somehow Nadya feels it linger among them all. The five left standing. No one has to say it. No one wants to.

“So what now?” That the question comes from Priya is enough to make Nadya wonder if she’s dreaming. “We’ve never had to pick a new Council member before. Do we divvy up his shit?” Her grin widens. “Momma could use a new mansion…”

Adrian refuses her steadfast. “No. And we don’t need to pick a new member.”

The Baron growls. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Don’t you see the opportunity we have before us?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about, boy?”

“I’m talking about a chance to make real, lasting change. Not out of desperation but out of recognizing that our system is flawed.”

“You think democracy is flawed?” Lester blinks in astonishment.

But Adrian’s on a roll. No longer filled with the darkness of his trial and false incrimination but something else. It’s the first time Nadya’s seen the real him shine through since this all began and it gives her a rush of hope.

“Of course not. But our rules just don’t fit with the times. We need to embrace the new world and we’re going to start,” he steps aside and gestures to Jax, “by righting our earliest wrongs. We’re going to start with the Clanless.”

There’s opposition at first.

Priya threatens to tear out Jax’s heart; “no matter how pretty he is.” The Baron barks out half a declaration of war — but only half, since Jax gives him a surprisingly calm reminder of his Clan’s business with Jax’s own people and how that very same business was the reason Adrian was able to escape his execution in the first place.

Lester is the quietest of them all; the most willing to hear out the possibilities. Even so, Nadya knows the gears turning in his head are just trying to figure out how to turn the situation to his advantage. And if that’s what it takes then she’s down with it.

Nobody wants a war — that’s what it comes down to. The one thing they all agree on. Whether they have too much to lose, have fought too many wars already, or don’t want innocents in the crossfire; there’s something holding each one of them back.

And that’s a better place to start than she thought they’d have.

At some point they start arguing about which rules to change and which to keep — that’s when Nadya stops giving in to her exhaustion. When the Baron tries selfishly claiming Vega’s assets for himself she thinks closing her eyes for a minute won’t hurt.

Then there’s a cool tickle against her forehead. Initially she resists… but okay, things could be a little more comfortable — is that stone she’s leaning on because her back feels terrible.

Nadya’s bleary eyes open to the sight of Jax and Adrian near the cavern stairs.

“Come by my office tomorrow at sunset and we’ll draw up the paperwork.” Adrian says with his hands in those borrowed jeans pockets. Things will be back to normal when he’s back in his suits.

“I told you,” argues Jax, “I don’t do paperwork.”

Adrian sighs — looks like he debates trying to press the issue but he lets Jax go without another word.

The tickle returns and Nadya glances to see Kamilah off to her side. Tender touches brushing wisps of hair out of her eyes. She likes this side of the woman; the way her eyes pull her in like puddles of melted chocolate.

Mmm…. Chocolate.

“What about it?” Kamilah’s lips quirk and that’s when Nadya realizes she said that aloud.

“Uh… nothing. Nothing. What happened? Where’s…?”

“Gone,” Kamilah answers before she can even finish asking, “placated… for now.”

Kamilah wordlessly helps her stand and get her bearings. Nadya rubs her eyes and looks to see Adrian smiling at her near the entrance.

“Does that mean we —” —yawn— “— we won?”

It takes a nudge but Kamilah stays at her side as they start to leave.

“I believe so.”

It’s not enough to give her the energy to wake. But it’s still something.

“Awesome.”

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feverwritingandtextposts · 4 years

Link

Summary:

All the cool monsters make it to the front page of City S Newspaper. And Garou's going to join them, even if he has to kidnap a reporter to do it.

Look man I saw this funny AU post and i HAD to write this i was possessed.

As usual you can follow the link to read it or read it under the cut below.

"And so that's why i skipped the math class in my 7th grade- hey. Hey. Are you listening?"

Badd turned his head up to the voice, groggy and tired. He gave a non-committal grunt in response. The man clucked his tongue in annoyance.

"Hm. You're not writing anything down so-"

Badd raised an eyebrow at that, glaring down the man in front of him. Tall, imposing, with the most hideous hairstyle Badd's ever seen, the man loomed overhead, paused in his pacing to stare down at him.

"How the fuck am i supposed to write anything when my FUCKING HANDS ARE TIED?" Badd bellowed, fully sick and tired of this nonsense.

Personally, Badd had no clue why this bastard chose to kidnap him out of all the reporters out there. He's just self aware enough to know that he's not exactly the easiest person to get along with in general. If this dude really wanted the world to 'understand his monster aesthetic and goals through the newspaper' he'd probably get better cooperation from some mousy bumbling reporter that he can, actually, successfully intimidate.

Maybe Badd looked like an easy target because he'd been passed out after drinking with a interviewee. In his defense, the office promised to pay, and Badd was never one to turn down some day drinking.

Damn, what even happened to that guy... Did this fucker kill him when Badd got kidnapped?

The man, Garou or Gatou or Geko something like that, narrowed his eyes at him. It looked like he'd wanted to seem contemptuous and intimidating, but Badd thought it made him just look pouty, like an ill tempered child.

That dude's probably fine.

"You could've just said so then," the man snapped, reaching over.

Badd jerked back from him, the movement teethering him dangerously on the flimsy chair he was tied against.

"Ey ey, hands off bastard. This coat's Gucci and i dunno where your damn hands have been," Badd hissed.

Clearly offended, the man drew back, lips pulling back to show a sharp array of teeth. "I wash my hands you little shit."

"That's what all the crooks say."

The man looked stunned for a moment, face still stuck in that half angry half incredulous grimace, as if shocked that Badd was just being so deliberately uncooperative, when he'd gone to all this trouble of holding him hostage. Held aloft in front of him, the man's hands balled up into fists.

Briefly, Badd wondered if he was finally going to get punched.

Badd was kinda looking forward to it. Its been a while since he got punched anyway.

But instead, the man seemed to reign himself in, folding his arms and drawing up to his fullest height, lips drawn in a sneer.

"Your coat's ugly anyway. Gucci? You wasted your money on that crap."

Wow really? He's really gonna get his fashion sense roasted by a man in ratty joggers and old people slippers.

"Fuck you," Badd snarled venomously.

Gatou (no Gakou.. Garou?) raised an eyebrow, seemingly unconcerned.

"Are you mad? Over that?"

Badd struggled against his bindings, the chair screeching against the concrete as he moved.

"Seriously?"asked the man. "You weren't even that mad when you woke up tied to the chair."

Badd paused in his attempts to rip off the thick ropes to shoot the man a scathing look.

"Like hell I'm gonna listen to you insult MY coat when you're in those disgusting pants."

Now looking absolutely confused, the taller man looked down at his faded grey joggers.

"What's wrong with my pants? They're great for movement and kicking." As if to demonstrate that point, or intimidate Badd, he started kicking the air, each kick higher than before, the shock-wave blowing wind and dust into Badd's face.

Man, Badd hated guys like him. Just because they're hot they think they can care fuck all about fashion and still look good.

In this guy's case he'd be right but Badd's never gonna admit that.

Badd was about to tell him exactly where he could stick his ugly pants before the man slammed his foot down, loud and annoying.

"Wait, forget that, I still need you to continue writing that article. Where did I stop?"

Damnit, Badd was hoping he'd have forgotten that by now.

The man propped his chin against his fist, deep in thought.

Maybe if Badd was lucky he'd realise he'd told Badd every fucking insignificant detail about his (admittedly kinda sad) life story and let him go.

The man slammed his fist into his open palm in realisation. "I can't remember, so lets just take it from the start again!"

This man was going to give him a fucking aneurysm.

"What the HELL man! C'mon dude lay off it," Badd whined, writhing on the chair in annoyance.

"Maybe I'll be done faster if your sorry ass doesn't keep INTERRUPTING me," Garou snarled back, resuming his pacing as he prepared to re-recount his shitty life story.

The afternoon light that streamed through the high broken windows was starting to dim, casting long shadows across the abandoned warehouse they were in. The day was beginning to end. Zenko's going to be out of cram school soon, and she'd be waiting for him to pick her up.

It was starting to get colder too, Badd could see the puffs of air coming from his breath. Did Zenko bring her scarf?

"Hey man aren't you done yet? I gotta go soon, I need to pick my lil sis up," Badd called out to the slouching man, who had skulked a way off ahead, ranting about why elementary school kids have the propensity for cruelty.

Pausing in his tirade, he stalked back over.

"Fuck are you talking about? You're literally tied to a chair."

"Yeah I KNOW. That's why I'm asking if you're done, I need to go pick my sis up."

Shaggy white hair bouncing, Garou shook his head firmly. "What, no you can't just leave. I KIDNAPPED you."

"Yeah, I noticed. And how long are you gonna keep me here then? The fucking sun's already going down."

"Its only been three and a half hours," protested Garou, his thin face settling into its permanent scowl. "How are you going to write a good article about me if you don't know my entire backstory?"

Badd groaned loudly, head tilting back in exasperation. In front of him, the man didn't move, sharp golden eyes boring into Badd.

"If you be a good boy and listen, this will go by a lot faster, and you can be out to write that article and pick up your sister or whatever. Or, I could keep you here with me for much MUCH longer."

"Ugh..." Badd rolled his eyes at the obvious warning to behave. Really, did he LOOK like the type to just buckle down and keep quiet? After realising that Garou was still standing there, eyes alert and anticipating a response, he gave a resigned sigh.

"ALRIGHT, fucking hell, FINE," snapped Badd, a little too loudly, but the bastard smiled at that, lips pulling into a smarmy smirk that would have been ridiculously hot if Badd wasn't so ready punch him.

He really hoped Zenko brought her scarf. This was gonna take a while.

Luckily for the both of them, Badd was an expert in the sacred art of pretending to pay attention. Eyes glassy, he watched the man pace up and down, ever so often making a grunt or hum of agreement to whatever was being said.

Those pants Garou was wearing really DO look great for movement. They clung perfectly to that tight ass. Speaking of, now that Badd really got a look at him, this guy was toned to hell. He mentioned being 'the world's best martial artist' or something, but damn. That turtleneck he was wearing looked like it was on its last breath of life clinging to those muscles. Dude's lucky he's nice to look at because Badd'll be bored to death otherwise.

Night had fully fallen by the time the white haired man decided to pause for breath.

Badd hasn't been in the reporting biz long enough to be considered an expert, but he doubts that he really needed THAT much info from the guy to write an article on him. Usually, articles about villains are pretty short anyway.

Stuff like "Wanted: this bastard! Contact the Association if you have information" or "See this man? Better mind your own business and find somewhere to hide!". Short, sweet, to the point. Just what criminal warning articles are supposed to be. Where the hell was his supposed to insert the entire part about this loser getting beat up in elementary school? Badd's not a damn literary expert. He only got the job because of how hardy he was, and how dangerous journalist jobs can end up.

Maybe he can ask one of the interns to help him write it...

"Do you have all of that?" asked Garou (Badd's sure now, the fucker talked about himself as 'Garou the Human Monster' at least 11 times).

Badd nodded quickly, hoping to god that he was done talking about himself. Garou, perhaps having believed Badd's performance, perhaps simply needing a space to talk about... all that... seemed absurdly happy.

"Okay! You better write a good article!" Garou ordered, exuberant smile lighting up his usually swarthy face, making it look kinder and sweeter. Like how he might have been if he hadn't been weighed down by all that spite.

Huh, Badd thought, he was actually kinda cute.

"Right, don't move."

Never mind, scratch that.

Badd last remembers a throbbing pain on the back of his neck, as if someone had smacked him, and wakes up alone at a bus stop.

"Human Monster Gatou on the loose," read out Taero, swinging his legs on the park bench. Beside him, the white haired man peeled an eye open from where he sat slouched back on the bench, head propped up on the back.

"Whazzat? Kid, you're old enough to read properly right? Pronounce people's names right."

"Huh, but Uncle, that's what it says." Reaching over, Taero pushes the newspaper right into Garou's face for him to read it himself.

Golden eyes scanning the headline, Taero barely had time to sit back down before Garou shot up from the bench, snatching the newspaper out of his hand in the process. Wordlessly Garou stood there, newspaper crumpled in his grip, eyes boring into the page.

Taero knew that this Uncle was pretty prone to sudden and confusing mood shifts, but even for him this was kinda weird.

"It's pretty scary isn't Uncle? We should be careful," Taero says tentatively, peering at him from the safety of the bench.

"That's right. Real scary," muttered Garou, face absolutely murderous.

He can't believe that fucking reporter spelled his name wrong.

He's gonna kill him.

#opm #batarou #metal bat #garou #i love garou i really do but i also remember that he can be the world's best martial artist AND a stupid bitch #and i just think thats neat #sorry its not another kny fic guys................

6 notes · View notes

astarisms · 5 years

Text

lacuna

pairing: natan word count: 8154 summary: for better, for worse. in sickness, in health. she had taken those vows, even if he didn’t remember it, and she would not break them. all human amnesia au. notes: this is a project that’s been three years in the making. it will be in three parts (that will come later), but i thought natan week was the perfect opportunity to finally post it. i finished this part in 2016 and haven’t edited it, so it will also follow how my writing has changed since i started this project. i hope you all enjoy, and happy @natanweek! :)

saudade

(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near

again to something or someone that

is distant, or that has been loved and

then lost; “the love that remains”

origin: portuguese

The steady tone of the heart monitor was what had eventually coaxed her to sleep every night for three days. It was the comfort, the constant reassurance that he was here and he was alive and that the fear that had nearly brought her to her knees when she’d gotten the call was unfounded.

It was only fitting that it would be the heart monitor that woke her as well — but there was something wrong. Before opening her eyes, she just listened for it, the confirmation of his life, but the timing was off. It was faster than the tone that had been ingrained in her mind, consumed every sleeping and waking moment.

She shot up, immediately alert and prepared for the worst, her eyes darting to the hospital bed that took up the middle of the room where he’d been, unmoving, since he’d come out of surgery. Except now there was a twitch to his fingers, a turn to his head, a murmur on his lips.

She realized then that the change in the heart monitor wasn’t a bad thing, but a good one. Her eyes burned but she pushed back the urge to cry, making her way out of the room as quickly as she could without tripping over all the machines and yelling for a nurse, her voice breaking tearfully.

Within moments the small room was filled, nurses rushing in and talking to each other in terms Natalie couldn’t understand. His doctor was next, side by side with another nurse mumbling something about paging the surgeon.

Unable to breathe with so many people in such a small space, and unable to see him anyways with the crowd that had gathered around him, Natalie stepped out into the hall and leaned against the wall beside the door.

She sighed shakily, looking down at her hands without really seeing them, her vision blurring. She twisted her wedding band around her finger anxiously, trying to ease the thundering of her heart and the racing of her thoughts.

Was he okay? How did he feel? Was it too soon? Could they go home and finally put this nightmare behind them?

The questions were endless, circling round and round, taunting her as much as the noise in the room behind her was, reminding her that they were there to see him wake up and she was out in the hall.

Hearing a low groan beneath several overpowering voices, Natalie squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, taking several deep breaths to keep the relieved tears at bay.

Flashes of that night, curled on the couch to wait up for him, watching some cheesy TV movie, cold pizza waiting for him on the counter. Her phone ringing and absentmindedly reaching over to answer it without glancing at the caller ID. Ipos’s voice, usually so chill and smiling, solemn in her ear, straining like it would break. Horror settling in her bones like ice, immobilizing her. Ipos’s voice vague and distant in her ear, something about having sent Zoe to pick her up and take her to the hospital already.

It had undoubtedly been the worst night of her entire life. They had already taken him in for emergency surgery when Zoe had dropped her off, and the wait had been agonizing. Hours without any updates. Hours of replaying every moment with him. Hours of being stricken with the thought that their goodbyes that morning had been goodbye in the most literal sense.

The relief when they’d told her he was stable was palpable, but there was a catch — he was unconscious, and they had little to no idea when he would wake up.

Three days had felt like an eternity, but now she was grateful that that was all the time it had taken for him to regain his consciousness. She couldn’t imagine if she had had to wait much longer — three days had made her restless enough.

She lowered her hands from her eyes, turning to peer inside the room when she heard his voice, rough with pain and misuse. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, and she could only catch glimpses of him from where she stood, but it was enough. It was a confirmation she couldn’t get from heart monitors, or the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

He was awake. He was okay. They would go home soon and he would recover the rest of the way there and everything would go back to normal.

She stared down at the floor, trying to catch bits of the conversation, but the doctor’s voice was too low. She didn’t know what the verdict was yet, she didn’t know how close he was to recovering, but he was awake, and that had to be good news.

After all, waking up had been the last obstacle they’d had to face. His recovery, slow as it may be, they would conquer together at home.

After several minutes, people started to file out of the room one by one. Natalie moved to the side as much as she could while still peering into the room, more and more of him revealed to her as the room cleared.

The doctor remained by his bedside even as the last nurse finished adjusting his IV and left. Natalie, feeling lighter than she had in days and with a bounce in her step, walked back into the room and to the doctor’s side.

He looked from the doctor to her, all sharp lines and tired brown eyes, and she couldn’t help her watery laugh.

“You scared the crap out of me, dude,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to take his hand.

“Uh, Mrs. Dev-”

“Who the hell are you-”

“Mr. Devante, please, a moment-”

“Did you just say missus?”

Natalie was a bit stunned by the swiftness of everything — Lucifer pulling his hand away from her as if he’d been burned, sending her a suspicious look. The overlapping voices, their exact words taking a second for her to process. She could only stare with wide eyes, unsure what was happening.

“I — What?”

“Mrs. Devante, I had meant to speak with you before you came in, because I felt this might be the case as soon as we spoke.”

Her chest constricted with the implications of his solemn tone.

“W… What might be the case?” she asked, hesitantly, afraid of the question itself just as much as the answer.

“I’m afraid I think your hus— Mr. Devante has a case of amnesia.” He looked between the two of them, to ensure Lucifer didn’t feel like he was being talked about instead of talked to.

He kept talking, something about how it was not a surprising turn of events after brain surgery, something about not being able to tell if or when his memories would return, something about hope and therapy but Natalie heard none of it, her world closing in on her.

Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Her vision swam and her ears rang and she barely heard her own voice cut off the doctor.

“He doesn’t…” She turned to look at her husband of 5 years. Her best friend of even longer. So many years… “You don’t remember me?”

He shook his head.

... gone.

It felt like a slap in the face.

“...Are you sure?” It was a stupid question, she knew it even as it slipped past her trembling lips, she knew it even without the look on his face that told her he thought it was a stupid question. And though it was silly, though it was a little breathless and desperate, in that moment it was all she had.

“I’m sure.”

“...Oh.”

“Mrs. Devante-”

“Why do you keep calling her that?” Lucifer snapped, glowering between the two of them. The doctor looked alarmed for a second, before looking to Natalie inquiringly.

“I...I’m your wife. Natalie. Your wi-”

“Bullshit.” Natalie flinched, and floundered, unable to think of a reply in the wake of his harsh tone. He looked to the doctor. “Could you stop calling her that?”

“Um-” The greying man glanced at Natalie again, cautiously.

“...My, uh… Natalie is fine,” she said softly, eyes dropping from Lucifer’s irritated expression to the stark white sheets.

“Ah, well, yes. Perhaps it’s better if we let Mr. Devante get his rest? After all, proper rest is key to a speedy recovery.”

“Haven’t I been resting enough?” Lucifer scoffed, but settled back into the pillows anyways.

“A coma is not the same as resting. We’ll get you some food soon, to see what you’re able to keep down as well.”

Lucifer grunted, but otherwise didn’t reply.

The doctor touched Natalie’s arm, and she scrambled off the bed.

“Right. Um, I hope you uh, rest… well,” she said, stumbling over her words and avoiding his eyes, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice but doing her best to mask the hurt regardless.

She turned and ducked out of the room as quickly as she could, the doctor on her heels. He shut the door softly behind them and turned to look at her.

“Is — is it permanent?” she asked, quietly even though Lucifer was well out of earshot now. She looked up at him with big, hopeful green eyes, and he really wished he could give her a different answer.

“There’s no way of telling,” he said slowly. “It could be permanent,” Natalie took a shuddering breath, and he hurried to continue, “but there’s also a chance he could regain them, quickly or over time. It’s a matter of circumstance. Every situation is different.”

She nodded slowly, glancing at the door and wrapping her arms around herself. He had been in this field for too long, and was good at recognizing the signs of her resolving herself now to face what laid ahead.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry there’s nothing more we can do,” he added sincerely. Natalie gave him a bright smile, but he’d seen a lot of those too — it broke his heart to note that hers was one of the most authentic, if a little strained, like she hadn’t had to use her perfected grin in some time.

“You’ve done so much already. Thank you. Him being okay is the most important thing.”

He nodded, his years of experience betraying him when he was unable to find a way to comfort her.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Dev—”

“Please,” she said, a shaky exhale. “Just — could you call me Natalie?”

“Of course.” Her smile this time looked a little more genuine. “I’ll leave you to it, Natalie.”

She nodded, and he left her alone in the hallway. She sighed and pursed her lips, trying to decide what she should do next.

Calling Ipos was the first thing that came to mind — he and Sheila would be happy to hear that Lucifer was awake. She reached down to grab her phone before she remembered it was in his room, charging beside the cot she’d made a home out of during her stay since she’d refused to leave his side since she’d arrived.

She bit the inside of her cheek, glancing to the door and debating whether or not it was worth it, before deciding she was being silly. She braced herself, and cracked the door open, peering inside.

He looked like he was asleep.

Creeping inside, she tried to be as quiet as possible. She made it halfway across the room before he grunted, and she froze, turning slowly to look at him. He was staring at her with none of the warmth of the brown eyes she had fallen in love with a hundred times over, brows drawn.

“I — s-sorry, I was just grabbing my…” she trailed off, gesturing instead. He rolled his head to look at the small pile of her stuff, his gaze narrowing. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He sighed, and closed his eyes again.

“Just get it.”

She made herself quick about grabbing it, and turned to walk out, but thought twice and spun back around to grab her jacket off the top of her bag. She tugged it on as she manuevered carefully around the small room and all its machines and wires, and she tried very hard to keep her nose in the screen and not glance back at him, but her body betrayed her.

She chanced a look at him, and seeing him lying there peacefully, she was overcome with emotion. It didn’t matter that he no longer had his lush, dark hair. It didn’t matter that a scar stretched across his scalp. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the same man she married. It didn’t matter that he didn’t remember her.

She was overwhelmed with emotion, with the relief that he was alive, that he was breathing, that his eyes were closed of his own will and not the result of his head injury and the surgery that followed to save his life.

Her knees nearly gave out beneath her, and she threw caution to the wind as she rushed the last few steps from the room. She shut the door as softly as she could with trembling fingers, not noticing that he was staring at her.

Once out in the hallway, she was at a loss — bathroom, she needed the bathroom, but she had been using the one in his room and she didn’t know where the public one was. Her vision blurred and her head swam and she stumbled down a random hallway in search for it.

After she’d turned down the third hallway with no results, she leaned against the wall, breath shuddering. She slid down until she touched the floor, buried her face in her pulled-up knees, and let the dam break.

She sobbed, everything she’d been repressing for the past three days bursting forth. She felt everything she hadn’t let herself all at once — the frantic worry, the crippling fear, the indescribable pain, and most prominently the overpowering relief. She felt it all pulse through her with so much force it hurt.

She hadn’t been able to think as optimistically as she’d pretended. Several what if’s taunted her every waking moment and visions of life without him made her dreams bleed with terror and grief.

The vision of him, pale and breathing shallowly, blood matting his hair to the back of his head and curling down the sides of his face and staining the pillow crimson and his body limp and broken and vulnerable in a way she had never seen him — was one created entirely of her own imagination. She hadn’t actually seen him after that accident, he’d already been taken back for surgery by the time she’d reached the hospital, but the image her own mind conjured had haunted her every moment since.

But none of that mattered anymore. None of it. Because he was okay, she couldn’t reassure herself enough that he was fine, that besides a few lost memories the doctor had said he would likely make a full recovery. And that — that was enough for her. It had to be.

As her sobs died down, she heaved on the floor of the deserted hallway, shaking and exhausted. She was no stranger to bottling her emotions, but it had been a long time since she’d had to keep some that roiled so violently within her under lock and key.

She jumped when she heard the rustling of someone sitting beside her, and looked up into a pair of warm, familiar eyes. Ipos didn’t say anything, he just offered his silent presence. Feeling better with the company, she sniffled and wiped her face on the sleeve of her jacket.

They were silent for a minute, the only sounds in the barren hallway Natalie’s shuddered breathing and sniffles as she attempted to compose herself again.

“H-How did you find me?” she finally asked. Ipos shrugged, leaning back against the wall.

“A few nurses pointed me in the right direction.”

“I — Is Sheila…?”

“She’s in his room. Told her I’d bring you by as soon as I found you.”

“Liar.” Ipos glanced over at her, a smirk turning up his lips.

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Natalie giggled, sitting up straighter, “We should go back, before I make a dishonest man out of you.”

Ipos laughed quietly, but it faded out when Natalie stood up.

“You sure?”

He wasn’t a man of many words, but Natalie knew what he meant — was she ready? To face him again? To endure his lost memory? To handle the loss of his love?

“Yeah,” Natalie said, sobering up.

Ipos only nodded, and stood to walk her back.

***

Natalie would be lying if she claimed the last few days hadn’t taken their toll on her. She was exhausted and trying to stay optimistic just wore her down more.

Attempting to keep smiling when he would barely so much as look at her, trying to laugh when he recounted old stories with Sheila and Ipos that she’d heard a million times over, keeping the tears at bay every waking moment — she was just about ready to collapse.

Ever since he’d woken up, she’d spent her nights at home. He didn’t like the idea of her being there when he didn’t know her. She understood, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t felt like a slap in the face.

That didn’t mean trying to sleep in their bed alone didn’t feel cold and empty.

She’d taken to sleeping on the couch instead, and she busied herself during the day trying to prepare for his homecoming. Keeping herself distracted from her own thoughts had become a struggle, so she put all her leftover energy into cleaning, blasting music and singing along just as loudly to drown out the negativity that tried to pull her under.

But he was coming home today, and she would be optimistic if it killed her. He was going through enough, and she was going to make his transition back into his life as easy as possible.

She made sure everything was where it belonged and dabbed concealer over the dark circles beneath her eyes before she set off to the hospital to pick him up, equal parts excited and nervous. She was hoping a familiar environment would trigger some of his old memories, but she was also trying not to get her hopes up.

The doctor had warned her there was a chance he would never regain them, anyways. So Natalie was resolutely devoted to keeping this whole ordeal about him — he was the one who was injured, he was the one whose life had been thrown completely off-kilter, he was the one who needed the help.

Her own problems could wait, because him recovering was the big picture and she wouldn’t lose sight of that. She would nudge him in the right direction, but she wouldn’t pressure him to remember. Not when he had bigger things to worry about.

Her stout optimism was tested the moment she stopped outside his door, though. She heard him, inside, arguing.

“Why can’t I crash at your place?” A beat of silence accompanied by the sinking of Natalie’s heart. Of course, she should have known he wouldn’t want to come home with her — after all, to him, she was a complete stranger.

“C’mon, Ipos, this— no, listen, I’ll sleep on that shit-stained couch, I — wait, what? You moved? You big fuck, when did that happen?”

She figured she’d been eavesdropping long enough, and knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open and poking her head inside.

“Hey,” she said, gently, not wanting to risk his temper. He tensed, and Natalie tried not to let her smile waver. “I brought you a change of clothes, for whenever you’re ready…”

“Yeah, okay,” he said gruffly, and jerked his chin towards the end of the bed. “You can just set them there.” She walked over, setting the bag where he’d indicated and soothing it out.

“Just… whenever you’re ready,” she repeated, sincerely, trying to catch his eyes. He refused to look at her, however. She bit back her disheartened sigh, and stepped back. “Just let me know, okay? I’ll be outside.”

He nodded once, and she clasped her hands in front of her tightly to keep them from shaking as she retreated once more, with the sinking feeling that retreating from him — her best friend, her confidant — was going to be the norm very soon.

She stopped once the door closed behind her again and after a moment of hesitation, she pressed her ear against it as he resumed his conversation with Ipos.

“I don’t know…” she heard him say, and there was an uncertainty in his voice that she hadn’t expected given the demanding and abrasive tone he’d had before she interrupted. “I don’t know her.”

Her breath shook as she exhaled, and she turned her face to the ceiling to blink back the tears. There was a long silence on his end, and she almost turned away when he spoke again, a bit of the edge from before back.

“I don’t know if I can remember her. I don’t know if I can love her.”

Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle the pained gasp she wasn’t sure he could hear anyways but didn’t want to risk, and she spun around and fled before he could catch her, before she could hear anything else she didn’t want to.

That was her karma for eavesdropping, she supposed, as she felt her already fragile heart shatter into pieces.

This time, her search for the bathroom didn’t result in an abandoned hallway, but instead found her bowed over the sink, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes, her head throbbing as she resisted the overwhelming desire to cry.

She needed to get it together. She couldn’t react like this every time he said something that stung — it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t remember. She had to remind herself that he wasn’t being malicious, but that he was understandably very confused and disoriented and that she would be put off, too, if she woke up with no memory of a person claiming to be married to her.

She took several steadying breaths to compose herself, then slowly peeled her hands from her face. Her eyes were a little red, so she grabbed a paper towel and dampened it with cool water. She dabbed it gently beneath her eyes in hopes of making the swelling go down a little.

Once she decided she was presentable enough to brave the waiting room again, she slipped from the bathroom and traveled the short distance to the lobby where she could wait on him to get changed and sign the release forms.

He, thankfully, didn’t keep her waiting as long as she had expected him to. He emerged from his room within half an hour, and though he didn’t seem thrilled at the idea of coming home with her, he didn’t say anything against it, either as he signed his discharge forms, dropping his bag by his feet.

His doctor was giving him some final instructions about bed rest and not over-exerting himself — “that means you’re gonna be out of commission for awhile, Lucifer, and I’ve already talked to your chief about how long you need to stay out,” he’d said, to which Lucifer scowled but nodded.

Natalie was lingering, not close enough to make Lucifer anymore uncomfortable but enough to overhear. The graying man caught her eyes a few times and she nodded subtly in response, because they both knew Lucifer was too reckless and restless to follow the strict orders unless he was watched.

“We’ll have your follow up in about a month, alright? It should be pretty routine, but if you notice anything unusual please come in immediately regardless.” Lucifer nodded absently, it was clear he wasn’t listening anymore, itching to not be cooped up anymore.

Natalie’s apologetic smile was tired and strained but she waited silently while the doctor looked over the forms Lucifer handed him back to confirm his release.

“Looks like you’re good to go,” he said, glancing at the last page. “Though I’d prefer if you used a wheelchair. You just had surgery.” He sighed at the look he was given, and conceded. “Just remember all I told you, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” The doctor shared a look with Natalie and she lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. Even without the amnesia, Lucifer had always been impartial to hospitals, especially for long periods of time.

“All packed up?” she asked after the older man wished them a safe trip home and took his leave, a hesitant tease since all he really had was the clothes on his back and a few of his favorite books she’d brought for him.

He hummed in acknowledgment and scooped up his bag. Natalie pursed her lips, but didn’t push his lack of a reply. Instead, she folded her arms over her stomach and followed him as he made his way to the elevator.

The ride down was silent. Natalie had several things she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to bring them up and she wasn’t prepared for more of his rejection just yet. So she kept quiet and when the elevators opened on the ground floor he strolled out ahead of her, then stopped.

His brows were furrowed, clearly frustrated as he looked down at her. She didn’t know what she could’ve possibly done wrong this time, all she’d done was walk beside him, until —

“Well?”

“Well… what?”

“Where’s the car?” he asked, an exasperated edge to his voice.

“O-Oh, right, I’ll go pull it around—”

“That’s not necessary. That’ll just take more time.”

“You shouldn’t walk too far, though, the doctor said—”

“I had surgery, I’m not crippled. I can walk to the fucking car,” he snapped, and Natalie flinched. He looked away from her, and his tensed shoulders slumped a little in what she recognized as regret for losing his temper, but he didn’t offer an apology.

“...Right,” she said after a beat, and hated how her voice wavered. “Sorry, I’ll — it’s this way.”

She took the lead and was glad for it, because if he was behind her he couldn’t see the way her expression crumbled as her smile became too exhausting to fake anymore. The parking garage wasn’t far, but it was a pain to navigate and she tried in earnest to get him to the car as quickly as possible without the short trip being too much for him.

When it came into sight, she fished her keys out and unlocked the doors, moving to get in. She paused briefly when she noticed his uncertain expression and the slight sheen on his forehead, and she wished she’d just made him stay put in the lobby so she could have brought the car to him instead.

She didn’t have time to linger on it, however. He tugged the door open and slid in, careful not to hit his head, and she got in and started the car, eager to get them home.

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat and Natalie found herself distracted by the possibilities of what would happen once he was home as she put the car in reverse and took the wheel with both hands.

Would he hate it? Would the familiar environment rattle something within him? Would it fail and only serve as a bitter reminder of his lost memories?

She couldn’t say. She didn’t know what to expect, and while she was usually fond of surprises, this one worried her.

She shifted in the driver’s seat uncomfortably, her fingers tapping a nervous beat against the wheel. She hated driving, and preferred taking the bus or walking or leaving it to him, which was ironic considering the first time they’d met he had pulled her over for speeding.

Her accident about a year after they’d been dating had really put things in perspective for her, however, and even though she had walked away from it physically sound, she had been shaken.

The drive home lasted for what felt like forever, but when she finally pulled into the driveway she kept her eyes firmly in front of her until she'd parked. Her fingers tightened around the wheel, before she released it and chanced a look at him.

He was staring up at their house with the same familiarity he had greeted her with — or rather, lack thereof.

“This is it,” she said, trying for enthusiastic but not wanting to come off overbearingly so, and wiped her hands on her jeans. She tried not to linger too long on his unimpressed expression.

It wasn’t his fault he didn’t remember them picking this out together because it was in their budget even though it had almost nothing they’d wanted. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t remember many of their days off spent together making this house their home. It wasn’t his fault that the walls he’d so looked forward to coming into at the end of a long day were now unrecognizable to him. It wasn’t his fault and she had to keep reminding herself of that.

He made the first move to get out of the car, finally tearing his eyes away, and she scrambled out after him. She wanted to get his bag for him, but he grabbed it before she could get to it and turned away without a second glance.

She bit her tongue and followed him up the short distance to their front door, fumbling with the keys while he stood off to the side, annoyed and impatient. Once she got it open, a feat with her sweaty, nervous fingers, she gestured for him to go in first. He gave her a look but obliged and she followed after him, shutting the door softly behind them.

He stood just inside, looking around at the odd decoration and the abundance of potted plants, not sure what to make of it all. Natalie decided to give him a moment, not wanting to rush him.

She noticed his gaze fall to a small table that she’d decorated with photos of them and their friends. She couldn’t help the rush of hope she felt, especially the longer he stared at them — pictures of them when they were dating, one a friend had snapped when they had told everyone they were engaged, one of their wedding. Surely, surely they had to trigger something?

She didn’t dare breathe, digging her nails into her palms as her chest swelled when he reached for them…

...and she felt herself deflate, the air rushing out of her like a balloon and taking the hope she’d let consume her for that brief moment with it when he grabbed their wedding picture and turned it down, until it rested facedown on the table where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

Natalie’s heart twisted painfully, and her smile became more difficult to uphold. She stepped in front of him, quickly so he wouldn’t see her expression crumble. It was all she could do to keep her voice even.

“Come on, I’ll show you around,” she offered, walking deeper into their home.

“Can you just show me where I’m staying?” he said gruffly. “I don’t really feel like getting the whole grand tour right now.”

She froze midstep. She swallowed hard, but nodded, and turned for the bedrooms.

“Yeah, of course. It’s… it’s this way.”

The heavy thud of his footsteps behind her matched the painful beat of her heart in her chest as she guided him to the end of the short hallway.

She opened the door at the end to the master bedroom and moved to the side so he could step in.

“This is our—” she didn’t miss the wrinkle of his nose at her choice of words, and she looked away, “—bedroom. I… You can stay, or, you can have it. I mean, it’s already yours, but I can — I’ll stay in the guest room.”

She felt him staring, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes this time.

“The, uh, the bathroom is just through that door,” she said, gesturing lamely. And I’ll be staying in, um… in the guest bedroom. If you need anything.” She tilted her head back down the hall. “It’s the second on the left.”

He nodded in her peripheral, and she turned to leave, fingers curling around the knob.

“I’ll let you get settled in, then.”

The door clicked softly on her way out, and she crossed the short distance to her new bedroom. With one last look towards their room, she slipped inside and leaned heavily against the door. Her knees buckled and she allowed herself to slide down, until she hit the ground.

Her breath shuddered and she pulled her legs up, until she could rest her face in her knees. Exhausted, she squeezed her eyes shut and pushed past the pounding in her head, refusing the urge to cry.

They would get past this. They had always gotten past everything, together. This obstacle was inarguably their biggest one yet, but they would figure it out. She had to believe they would. She couldn’t give up so easily.

Their wedding picture, turned down, flashed in her mind and a tear slipped unbidden down her cheek. That had been the first thing she’d decorated with. That had been a constant since they had moved in. She had put it by the door in case of an argument where one of them would leave angry — when they came back in, that picture served to remind them to leave their anger and work to fix things instead.

She sucked in a breath and raised her head, swiping angrily at her face and glaring at the moisture that came away on her fingers.

Things were different now. He was different now. Years of the experiences that had changed and shaped him were gone, but the man she had fallen in love with was still in there. She just had to remind him of the woman he had fallen in love with.

She couldn’t rush him, though. She knew that much. She couldn’t imagine how strange this all must have been for him, and she wanted to make the transition as easy as possible.

It would take time, but they had all the time in the world.

But first, baby steps.

***

“What are you doing?”

Natalie jumped, turning away from the stove to face him and laying a hand over her heart. She opened her mouth, ready to crack a joke about how he still managed to sneak up on her after all these years, but she caught herself and thought better of it.

“Making breakfast,” she answered instead. They’d had takeout for lunch and dinner, she thought it would be nice for him to have something homemade instead. “Chocolate chip pancakes, your favorite!”

She could tell by the look on his face that he was skeptical about them being his ‘favorite’, but they promised chocolate and if there was one thing that would never change about her husband it was his unwavering love of chocolate.

She turned back to the stove, a smile tugging at her lips. At least she could get something right.

She slid the last one onto a plate and dropped a small square of butter on top of the stack, then carried it and the syrup over to him.

He looked down at the plate, less than impressed by the ugly pancakes with jagged edges and the burnt splotches.

“Bon appetit!” she said cheerfully, and Lucifer looked up at her, then back down to the pathetic pile of vaguely circular and questionably edible pancakes before him.

“...Thanks,” he muttered, and grabbed the syrup, deciding that if he drowned them in it then they couldn’t possibly be as bad as they looked.

He cut into the stack and lifted the bite to his mouth. He choked around the taste, and for a moment, he tried to get it down, he really did. He gave up on that effort, though, instead grabbing a napkin and spitting it out, wiping his mouth.

“That bad, huh?” Natalie asked, and he looked up at her. She didn’t look surprised or upset, just disappointed and a little sheepish. “Sorry. I’m not a great cook. It’s funny, you used to—” she stopped herself by taking his plate once she realized what she had done.

It was too late, though, and he stood up with an unreadable expression. Natalie frowned, and moved to apologize, but he cut her off.

“Don’t forget to turn the stove off,” he said, and disappeared back down the hallway towards their — his — room. She stood staring after him, and set his plate back on the table.

“Way to go,” she murmured to herself, leaning against a chair, her knuckles going white around the back of it. Every time she thought she was making progress she slipped up and ruined it.

Chewing on her lip, she spun around and flicked the stove off, hating the reminder he’d given her that he’d given her so often before, each time more teasing than the last.

Turn the stove off, Natalie.

I have nightmares about you leaving that thing on.

The guys over at the fire station will never let me live it down if they find out my wife set a fire.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, laughing to herself. He had hated her cooking and he always told her he refused to eat anything she made, though she knew he would do anything if she asked, he just had to put up the right show of resistance first. He had always gone out to check that the stove was off before coming to bed with her, and she had always rolled her eyes and teased him about it.

I didn’t even use the stove today, Lucifer.

You attract so much bad luck it wouldn’t surprise me if it turned on just because you looked at it.

You’re such a jerk.

She grabbed his plate again and dumped the contents in the trash, along with the extras she’d made for herself. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She rinsed the dishes off and dropped them in the dishwasher and then cleaned up the mess she’d made.

It didn’t take long, even as she tried to devote more time and attention to it than necessary just to keep her hands busy, to do something because she felt so useless. She had taken the week off for work, to help him get settled again, but she wasn’t so sure if she’d need the whole week if he didn’t even want to talk to her. She dried her hands and cast the towel onto the counter, sighing.

She turned to look around the small space for something to do, and her eyes fell on the photo of them pinned to the fridge. She walked over, slipping her fingers beneath it to get a better look, thumbing the edges tenderly. She’d surprised him that day at work. She’d snuck up on him, kissed his cheek, and snapped a picture to catch his reaction.

Her teeth worried her lip for a moment while she hesitated, and then she yanked it off. She went in search of a box, and once she found one a decent enough size, she dropped the photo in there. Then, she made her way to the living room, where she swiped all the photos of them into it. She made her way through every room except their bedroom, taking all evidence of their memories together down to shut them away.

She would show him later, she would revisit them with him, she promised herself. But she would take them down for now. She wouldn’t make him look at them every day.

She wouldn’t make him regret coming home.

The box and all their pictures found a new home beneath her bed. All except their wedding picture. She set that one up carefully on the nightstand, so at least she could look at it. She dusted her hands off, but once she stepped out of the room she immediately felt like she wasn’t even in her own home anymore.

It felt empty, impersonal, cold without their lives playing out over the walls. She looked over her shoulder, at his shut door, then at the clock. It was almost time for him to take his medicine, and she knew he needed to eat in order to do that.

Maybe she could make up for breakfast.

She started for the bedroom, going to tell him she was leaving, but her fingers hovered over the knob. She blinked at it, then looked up when she heard his voice coming from inside.

“—tried to kill me with those fucking pancakes, I swear,” she heard, and she covered her mouth with her hand, torn between the urge to laugh and the urge to cry. “It’s not funny, Ipos, I—”

His voice faded and she decided that was enough eavesdropping, backing away from the door. She’d leave a note instead for him to find, if he even noticed she was gone. She’d be back in less than ten minutes anyways, if traffic wasn’t horrible.

She found an old bill and scribbled “Be right back” on the back of the envelope, leaving it on the table just inside the door. She snatched the keys up and slipped outside.

Traffic wasn’t bad, just as she’d hoped, and she was at the small bakery in no time. The bell jingled welcomingly when she walked through the door, immediately consumed in the warmth and pleasant smells.

Rosenfeld Bakery. It was his favorite place. The interior was a play on the name, decorated with roses Natalie’s shop supplied now and small, old frames of rose fields. They’d found it years ago and nothing else they tried ever compared to the little shop, tucked into a corner.

“Good morning, Mrs. Devante!” the owner, Anthea, greeted from behind the counter.

“Good morning,” she smiled, relieved at the friendly face, and walked over.

“The usual? Where’s Lucifer?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” she said, and dropped her eyes to the display. “He’s, ahh… He’s at home. Could you add one of those eclairs, too?”

“An eclair? You making up for something?” Anthea teased. It was rare she saw one without the other. Natalie laughed, but it sounded breathless, forced.

“Something like that.”

Anthea frowned, setting the bag on the counter between them. Natalie fished out a bill and pushed it across, pulling the bag more towards her instead.

“Is everything alright?”

It took Natalie a long moment to answer as Anthea rung her up, waiting for her answer with a concerned crease in her brows. Was everything alright? Not really.

But…

“It will be,” she finally said, raising her eyes to meet Anthea’s. She smiled at her and gathered up the bag of Lucifer’s favorite breakfast, turning to leave. “Keep the change!” she called over her shoulder, and walked out before Anthea could even get a word in.

Her return home was even quicker. She was excited, because her cooking was a longshot, she’d known that from the beginning, but she was sure this was something he could appreciate.

She hurried inside, the warm bag tucked against her side, and travelled back into the kitchen. She pulled down another plate and arranged the chocolate-cinnamon rolls he ate religiously in one half, and put the double chocolate eclair on the other half. Smiling to herself, she made her way back towards their — his — room.

She knocked lightly on the door, and waited for a few excruciating moments.

“Lucifer?” she finally asked, and there was another beat of silence before she heard shuffling and finally the door opened up.

His eyes dropped down to the plate almost immediately, and then back up to her. She saw the skeptical arch of his brow, even as his eyes kept dropping back to the plate. It looked a lot better than what she’d presented to him earlier, she knew.

“A peace offering,” she offered as an explanation. “I know this is hard for you and I’m probably not making it any easier, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong here. I didn’t make it,” she added quickly when she saw his lip twitch as he undoubtedly remembered the disaster pancakes.

He stared at her for a minute longer, before taking the plate.

“Where did you get it?”

“Rosenfeld’s. It’s a bakery on the corner of 5th.” He was halfway to lifting one of the rolls to his mouth when he paused.

“Never heard of it.”

“We uh… we found it a few years ago,” she said slowly, cautiously, not wanting to upset him. She watched his expression carefully as she added, “It’s a bit of a hole in a wall, but it’s really good.”

Something in his eyes darkened, and he nodded and set the roll back down.

“Thanks,” he said, but there was an undefinable edge to his voice and he was unable to meet her eyes now. She felt a piece of her break away, screaming, wondering what she could say if everything about his likes or interests when she knew him was apparently off the table. She was trying to help.

Didn’t he want to remember?

“...Yeah, of-of course. You, um, you have to take your medicine at 11:30.”

“I know.”

“I just thought I’d remind you, just in case.” She shifted uncomfortably, not sure whether she should try to catch his eyes or avoid them altogether. “I know you need something to eat with it, but if you… if you don’t want that there’s cereal and stuff in the kitchen. You’re more the welcome to help yourself.”

“I don’t need you to fucking babysit me, Natalie,” he said, and even he seemed surprised at how harsh his voice had been, but he didn’t make a move to apologize. Despite herself, it was the first time she’d heard him say her name since he’d woken up, and it sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m a grown man, I know how to take care of myself.”

The words felt like a slap in the face. She felt her stomach drop. Her fingers curled into white-knuckled fists in an attempt to keep him from seeing her shaking hands. Her heart beat a thunderous beat against her ribcage and the blood rushing through her ears was deafening.

She looked up at him, and he was looking at her now. There was harsh dip between his brows, his light brown eyes angry, tensed against the doorframe. Her eyes fell on the bandage covering his stitches and her breath shuddered.

“Yeah,” she said, calmer than she felt. She met his eyes again, now that she’d made her point with her gaze. “Sure looks like it.”

She turned on her heel and marched back to her room. She shut the door with a little more force than necessary, and went to go sit on the bed. She let her fingers uncurl, and pressed them against her thighs in an attempt to quell how violently they shook.

She stared at the floor for what felt like an eternity, trying to even out her breathing again, trying to get the resonance in her ears to go away, trying to see something other than the angry curl of his lip and the annoyed set of his jaw.

Finally, she raised her head. She was never one to let the day pass without living it to its fullest, but there was nothing more she wanted than to crawl into bed and sleep it away right then. She hesitated, because what if he needed her, but—

He didn’t need her. He’d made that perfectly clear.

She caught the shimmering frame of their wedding picture on the nightstand. She stared at it, her chest tight with the memory and all the implications it held, all the vows it upheld and all the arguments it had resolved.

She reached over, and with every part of her crying out in protest, she pushed it face down.

Then she kicked her shoes off and crawled under the sheets, pulling the covers above her head and trying to ignore how sharply she felt her heart break.

#satan and me #natan #natanweek2019 #star light star write #lacuna #prompt: hospital

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milomeepit · 6 years

Text

I Was An Island (Touch Starved!Logan LAMP)

Chapter One: Bagels

Word Count: 2092

Ships: LAMP

Warnings: Swearing, unhealthy sleep habits, food, touch starvation

What is it like to crave to touch or be touched on a consistent basis by someone? Crave to be able to put your arm around them, touch their face or have their hand or shoulder touch yours and so on?

Logan tapped his fingers against the keys of his laptop. This was a stupid topic. It made no sense. What kind of affect could physical contact have on a person’s psychological state? Surely, once past childhood, past the need for such things as comfort from one’s parents after a nightmare or a skinned knee, it wouldn’t matter.

He could hardly remember the last time he had hugged another person. Not since he was a child, he was certain. He was fine. Wasn’t he?

His fingers hovered over the keys, hesitating. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, hearing it creak quietly beneath him. This was preposterous. Pointless. Absurd. Logan drew back from the computer, rubbing his temples as he sighed. However ridiculous he found it, it was a necessary project to make the grade in his psychology class.

Staring at the glowing screen of his laptop, the typing cursor blinking on the page, taunting him with his lack of an answer to this question that should have been simple. So simple.

He shut the laptop, pushed away from his desk, and rose to his feet. He stretched, feeling his stiff joints crack. Perhaps it was time for a break. Have something to eat. He had promised Patton that he would sort out his own dinner, since he wasn’t eating with the rest of them. He glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of the screen and grimaced.

3am was a tad late to call it dinner, but he was going to keep his promise and at least have some crackers or something.

He exited his room, making his way quietly down the dark hallway. Did they have any of those Lunchables packs left? He knew Patton liked to keep a few in his bookbag to nibble on while he studied. Roman had insisted they stock up on the pizza variety, claiming they were vastly superior to their ham and cheese brethren.

Logan shook his head fondly, pausing outside Roman’s door. His gaze travelled over the Disney themed stickers plastered to the wood, the bold lettering spelling out ‘PRINCE’ stencilled in bright red paint. Roman would be asleep at this hour, he was sure. Whether it was curled up in bed, clutching an armful of plushies, or collapsed against his desk, pen in his hand, passed out halfway through the latest sentence of his work, he would certainly be out for the night.

Logan continued down the hall, frowning to himself. Roman really did concern him, sometimes. The man needed a good night’s rest. That, however, was his own decision, and Logan could hardly police his sleep schedule and self care. Much and all as he may wish to, on occasion.

He entered the kitchen, heading straight for the pantry and pulling open the door. He ran his eyes over the shelves, chewing his lip as he considered his options. Crackers... peanut butter... Crofters was another option, but he didn’t quite feel in the mood for something sweet. His gaze landed on a bag of bagels, and a small smile crept onto his face. Perfect.

He grabbed the bag and shut the door, then turned to the counter. “Hm... perhaps...” He paused for a moment. “... Cream cheese?” He murmured aloud.

“You’re up late.”

The gravelly voice behind him made him jump, dropping the bag on the counter. “Good lord!” Logan spun to see Virgil, perched on the dining room table, a dark outline in the shadowy room. Sitting so still, it was no wonder that Logan hadn’t noticed him at first.

Virgil smirked slightly. “Couldn’t sleep?” He asked, his voice low.

Logan frowned as he opened the bag and pulled out a bagel. “Working on a paper. It’s a... difficult subject for me to wrap my head around.”

Virgil nodded to the bag. “Be a pal and make me one, too?”

Logan rolled his eyes and grabbed another bagel. “Brat.” He pulled a knife from the block and started carefully splitting the bagels in half.

Virgil winked, shifting position to fully face Logan. “So, what’s the paper? One of your star nerd ones?”

“Ah... no, it isn’t astronomy,” Logan shook his head. “Psychology.”

Virgil perked up slightly. It was one of the few classes the two shared. “Oh, really? What’s up? Having trouble with finding sources or something?” He asked.

“... Not exactly.” Logan was quiet for a few moments as he pulled cream cheese out of the fridge. He held it up to show Virgil, who nodded, before popping the lid and beginning to slather it over the bagels.

“So... you gonna ask for help or brood with your snack for a while?” Virgil raised an eyebrow. He leaned back, bracing his arms on the tabletop behind him as he swung his legs back and forth idly.

Logan cleared his throat. “I do not ‘brood’.”

“He says, broodingly, as he broods.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re damn right I am. Now quit dodging the question, nerd. What’s the problem?”

Logan sighed, retrieving a plate from the cupboard and dropping the bagels onto it. He made his way over to the table, setting the plate down next to Virgil. “I suppose... much and all as I’ve read over the subject material... I don’t quite grasp the concept.”

Virgil patted the tabletop. “Take a seat, dude. Let’s talk this out, step by step, huh? Maybe we can figure out where you’re getting lost.”

Logan hoisted himself up, perching on the edge of the table. He picked up his bagel, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. “Well... I suppose... I just don’t understand. I don’t understand the concept. At all. I mean...” He paused. “I’ve been reading accounts from people who experience this ‘touch starvation’ phenomenon. They state that... despite social interaction... despite seeing people... conversing with people in everyday situations... it’s the physical touch they crave.”

Virgil made a soft noise of agreement. He picked up his bagel, turning it over in his hands and poking at the small amount of cream cheese that had squished out the side when Logan pressed the halves together.

“I... have to confess I don’t understand the difference,” Logan admitted. “It’s all social interaction, isn’t it?”

Virgil sighed. “Not... not exactly.” He chewed on his lip as he thought.

Logan tilted his head, looking at Virgil curiously. “Oh?”

Virgil closed his eyes. “It’s... it fucking sucks. It’s one of the worst feelings I can think of, honestly.”

Logan lowered his bagel, licking cream cheese from his lower lip. “... You experience it?” He asked softly.

“... I have, in the past.” Virgil stared down at his untouched bagel. “You want to touch, but it can’t be someone you don’t kinda trust, and you’re afraid to ask, let alone do it, because it fucking sucks when someone belittles your needs or thinks it’s silly, or worse, thinks it’s pathetic.”

“Virgil...”

“It’s like... you’ve gone so so long without the touch you need that.. you’re just desperate for it, but you feel stupid for asking, for needing it, so you usually don’t. Which just makes you need it more, because it’s like every day you don’t get nice touches the problem gets... exponentially worse.”

Logan watched as Virgil’s grasp on the bagel tightened, his fingers digging into the snack. He frowned. These were the kinds of things Virgil had experienced? He felt a little guilty for his callous attitude towards it.

Virgil swallowed, shaking his head. “Like... someone touching you is like heaven… but if you ask for that, it’s gonna nibble at your brain that it’s artificial, that they don’t really mean it, that they’re just humouring you. And it doesn’t get better in days or weeks or months, because it didn’t get that bad to begin with in days or weeks or months.”

He set down the bagel, then crossed his arms, wrapping them around himself. “And, you know, the literal worst thing is someone scorning you for touching them, even though it’s perfectly within their rights to not want to be touched, it is just devastating to the psyche to have someone that you care about enough to want to touch get angry or disgusted or annoyed at you touching them.”

“I see…,” Logan trailed off, his mind trying wrap around Virgil’s explanation.

Virgil swallowed again, and Logan realised he was fighting back tears. “I just want kisses down my spine, on my forehead, someone nuzzling into me, someone hugging me so tight it’s hard to breathe, petting my hair, scratching my head, idly rubbing my back. Little stuff. I want to hold someone, hug them with all my strength, bury my face into their clothes and skin and hair, kiss someone all over, touch them everywhere and do it over and over, run my fingers through their hair, play with their hands and kiss their knuckles and the veins on their wrists.”

Logan reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering above Virgil’s shoulder. Was... was it appropriate to offer physical comfort? Was it the correct response to offer a hug? Or would that be crossing a boundary, considering the subject matter? Did he even want to hug Virgil? He wanted to do something. God, why wasn’t Patton here? Patton was much better at these... touchy-feely, mushy, emotional conversations.

“It hurts, like, I get physically ill if I don’t get touch when I have those moments I desperately need it but feel too afraid to seek it,” Virgil continued, his voice strangled. “It doesn’t even really have to be sexual, or romantic. I just like touch. And I haven’t had enough of it from the people I loved. So now it’s kind of like a condition. Touch-starved.” He paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “And it fucking sucks.”

Logan slowly, gingerly, laid his hand against Virgil’s shoulder. The fleece-lined fabric of Virgil’s jacket was soft beneath his fingers. His fingertips tingled at the contact, and he fought against the urge to pull back.

Virgil turned his head to look at him, his face pale. He looked like a ghost in the dim room, his dark eyes shining in the faint light seeping from the kitchen. “... So... yeah. It’s... it’s a thing.” He snatched the bagel off of the plate, tearing into it.

Logan licked his lips, silently nodding. He wasn’t sure what to say. He never was, when it came to these sort of things. He didn’t exactly intend to have a big, spill-their-guts, heart-to-heart conversation with Virgil. He just planned to have a snack, then to stare at his computer screen until his eyes burned and the birds outside his bedroom window began to screech at the rising sun.

“... You okay, dude?” Virgil’s voice was rough, and it pulled him out of his thoughts.

“I’ll be fine. I’m somewhat concerned for you, though.” Logan frowned at him, squeezing his shoulder gently before drawing back.

Virgil shrugged. “I can manage, usually. I’ve talked to Patton about it. It’s part of the reason he’s always laying on me when we watch movies and stuff. It’s... his way of helping.”

“Part of the reason? What’s the rest of the reason?” Logan asked.

Virgil’s lips quirked into a fond smile. “... Because it’s Patton.”

Logan found himself returning the smile. “That’s a predictable, yet totally valid reason.”

Virgil ate the last of his bagel, then eased himself off of the table. “I’m gonna go back to my room.”

“Going to sleep?” Logan followed him, picking up the plate and carrying it over to the sink. He rinsed off the plate and set it in the drainer as he shook the excess water off of his hands.

Virgil grabbed a dish towel and dried the plate, smoothly placing it back in the cupboard. “I’m gonna try. How about you?”

Logan paused, his glowing laptop screen flashing in his mind’s eye. The idea of working more on his paper made him feel physically ill, and he had to fight the grimace from his face. “... Yes. I think that’s probably for the best.”

Virgil bumped his shoulder against Logan’s. “Night, nerd.” He nodded, then turned, disappearing down the shadowy hallway.

Logan stood, stunned for a few seconds. He slowly raised a hand to the spot where their shoulders had touched. His shoulder seemed to burn, his skin prickling like pins and needles.

What the hell?

#touch starvation #touch starved logan #lamp #analogic #logan sanders #milo writes #virgil sanders #logic sanders #anxiety sanders #sanders sides #thomas sanders #fanfiction

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mininky · 6 years

Text

Renatus (1)

Summary: (y/n) finds herself in a very unusual situation where her fate seems to be woven with Hades himself, who’s too much of a jerk for her to even admit that sure okay he’s kind of really good looking.

Pairing: Hades!Yoongi x reader

Warnings: none for now other than some cussing and mentions of a chamberpot and my small love speech to Sojourner Truth

Chapters: one two three

Your 21st birthday had so far been incredibly uneventful. You had spent too much time trying to power your way through piles of essays and had little interest in drinking the night away unless it was with a painfully strong coffee that might actually help you get through all of the homework. Your birthdays were always relatively uneventful. Perhaps that was your fault, you were too absorbed in school and work at this point in your life to try to make functioning relationships, platonic or otherwise. Even as a child friendship had been a difficult achievement and birthdays were usually just a painful reminder of that. The only thing that ever stood out about your birthday was the flowers you received every year at midnight. A gorgeous arrangement of lilies, with no card and no name, appeared on the doorstep of wherever you lived every year like clockwork after you turned 13. At first, you had guessed it was your parents, but even they seemed to be perplexed at who it was. Your next guess was your grandmother who owned a small flower shop, but upon explaining the flowers to her on your 14th birthday she looked alarmed and said she would never give you flowers that symbolized death. As a teenager the flowers haunted you, you were constantly trying to catch who it was that left them but never saw a single person leave them behind. As an adult, you just welcomed that someone out there wanted to leave you a present, even if you would be too busy editing your fifth essay this week to actually give it much thought this time. After what felt like decades you reread your most recent edits and cracked your knuckles. It was decent, it wasn't groundbreaking work by any means however creating something groundbreaking about a piece as famous as "Ain't I Woman" wasn't about to happen, the more important thing to you at this point was editing the essay so it didn't seem like you were only writing a worship piece dedicated to Sojourner Truth which turned out to be far more difficult than previously predicted as you found yourself constantly trying to stay on topic rather than rant for pages about the beauty of how unplanned the speech was, how it encompassed everything still wrong with society today, how the woman was so bad ass she literally walked away from slavery. Literally, she walked away, she didn't even run. As your eyes tried to skim towards the end you found the weight of the night finally hitting your mind and body, a deep lethargy sweeping over you. The last thought you had was a reminder that you needed to finish preparing for your presentation of Mary Wollstonecraft before succumbing to sleep.

You weren't sure where you were or what was going on. All you knew is that you had fallen asleep on a mountain of homework with "A Vindication of the Rights of Women" as a makeshift pillow on your desk and now you seemed to be in a very strange dream in a very strange place and to top that off you were having a far too realistic dream where you woke up with-in the dream, yes that's exactly what had to be happening because the room before your eyes was completely new to you. The bed you lay in felt like something straight out of a five star hotel, the sheets where the smoothest black silk and the blankets were of the most gorgeous fur you had ever seen (faux you hoped quickly) and there were four posters with a canopy of black and gold mesh-like material, that upon touch felt also luxuriously soft and far too real for your liking. A feeling of anxiety began to bubble inside you as you opened up the canopy and walked slowly through the room. There was black and gold everywhere, and the room was larger than the entirety of the two bedroom apartment you shared with three other roommates. A grand ornate mirror stood on the floor, the length running up almost halfway to what had to be at least thirty feet ceilings (although judging the size and height of things had never been your strong suit) and oh good god was that a gold chamberpot?????? A CHAMBERPOT? "Note to self, stop drinking so much caffeine my dreams are getting really fucking weird." The words came out as a whisper but echoed through the room. At that same time you heard other noises, other people speaking. In the distance, you could hear someone saying something similar to "a girl! No no no a human!! You're sure you sensed that in your room? But how????" Moments later an ornately carved wooden door that you somehow hadn't noticed burst open and two men tumbled in. "How did she get in here Jungkook?" The shorter of the two asked the younger man, his eyes staring into yours for just a second before looking back at his companion. Even in your dreams people ignored you and were assholes, you really needed to do something other than study when you woke up. Maybe actually try talking to someone in your class, or joining a gym and try to strike up a conversation with the least pretentious person there. "How am I supposed to know? I only came to visit you because I thought Persephone ran away again, this place gives me the creeps." The younger of the two looked down at his feet as he spoke, while at first he was annoyed now he seemed to be...intimidated almost? "Well she's clearly not here and we clearly have a problem that there is a human here and she's alive and she seems to have just appeared, there is no sign of an intrusion and I have felt no presence other than your own come in through the entrance." With that, the more intimidating man started to walk closer to you. "Who are you girl?" Again you couldn't help to want to analyze the simultaneously lazy and commanding presence of his. You didn't answer quickly, instead, you took time to inspect him. While you might be having a very bizarre dream and the guy did seem to be a bit of an asshole you must admit he was good looking. 'The good looking ones are usually assholes' you thought to yourself. He was short, and from what you could tell under his black robe (oh great my dream is taking a weird cult turn, I knew I shouldn't have tried to do my alternative religion studies so late at night after watching true crime documentaries yesterday) he seemed to be very slim, his face was almost cute if it weren't for the sharp look in his eyes and the tight clench in his jaw forming a formidable scowl. As your eyes traced over his features you heard the other boy (Jungkook he called him) say "Do you think she's deaf??" "Quiet Jungkook. Girl, I asked you a question. What is your name?" His voice was slightly louder this time, slightly deeper from agitation. "You're kind of an ass, how about asking nicely?" The words tumbled out before you could think and you found yourself growing red as Jungkook began to shake with laughter and kept repeating, "oh my gods she called you an ass Yoongi, an ass!" 'Ah so Yoongi is his name...' you looked back and forth between the two, your face growing hot yet again as you realized that Yoongi hadn't broken his gaze from you even under the commotion of his friend. "My name is (y/n), and I take it you are Yoongi...so tell me Yoongi, where am I dreaming that I am? I don't believe I've ever seen this place, I'm pretty sure I'd remember a gold chamberpot." His eyes narrowed and Yoongi stepped closer, his breath fanning over your face. It felt like we stood in a staring match for ages, both of us too stubborn to lose before finally Jungkook stopped laughing and said, "You don't realize you're in Hades? Good gods, how did you even get here?" That was enough to break your staring match as you looked over at the younger boy, "What? I'm dreaming that I'm in Hades? The ancient Greek underworld?" "Ancient? Perhaps to you humans, yes perhaps it could be called ancient. Speaking of humans I don't believe I gave you permission to call me by that name, to you humans I am Hades." Yoongi didn't even blink or move away from you, his words shook with a quiet anger, his near whisper feeling more like a yell. At first, you felt small under his tone, uncomfortable under his gaze as confusion washed over you. The dream felt so bizarre and so unusual, but you couldn't help the gnawing anxious voice in the back of your head telling you that this wasn't a dream and that you were somehow standing in front of a mythological figure while the logical voice in your head was also saying that there is no logical way any god is real, that there is no possible way you were in anything but a dream. The logical side of the argument waring within your head began to win out and mustering up some confidence you looked straight at Yoongi (or Hades or dream dude) and said, "Aren't you a little short to be the 'terrifying' god of the underworld? Also a little...young?" Once again Jungkook howled with laughter, tears running down his face as he chortled out "short ohhhhhh my gooooodsssss. I like her! I say she should stay, this is great! Short!!! She called you short!" To your surprise, Yoongi began to match your smirk and he moved his lips right to your ear before whispering, "While I want to appreciate how feisty you are, I more appreciate how much of an idiot you are for laughing at the face of death and its god. I could kill you, I could take your soul, I could devour it and ensure that your soul would never enter another body again." You refused to show fear, you refused to shake in front of him. Even in this idiotic dream, you were just as stubborn as you were in real life. While your insides twisted with fear and anxiety bubbled up in your throat you steeled yourself to show none of that on your face. "Well, Hades" you spat out his name and gave a long pause before continuing, trying to match his lazy pace, "if this isn't a dream, and you are truly the god of the underworld then isn't it best to get me back to the world of the living? I have a presentation that I don't want to miss, I've been working my ass off and it's worth half my entire grade. So chop chop, lets get to it, big boy." You're not sure how but you managed to say all of that with confidence, not even a slight waver in your voice. Yoongi stared back at you for some time before turning around and walking towards the door. "Fine, we'll go to the fates and see what's going on and see if you don't truly know how you got here or if you’re hiding something." As you rushed to follow his fast pace Jungkook took stride in the middle of the two of you. "I'm coming with, this is by far more entertaining than anything else I could do." Jungkook had a smile plastered on his face, still wiping tears from his eyes as he spoke.

You’re not sure why but you found comfort in that. While you didn't know the young man at all you found his presence far lighter and far more comforting than Hades’. Yoongi had this energy to him, a presence that felt overwhelming at times and a voice that encompassed this quiet power that lay in an angry bubble just below the surface. The entire time you walked you tried to mentally tell yourself to wake up and wrapped up in your thoughts you found yourself walking straight into Yoongi's back. Blinking you realized that Yoongi was sitting in a boat already and that Yoongi was waiting for you to step in. After taking a cautious step in you sat down next to Jungkook (to ensure you wouldn't have to sit next to Hades) and began to look around. Hades was unlike not only anything you had ever seen but unlike anything you would imagine it to be. What you assumed to be the Styx river was stunning, the waters changed colors constantly, from light lilacs to blood reds and brilliant greens to soft yellows and inky blacks. It was also covered with the most beautiful lilies you had ever seen. You began to reach out to touch on before Hades grabbed your hand.

"Do not touch the water girl, the souls will try to attach themselves to you and trying to remove them is a very painful and often fatal endeavor." His voice sounded almost soft, almost caring. Yoongi looked wistfully at the water as you finally spoke. "Lilies...every year I receive Lilies on my birthday and I'm sorry to say that today I didn't even check to see if I received them." Your voice came out in a dreamy whisper as if saying it too loud would mean that would break the spell of the unknown lilies that you treasured. "You...I..."Yoongi seemed at a loss for words, his mind clearly confused by this statement. "You couldn't be..." "Oh look Yoongs, we're already at the entrance. Hey, do you think you can transport all of us to the fates? They never seem to want to let me in. Crazy old bats." Both Yoongi and you were forced out of your thoughts by Jungkook, and you realized that indeed the boat had stopped at a sandy shore in front of a dark entrance where candles floated in mid-air. Before you could even step out of the boat you felt a cold hand grab a hold of your shoulder and in just a blink of an eye, you found yourself standing in front of three very strange looking old women. "Ah yes, we knew you'd come Hades!" The one on the left chirped as the one in the middle said, "You must surely remember!" The one on the right finished with, "You, after all, set this fate in motion!" Your mind tried to take in everything. You weren't sure how you got here, or where here was (yet again.) The women in front of you looked exactly like cartoon witches, in black robes and bristly long white hair with a mad glint in their foggy eyes. Yoongi stepped in front. "Fates, I'm not sure how...but this girl found herself in my sleeping chambers. I came to you because I assume you can explain how her fate is woven into the underworld or if this is just some elaborate prank by Zeus..." You chose to remain silent instead of trying to add to the conversation, you were still trying to understand what exactly was going on. You couldn't help but think of the cartoon fates in Hercules and worked hard to stifle the laugh that was trying to bubble out as you gazed at the three old women in front of you. "Why surely you remember!" Again they spoke from left to right, apparently one of the three could not speak for them all, again the image of the Disney movie lurked in your mind's eye. "Why you promised!" "Why you chose to wove this fate!" And then they circled back to the furthest on the left. "Why you saved that woman's boy." "You took her up on her offer that you would wed the woman's firstborn daughter" "And in exchange, you broke the taboo and let the boy live!" "Surely you remember." "After all" "We know of the lilies you send!" "You...you sent the lilies?" Your voice came out soft, you sounded almost childlike as you thought back to the first time you received the lilies when you were just ten. "I...I didn't know I was sending them to you, I just asked Hermes to send them..."Yoongi sounded startled and even slightly embarrassed almost, like a small child who's been caught in the act. "I don't understand...how could you send them to me without knowing my name? And what do they mean save the son? My mother has no boys I have no brothers, I’m an only child. And...DID THEY SAY MARRY??? OH MY GOD THIS ISN'T A FUCKING DREAM AT ALL IS IT? I...I...I...ohh nooo my presentation!!!" You started hyperventilating as you continued speaking, the air around you felt dizzyingly hot and stuffy and the walls felt like they were closing in. If it's possible to feel exactly like a phone that's been submerged in water that is the exactly how your brain felt. Jungkook suddenly appeared next to you (or perhaps in the midst of everything you just hadn't noticed that he had been there the whole time, you really weren't sure) and tried to soothe you by rubbing the back of your neck. Yoongi looked both bewildered and...perhaps angry or jealous (or maybe you just secretly hoped that, but you really didn't want to try to analyze what you felt for Hades at that moment) as he watched the scene before him. Once you managed to finally slow your breathing to a steady pace Yoongi said so quietly you could barely hear him, "I will answer all of your questions in time, but you need rest." And suddenly you found yourself as you had just hours ago slipping into another deep sleep without any warning at all.

alksdjf so this felt like a rushed mess? Sorry, this is actually my first fanfic and I haven’t tried writing anything fiction in ages but this idea just popped into my head and I figured I should just...go with it? Anywho this chapter is more like a prologue, I’ll try to update soon and I’m sorry if it’s just a hot mess, but I do hope you enjoyed this!

Also, fun fact, I once had to do a 12 slide presentation on Sojourner Truth and to this day I have never done another assignment that I loved more than that one and just as a reminder Ms. Truth actually had a Dutch accent as Dutch was her first language, in fact she was a slave in New York not the south so southern accents aren’t accurate in the slightest.

#yoongi story #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfction #suga fanfic #youngi reader #suga reader #bts fic #yoongi fic #yoongi #suga

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beanplague-moved · 6 years

Text

absolute social detriment

i wrote some mindless cute fic to make up for a bad day. monster prom is embarrassingly taking up a lot of my headspace at the moment.

writing commissions | art commissions | ao3 | donations.

Brian does a bit of art in his free time. Nothing spectacular—his art style needs some work, and he always fucks up the eyes—but you know, it’s something. Mostly just sketches to pass the time in class, when he actually bothers to go.

Currently, he’s doing his best to replicate this one image that’s been present in his mind for the last couple hours. He’s actually pretty good at this—translating ideas onto paper, that is. He’s got a good grasp on anatomy, though he does wish he could make it a little more stylistic. His poses feel too stiff sometimes.

Polly says, “Is that Damien?” and Brian closes his sketchbook immediately.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Brian, his tone deadpan. Polly is floating beside him, peering over his shoulder. “You can leave now. We’re in class.” This is a bullshit deflection, mainly because their teacher could not give less of a shit what they were doing. Polly glances at the now-closed sketchbook.

“He’s your boyfriend, you know. You don’t have to pretend not to like him or whatever,” she says. Brian blinks.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t draw. Go away,” he says. Polly’s eyebrows arch, and then she smiles.

“I’ll have you know that once a club announced it was at capacity and I physically possessed a bouncer in order to get in, and spent the whole night body hopping,” she says, “Closing things off only makes me more determined, Brian,” and then she leaves, floating back to her seat.

Brian puts his sketchbook in his backpack and makes a mental note to avoid drawing in class.

Brian goes to gym and tells the coach that he’s dead (which is true) and sits out the dodgeball round for the day. He instead spends the time drawing his boyfriend playing dodgeball and gaining creativity stats.

Liam, who has also used his undead state as an excuse not to play dodgeball, leans over to see Brian’s sketchbook. “You’ve drawn him to be a lot more aesthetically pleasing than I would have,” says Liam, glancing between the sketchbook page and the real-life reference, who is baring his teeth and threatening to punch his own team members in the face. “I didn’t know that you draw.”

Brian closes his sketchbook, “I don’t and never have,” he blatantly lies, trying his best to cut away from the conversation. Liam doesn’t get the hint.

“Ah, I see,” says Liam, “This is an attempt to remain cool and collected in the eyes of a social superior. Well, there’s no need, Brian. Social hierarchies are far too cliche, anyway.”

Brian says, “I honestly don’t understand any word that has ever come out of your mouth,” because it’s the truth, and he’s a very honest person. Liam nods.

“A very convincing persona. I’ll give you points for dedication, at least,” he says, and it’s at this point that Brian kind of just tunes him out and watches the game. At one point he almost reopens his sketchbook, but in the corner of his eyes he sees Liam glancing at it and he stops himself.

It’s not even that he’s embarrassed of the art or anything—or, well, he is. It’s objectively embarrassing. Brian, who is known for not caring, spends his time doodling his boyfriend in candid poses? That’s absolute social detriment right there. He doesn’t even know how he would prepare for such a scenario wherein someone noticed. What if someone pointed out how careful the linework was? What if someone called him cute? What if Damien saw? There are just too many variables.

And yeah, technically Brian is dating Damien already, and it isn’t particularly weird for him to idealize his boyfriend or draw him, but come on. A man is entitled to his particular complex, all right? Not every irrational argument or insecurity needs to be scrutinized for how much sense it makes.

Brian leaves gym class having lost several points contributing to his boldness stat. That’s just how it is sometimes.

At lunch Brian enjoys the very reliable practice of not eating anything (in this cafeteria? You’d be better off eating out of the garbage, which is legitimately what some students have been doing. It’s absolutely hilarious and also very indicative of the school’s quality of life) and finally finishing his damn drawing without a dating sim character breathing down his neck.

“Is that Damien?” asks Miranda, and does she have to be so loud? Well practiced in this particular method of avoidance, Brian shuts his sketchbook immediately. “That’s so romantic!”

Oh God. “Miranda, I will pay you at least two money to leave—” he’s cut off before he can finish his offer and/or threat of bribery.

“You saw them, right? The drawings?” asks Polly, who actually might be the devil. It’s a distinct possibility. She hangs out with Damien an awful lot for someone who isn’t the devil. Of course, you could say the same for Brian or literally anyone else in their circle of friends, but still. “I think it’s adorable!”

This. This is the nightmare scenario. Holy shit.

Brian is in the middle of considering his plan of action, and he narrows it down to two distinct choices. Either he can toss his own sketchbook into the garbage at such an angle where it constitutes as a rather impressive slam dunk and thus has a distinct chance of impressing his peers, or he can get up and leave and continue his drawing in the bathroom.

He isn’t so keen on the possibility of losing his sketchbook, and his boldness stat isn’t particularly high. He ends up taking the second option, wordlessly walking out of the situation like the corpse he is. He really is living up to his undead heritage.

Brian is almost done with his drawing, which is actually pretty impressive, considering he’s illustrating this in a bathroom. It’s a horrid environment for art. It smells weird and he’s pretty sure Polly does drugs in here, but you take what you can get.

Damien says, “You fuckin’ draw?” and Brian is considering that, perhaps, he has angered some minor god. It happens all the time, and it would certainly check out if he had. “What are you doing in the bathroom, dude? There’s another recess rave so I figured we could set something or someone on fire over there, if you’re up for it.”

Brian is kind of wordless at the moment, because all of his nightmare scenarios are playing in his head at once, and truly he is trying not to rehearse his own detriment in his head.

He says, “Oh, uh, yeah. Arson and manslaughter sound great about now,” and he attempts to close his sketchbook. He sees Damien narrow his eyes.

“Can I see what you were drawing?”

Hm. No. “Well, you see,” says Brian, “I would normally show you my sketchbook right now, but I’m about to throw it in the garbage, and—”

“No, really, I’m actually curious,” says Damien, with as much sincerity as he can possibly produce, “I like to see stuff you’re into, you know?” Oh, Brian is definitely into the things in his sketchbook, which is about 70% Damien. Brian hesitates.

“Sure,” he decides, handing the sketchbook over to Damien. He’s had a good, long, reanimated life. Brian has already dealt with a physical death, what’s a social one to boot?

He watches as Damien opens the sketchbook and pages through it, realization passing over him as relatively innocuous drawings of trees and tables and shit gradually become portraits of his own face. It’s a true facial journey, which eventually settles on an expression that could be Damien blushing if he wasn’t already a solid red demon who’s blush was indistinguishable from his actual hue.

Damien is about to push the brink of his charm stat and create some bullshit excuse, “You see—”

“So, like,” Damien pauses, “Do you ever do, fuck, I dunno, self portraits, or, uh. You know, drawings of us together or something?” and it’s a very genuinely sweet moment that Brian is having in this dumpster fire of a school bathroom.

“Uh, yeah, if you flip it to the next page,” Brian says, and they have a very nice, very cute conversation that they will describe as “kickass” and “definitely not cute” to close associates. Damien asks Brian to draw him taller, which is a valid comment, but Damien already gets to be tall in real life so no.

#monster prom #brian (monster prom)#damien lavey #my writes

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theonlyjelly-iwillput-inmybelly · 6 years

Text

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Hi, nonny! I wrote prompt 13 as a separate post for my own organizational purposes; I dislike writing fics in the question format because...aesthetics. Idk, I’m weird.

Prompt 13 became a cute lil fic that I so cleverly entitled ‘Ho, Ho, Ho, Bitch’ and you can read it on Tumblr HERE or my AO3 HERE.

Hit up the My Fics page on my theme for more of my fics, or search the ‘my fics’ tag on my blog.

Thank you!

A/N: This is a sharp contrast to prompt 13, and this is also the angstiest, saddest fic I have ever written to date. I’m sorry. I also explored the idea of making the antagonist...Logan. It was an interesting exercise, to say the least (I hurt my bois and I hate it)

Sorry for spelling it’s late and I’m tired

Prompt 16: “Christmas is lame.” -“You’re lame! You, you, you grinch!” -“Oh. Ow.”

Words: 3,749

Pairings: Prinxiety (Roman/Virgil)

Warnings: Swearing, arguing, crying, emotional breakdown

READ IT ON AO3 HERE!

“Come on, Virgil! You can’t hate Christmas that much!” Roman cried out in a dramatically shocked voice, a hand splayed over his heart as he steadied the ladder for Patton, who was in the process of hanging mistletoe from apparently every nook and cranny in the entirety of the mind palace.

“Actually, Roman,” Virgil retorted from the couch, where he was surfing Tumblr on his phone, “I can hate and not hate whatever the hell I want, regardless of the pressure you idiots with your Christmas fetishes put upon me.”

“I’d like to interject with the statement that I have never had a fetish for anything in my life, all things Christmas included, and that I also am not an idiot,” Logan said calmly as he entered the living room from the kitchen, “I have reason to believe you don’t entirely understand what a fetish is, Virgil, so I shall explain. A fetish, according to the Oxford English Dictionary-”

“No, I know what a fetish is, teach, thanks,” Virgil quickly interrupted, “I was just being sarcastic about these nerds’ obsession with Christmas.”

“It is not a fetish!” Roman cried, his cheeks flushing, “I’m just enjoying the Christmas spirit-”

“Now boys, don’t fight!” Patton chided, tying the red ribbon around the mistletoe securely, “Roman, Virgil’s allowed to like or dislike whatever he wants.”

“Yeah, I’m allowed to like or dislike whatever the hell I want,” Virgil said, jutting his chin out and grinning mockingly at Roman. He flipped the creative side off when Patton’s eyes were back on the mistletoe.

Roman huffed and stuck out his tongue, but grinned triumphantly when Patton said “I saw that, Virgil.”

“Saw what?” Virgil asked, tucking his phone and hands into the pockets of his hoodie and staring at Patton with a look of complete innocence. Roman scowled.

“You gave Roman the bird! You know that’s rude,” Patton cried, climbing down from the ladder, “Please make an effort to be nice, kiddo. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas Eve, Shitscram Schmeve,” Virgil huffed, flipping up his hoodie and digging his phone out of his pocket again.

Patton breathed out a heavy sigh as Roman and Virgil began bickering again. The two had become closer friends since the disastrous foray into Virgil’s room, but they still bickered on sore topics that they both stubbornly took sides on. Patton couldn’t tell whether or not their bickering was actually the good humored sniping that came from strong friendships or whether or not they actually still felt malice towards one another based upon an old habit struggling to fade away. It was confusing; they’d argue, but then they’d grin at one another whenever they flipped each other off.

He shook his head of his thoughts in time to hear Virgil mutter “Christmas is lame.”

At this, Roman was flabbergasted. “Dude! How? You know what...Y-You’re lame! You...Y-You grinch!” he said, fumbling with his words.

Virgil looked up at Roman over the edge of his phone, his expression unimpressed. “Oh, ow. That sure hurt,” he said scornfully, flicking his gaze back into the blue glaze of his screen, “I expected a better nickname from the creative side.”

They continued to bicker, Roman even seating himself on the couch next to Virgil so that they could have an easier time at flipping each other off.

“Boys!” Patton said severely, his hands on his hips. He sighed when the other two ignored him, and looked imploringly to Logan, who was coolly reading a book on physics while seated on his armchair. “Logan, can I get some help here, please?”

Logan marked his page and closed the book, gently placing it aside. He quietly cleared his throat, and stood, looking to Roman and Virgil expectantly. Patton grinned when silence fell over the room; Logan had the stern aura of a gentle yet serious professor who would simultaneously give advice yet take no nonsense.

“Roman, I believe that it is best that you heed to Patton’s advice; not everyone in this world has to have the same opinion as you do. Do not give me that look; you should know this by now,” Logan monotoned, silencing Roman’s protest with a furrow of his eyebrows. Virgil grinned, but his smile faltered when Logan’s analytical stare fell upon him.

“Virgil, I believe what you are doing now is what they call ‘lashing out’, which is when a person has something on their mind that is deeply bothering them, so they try to ‘expel’ the negative emotions by taking physical or verbal action that can be harmful to themselves or others,” Logan murmured, taking off his glasses and polishing them on the hem of his shirt, “Naturally, this does not work nearly as well as when someone opens up about the potentially negative feelings they may be harboring. So, Virgil, do you have any negative feelings you wish to expel, or do you wish to keep bottling them and risk injury to you, Thomas, or us?”

Virgil snorted, pulling his hood down further along his bangs and rubbing his chin in mock thoughtfulness, “Well, let me think. Do I, the literal fucking embodiment of anxiety, have any negative feelings?”

“Virgil, language,” Patton scolded.

Logan placed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “I sense that that rhetorical question was laden with sarcasm.”

“Yeah, ya think? Man, you can be dense sometimes,” Virgil hissed, pulling his legs up closer to his chest, his lips curling and his jaw clenching.

Virgil had hit a sore spot; Logan tensed up, his arms folding and his shoulders squaring. “Falsehood!” he snapped, raising his voice, “And what you’re doing now exactly proves my point! You’re lashing out because I appear to have unearthed a sensitive topic; your feelings about Christmas, or, rather-”

“-Hey, leave him alone, Logan, you’re-!” Roman started to say, but Virgil stamped his foot, cutting him off.

“I’m not lashing out about anything!” Virgil shouted, leaping up from the couch, his hood falling back to reveal disheveled hair that only added to his threatening appearance, “Jesus, I voice one negative opinion and you all bash me down and start psychoanalyzing me! I just don't like Christmas, and you all Whos in Whoville just have to accept it!”

Logan, normally so collected, was turning bright red; he was about to open his mouth to argue further when Patton quickly hurried over and laid a hand on his forearm. Logan shut his mouth, and merely fumed as Patton looked reproachfully at Virgil.

“Kiddo…” he said quietly, “Why do you hate Christmas so much?”

Virgil gawked at Patton, blinking incredulously. His arms were stiff at his sides, his legs splayed apart and bent as if he was about to spring. He let out a high pitched, stuttering laugh, one that was heavy with sarcasm.

“Why do I hate Christmas?” he snarled, ferociously zipping up the hoodie, “I’ll let you guys resurrect the Ghost of Christmas Past to answer that question.”

And with that, he sunk out of the room.

Logan was the first to break the heavy silence. “I wasn’t aware that Virgil was a Dickens fan.”

“I don’t think he was fanboying about Charles Dickens, teach,” Roman said quietly, his disturbed expression fixed on the spot where Virgil had disappeared.

Patton furrowed his brow, and squeezed Logan’s arm tighter to draw him out of his reverie. “Who’s Charles Dickens? What did he mean, ‘Ghost?’ It’s Christmas, not Halloween!”

Logan chuckled, and pried Patton’s hand away. “He was referring to the famous British novelist and journalist that authored A Christmas Carol, a fictitious tale of a stingy and bitter old man by the name of Ebenezer Scrooge, who was visited by a series of spirits, the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. They all tried to show him the error of his greedy ways and tried to teach him the magical message of Christmas kindness. All nonsense of course.”

“Oh,” Patton said, his expression troubled, “Why would he mention that when I asked him why he hated Christmas?”

“Well, A Christmas Carol is a rather dark tale for Christmas, so perhaps he hates the holiday because he dislikes Dickens’s view-”

“No, shut up, Logan!” Roman said suddenly, leaping to his feet. Patton and Logan turned to look at him incredulously, but their gazes turned into ones of concern when they saw the alarm on Roman’s face. He was running his hands through his hair and turning in slow circles, a common thing he did when he was feeling guilty.

“Consider me shut,” Logan said after a few moments, prompting Roman to speak.

“...I think Virgil said ‘resurrect the Ghost of Christmas Past’ because he wants us to think back on all of our previous Christmases,” Roman began slowly, his face whitening, his throat constricting violently as he swallowed with difficulty, “So let's think about Virgil’s past Christmases.”

The three sides fell silent as they delved back into their memories.

But no matter how far back they wracked their brains, they could not see a single picture of Virgil enjoying Christmas. There were no memories of him decorating, no memories of him baking, no memories of him watching stupid Christmas TV specials.

And that was because-

“...Virgil has never had a real Christmas,” Roman whispered in a small voice.

Logan blinked rapidly, placing his palm on his forehead, his breath hitching. “Oh, my god…” he breathed.

Patton’s lip wobbled, his hands pressing against his cheeks. “Oh no, oh no…”

Roman sank back onto the couch, the sound of Patton bursting into guilty tears echoing in his ears. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he too felt intense shame and guilt wash over him, pricking at the back of his eyes in the form of tears. He thought his guilt would go away since Virgil had forgiven him all those months ago, forgiven him for believing that Virgil was a villain that Thomas wanted, needed him to vanquish or else Roman would fall out of favor, but here that guilt was again, like a scar or a flashback to a traumatic time.

Roman blinked minutes later, forcing himself to surface after submerging himself with his dark thoughts. He saw that Patton was still sobbing, but he now had a blanket around his shoulders and that the fire was roaring. Logan was awkwardly patting his back, his expression troubled and tinged with guilt.

“Why did you have to go and...and expose him like that, Logan?” Roman snapped, his tone much more vehement than he had intended.

Logan looked up sharply, his mouth a thin line. “What do you mean?” he asked, his tone defensive.

“I mean you had to go and nitpick him, saying that he’s got all these problems pent up and that’s why he was acting up!” Roman hissed, his hands wringing.

“But that is the truth, Roman, why be so frivolous when it is much more efficient to not ‘beat around the bush’, as you would say?” Logan deadpanned.

Roman opened his mouth to retort, but all that came out was a hollow, incredulous laugh. Anger seethed in his chest, and he felt himself agitatedly stand up, pacing back and forth, his hands clinging to his hair.

“Jesus, why are you so emotionally dense?!” he hissed, his eyes glinting like sword points at Logan.

Logan was upright in an instant, his eyes flashing. “Because emotions are not my forte! You should know this!”

“And you should know that feelings, especially Virgil’s, aren’t something that are to be dealt with ‘efficiently’ like they’re some puzzle!” Roman shouted, turning sharply to face Logan, his eyes blazing, “He is a person, an actual, feeling person, not some equation for you to solve!”

Logan looked like he was about to shout something scathing when the sound of Patton crying increased and they both saw Patton burying his head in his arms. Logan and Roman exchanged glances before Logan knelt down beside Patton.

“No, no, no, not on Christmas Eve, please not today!” Patton cried, his voice muffled. He shrunk away from Logan’s touch, and lifted his head.

“...Patton,” Logan said quietly, his head drooping with shame.

“I just want us all to have one holiday together with no fighting and no arguing and I just want us all to get along, is that too much to fucking ask for?!” Patton sobbed, his voice growing in volume until it ended with a completely uncharacteristic screech. Logan and Roman were stunned at the venomous tones to the moral side’s voice, and were struck completely dumb by the swear. Patton buried his head in his arms again and wept inconsolably.

Roman was completely shaken. It didn’t hit him until just then that the family was crumbling apart on Christmas Eve.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He turned to leave, trying to force the sound of Patton’s weeping out of his mind. He covered his ears, and stumbled towards his room, his stomach twisting in knots. He paused just outside of his door, his hand reaching for his door knob when he swore he heard something breaking in the far off distance.

He turned his head quickly in the direction he came, listening hard. Oh god, he thought to himself, Patton didn’t throw something, did he? But no, there came another crash, although this time Roman was certain that the noise was coming from deeper inside Thomas’s mind. He turned to peer down the shadowy hallway that lead to the darker corner of Thomas’s mind. Virgil’s old room was there, and that was where he lived before he had been welcome to a room closer to the commons. Roman swallowed, and felt himself moving down the hallway only slightly against his will; he felt an instinct deep in his gut telling him to find out what the source of the crashing was.

He padded farther and farther down the hallway, until it melted into something that wasn’t a hallway, or even an indoor structure, at all. It felt like he was in a huge, cold cavern, and all around him there rushed a cold, damp breeze. Roman shivered. He couldn’t imagine living here.

He kept walking for what felt like ages. The sounds of renewed arguing from the commons had completely disappeared. With every step, the crashing noise grew louder and louder. Roman swallowed nervously, his eyes skittering in every direction. He paused as he felt his lungs tighten and his heart begin to pound.

Suddenly, he knew where he was.

He was in the land of the Forgotten.

This was the place where all the forgotten memories were lost. This was where all the useless information that was cleaned from Thomas’s consciousness by Logan each night while Thomas dreamt was sent. In the shadows there were inklings of thoughts, faces of people Thomas had long forgotten, whispers of knowledge remembered but now lost.

Here in the Forgotten Land, there was Virgil.

Roman paused in his tracks, giving a small cry of shock when a great shattering of glass pierced his ears. The dreadful noise echoed and throbbed throughout the great cavern, the whispers and faces letting out thin moans. Roman swiveled around when he heard a faint growl.

There, on the edge of a precipice, stood Virgil.

He seemed remarkably unflustered for one who was literally feet away from entering a part of Thomas’s mind where he would well and truly be forgotten. His hood was up, the dark purple of the patches pulsating like cysts. The anxious side was conjuring plates and throwing them as hard as he could against the ground; hence was the source of the crashing noise. With every plate he threw, he heaved a grunt of rage.

Roman didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. He bowed his head, the rhythmic crash of the plates ringing in his ears.

“What’s up, Ro?”

Roman jerked his head up sharply. He saw Virgil, his back turned, with his hands now thrust deep into his pockets. Roman was surprised. Virgil didn’t sound mad, or even sarcastic.

He sounded exhausted.

Roman shuffled his feet, thumbing his sash. “...Does that help?” he asked, gesturing to the scattered shards of ceramic. They looked like stark white drops of blood against the dim light and black stone.

Virgil turned around slowly. His hood was up at such an angle so hat Roman couldn’t see his face.

“...Kind of,” he whispered.

There was a thick silence as they stared at the shiny, damp cavern floor, surveying the wreckage of the plates, surveying the work of Virgil’s rage and suffering. The faint wind ruffled their hair, the whispers of the forgotten tickling their ears.

Suddenly, Virgil stamped his foot, his hands grappling at his hood.

“It’s all so fucking stupid!” he cried, grinding shards under his shoes, “We were just screwing around, you know, you and me, Ro?”

Roman blinked, reaching out so as to hold Virgil, his fingers curling into a fist that he withdrew when Virgil began to shake.

“You and I were just messing around, we fight about stupid stuff because that’s what best friends do,” Virgil cried, his voice shaking and sounding as if three people, all speaking in different octaves, were speaking over one another, “But Logan had to go and...had to go and make me remember...”

Virgil slapped his hand over his mouth, and began to shake violently. Roman felt like crying out when Virgil began to quake violently, muffled sobs fighting to escape from between his clenched teeth and suffocating hand.

“Virgil…” Roman said in a small voice, for once completely at a loss for what to say.

“Had to make me remember that you guys hated me, made me remember... remember that I never had a fucking real Christmas. Treated me like...like a t-thing again,” Virgil gasped, sucking in panicked, shaky breaths.

Roman jumped when Virgil snapped his head up, tearing his hoodie back. Roman felt the knots in his stomach constrict and felt his eyes sting when he saw that Virgil’s eyeshadow was pierced by tear stains, the anxious side’s eyes wet and red as more and more tears streamed down his face. He made searing eye contact with Roman, his stare making Roman’s heart squirm with pity and guilt.

“A thing, Roman!” he wailed, clasping his sweaterpaws over his eyes and completely breaking down. He fell to his knees, his joints cracking loudly as they hit the freezing rock below their feet. He wept openly, his body wracked by sobs.

Roman quickly knelt before him, not caring when the shards of ceramic pierced the fabric of his pants and scraped his skin. He reached his hands out, so wanting to hold Virgil, but he didn’t know whether or not he was crossing an invisible boundary he wasn't meant to cross yet. He felt his own eyes welling up with tears as Virgil sobbed brokenly.

“Virgil…” Roman squeaked, his voice cracking with the emotion that was forming a lump in his throat. He quickly cleared it, and continued, “Virgil...you’re not a thing. Logan was just being an utter asshole again. To me, you’re...you’re a friend, a wonderful friend.”

Virgil cried harder, his shoulders hunching.

“No matter what you do, no matter what you think, no matter what Logan ever says, you will never be a thing,” Roman said between gritted teeth, trying his hardest to stop himself from crying empathy tears, “And while it may not seem like it right now...you’re family.”

Virgil sniffled, pausing long enough in his crying to take a breath and look at Roman. He looked utterly defeated.

“Sure, tell that to me again when they’re not always picking me apart like I’m some fucking psych ward patient, or like I’m some corpse on a table.”

“I did say it might not seem like it right now,” Roman reminded him gently, “...We all have a lot to work to do. But just...just understand, Virgil, that I…”

Roman swallowed, and looked at his twisted hands in his lap. When he remained silent, Virgil was bereaved with another round of sobs.

“Virgil…” Roman started again, gently reaching forward to hold the anxious side’s knees, “...C-Can I give you a hug?”

Virgil stiffened noticeably under his hand.

“...Please…” Roman whimpered, “...I just want to help you feel better.”

Virgil melted, crying out but nodding. Shakily, Roman unfolded his legs from underneath himself, sat pretzel style, and gently lifted Virgil under the arms. He was much lighter than Roman had imagined; who knew what bony frame was hidden beneath that hoodie? He situated Virgil in his lap so that Virgil’s side was leaning into his chest. Virgil squirmed until he was as comfortable as he was going to get, and merely shook as he tried to suppress his tears.

But what little composure he had left broke when Roman gathered him close, wiping the tear tracks from wherever he could reach. Virgil’s head slumped against Roman’s chest, and he tilted his head so that he might hide his face in Roman’s shirt. He clung to the fabric of Roman’s sash, crying his heart out as Roman whispered him soothing platitudes and bounced him gently in his arms.

Eventually, Roman just sat in silence while letting Virgil cry, opting instead to stroke the anxious side’s back and nuzzle his nose into his hair so that the other side would be reminded of Roman’s presence when he felt Roman’s breath.

Eventually, Roman couldn't take it anymore. He trembled slightly as tears of his own slid down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, grieving for Virgil, who was going through a pain Roman had never wanted him to go through again. He squeezed Virgil even closer to his chest, letting himself gasp out one small sob before completely shutting himself off

Eventually, Virgil calmed down enough until he was only sniffling and whimpering, pawing at Roman’s chest and curling closer to the strong warmth.

“I’m sorry I...I’m sorry I forgot why you hate Christmas,” Roman whispered, his voice shaking.

“...It’s OK.”

“No it’s not.”

“...I’m too fucking sad and tired to argue with that right now, Ro. Just...you’re wrong, OK?”

“...OK.”

Thin silence.

“...I wish we could all just...get along.” Virgil whimpered into Roman’s chest.

Roman squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore visions of Patton crying, himself and Logan yelling, and Virgil smashing plates.

“...Me too.”

Alas, getting along was not to be. For that year, Virgil still did not have a real Christmas.

None of them did.

@celiawhatsherlastname @monikastec @jordandobbertin @greymane902@lostgirlgwen @kittenvirgil @iamahumanwaitnothatsalie @logan-logic @jet-black-hearted-girl @gay-ace-trash @shadowjag@thestoryoferissur @lexboydfandompanda@alyssadashrubjustanotherpurplebutterfly @sarcastic-florist

#my fics #the ghost of christmas past #prinxiety #sanders sides #thomas sanders #christmas

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sirius · 7 years

Note

How did you find out about Harry Potter? I always like learning about other people's love of harrh potter

Alright, my dudes, gather around, I have a smol story to tell you…

There was once a miserable and bored little girl called Georgie. She is ten years old when our story begins. Georgie used to stack shelves in the school library after school while she waited for her mother to come back from God knows where. One cloudy Tuesday afternoon, she comes across a book with a boy on its cover that looks a lot like her crush, Aaron. Black, messy hair and glasses (though Aaron’s are square rather than round but Georgie overlooks this mistake). And then she reads the title. ‘Harry Potter’.

The instinct to toss the book to the other side of the room is devoured by an overwhelming sense of curiosity. Georgie’s overly righteous and strictly religious parents have banned the name 'Harry Potter’ from the household in case it summons the devil himself. She can just see her mother narrowing her eyes on the book and shrieking a demand for her to wash her hands with bleach.

Georgie, however, is a curious person by nature, and she wants to know about the boy who looks so much like her beloved Aaron. She opens the first page and waits with bated breath for something to happen. Nothing. She continues.

Georgie is immediately enraptured by this strange boy, and she sinks to the floor in the corner of the library, hidden away by shelves of books, as she delves head first into the Wizarding world. The brunette girl has to physically tear herself away from the book when its time to leave.

The next day, she returns to the library, intent on finding out what the Philospher’s Stone is exactly. She is - perhaps - the perfect reader; she gasps at all the right moments and grasps the sides of the hard cover book with white knuckles. When it’s all over, and she waves goodbye to Harry from Hogsmeade station, She closes the book and searches the library frantically, eager to find out what awaits Harry during his second year at Hogwarts.

Georgie eventually does find the second book and she devours that in two days, spending her recess and lunch breaks in the library. She even arrives at school early so she can sneak into the library and consume the adventures of Harry Potter.

When she finds the third book, Georgie is introduced to the Marauders, and she is instantly drawn to them. She gets the sneaky suspicion that Remus Lupin is actually Sirius Black and is using Polyjuice potion to conceal this fact, however, she is startled to learn that Sirius Black is actually an illegal animagus, who shifts into a black dog at will. She loves dogs, and she’ll never look at another black dog again without thinking of Sirius. When she learns the truth, she dedicates a place in her heart for Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

Two weeks pass, and she’s already on the last book. She’s cried with Harry, laughed with him and shared his rage. She doesn’t want to let this go, she wants to cling onto Harry for the rest of her life. She wishes that someone would perform an obliviate spell on her memory so that she could start again from the very beginning. She’s held onto Harry until the very end. She’s not letting go anytime soon.

And then, at thirteen minutes to five, she reads the final words; All was well. But it isn’t. It isn’t well. This is the end, and Georgie had always hated goodbyes. She starts to cry, for the millionth time, tears pour over the pages of the book.

Meanwhile, Georgie’s friends, who she regularly abandons for no apparent reason, are getting rather cross with her. They find her in the library, sobbing into the book, face flushed and cheeks damp with salty tears. As they comfort her, Talya (Georgie’s best friend and Aaron’s younger sister) suggests that they read the books together. The girls beam at this idea. Georgie is excited already.

This next day, she’s sitting in the library in a circle with her friends, hidden amongst the shelves as they begin reading Chapter One aloud. They hide lollies between the shelves and chew on them languidly as they make their way through the books. Their reading group does not go unnoticed by other students, and they join the group, too, the only rule being that they bring food. Soon, the group that once started as five has turned into fifteen, and the number increases as each day passes. Georgie now has more friends to ramble to. They are all still friends, to this day. They coin themselves ‘Dumbledore’s Army’, and it’s quite literally an army. The librarian can’t believe so many children are in the library.

Talya invites her to a sleepover for the weekend, saying that she owns the movies, and that they can watch them with her other friends. Georgie begs her mother to let her stay at Talya’s house, and her mother concedes, somewhat reluctantly, and the next day, Georgie and her friends are huddled in a pillow fort around the TV. Aaron is there, too, and he kindly gives her his Gryffindor scarf, saying that he’s already got another one lying around somewhere. She still has it in her draw, and she thinks of Aaron when she sees it.

As they move through the movies, Georgie is entertained, but disappointed. Mostly because Harry looks nothing like the Harry she imagined (in other words, he doesn’t resemble Aaron. The actor doesn’t even have the same sea-green eyes). There are so many changes in the movies, Georgie finds it difficult to accept them.

Months later, Gerogie and Talya arrange for Dumbledore’s Army to go and see the first part of the Deathly Hallows. Georgie’s parents are under the impression that she’s seeing a different film, so they give her permission blindly. Georgie wears her Gryffindor scarf and they watch the film together at the cinema, accompanied by Talya’s parents. Some parts scare her; some parts thrill her, and she’s grateful that Aaron is sitting next to her. When the movie ends, they go to MacDonalds and sit around in a circle, talking loudly about the movie.

A year passes, and she’s read about Harry’s journey countless times. She’s got the books hidden in a loose floorboard underneath her bed. Her parents don’t know, not even her siblings. Dumbledore’s army is now a mixture of student, and it includes Aaron who, much to Georgie’s delight, is a huge Potterhead fan. They make their own Sorting Hat and sort new members of Dumbledore’s army into houses. The original members are all Head Girls; Georgie is Head Girl of Gryffindor, Sophie of Hufflepuff, Chloe of Ravenclaw and Talya of Slytherin. Georgie elects Aaron as Head Boy (no surprises there).

When they see the second part of the Deathly Hallows film, Georgie cries and Aaron kisses her cheek. They go to Timezone in an effort to cheer Georgie up, but Georgie’s been walking on clouds since Aaron kissed her cheek. Not long after that, Georgie moves houses, but she remains in contact with Dumbledore’s Army. They send each other ‘Howlers’, until, one day, she receives a package from Talya. It’s the old Sorting Hat. Georgie cries for an hour.

Eventually, when Georgie is thirteen and no longer innocent, Georgie’s parents find out about her secret. They are outraged and they take her books and burn them. Fortunately, they don’t find her scarf nor the old Sorting Hat. Georgie can’t find it in her to care anymore, and when Aaron sends her an invitation to a beach party with Dumbledore’s Army, Georgie accepts without hesitation.

Dumbledore’s Army are still in contact, in fact, they hosted a Karaoke evening for her seventieth birthday. Aaron ends up being her first crush, her first kiss, her first time and her first boyfriend until he moves to the otherside of the country. Georgie still has the old sorting hat, and she once visited the library where it all began.

All was well

(not really)

#harry potter #hp #personal #personal story #cute nonnies #owls

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hazellvesque · 6 years

Text

Some Kind Of Miracle - Chapter 2

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: G

Pairing: Adrien/Marinette

Summary: If Marinette had her way, she would have had nothing to do with Alya’s latest celebrity crush. So how did she get roped into stalking him around Los Angeles? When fashion icon Adrien Agreste quite literally crashes into Marinette’s life, they have no choice but to put up with one another or risk ruining both of their potential careers forever.

An AU based on the iconic Disney Channel Original Movie, Starstruck.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 2 - Unbelievable

<<< Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >>>

“Adrien, why were you sitting on a roof?”

Adrien Agreste had been deep into his discussion with Nino about the latest Ultimate Mecha Strike game – so deep in fact that the sun had set behind them without either of them noticing - before they had been so rudely interrupted by Nathalie waving a paparazzi photo in his face.

The snapshot in question had been taken a few days prior. Adrien, clad in pajama pants and a graphic tee shirt, sat perched precariously on the very top of his house. His eyes were closed and he faced the breeze, looking almost angelic with his hair and arms tossed back gleefully. It was almost as if the night sky were his natural habitat.

Honestly, it was a good picture. Better than any of the snapshots that had been released earlier that morning in that teen magazine spread. The vain part of him wanted to get it blown up to replace that billboard that had gone up recently. He didn’t know why Nathalie sounded like she was about to faint.

“It felt nice outside,” was his offhand response. He added a shrug and grinned at her for good measure.

Nino Lahiffe sat a just inches away lounging in the biggest chair in the Agreste house’s living room observing the whole conversation with a curious expression. His feet sat atop the coffee table and a glass of some kind of expensive-looking sparkling juice in a glass next to him.

He tended to raid the kitchen and take whatever he liked anytime he wanted to. Just one of the perks of being Adrien’s best friend.

He’d been the casual witness to many an Adrien scolding, honestly it amazed him how open Mr. Agreste’s assistants were about discussing private matters around him. He was in their house all the time; perhaps they’d stopped noticing that he didn’t quite belong.

Disputes like this were always entertaining to watch because he could tell that most of the time Adrien didn’t care about getting punished and instead just feigned guilt to make other people feel like they’d accomplished something. There was no talking that boy out of his own decisions and actions, especially not when he was in a particularly rebellious mood like he had been this past week.

“Honestly, Nathalie, he does it all the time, I don’t know how- hmmph!” Nino’s statement was cut short by a quick elbow to the ribs from Adrien.

Okay, so it was true that he snuck out and did pretty reckless things on a normal basis. But Nathalie didn’t need to know that. This just so happened to be the first time he’d gotten caught. He could have sworn he triple checked the house’s surroundings before going out, but the paparazzi had been getting more and more creative with their hiding spots lately.

“Nice outside. Nice enough that you couldn’t walk out the front door and decided to take the shortcut out the window?” Nathalie’s voice was eerily calm. You could always tell when she was angry. The quieter she was, the more afraid you should be.

He didn’t always have to pretend to be guilty about disappointing Nathalie. Of all of his father’s assistants, she was the nicest, but she also regarded Adrien the highest and held the strictest expectations of him. Not to mention the steely cold look in her eyes that sent shivers down anyone’s spine if she looked at them the wrong way.

Adrien averted his eyes, but he still felt her gaze boring into him. “I’m sorry, Nathalie. It won’t happen again.”

“What part of it?” she asked. “The part where you were caught in public in your pajamas, the part where you were out past curfew without permission, or the part where someone managed to get a photo of you putting your safety at risk? And what would have happened if you fell? You cannot get yourself injured, we don’t have time for a hospital visit.”

Nino leaned back further in his seat, taking a long swig of his drink, looking highly entertained.

“Understood,” Adrien apologized. “None of it will happen again. Cross my heart,” he gestured over the left side of his torso for extra measure.

There was a long, awkward pause. Nathalie stared down at the photo in her hands again, readjusting her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose, and sighing. Adrien could have sworn he had almost heard her mutter something that sounded very colorful under her breath.

“I just got off a conference call with your father,” she said. “After we finished discussing this, he mentioned that he may have another modeling contract for you when he gets back. You two can talk it over during your meeting on Friday. He says it’s very important.”

“Career wise or money wise?” Nino quipped.

Nathalie glared daggers at him. “Both, Mr. Lahiffe. You should both know that Gabriel has been trying to collaborate with this company for years, long before either of you were even born. This is an incredible opportunity for the entire Agreste family, one that could get them back in the international spotlight. But if Adrien does something to tarnish his reputation before the paperwork is signed, the deal is off and we are all done for. So if I were you I’d try to keep things like this-“ she waved the photo around one last time for emphasis, “-out of the hands of people who will run to the tabloids with it.”

With that, she turned to leave the boys to their own devices.

“Wait,” Adrien called after her. He hesitated before realizing that he might as well say what he wanted; she was already mad enough as it was, she probably couldn’t get much angrier. “One more question. How much money are we talking exactly?”

She glanced over her shoulder and made a point to stare Adrien down, as if he were the only one in the room. “Hundreds of thousands,” was her answer. “Per photograph. We don’t want to give that up, do we?”

“No, ma’am,” he shook his head. “I’ll talk more with my dad about it. I won’t let you guys down.”

As Nathalie left, the tension in the room seemed to instantly dissipate.

Money had never been an issue in the Agreste household – that much was obvious. This time, however, the dollar signs dancing in his head didn’t just hint at bigger rooms or fancy furniture or fast cars. They pointed big green arrows at another idea that occupied Adrien’s mind.

His eighteenth birthday had just passed. Since the day he received his first paycheck, his father had funneled more than eighty percent of his earnings into a savings account completely inaccessible to Adrien until he turned twenty-five. The remainder had been spent on everything from video games to new clothes, never massive amounts, never enough to tempt him to make any rash financial decisions. But now, being a legal adult, every cent he made was solely his to do what he pleased. And he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it.

“Dude,” Nino said, pulling Adrien from his thoughts. He sat rubbing at his sore ribcage, right where Adrien had hit him. “That seriously hurt! Have you been working out or something?”

“Honestly, Nathalie, he does it all the time,” Adrien said in an awful imitation of Nino’s voice. “You can’t just say things like that! Do you want my dad to kill me?”

“You know,” Nino said, “for an actor, you’re god awful at doing impressions.”

“I’m not an actor, Nino.”

Okay, technically he was. He even had his own IMDB page, which was due to no choice of his own. A couple years back, his father had suggested he branch off from the modeling and try his hand at something new. A skincare commercial here and there somehow led to a minor role in last summer’s biggest blockbuster, but that wasn’t what Adrien wanted to be known for.

He didn’t want to be known for that unfortunate stint in a singing career either. If half of his fans knew how much auto-tune went into the making of that EP he released last year, they’d be appalled. Luckily, he’d avoided getting roped into doing any kind of live performance, and he’d like to keep it that way.

“It doesn’t matter. Did you hear Nathalie? I could make millions from this deal. That’s…unbelievable,” Adrien sighed.

Nino leaned his head back and closed his eyes wistfully. “Imagine how many upgrades you could do to your tech with that kind of money. But wait, doesn’t your family already have millions?”

“My dad has millions,” Adrien corrected. “But with this shoot, even if he split up the money a hundred different ways, I’d still end up with so much. Don’t you get it?” he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “I could get out of here.”

Between the two of them, it had been no secret that Adrien felt a prisoner in his own home. It was part of the reasons he did dumb things like the stunt on the roof the other day. While he was here, Nathalie or any of his dad’s other dozens of assistants were constantly breathing down his neck. Security watched his every step whenever he left his bedroom. He had only just managed to bribe one of the guards to disable the cameras in his lounge room, which allowed him to have the current conversation he was holding with Nino with at least some sense of privacy.

Outside of the house was no better. Just like the person who had caught that picture of him on the roof, there were unsolicited photos of him taken every single day from the second he left the front door. He didn’t have a smidgen of privacy until he managed to get himself behind locked doors and away from paparazzi.

None of this had ever meant to happen. “It’s just a temporary move,” Gabriel Agreste had said years ago. “You’ll be under contract for two months, and then we’ll come back home.” It was Gabriel’s desperate attempt at regaining his reputation after he’d been shunned and ridiculed on one too many Paris runways.

Two months turned into the entire summer, which extended to fall and winter until, before he knew it, Adrien had permanently relocated to Los Angeles with home being out of sight and out of mind as far as anyone else was concerned.

Learning to speak perfect, unaccented English had been hard. Getting used to the American attitudes surrounding him was even harder. He still missed waking up and seeing the Eiffel Tower from his window.

Two years into LA life, a blessing and a curse came in the form of Chloe Bourgeois. As Adrien’s oldest friend and the daughter of the a Mayor who had no issue funding his daughter’s escapades, she felt entitled to fly back and forth to visit practically as often as she liked. Thankfully it mostly only happened when she was on break from school. If Adrien had to deal with her during every month of year, it might very well drive him insane.

Having a friend from back home would have been nice, had she not become so enamored with the limelight. It was almost like she was a paparazzi magnet, happily posing for the camera wherever she went. She was meant to be a distraction from the glitz and glamour, and now she was one of Adrien’s main sources of it.

He was a prisoner, not just in this house, but also throughout this entire city. As big as Los Angeles was, it still managed to make Adrien feel trapped.

At least he had Nino here with him.

“So that’s your plan, huh?” Nino asked. He was careful to sound completely neutral, which only made talking about this idea harder. “Lie low, get your contract, and hop on the next bus or plane or train out of here?”

Even more guilt trickled in. Not only was Adrien complaining about his life – a life that any other person could barely dream of – but he almost completely disregarded that Nino was a package deal with it. Goodbye California meant goodbye Nino.

He was torn.

And besides, modeling was actually fun sometimes.

So for the most part, he just dealt with his worries. He shooed away the little voice in the back of his head telling him to run. But that voice had been talking awfully loudly lately.

“Not so fast,” Adrien said. “It’s a major decision to make, it’ll take time. Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon you without warning.”

“Good,” Nino laughed. “Because if Chloe drops in tomorrow and finds that you’re not here, the first person she’ll come after if me, and I do not want to be on a Bourgeois hit list.”

Tomorrow?

Oh. Oh no.

The realization must have been blatantly obvious on Adrien’s face, because Nino’s entire expression fell. “Adrien. Please don’t tell me you forgot. She’s probably already on her plane.”

“She didn’t call! At least I don’t think she did!” Adrien bolted out of his chair and ran up the stairs, Nino following close at his heels.

Most of the time Adrien kept his phone locked in his room, mainly because he didn’t want to have to deal with the constant calls from agents or the incessant social media notifications about him. If someone important needed to contact him, they had other ways.

Unless that person was Chloe Bourgeois, which in that case, Adrien needed his phone right now.

He was careful not to trip as he bounded his way up the four – really, Gabriel? Did this house really need to be this tall? – flights of stairs and around the corner into his bachelor-pad-esque bedroom.

Honestly, if he wanted to, he never had to leave the four walls of this room. He had an en-suite bathroom and private kitchenette fully stocked with more food than he could possibly finish alone. Not to mention all of the gadgets and entertainment. A nuclear apocalypse could happen right outside the doors and Adrien could be so engrossed in his own little world here that he’d be none the wiser. That is, unless he decided to step out onto his private balcony, of course.

It was huge and lonely, which is why he spent as little time in here as possible.

He ran over to the small safe under the nightstand and quickly unlocked it. His phone screen was black, which gave him a false sense of hope. At the press of the large center button, the screen awoke displaying three missed calls and eight text messages, all from a very pissed off Chloe.

Adrien cringed as he scrolled down, watching the amount of caps lock increase with every message. The last text had been sent five hours ago, and surprisingly, had zero punctuation whatsoever.

‘Taking off now’ was all it said.

Adrien could almost feel the metaphorical cartoon drop of sweat drip down his forehead. No punctuation was a very, very bad thing with Chloe.

“She’s mad,” he said, not looking up at Nino. “And she’ll be here in,” he double checked the time, “-seven hours.”

Nino nervously wrung his hat – which he had taken off his head – in his hands. “Remind me to be as far away from this house as possible by morning, then.”

Adrien started pacing in circles. Part of him wanted to raid his kitchenette and start stress eating. “Nino, you have to help me. You heard what Nathalie said, I need to stay out of the press.”

Nino nodded grimly. “And Chloe Bourgeois is a synonym for bad publicity. I know,” he signed dramatically and placed a very serious hand on Adrien’s shoulder. “I guess I’ll keep an eye out for trouble while she’s here. I’m willing to sacrifice my sanity to keep your reputation in check. Because I am such a good friend.”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “What would I do without you?”

#miraculous ladybug #Adrienette #adrinette #ml fic #my writing #some kind of miracle #i literally just said that i have too much school work to do yet here i am less than 24 hours later #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#I want to get to the actual plot before i take a break

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