#most annoying part is i have to avoid drawing and sewing for now until it calms down a bit UGH

[littlehouseoftrinkets]

Stupid carpal tunnel came for me and this wrist brace I'm having to wear is driving me crazy

[neon-junkie]

Hopefully it's not a bother, but could you write something about the Van Der Linde gang getting magically transported (Magic, Tardis, Marko, Science ) to the modern universe and having the gn! Reader help them adapt to this world? Maybe some of their reactions to new things (indoor bathrooms, new music, tv, memes) Thank you so much, love!

oh god this is a long post, and as always, im convinced i’ve missed one member out... minor drug warning on Johns headcanon, but the rest are tame. hope u enjoy!

Part 2 is here  |  Part 3 is here

Arthur finds your computer and figures out how to turn it on. Your face turns white when you find him on Tumblr, quickly shutting the tab and urging him up off the chair. "Hey! I was reading that! I was... erm, I think I was having sex with myself," he tells you. Yep, he's found the fanfiction. "Do they really mean that? That I got kind eyes and a, uh... fat ass, I think it was?"  You quickly show him the kitchen and run back to delete all your history. John goes rummaging through your cupboards for something to eat, and eventually finds the brownies in the fridge. You find him on the roof, his eyes red and his heads spinning. "Them.. them brownies..." he mutters. "I know, John," you sob back. You know which brownies he ate, and my god, he ate a lot of them. Arthur babysits him, his mind still questioning what he just read on your computer. Dutch finds the beast of a lawnmower you have in your garage, so you show him how to use it. Why not? He's mowing your lawn for free. Well, he did mow your lawn, but you eventually have to send a search party out after him, only to find him a couple of streets away, parked up next to a childs lemonade stand, insisting they should be selling this lemonade for more if they want to make a profit. 

Hosea also goes missing, but you find him during your search party mission. He's walking up the street back to the house with a paper bag in his hands, and he tells you he's managed to con the gas station clerk into giving him some free booze. You're not sure how, but he's done no harm so you let him enjoy his wine in peace. Bill found your anime figure collection, the ones with the big boobs. He asked you what they were, despite seeming rather flustered, but you tried to explain that it's normal and gave him a book to read. You catch him on your computer a few hours later buying himself a waifu body pillow because "I love her, dammit! Just let us be!" He also keeps pressing the squishy boobs on your anime mouse matt, and yes, he's still very flustered. Javier finds the TV in your room that has Netflix on it, so you show him how to use it and he seems happy distracting himself with that. You walk in a few hours later to see that Javier hasn't moved, but Molly is now by his side, also engulfed in the drag show on the screen. Javier has a thick pair of false lashes on that Molly managed to put on him, and the first thing he says to you is "can you believe this? They voted her off! I... I can't believe this." He's shaking his head and looks like he's about to cry. Charles discovers your computer, and you decide he'd be happy just browsing the web. You come back hours later to find 100 tabs open and your computer fan is louder than an airplane. The current tab open is on a 'where's Waldo?' piece. He's very close to the screen, and you decide to show him how to zoom in to help him find Waldo faster. He's very thankful, and not causing any damages so you leave him to it. Lenny also rummages through your kitchen and finds a pizza in the freezer. He asks you what it is, so you put it in the oven for him. He spends the whole 15 minutes sitting in front of the oven, briefly saying hello to Sean as he runs through. Lenny manages to get the pizza out without burning himself, turns the oven off, cuts up the pizza and takes it upstairs to enjoy with Jack. Yes, he also fed Sean a slice. Sean finds the energy drinks in your fridge that you keep for work. They tasted a little funny at first, but after the third one, he's decided he likes them. You catch him opening his fourth, his eyes are wider than the moon. He cries when you take it off him, and spends the rest of the day running around the garden with your dogs, followed by going to each member of the camp and personally annoying them until he crashes out under your dining table. It's a cozy spot for a nap. Kieran uses your computer after Charles comes off it, and discovers youtube. He starts off with simple cat videos and eventually moves on to fails and meme comps. By the time dinner rolls around, nobody can understand him, and you barely understand half the things he's saying. The only thing you do understand is "big mood," which is what Kieran says when he sees Sean asleep under the dining table. Pearson decides to avoid the kitchen and try something new, and you're quick to decide he'd enjoy rock music. You show him a couple of CD's and leave him to have a listen, only to come storming back up the stairs a few minutes later because he's turned the volume up to full blast and is having a rather funky jam session. "Now this, this is real music!!" He's really enjoying the classics. Trelawny is quick to figure out how to use the TV. He's seen "those moving picture shows" before, and he's mesmerized by how far they've come! You catch him up at 5am watching documentaries to help bridge the gap between his time and yours, and when you walk into the lounge, you're met by a very sleep deprived Trelawny. The only thing he says to you, with heavy bags under his eyes, is "terribly sorry to hear about all these wars you've been having, my dear." He finally goes to bed, but only because you make him. Swanson disappears, but there's a church down the road from you so you decide to check there first. He's inside, joining in on the ceremony, singing his heart out to all the hymns with a real bible in his hands, not the fake one he has back at camp. He seems content so you leave him to it. He thankfully returns just in time for dinner, and tells everybody how he's been blessed and that we can "never leave this land!" Strauss also disappears very quickly, and you have to search for him when you go to look for Dutch. He's also at the lemonade stand, trying to explain to Dutch that if the child sells the lemonade for more, then they're less likely to get customers as it's too expensive. The two of them are arguing, and the child seems rather confused. Strauss later has a breakdown at the noise your toilet makes, he informs you that he'll be using your outside bathroom, even if it is just the bushes. Micah says he doesn't need you to show him the ropes and swats you away, so you leave him to it. You've not seen him for a good few hours, so you run around the house trying to find him. You eventually find him in your room, going through your underwear draw. Arthur is quick to knock his lights out, and you leave him tied up in the garage so he can't do any more damage. Micah also pissed all over your toilet seat and didn't flush. Abigail joins Trelawny in the lounge, watching the TV after Jack tells her he's happy playing with the toys in your room. She and Trelawny have an argument over what to watch next, so you give her your laptop to watch TV on, along with a pair of headphones. She refuses to come off a few hours later because she's way too engulfed in the modeling show she's watching. You promise her you'll let her give you a makeover if she comes off, and she finally agrees. Jack discovers your big box of legos and he seems more than content playing with those. He ends up building a fort, with the help of Lenny, and the two fire pillows at you when you try and enter the room. The pillow canons are, of course, made from legos. At least they're not lego pillows! Jack also thanks you for the pizza, describing it as 'yummy.' Sadie finds your katana collection, and you're quick to take them off her and attempt to hide them. She spends some time pretending to be interested in something else, but as soon as you turn your back for a split second, she's found them again and is heading straight for Kieran. The room where you keep your katanas is now locked and Sadie is in time out. Susan comes across your sewing machine and you're happy to show her how it works. She picks it up quickly, and her eyes glisten as she realizes just how fast this thing is. You leave her be since she's not causing any harm, but come back an hour later to find she's made new a new dress for herself, and all the girls in the gang, including Sadie. They're all matching! Tilly finds your piano and tells you she's happy to be left to her own devices, she knows how to play. You eventually have to tell her and Susan to calm down after receiving another noise complaint, as Susan is attempting to sing opera, and Tilly is killing it on the piano. At least she hasn't damaged anything. She later joins Mary-Beth in time to watch Beauty and the Beast, also sobbing at the film. Karen goes into your garage and discovers your old golf clubs. You show her how it works in your garden, but just like everybody else, it goes wrong. Your neighbor knocks on your door, screaming, demanding to know why you keep firing golf balls through their window. That's when you find Karen and Sean (who is still on his energy drink high) having a contest to see who can smash the most. Mary-Beth discovers your kindle, and she seems rather content with being able to read. There's no way this could possibly go wrong? Well, you come back a little later to find that Mary-Beth is sobbing after reading Beauty and the Beast. She wants a sappy romance just like that to happen to her. She cries even harder when she watches the Disney film, along with Trelawny who hasn't moved from the TV for hours. Molly picks up your tablet, and after showing her what youtube is, you leave her to it. You find her a few hours later sat in front of your mirror with the most flawless, full face of makeup. She greets you by going "hey sisters!" and speaks to you like a vsco girl. You have no idea what she's saying, but she seems to be doing fine, so you leave her to it.

[emu-lumberjack]

A Quick Meeting pt. 2

Damian is an exchange student in Paris, and Marinette doesn’t know too much about him, till a chance encounter provides an opportunity 

I finally figured out what was going on and am finally able to post part two here, finally. I’m not gonna retag those who wanted to be tagged, (tell me if you want to be) but I will put on the post that I figured it out. Thanks for sticking with me during the technical difficulties

Read part one here

Part 3 here 

part 4 here

They looked at each other vibrant blue eyes meeting piercing green. The entire class which minutes before were laughing and jeering had quieted to little more than a faint buzz. The two hadn’t said anything after they introduced themselves, both too startled to say anything else. They were left there in peace until a brunette slid between the two blocking Marinette's view of Damian.

“You must be the exchange student, I’m Lila. Don’t worry, I'll introduce you to the rest of the class and give you the tour later.” The liar herself took Damian by the elbow and dragged him off before he could say anything, still caught off guard by Marinette’s blue eyes.

There goes my chance at a friend. Marinette thought to herself fully knowing how much Lila could worm her way into anyones head. The bluenette with the sketchbook in hand went back up to her desk. She sank into her chair glad to be ignored by her former friends. Looking down she saw that most of the pages were pretty ripped up but still salvageable and right on top was the picture she had begun drawing of Damian’s eye. Grabbing her pen she started drawing the second one resolving to make it a matching pair. She was beginning to shade the second eye when a small tap on her shoulder made her jump three feet out of her chair.

“Is there someone sitting next to you?” The familiarly cold voice said.

“What? Right! No one is sitting next to me, except if you want to then I guess there is someone sitting next to me and…” Marinette tapered off as she saw Lila glaring at her. Even though she was Ladybug Marinette still wanted to avoid Lila’s ire, it was a pain to deal with at school.

Damian let out a quiet chuckle, “I guess there’s gonna be someone sitting next to you then.” He quietly sat himself down in the chair next to Marinette and started getting his books out. “Nice drawing by the way.” Marinette blushed slightly.

“Ok class time to start.” Madame Bustier said walking into the room, the conversation ceased from there, yet both parties knew they had just found a new ally.

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

“What’s up Buginette.” Chat Noir said hopping down next to Ladybug. His bell made a soft little chime.

“Ya know, just the fifth night up in a row, I have three sewing projects to do.” She paused a beat, “Hey do you know anything about that new kid in class?” It had been a few weeks after Marinette gained guardianship when they decided to reveal their identities. With Adrien dating Kagami and Marinette thoroughly over her crush they both laughed at the situation and came out as good friends, and even though Damian had been in class for a week she still knew barely anything about him.

“Same as you, exchange student from Gotham. Cold, calm, and about to murder Lila.” Chat replied. He must’ve seen Damian’s face when Lila claimed she knew the Waynes. “Why? Do you like him?” Ladybug looked over to see Chat Noir’s face was filled with mocking innocence. Ladybug blushed under her mask.

“I will push you off the Eiffel Tower, or worse yet, sick Auroroe on your and Kagami’s relationship. I can see the headline now ‘Superhero Chat Noir dating girlfriend of Adrien Agreste! What will the model do when he finds out?’” Chat gave her a half-hearted punch in the arm for that, and they both had a laugh.

A few minutes later Ladybug noticed a quick blur ducking between alleyways. She gave Chat a nudge, “Did you see that?”

“See what?” He responded groggily.

“I thought I saw something ducking between the allies. It’s nothing”

“Ladybug, I know you, if you thought you saw something you saw something. I’d say go check it out. If it’s nothing, no big deal.”

“Alright, I’ll be back so don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” she smirked back at him, without looking she threw her yoyo in the direction of the blur and swung herself out.

“That happened one time!” He yelled after her.

Ladybug swung through the alleys looking for the blur when she spotted a small light out of the corner of her eye. There it is. She stopped her approach when she heard a low voice murmur

“Yes Kent I will get you those pastries you can pick them up tomorrow?” It was Damian, Ladybug would have known the voice anywhere. She opened up her yoyo to call Chat “Hey meet me at the eiffel tower in five minutes.” Now all she had to figure out how she would get Damian up to the tower.

It didn’t take the superheroine to think up an idea. Sorry. She thought to herself before throwing her yoyo his way.

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

Damian had just disconnected the call when he felt a cool wire wrap around his body. I do not need this right now he thought to himself as he was whipped up from the ground and into the arms of a familiar red and black clad superheroine.

“Ya know you could have just asked.” He said annoyed.

“But where’s the fun in that, and anyway I’ve got some questions for you.” her voice was lighter than it had been the other day, probably because there was no villain to fight.

She carried him up to a part of the Eiffel tower not easily seen by the public, where she proceeded to tie him dangling upside down by her yoyo.

“Whyyy.” he grumbled to himself, if he wanted this kind of treatment he would have stayed in Gotham with Todd.

“Ok first question, big one here. Do you know who I am?” She said sitting down.

“I don’t know your hero name, although I think your partner said Ladybug the other day, right after his terrible pun.”

“Rude.” A black clad boy said coming out of the shadows. A tail swished behind him.

“Well it’s true, you’re almost as bad as Grayson.” Damian was getting tired of this, he tried to feel into his pockets for his knife, before remembering he had left it back at his apartment.

“Everyone knows I’m Ladybug, I’m asking if you know who I am outside of the mask.” Damian turned towards the girl when she spoke.

“Well yeah. It’s rather hard to hide the blue hair.” And I’d never forget those blue eyes. The thought surprised even him.

She said something under her breath before looking at him, “This could be an issue, but if you already know then I guess there’s no use in trying to tell you off. I’m surprised, but I guess despite your looks you’re actually rather smart.”

The boy next to her let out a small laugh. “Are you going to introduce us Buginette, or am I going to have to guess.”

“Chat Noir, meet Damian. Damian meet Chat Noir.”

“So you’re the new exchange student. Ya know, put you in a fancy suit and add a little more scowl I’d think you were the Damian Wayne.” This warranted a rare laugh from Damian who after a few moments said,

“Because I am.” Chat Noir and Ladybug went pale. Damian took advantage of them being dumbstruck to feel into his pocket, There it is! He felt his phone, with a few taps he was able to hopefully get Jon’s contact up after all it was the last one he texted. He typed:

Eiffel Tower. Get here now.

“Oh. Shit.” the soft expletive dragged him from the texting. Marinette. No Ladybug in this costume, looked at him. “Lila’s new lie. Oh, my Kwamii. She’s gonna get it.”

“What’s the lie?” Chat Noir and Damian said at the same time.

“She said she’s dating, well, you.” She looked at Damian, after a beat the costume clad heroes burst into laughing, Damian looked horrified. He knew about her lying about knowing his family but this was new.

The giggling of the two heroes was interrupted when a blue blur came out of nowhere a few minutes later, and a moment after that the blur solidified into the form of a boy who had a too familiar blue suit. Damian who had just been swinging upside down was now being carried bridal style by the boy.

“We never speak of this to anyone.” He said in a low voice to Jon. “If my brothers find out I will personally end you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You say that every time I have to come save you.” The boys southern twang was more prominent than usual, probably because Damian had been spending so much time around the French. A soft “Ahem” broke the two out of their talking..

“Hello, who are you, what are you doing here…”

“And would you mind putting down the angry child.” Chat interrupted Ladybug.

“I am your age cat boy.” Damian responded, his voice may have been cool but there was a slight blush to his cheeks.

“Oh yeah. Sorry, I just got a text from Damian here saying ‘Rival them get here now.’ I had to ask Con to help, but we figured Damian meant the Eiffel Tower.” Jon put Damian down and handed the yoyo back to Ladybug. “Anyway I figured if Damian was asking for help then he actually needed it. Also my names J-”

“Superboy.” Damian interrupted before Jon could give away his secret identity. Again. Ladybug was looking at Damian, probably wondering why he had Superboys phone number, she’d hopefully come to the same conclusion everyone else did. That the youngest Wayne got into enough trouble he needed a fast way to contact the supers.

“Good to meet you superboy, I’m Ladybug and this is Chat Noir.” She took her gaze off Damian to focus it on Superboy. “Will you be in Paris long?”

“I’ll probably stay the night, make sure no one else tries to hurt Damian. Plus there's a bakery I really want to go to when it opens, the Dupain-Cheng Bakery. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Ladybug paled a little bit and looked at Damian.

“He doesn’t know, he’s just focused on his stomach.” Ladybug breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hey that's rude.” Jon said to Damian.

“It’s me, you expect anything different.”

“Ladybug gave a snort, “Well as funny as this is I need to talk to Damian alone, Chat can you handle patrol for a little bit? Maybe take Superboy show him around Paris for a bit.”

“Yeah I’ve got it.” with a mock bow he motioned for Superboy to follow him. Jon recognizing a fellow weeb on sight asked him about anime, and the two went off singing some theme song from their favorite anime.

“I’m suddenly very glad I’m not on patrol.” Ladybug said quietly to Damian.

“Agreed.”

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

It had been a long night for Marinette, first finding out Damian was a Wayne then meeting Superboy, she had to get him alone before she exploded.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Damian turned his green eyes towards her.

“I have several questions, but is there somewhere more private we could talk?” The Paris night grew colder as the stood still.

“Yeah, we can talk at my place.”  Which is how Marinette Dupain-Cheng wound up drinking hot coco sitting on the couch at Damian Wayne's apartment.

“I can’t believe that your father lets you stay in the apartment on your own.”

“Well I’m seventeen, he knows I can take care of myself. Plus he either has one of my brothers videochat me, or pop in for a ‘quick visit’ which is their version of making sure I haven’t done some irreparable damage to anything.” He said, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Fair enough, now do you want to tell me why you were slinking in the alleys?” She said.

“Well I needed some air. And I was maybe… looking for you.” He begrudgingly said the last part.

Marinette blushed a little bit, “And why were you looking for me?”

“Well learning that Paris has heroes, plus getting saved by one makes me a little curious. Plus after class the other day I wanted to talk.” He took a sip of his tea.

“Alright. Also  since you apparently know superboy,” Marinette was still surprised about that fact, “there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Ok, shoot.”

“I noticed that ever since you came here a week ago Robin, usually right next to Batman, hasn’t been seen. Red Robin has been popping up, but no Robin. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?” Although she tried to make her voice as non confrontational as possible, she still saw Damian pale. He tried to mask it by drinking his tea but Marinette still saw how he hesitated before he said,

“I don’t know Robin, I know Superboy because he is freakishly friendly and helps out around Gotham a lot.” Marinette noticed how he stared at his drink the entire time he was explaining it to her. She was debating about pushing the point further before he interrupted saying, “It wouldn’t matter if I knew him or not, the Bats all keep their identities close to their chests. No one knows who any of them are.” When he was done he looked up at Marinette, she noticed how his eyes were pleading with her to just go with it, so she did.

“Ok, so what did you want to talk about regarding Paris’ heroes.” He looked relieved, finally able to change the topic.

“Well, how did you get your powers? How long have you been active? Who are you facing? And why haven’t you called the Justice League for help?” He fired off the questions, not giving her a chance to respond.

“One at a time,” she laughed, “We get our powers from our kwamis, little gods who reside in the miraculous jewel, my kwami is named Tikki.” At mention of her name the Kwami came out and gave a little hello. “We’ve been active for about 3 years, we’re facing a villain named Hawkmoth who can use people's emotions and turn them into villains. And we did call the Justice League for help when we first started.. Green Lantern told us not to prank call him again.”  When Marinette finished Damian looked angry. Mainly at the Green Lantern bit she mentioned.

“I’ll have to talk to Superboy about it.” His voice which had been warming up suddenly felt icy.

“Speaking of which I should get back to Chat, before he and superboy decide to test their powers on each other.” Setting her cup down on the coffee table she stood up. “Thanks for the hot chocolate, and the conversation Damian, I’ll make sure to send Superboy your way. See you in class.” She said her transformation words followed by a quick “bug-out” before leaping through the window.

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

Damian sat in the suddenly empty room which smelled like freshly baked bread. Marinette was true to her promise and a few minutes later Supreboy came crashing through the window. After he changed he spent the next ten minutes telling Damian about how he and Chat went around the city just talking about anime, and the differences between English and French dubs. Both eventually agreeing subbed was the best. Damian wasn’t listening instead thinking about Marinette. Smarter than she seems he thought to himself, afterall she came very close to figuring out who he was. He made a mental note to his father that they need a Robin appearance soon.

“Damian. Damian! Are you even listening to me?” Jon’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Sorry Kent I was thinking about someone else.” Jon looked at Damian incredulously.

“I might need to get my ears cleaned. Did you just say you were thinking about someone else?! Was it that superhero Ladybug? Do you like her?” Damian’s fury was undercut by the blush that appeared on his face.

“I don’t like anyone Kent you know that, and anyway she’s a hero with a mask. I can’t like anyone who is still wearing a mask around me.” Damian set his cup down a little harder than he needed to.

“I’m sure the great detective can figure out who's behind that mask pretty easily.”

“Keep it up Kent and I’ll be sending you back to Metropolis tonight. The hard way.”

Jon held his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Fine, but you and I are going to that bakery tomorrow.”

Damian looked at Jon, “The Dupain-Cheng Bakery?” A plan was forming in his head.

“That’s the one.”

“Not a bad idea.” It was time to talk to Marinette outside of class, and outside of the mask.

[cavalierious-whim]

Two’s a Crowd (FE3H)

Felannie | Canon-Compliant | War Phase | Teen | Complete There’s only one horse. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

----

A/N: This was a Secret Santa give and I was asked to write ‘There was only one Horse’. Read here on AO3 for better quality! Also, I’m on Twitter!

----

While Felix has never been one to follow the rules, he now understands why Byleth is so reluctant to let them roam outside the gates of Garreg Mach freely.

Sure, they’re adults and they can make their own dumb decisions. Still, it’s wartime; there are crest beasts and ample opportunity to be stupid enough to get yourself into a pickle.

Felix frowns. Annette’s colorful words, not his.

Byleth often turns a blind eye to the odd training session outside the Monastery, especially when it comes to Felix. Byleth knows that Felix can handle himself when it comes down to it, and while the Professor’s expression is prone to permanent frowning, he’s never said no. Not outright.

It’s more like carefully placed and unasked advice that he knows Felix won’t ever listen to but can claim to have given all the same.

“Just in case you find yourself gored,” said Byleth one dreary afternoon. “I’ll have the chance to say ‘I told you so’.”

So far, Byleth has been denied the pleasure because Felix is a slippery bastard; far too stubborn to die. And, as it turns out, he’s not the only stubborn person in the world, which brings him to his current problem:

Annette crashes through the underbrush alongside him, sagging with weariness and covered head to toe in mud and Goddess knows what else. It’s exactly Felix’s luck that she’s the one to sneak out after him because her curious little nose got the best of her.

At least it’s a cute nose.

“It just had to be a crest beast,” says Annette, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. That’s cute on her too.

“It had to be two,” amends Felix. He’s never had any luck with anything, least of all women, so he doesn’t know why he insists on longing for Annette. Then, he suddenly remembers something else, smacking his hand against his forehead. “Ingrid is going to kill us.”

A long moment stretches between the two of them as they stand there in the woods looking at each other.

“We’ve lost horses before,” says Annette. Sure, they’ve lost horses, but never a Fraldairan Marsh Tucky. And its accompanying mare because, naturally, that was the horse Annette picked. Ingrid’s captious about her thoroughbreds and she’d brought those from Galatea personally. Felix pauses in his step, leveling Annette with a tired stare, to which she sighs in response. “Okay, yeah, she’s going to kill us.”

Annette is lucky that Felix likes her. More than likes her. Kind-of maybe loves her, not that he’s the confessing kind. But, all her goofy songs and eternal optimism in the world won’t save him from Ingrid’s wrath, Mercedes’s clipped threats for endangering Annie, or Byleth’s contempt for attracting her attention by merely existing.

Byleth’s a bit of a stick in the mud when it comes to intra-army romance.

Annette’s mouth then tips into a tiny little smile and Felix wonders if it’s a bad thing that he likes the idea she’d followed him. She’d said that it was dumb of him to go it alone and that she’d been worried. The only person that worries about him nowadays is Sylvain, and it’s entirely unwarranted, unwanted, and suffocating in every way possible. The change is, admittedly, nice.

“There’s a village this direction,” says Felix, pointing to the west. “They’ve got a decent inn with tolerable food, and a stable with likely a few horses for sale.”

“Do we have the coin?” asks Annette.

“We’ll manage,” says Felix, thankful that he’d brought his purse with him that day. He doesn’t always, so maybe he’s luckier than he’d thought. His gaze slides back to Annette who watches him with interest, her eyebrows drawn up. “What?” he snaps, testily.

“Nothing,” says Annette, but judging by the sly little smirk on her face, it’s anything but. Felix doesn’t have the time to think about it anything further.

“We’re losing daylight,” says Felix. “We should get walking, otherwise Byleth will close the gates for the night.”

“He’d let us in,” says Annette.

“He won’t,” says Felix. He’d know, he’s camped outside the entrance before, punishment for making it back late. There’s a pause and then Annette laughs, causing Felix to scowl. Even if he likes the sound of it.

“He’d let me in, then,” says Annette.

Felix grumbles at that. “He probably would.” Annette smirks at him again and Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s only mildly irritated. Truly, Annette is lucky that she doesn’t incite his ire much. Felix wonders how this entire thing would go if it was literally anyone else stuck out here with him.

They’d probably have a sword through their neck already, or at least, be slightly maimed. Felix is in a maiming sort of mood. He and Annette head westward, slogging through the slick mud leftover from earlier rain.

“Hopefully, there won’t be any more beasts out here,” says Annette, and Felix whirls on her, pressing a finger against her lips. She blinks, surprised. But she doesn’t move away, if anything, she leans into the touch.

“Don’t!” hisses Felix.

“Don’t what?” she says against his finger, her breath warm against his skin.

“Say something like that. Don’t you know that’s exactly how it works?”

“What works?” asks Annette.

Felix groans, almost certain that she’s being obtuse on purpose because Annette’s the teasing sort. “It’s bad luck,” he says. “The moment you say something like that, it--”

There’s a deafening roar behind them that echoes through the trees. And then the woods fall deathly quiet. Annette swallows thickly, but to her credit, doesn’t pale or look scared. She’s a plucky little thing and that’s in part what Felix loves about her most. Annette isn’t one to back down, she seeks danger out. Case in point, trailing after him on her own.

Felix pulls his hand away from her.

“We’ve no choice,” says Annette. It’s not a question.

Felix draws his sword and readies a bolt of Thoron. “Might as well make it quick,” is all he says in return.

Annette answers with a resigned sigh.

#

Turns out, their luck is worse than anticipated, not that Felix is surprised. This entire trip has been working against him since before he left the Monastery.

“I have a bad feeling,” Byleth told him as he saddled up.

“Nonsense,” Felix said, annoyed at the Professor’s incessant mothering.

Felix is eating that word now, laying on his belly in the underbrush, slick with muck and worms. Annette shifts beside him, leaning closer.

“How long do we wait?” she asks.

“Until the damn beast is gone, obviously,” says Felix.

Annette’s eyes narrow at his tone. “This isn’t my fault.”

“You said the words,” says Felix. “You should never say the words.”

She huffs at that. “You’re the one that forgot a spare blade. Since when do you strap only one sword to your hip?” Then she pauses. “Also, what are the chances that it would just crack right down the middle--”

“The entire point of laying in this filth is to be quiet, Annette, and let the beast leave.”

Annette’s mouth snaps shut, but it’s not without an annoyed scowl shot in his direction. “You’re evil,” murmurs Annette, just loud enough for him to hear. Felix knows it’s absolutely on purpose. She’s got a mean streak in her at times, he’s just never been on the end of it.

The mud and foliage hide their smell, and eventually, the crest beast determines them to be a lost cause and saunters away. Felix reaches out to grab Annette’s wrist before she can get up. “Wait, just a little bit longer. It might come back.”

They lay there for longer than she wants, Felix can tell by her squirming, but Byleth’s words have been prophetic: it’s just one of those days. Finally, they rise. Annette looks down at her dress and cringes at the sight.

“I’ll have to burn this and get Mercie to make me a new one.”

“Mercedes has more important things to do than sew garments,” says Felix with an annoyed huff.

Annette narrows her eyes at him. “I’ll remind you that this is your fault.”

“I didn’t ask for you to sneak out after me.”

“You brought that upon yourself when you decided to go out on your own.”

Felix glowers. “Which I do, often.”

Annette shoots him a rival glare. “Because you have no sense of self-preservation. Honestly, Felix, I should have come with you sooner. How often are you so ill-prepared? How unlike you.”

Felix can’t deny that one; how unlike him indeed. “I’ve been distracted lately,” he finally says, and Annette’s face softens slightly. She thinks that he’s talking about the war, but that isn’t it actually, it’s more so the tight feeling in his chest that he gets when he looks at her. He’s taken to marking up trees in frustration, away from prying eyes in the training ground.

The dramatic irony of her blaming Felix isn’t lost on him.

“It’s going to get dark,” says Annette. Felix frowns. How astute and glaringly obvious. “And, according to you, Byleth will abandon you outside the gates.”

“Wouldn’t be a first,” gripes Felix.

“So,” starts Annette, rolling back on her heels slightly. Her hands are tucked neatly behind her, all manners despite looking like she crawled out of a sewer. “To the village then. We’ll get a room.”

Felix, who’d already turned around to head west, stops dead in his tracks. Then he closes his eyes. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Two rooms, he thinks. He can afford two rooms, he’s got enough gold for at least that.

When he looks back to Annette, she’s already beaming at him like she always does. Felix wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t. Instead, he wants to do something a little more drastic, like pull her in for a hug.

Which is ridiculous, because Felix doesn’t hug people.

“Felix?” asks Annette. “You’re staring.”

It takes everything in him not to wince. “Mud,” he says, dumbly. “And sticks. In your hair.”

Eloquent, Felix is not. Despite this, Annette takes the explanation in stride and their walk to the village isn’t so terrible considering.

#

“Say that again, but the answer better be different.”

The innkeeper swallows, his thick neck turning a little bit red. Felix threatens people often enough that he’s got it down to a science. Arms crossed over the chest, his foot tapping in annoyance. The worst scowl he can manage followed by a flash of steel.

He’s having to make do without that last one.

“We’ve only one room left,” says the Innkeeper.

It takes everything for Felix not to jump the desk and choke the man out.

“Felix,” says Annette, resting her hand against his arm. He doesn’t pull away and neither does she, her fingers curling into his quilted sleeve. “It isn’t his fault. The men out in the bar must be the reinforcements we’re waiting on.”

Felix massages his temple. Right, reinforcements; Byleth had told them all they were expecting another Magic Corps to show up. Just their luck. Or lack thereof. He looks to Annette, who looks back at him, large eyes framed attractively by delicate eyelashes.

Goddess above, he can’t do this.

“You’ll take the room,” says Felix, finally tugging his arm away from her grasp. “I’ll stay in the stable.”

“Absolutely not,” says Annette.

“There’s no room there, either,” says the innkeeper unwisely. Upon Felix’s dangerous glare, the man immediately adds: “I’ve got two stable boys who bunk there.” They would find the one inn that employs by way of food and shelter, and not coin.

The innkeeper takes a deep breath and then bravely says, “There are two beds. If that makes a difference.”

It does, but only barely. Felix eyes the man warily, but slaps down a handful of gold.

That’s when Annette does the unthinkable and says, “And a bath, please. And fresh clothes.”

Felix is going to sleep in a stall with a horse if that’s what it takes, because he cannot, cannot share a room with Annette if she’s intent on bathing. Annette doesn’t think about these kinds of things. She’s not a healer like Mercedes, but she does her share in the medical tents. She sees a body like she sees everything else; just as it is and nothing more.

When he finally meets her gaze, she’s looking at him expectantly. Her eyes flash to his coin purse and then back to the pile he’s left on the counter. Felix lets out a long-suffering sigh and slaps down a few more coins.

“For the bath. And the clothes,” he says tersely. All Annette does is smile widely, happiness practically beaming off of her and she looks utterly ridiculous, covered in the mess that she is.

The room isn’t large, but there are two beds as promised. The stableboys haul a bath inside and Annette has the forethought to direct them to place it behind the changing screen. Felix lets loose a breath. Small blessings and some actual luck, finally.

Annette sings as she bathes. Felix washes his face in the basin by the door and changes into the clothes they’ve been provided, before settling into one of the beds. The moment he hits the mattress, he realizes how weary he is. It’s been a long day of dodging crest beasts and avoiding pesky feelings.

“Felix,” calls Annette from behind the screen, “has Byleth actually left you outside the gate after coming back late.”

Felix snorts a laugh. “Once. The lesson was learned.”

Annette chuckles and then goes back to her made-up tune. “Oh, how I love to bathe. Wash away the icky bits, ‘cause being dirty is just the pits.”

It isn’t so much that her voice is good, it’s just nice. Calming. Sweet. Felix closes his eyes and listens, drifting off to the soft tune on her lips. Comforting when you think about it because Annette sings about the things that she loves.

He falls asleep before her song shifts, singing about a dark, handsome swordsman instead.

#

There’s only one horse.

It’s a curse, straight from one of those ridiculous romance novels that Sylvain pretends he doesn’t like to read. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

Annette has the gall to look amused. “It’ll be fine, Felix,” is what she says.

It will be the exact opposite of fine because while Felix has been very good at keeping her an arm’s length away, that isn’t an option here.

Felix glares at the stablemaster who regards him with an apologetic look. The only reason Felix doesn’t gut him right then and there is because it isn’t his fault. The man isn’t responsible for the delay in new livestock, the rain had done that. Regrettably, because Felix very much wants to stab something. Anything.

His head falls back, cheeks to the sky, eyes slipping closed as he lets out a long, drawn-out groan. This is divine punishment, Felix thinks, because he’s too much of a coward to just tell the damn girl that he likes her.

Or loves her. But really, at this point, what difference does it matter?

Annette pulls herself up first, settling into the saddle with ease. Felix turns to drop gold into the stablemaster’s hand, who offers a small smile in return.

“If it’s any consolation--”

“It’s not,” Felix cuts in.

“-- I think that she likes you back.”

At that moment, Felix wishes that murder for entirely inane reasons is legal. But alas, it isn’t, and Byleth would be quite irate if Felix were to remove the head of this man. The Professor loathes cleaning up messes and Felix makes a lot of them. So, the stablemaster keeps his life.

Only because Felix is too lazy to think of a valid excuse, or cook up a proper plan.

He pulls himself up behind Annette and settles in easier than he thought possible. Annette’s tiny enough that it’s not as awkward as it could be. Felix slips his arms around her waist and she hands him the reins, and then they’re off at a small trot.

The horse is calm and moves along the road well. Annette leans back against Felix’s chest, humming a tune. Felix is relatively relaxed. The Goddess hasn’t set the world on fire just yet. Small blessings.

“This is nice,” says Annette.

Not how Felix would phrase it. He’s caught somewhere between ‘this is divine’ and ‘this is absolute hell’. He allows himself the former though, arms settling around her closer than he’d normally allow. His nose close enough to the crown of her head that he can smell the fresh soap she’d bathed with. He enjoys the way she fits against him.

Felix would say that Sylvain’s a saint for putting up with this on the regular, but it’d be a lie. Worse, Felix gets why it’s a lie because Annette in his arms feels nice, even if it’s on the back of a horse, and only because there isn’t another choice.

“Nice,” agrees Felix halfheartedly, when he remembers to reply.

“You know, one could even say romantic.”

“There’s nothing romantic about being forced to share a horse because the Magic Corps didn’t think to bring their own.”

Annette turns her head slightly to look back at him, lips quirked into an amused smile. “Not one bit?” she asks.

Felix looks down at her, frowning slightly. What on earth does that mean? And why is she so amused? “I said that it was nice.”

“Felix, you look like you ate some of Flayn’s cooking.”

“This is definitely preferable to that,” says Felix, meaning it.

Annette sits there, twisted awkwardly in front of him for a moment longer, watching him. Felix squirms slightly, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Finally, she says, “I must admit, I’m at a loss.”

“For what?” asks Felix.

“Nothing,” says Annette. Felix frowns again because now she just isn't making sense. But then again, Annette often doesn’t make sense, it’s part of her charm.

The Monastery isn’t far from the village, barely an hour by horse. The rest of their ride passes without any issue. No crest beasts, no bandits, and miraculously, Felix doesn’t entirely combust after enduring close contact with Annette.

He’s decided to treasure the moment because it’s never happening again.

It’s no surprise that Byleth is waiting for them at the gate, their arrival having been spotted by a lookout and announced. The Professor looks calmly collected and not at all worried. Felix’s eyes narrow, instantly suspicious.

Felix drops from the horse first before reaching up and helping Annette down. She lands gracefully, her hands grasping Felix’s forearms. She doesn’t let go. Felix tries to pull away, but she holds tight, and damn, she has an impressively strong grip. She just looks at him, a soft little smile on her face.

“Annette,” says Felix, unsure how to continue.

“Felix,” replies Annette. “Thank you for taking care of me. You’re such a gentleman.”

Felix is anything but, and he’s about to tell her that when she finally let's go. Only to reach up and grab him by the face, fingers curling around his jaw. She yanks him down, none too gently.

And then, Annette’s kissing him, pressing her lips against his with careful precision. Felix is surprised but he doesn’t go entirely rigid. His hands slide up to grasp her cheeks and he kisses her back. It’s not sweet in its touch, but it’s not scorching either, somewhere middling of the two. Her hand snakes around the back of his neck to grip him possessively, pulling him closer.

Felix responds eagerly, his fingers slipping into her hair, tugging her face into a different angle to slot their mouths against each other better. Then, he parts his lips, intent on licking into her mouth--

There’s a cough from next to them and they break apart. Felix doesn’t look away from Annette whose cheeks are tinged pink. Annette looks to the side. “Byleth,” she greets coolly.

“Um,” starts Felix, but can’t think of words past that.

“I’m pleased to see that the two of you are okay,” Byleth deadpans.

Annette is looking at Felix again, and his gaze is still glued to hers, unsure what’s just happened, still trying to process the kiss. That she’d started. That she’d enthusiastically responded too. That she seemed annoyed to have been interrupted in the midst of. The stuff of dreams, really, specifically his dreams, and more often than he’d like to admit.

Felix’s brain is having a hard time comprehending.

“As I said, Felix took fantastic care of me,” says Annette kindly. Then, she reaches up and brushes Felix’s bangs away from his forehead.

“I’d prefer it if the two of you would continue taking care of yourselves within the gate.” Byleth pauses. “And after the meeting. We have things to discuss.”

The mention of a war council breaks the spell that’d fallen over Felix. He can feel his skin burning bright red in embarrassment, and worst of all, Annette looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

And she’s holding his hand. He hadn’t noticed her grabbing it.  

“When I was singing about the dark, handsome swordsman, who’d you think I was imagining?” asks Annette, words quiet enough for only Felix to hear.

“When you were singing about what?”

Annette pouts. “Oh darn, so you were asleep then. I’d hoped you weren’t.”

“Annette, what on earth--”

“Later,” says Annette. “Mostly because Byleth is giving you the stink eye, and I think it’s because we’ve delayed his carefully planned schedule.”

One look at the Professor proves her right. Felix clears his throat and takes several steps away, before grabbing the reins of the horse. “Right, then. I’ll just handle this. The horse, I mean.”

“I’ll see you in the war room,” says Annette, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

Felix decides that he doesn’t hate the light-hearted, flabbergasted feeling that’s floating through him. He also knows that the moment he regains his wits abashment will hit him full force because he’d practically eaten Annette’s face off in front of half the Monastery guard.

And Byleth.

So, Felix properly excuses himself in favor of stabling their new horse and perhaps locking himself away forever out of embarrassment.

If he’d stayed just a moment longer, he’d have seen Annette flash Byleth a conspiratorial wink as she passes him by. And how Byleth smiles slyly in return, tapping at his nose like he’s keeping a secret.

[ayellowcurtain]

Could you write some nicotino fluff/smut? Maybe Nico start counting Martin's freckles and then…

Can we have some jealous Niccolo? I'm sure he's almost as jealous as Marti but he usually manages to hide it better

Part 4 

Maybe Nico is a bit sadistic, he realizes. He knew this was Martino’s way to punish him and he accepted because he thought he deserved it and he could take it, whatever it was that Martino was going to do. But now he regrets ever saying yes to coming to a bar with him and the boys.

Firstly, it was terribly awkward. Long silences and stares, Gio and Elia constantly looking at him and then at Martino to make sure this wasn’t a dream, they could all go back to acting like friends. Luchino was more than happy to finally spend more quality time with Nico and he was very happy to see Luca too. 

They texted a lot, but Nico never had the courage to ask to hang out with him. He didn’t want to cause any more trouble between Martino and his friends. And Nico would rather die than to be with Luca some day, drawing and talking about music, and to have him run into Luai on accident or something.

It feels nice to be around them again, but it feels new, like the start all over again, where nobody knows exactly the right words to say, what they can or can’t talk about. 

Nico could feel his heat coming just around the corner, making his skin rough and a little oversensitive. He could still handle himself, be in public, but it just made things a lot more intense. He wanted Martino constantly around him, but it was more than clear that it wasn’t going to happen, not in front of everyone or in public, it would be too easy and Martino wanted to push every single button he could find in Nico.

Nico would have to take it, whatever it was, and the second he saw the guy at the bar and the way he was obviously staring at Martino, he knew. Martino was suddenly a lot more distracted, barely engaging in their conversation about the Champions League final happening next week. Nico tried to watch quietly. Martino was drinking his beer absently while staring right back at the guy. Tall, blonde, most likely with a terrible taste in music and movies. His clothes seemed like they were sewed on his lean, muscular body.

Martino is not a flirty guy. He doesn’t go to bars, talks to strangers and takes them home. Not even if he tries, but Nico is buying this bullshit tonight. Because he knows how stubborn Martino is and he knows he’ll do even the impossible to get under Nico’s skin.

Nico asks for a beer and he can see Martino blinking his eyes, losing his stare contest with the guy, suddenly caring about what’s happening on their table, but he still keeps his eyes on the man across the crowded bar. 

It takes a few minutes for the waitress to come back and Nico tries to focus on that. On the girl’s path to behind the bar, grabbing a clean cup, putting under the machine, pulling the hand crank down, slowly filling his cup with beer while looking around for some distraction.

Nico’s throat is dry and beer won’t really fix it, but he drinks like it’s iced water on a summer day. Martino fixed his hair a minute ago, trying to gather the courage to finally go talk to the stranger. While he did that, he was finally looking at his friends, avoiding to meet Nico’s begging eyes, holding his beer so tightly it makes his fingers pale. Nico stares anyway, hoping Martino will drop this scene already if he sees how much it bothers Nico.

Nothing changes because Martino doesn’t dare to meet his gaze. He finishes his beer and slams the cup on the table, getting up, walking up to the guy. The second Nico sees the guy smiling at Martino, looking at him from head to toe, Niccolò gets up, grabbing his coat behind his chair.

“What-Where are you going?” Gio asks right away and Nico thinks about thanking him for being so considerate, but he drinks his beer instead, finishing it, putting it carefully on the table.

“You know he’s just being an assole. He won’t be able to make a move. We all know it, it’s fucking Martino.” Elia tries to justify and Nico smiles at them for trying, but he walks away anyway, leaving the bar without looking back, at Martino probably sucking that idiot’s face off.

“Hey…” Nico hears Luca’s exasperated voice outside trying to catch up to him, but he doesn’t stop walking, needing to go home right now. But Luca catches up, walking fast to keep up with his pace, “Elia is right. Martino is just being stupid. Come back…He loves you, you love him.”

“Luca. I need to go.”

“Nico...we can go somewhere else if you want. To chill out, help you get your mind off of...well, that.” Luca shrugs, keeping his hands on his pockets, trying to act calmer than what he really is. Everyone knows Martino would kiss that guy just to hurt him back.

Nico shoves his hands inside his pockets, finally stopping and looking at Luca with his big, sorry eyes, trying to fix things for Martino. 

If his heat was coming, now it’s right there. Nico can feel it quickly taking over his body. His mind can really play tricks on him, going to overdrive really quick. He needs to go home, run if possible, to lock himself inside and drag every pillow and blankets and comforter to his bed, gather all the shirts and underwear he stole from Martino during the time they were together. He just needs to go, sit inside his nest and...wait for it to end.

He smells it before he can see him. Nico doesn’t have time to answer Luca, politely ask him to just let Nico go, but he looks to their left and Martino is outside the bar, alone, his eyes finding them and he walks to their direction.

“Go back inside.” Nico asks as nicely as he can, hoping his voice won’t break in the middle.

“Where are you going?” Maybe he was too drunk, too nervous, too horny for someone else, but only when they’re just a few feet apart that Martino stops, understanding what’s going on. He looks at Luca, silently asking for some privacy and Luca looks at Nico, smiling sadly at him, going back inside.

“Home. You don’t have to come.” Martino is still staring at him, his eyebrows going just slightly up, forming a crease in between them and Nico hopes he’s as embarrassed as he looks like he is, “I’m sure he’s your best shot compared to me. You can go. Do whatever you want.”

“Niccolò.”

He wants to say it’s okay, he knows he fucked up, he deserves whatever Martino was about to do in front of him, but he can’t. Because he doesn’t mean it and because having Martino this close is not really helping.

“You can go home later, when you’re...done, if you want.” Nico tries, more than willing to take Martino, even if just a piece of him, late at night, after being with someone else.

“Don’t be fucking weird.” Martino complains.

“I’m not. I mean it.”

“That’s the problem.” Martino walks right next to him and Nico has to hold his jacket tightly from the inside not to hold him. He just stumbles around himself to find Martino again behind him, asking for a taxi.

He gets inside the car without asking questions and Martino follows him, closing the door next to him, giving the driver Nico’s address. Nico wants to ask what he’s doing, where’s the stranger, but he doesn’t, he tries to keep his eyes on the street outside, digging his short nails against his palms not to reach for Martino and nuzzle into his neck and beg him to stay for the hundredth time.

Niccolò tries to talk himself out of it. He already made more than he needed to. Martino is not coming back and Nico doesn’t have to keep begging. He made a mistake, maybe more, but that doesn’t give Martino the right to hurt him back forever.

When the car stops in front of his home, Nico jumps out of the car, closing the door behind him, trying to find his keys he shoved inside one of his pockets.

“Hey…!” He hears the muffled, annoyed voice and then the door opening and closing again. He finally finds his keys and Martino is there, standing right next to him, acting like he’s waiting to get inside too.

Fuck the stupid stranger, Fuck Marti!

Nico stumbles inside again - too worked up about his frustrations of going out to watch Martino flirt with somebody else while feeling himself slowly going crazy with need - to care why he’s being followed so closely by Martino. Why he is so worried, leaving everyone right away to go home with Nico.

The hallway light isn’t working, but he knows where Martino is standing by his smell. By how loudly Martino’s heart is beating inside his chest. Nico turns on his heels, facing Martino standing there, so close Nico doesn’t have to do much, putting his hands in the back of Martino’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

Martino knows where to put his hands, deepening the kiss right away and Nico can’t help but smile. Marti was expecting to be kissed and the realization makes everything fade into dust inside Nico’s insecure brain.

It’s not easy to go upstairs, but Nico would do it a thousand times. Walking back to not let go of Marti, feeling his hands hold him tightly when Nico almost misses a step, laughing when they can’t find the door or where to put the keys. Martino steals the keys from his hands and finds the right place so much quicker, turning the knob before even unlocking the door, pushing his shoulder against it to push it fully open.

Nico tries to watch quietly while taking his shirt off, but Martino is taking forever to turn the lights on and lock the door from the inside. So he minimizes the space between them, turning Martino around, kissing him again while trying to unbutton his stupid shirt.

It hasn’t even been that long, but it feels like it. Weeks feels like months without touching Martino, kissing him, taking his clothes off. Nico finally finishes the first buttons until their torsos meet and he leaves the top ones for Martino to deal with, snaking his arms around Martino’s waist, going up his back.

“Ah!” Martino jolts forward, and Nico looks at him, finding a bright, accidental smile on Marti’s face. Only then he remembers. Martino looks at him and Nico wishes he had him looking at Nico like that again forever. Happy, relaxed, with bright eyes and the smile slowly fading away as Marti starts to get embarrassed. He moves back to opening his shirt, but Nico can’t help it, lightly touching his sides under the shirt again and kissing where his jaw turns at a sharp angle behind his ear.

“Nico, Nico!” He holds Marti tighter against the door, but he wiggles harder, trying to escape his grip, “Ni, please! Stop! Stop!”

He laughs loudly and Nico stops before Marti can get out of breath. He steps back and realizes the dream in front of him. A happy Martino, with his shirt completely opened, finally catching his breath, his pale chest moving up and down as he smiles at Nico.

Niccolo sighs, putting his hands on Marti’s cheeks to avoid his ticklish areas, putting their foreheads together, looking into Martino’s eyes, looking at his parted lips, still panting. 

Martino won’t say it with his words, but Nico doesn’t need it right now because everything else tells him that they’re finally moving closer again. Martino is his again.

-

“I missed you.” Martino lets it slip just above a whisper and Nico looks at him, smiling. It’s hard for Marti to say those words, it’s clear in the way he’s looking at Nico, with heavy eyes, his heartbreak still needing time to fully heal. Nico is willing to wait, for as long as he needs to. 

He leans down, saving the number he stopped counting for later, putting his hands on Martino’s chest, putting his chin on top of it, smiling and purring when Marti puts his hand on his hair, probably noticing how long his hair is getting. Nico can’t remember the last time he cared to cut his hair a little bit. 

“I missed you too.” 

He doesn’t know what to say so he looks down at Marti’s chest again. He looks different and Nico smiles, thinking about his morning hikes with Gio. Nico has to thank Gio later. He sighs, moving on to kissing Martino’s chest again, lying his head closer to his neck, his fingertips following his freckles where Nico had stopped counting them. 

“I’m sorry for tonight.” Martino adds, kissing the top of his head and Nico sighs, hugging him tighter, pulling the comforter closer to his chin, tangling their legs together. 

“Don’t do it again, please.” He whispers and Martino puts his arms around him tighter and Nico purrs, closing his eyes, needing just a few more minutes of this before they can go again. 

[terminally-karkalicious]

allow me to rant about the only thing that has been in my brain for the past two months and that is doll customizing babeyyyyy

i know there’s a 90% chance that you wont give a Shit about any of this but here we go anyways

SO first you gotta choose a doll. preferably one with a high range of motion to avoid creating new joints or having annoying limitations like not having elbow joints for some fucking reason. what the fuck mattel. give monster high dolls back their ball jointed shoulders and elbow joints. smh

the most common dolls ive seen used as bases are monster high and ever after high. most customs ive seen are highly stylized so the stylized face molds work well for those types of dolls but dolls like barbies are good for when you want a more realistic face-ups.

once you’ve got your base picked out you gotta wipe that bitch’s face off with like. acetone or nail polish remover or something strong like that. you can also use acetone to shrink doll heads which is cool as hell imo. n e way once the face is wiped you gotta chop off the hair and remove the hair plugs from the inside. ive seen this done several ways but the easiest and most common way ive seen is to dunk the head into boiling water for ~30 seconds until it gets squishy and malleable. once you’ve got the head back, you can use pliers (i think tweezers would work in a pinch) to pull out the hair plugs which are kinda icky because theyre covered in glue and other gross shit. ew

now you must decapitate the doll. dunk em back in the boiling water to soften them back up then just tug the head off. the neck pegs look funky and are usually a different color than the body so thats cool ig

once the head’s off, you can start the face-up which is basically just giving the doll a new face using stuff like watercolor pencils, acrylic paint, gouache, and a whole lot of other stuff. hell ive seen people use person makeup on these dolls.

next,,,,, hair. there’s about twenty million ways to do hair from gluing yarn wefts to sewing to rerooting with purchased nylon doll hair or yarn wefts but i’m gonna talk about the most common one ive seen which is rerooting and gluing.

before you can reroot, you need doll hair. which, as i mentioned, can be bought at stores like the doll planet or made at home with yarn in literally any color. have fun with it! make rainbow hair or something idk

to make homemade wefts, you take some acrylic yarn, cut it twice as long as you want the hair to be (keep in mind you can cut and style the hair once it’s been rerooted), fold them in half, and tie it to something sturdy like a wire coat hanger for the next step.

once you’ve got your yarn tied to your hanger, use a pet brush and brush the yarn until it’s wispy and looks like hair. then take a straightening iron and iron the weft flat. then remove from the hanger and boom. hair wefts. ta-da

to reroot the wefts onto the head, use a rerooting tool (which can be as simple as a needle with the eye cut at angle) (just google it please i’m shit at descriptions)) to poke small sections of the hair into the head. you can use the pre-existing rooting holes for your own reroot as they’re usually pretty reliable. to reroot, take a small length of you doll hair (about 10-15 strands), loop it in half, and put the middle of the loop into the reroot tool. poke the end of the tool with the hair on it into the pre-existing hole and remove the tool. the hair *should* stay in and fill up that plug!! also remember to plug thickly at the hairline and part of the hair where it's most noticeable. it doesnt matter as much in the center of the head as that’s not usually visible on the doll. once you’ve rerooted, squeeze in strong glue through the neck hole and squish around the head to make sure it covers all the plugs and secures them in place. then pour hot water onto the head to make the hair lay flat for styling later.

also, you can reroot yarn directly into the head to make thicker, more textured hairstyles. and since the yarn is thicker, you dont need to glue the inside of the head for the hair to stay in place!!

if youre not doing body modifications (which are also cool as hell) then it’s time for clothes but clothes are boring and i like body mods more so i’m gonna rant about them instead

the material ive seen most doll artists use is apoxie sculpt, which is like play doh on steroids. it comes in two parts which you gotta mix together for some reason. why dont they sell it pre-mixed. what was the reason. also once it’s dry it’s super super strong and you can sand it, drill into it, paint it, and all kinds of stuff. very nice and i want some for myself.

you can use hand saws and drills and shit to whack off doll limbs to make stuff like digitigrade legs or new joints. also dont be afraid to use other mismatching doll parts when customizing like heads and bodies and forearms and hands and shit. it literally does not matter if youre gonna recolor the doll anyways so have fun with it. make frankenstein’s doll if youre feeling spicy

accessories my beloved. stuff like tiny beads and clay baubles and shit will literally transform the entire doll plus they’re adorable and multi-purpose

i suppose i must talk about clothes now. ah well. you can find great clothing patterns if youre new to customizing on other customizer’s etsy shops and probably google although those will probably be lower quality than paid pattern pieces. and keep in mind that if it exists as clothing irl, you can likely make it doll-sized. there are literally no limits to your clothing options as long as you can execute your idea.

the once all your components have been made, you can assemble the doll again!! and finally see what all the parts look like together!! very cool 10/10 stars.

ight that wraps up my doll rant. i could really go into more detail on certain parts but thats a whole other rant for a whole other day smh. sorry for fucking flooding your inbox ender ahaha……………. you asked for this

little did you know that dolls have been one of my favorite things since like ever. if i can read a 25 chapter long fanfic i can read this B)

mattel definitely fucked up by completely ruining MH doll designs and just stopping EAH, alot of their profits most likely came from people who collect and customize dolls and by changing MH doll designs/Stopping EAH dolls they 1. most likely lost a small (or big if we're not jus talking people who customize dolls) part of their profit and 2. made it harder for doll customizers to make dolls/get commissions out rather quickly because they probably have to waste more time making joints or learning how to make joints.

EAH/MH dolls (specifically MH dolls) had AMAZING MODELS because there was so much variety with height, face shapes, etc (my favorite molds had to be the short/tall dolls and the cat molds because of the tails) and doll customizers really went all out with enhancing a molds unique features. The only "downside" abt MH dolls is that they (or atleast most)(from what i remember)) had slimmer faces but wider eyes while EAH dolls have wider faces with slimmer smaller which left a canvas for the face and not the eyes (and vice versa for MH dolls)

I've never seen any videos where a barbie is customized (maybe because i absolutely despised barbies at the time) so I'll definitely have to check those out but they seem to be good for realistic makeovers. I've seen like like semi realistic makeovers for EAH/MH dolls that were pretty good too tho (pretty sure mostly EAH dolls since yk MH dolls were used for creature makeovers while most EAH dolls weren't)

yeah i was always amazed by the head shrinking with acetone. honestly i still am?? idunno i have no idea how that chemical bullshit works. Ive seen a few of uh makeovers that just pain over the face (in multiple layers ofcourse) but that's usually when they're painting the entire body a different colour (again usually when they're turning a doll into a funky little baby man). I've also seen a few that just chop the hair off and take out the hair plugs yk without uuh like softening the head or just go straight for the hair plugs after taking off the head (i used to do that it was funny to me??). i always really liked when they used watercolour pencils or just colour pencils in general to draw/sketch on the face cause like wow ur drawing on ur doll without ruining it?? kinda epic maybe even poggers and pogchamp?? oh god my brain is failing wjshsmsj.

Watching them putting the hair back on the doll was, other than the face stuff, was the BEST part for me. Favorite type of hair was iuuuuuh was either thick yarn or brushed out yarn. Literally worship the people that would reroot the hair, theyre the most patience people on this earth!! it's literally insane but i guess that's what happens when you've been doing that for years? you guess kinda get used to it. when they put glue into the head does it just become stiff?? like it's just a clump of dried glue or does it like..hollow out again??

dude you literally cannot convince me most of the supplies used for doll makeovers. APOXIE CLAY LOOKS SO FECKING GOOD. its edible and i will die on that hill. The body mods are literally so amazing!!!!! it's so impressive how theyre able to imagine certain features THEN LIKE ACTUALLY MAKE IT LOOK ACCURATE TO WHAT THEY WANTED TO LOOK LIKE AFTER LIKE ON TRY (or many yk trial and error is very necessary for..everything). Absolutely loved when doll customizers would saw off a dolls legs and use different ones or just completely get rid of the torso to use a different one. it's like uuh that one big guy that's mismatched and sewn together. very cool. The accessories are so fun!! just small little details you seen really need but can add because it's your feckin doll!! I used to be absolutely obsessed over the doll clothes i would find on etsy, so much so that i started sewing shitty shirts and dresses for my uh "customized" dolls (they were absolute HORRORS idk WHY my mom let me feck up my dolls like that).

Thank you for this!! i haven't been able to talk about any of my interests for a while and this just really made me happy!!

Question fer u my fellow MH/EAH enthusiast: what was your favorite MH/EAH movie/episode and doll series. Mine was The fusion dolls (MH obvi) and that MH movie "Haunted" cause we got to know more about Spectra :D

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part six Word count: ±5000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work together. Summary part six: Zoë remains one step in front Dean, which annoys the cocky hunter. As new details about the case unravel, both Winchester brothers find out that the independent woman is not planning to share. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer​​​, @soupornatural​​​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​​​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​​​ & @winchest09​​​ who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     Dean squints when he steps into the light. A clear blue stretches out across the sky, the bright color gradually turning paler as it closes in on the horizon. He’s outside in the parking lot crammed with cars; the desk clerk wasn’t lying when he said he was fully booked. The place doesn’t have a sinister feel to it anymore like it did last night, allowing the hunter to let his guard down on this caffeine-deprived morning. The older Winchester brother needs a fix and he needs it badly. Sam drank all the instant coffee and he refuses to drink that shit from the machine in the lobby. 

     He expected it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. Sam woke him up, turning up the volume of the radio completely during the drum solo of a Guns ‘N Roses song. Not because his little brother likes that particular music, but he does like to watch Dean bolt upward in bed. Payback, because the older Winchester can’t deny that he pulled a similar prank on his brother more than once. Honestly, he’s glad Sammy is starting to mess with him again. It’s been a while since they acted like siblings. The joke was a good wake up call, too, he has to admit, but he still feels hungover: wrecked, tired and in desperate need of a cup of coffee, or several. 

     Traffic rushes by, most of the cars and trucks entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big town, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment, he thinks of those the shapeshifter already took. Sam found a string of at least three disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had access to offline while Dean was driving up north. These people could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find that bastard’s hideout fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs food, too. Dunkin’ Donuts, now that would be a treasure in this town. 

     When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by, “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. He went outside anyway, in need of some fresh air. His shoulder is throbbing, shooting daggers through his arm whenever he moves it, but as long as he keeps it still, it’s not too bad. In the bathroom earlier, he did peel the gauze back slightly to check the injury, and he has to admit that he was impressed. He might not be able to stand Zoë, but she did an awesome job removing that bullet and sewing him back together. Plus, the painkillers she offered are a God’s gift.

     Slowly, he strolls towards his car. The pitch-black Chevrolet Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glistening. Dean smiles; what a sight for sore eyes.      He’s honored to own the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to drive, but because it was Dad’s first car. He kind of owes it to his old man to take good care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to look after the family.      “Hey, Baby,” he greets his Chevy, letting his fingertips glide over the trunk.      “Since when have we reached the phase that you call me ‘baby’?”

     Dean looks over the top of the Impala and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot the owner. When he moves around his car he finds her, laying on her back underneath her bike.      “Who says I was talking to you?” Dean returns, leaning against the hood.      She crawls from under the Road King and judgmentally observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench and slips back under. “Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that,” she nags.

     Dean grins and decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he has the sudden urge to pull his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But Baby is fine, she doesn’t need any TLC right now.      “What’s wrong with your bike?” Dean asks curiously.      “I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speed bump. It’s just the gasket, nothing serious,” she explains, keeping her eyes on the exhaust.      “And what’s wrong with you?” he rephrases his question.      “Excuse me?” Caught off guard, she pauses, but doesn’t make an effort to get out from under her Harley.      Dean doesn’t bother to repeat himself. “You heard me.”      “There’s nothing wrong with me, Shortbus.” Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago, annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going with this.      “Then what is that bandage doing there?” Dean asks smartly.      Startled, Zoë sits up and hits her head hard against the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang. Cursing like a sailor she lands back on the ground. “Ow! Fucking hell!”

     She didn’t realize her shirt crawled up. Dean smirks at the string of strong language, but hides his smile when she surfaces from under the bike. Irritated, she pulls down her buttoned shirt to hide the gauze through which a little bit of blood has formed a perfect circle in the shape of a bullet wound. She uncomfortably pretends like neither he nor she saw it and disappears under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn’t going to let it go.      “Did Sam shoot you?”      “What?”      “Last night he fired two bullets. Did he shoot you?” Dean repeats.      The huntress scoffs. “Ha! Your little bro isn’t that fast on the draw.”      “I’m not kidding,” he states seriously. “Someone apparently was.”

     She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed, she looks up at him, lightning in her brown eyes. Zoë is nowhere near admitting to him what went down. Shit. How the hell is she gonna talk herself out of this one?      “Don’t worry, Sam won’t get the credit,” Zoë comments snarky, as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away.      “If he didn’t do it, who did?” he interrogates, clearly not accepting a smart answer.      “What does it matter? It’s nothing serious,” she mutters, getting up.      “It is. You got shot, damn it,” Dean argues.      “So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?” Zoë quickly changes the subject, but Dean is smart enough not to take the bait.      “No - no - no,” He shakes his head and grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that one. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question.”      She sighs; seems like there’s no way out of this.      “It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot,” she assures, still avoiding Dean’s question.      “Did you get the bullet out?” Dean asks, almost parental.      Zoë narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I got the bullet out.”      “Who shot you?” he asks again, slowly this time.

     Zoë doesn’t answer and saunters up to him, after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy as well. Her hair, still damp from the shower she took earlier and seems black. Despite the crappy night, her natural tan gives her a healthy appearance. The only thing that gives away that she’s tired, are the slightly visible dark circles under her eyes. When she looks aside, she meets Dean’s gaze, who’s waiting for some kind of response.      With a sigh, she gives him an answer. “The shapeshifter.”      Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, needing a moment to analyze her words. He doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first. “You ran into him?”

     Zoë averts her gaze, debating her conscience. Should she tell him? She knows he will keep digging until he does, but she could lie, obviously. Oh, what the hell. She might as well give him the whole story.      “Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him,” she explains.      “Wait… Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?” Dean double checks.      She suspiciously tilts her head while looking at him. “Yeah.”       “Shit.” He rubs his face, realizing what is going on. “You’re Sharon Evans.”      “What? How the hell do you know my alias?” Zoë asks with a tone.      “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam technically did get you shot,” he starts off hesitating.      “Beg pardon?!” she cries out, turning towards him, completely stunned.      “We rang Cliffer around five yesterday afternoon, to meet up with him,” he admits.      She stares at him as the missing links connect. She places a hand on her hips, switching her weight to one leg, radiating her attitude. “Let me guess! FBI?”       “Yeah. He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’s partner. We didn’t realize we were on somebody else’s case,” he admits.      “You son of a…”

     She swallows down another waterfall of curse words and turns around furiously. That’s why the bastard changed! She didn’t give herself away, those dumbass Winchesters did! It’s a bit of a coincidence that two federal agents call, being on the same case without knowing it. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when it learned about the appointments, it changed shape quicker than planned. The fucker knew there was at least one hunter in town. It was on to her!      “Fuck!” she exclaims.

     Furious, she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that anything coming out of his mouth will only make her angrier, even if it’s just a smart attempt to lighten the mood.      “What time’s that appointment?”      “Five-thirty.”      “Where?”      “A bar. I’m not sure where.”       “You don’t know?!” she snaps.      “Sam knows. He made the appointment, not me,” he returns.      Zoë rolls her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment. 

     “I don’t see why this is a bad thing,” Dean starts off, casually, but she doesn’t take it well.      “You don’t see why this is a bad thing? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!” she hisses, lowering her voice when guests walk out the Motel Six.       “You don’t know that. There could be two of them walkin’ around,” Dean argues. “The shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage. It doesn’t know we know.”      “What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?” she taunts.      “I don’t have a plan. Like I said–-”      “- Sam’s the geek, I know. God, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second child,” she huffs, turning on her heels as she crosses her arms firmly in front of her chest.

     Dean glares at her, offended. Not that she notices, with her back already turned to him. She picks up the tools she used for the repair and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. While she cleans up, Zoë tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure who Sam actually made that appointment with, then how can she work out a strategy? Big chance that she’ll meet the shifter, but it could very well be Terry, so she can't actually go in guns blazing. Cliffer hasn’t been reported missing yet, even though he has a wife and kids. If he did disappear, they would have called the authorities and Zoë would know about that. Nothing is certain, which makes this job so much more impossible to work. 

     She stops what she’s doing and stares at the asphalt. Gears are turning in her head as she goes over every scenario. Dean observes her for a moment.      “Did you eat?” he asks out of nowhere. “Or have coffee?”      “No,” she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything?      “Then how the hell can you think properly?” he wonders.      She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like there’s a war going on inside. She could certainly go with a good latte macchiato to jumpstart her brain, too. It’s no fun to admit, but Dean has a point.      “You’re right. I’m off.” Zoë throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle. She picks up her old biker jacket from the handlebar and puts it on.      “Can I come?”      The way Dean asks is like a little boy would, innocent and hopeful, adding ‘pretty please’ with his green eyes without actually pronouncing the words.      She chuckles and shakes her head. “Sorry, Dean. I fly solo.”      Her engine starts with a satisfying purr instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier. Content, she smiles and puts on her helmet. Dean, on the other hand, looks at her just like that same little boy, disappointed, even though he tries to hide it. Without another word, she turns the throttle and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a smirk from ear to ear.      “Thanks for lunch!” she shouts, overruling the sound of her Harley. 

     Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. Lunch? What lunch?       He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. When the identical roar seems to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives up the ramp going to the city. She heaves her hand victoriously, holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his jaw dropping to the ground.      That dirty little thief! She just stole my wallet!       He gapes at Zoë, as she and her Harley merge into busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this…?      Stunned, he scoffs. Un-fucking-believable. He, one of the best goddamn hunters in the world, just got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly.      “Son of a bitch.”

     An hour later, Zoë slips her key in the lock of room 82 and walks in like she owns the world, a straw coming from her iced latte on-the-go firmly between her lips.      “Finally!” Dean complains.      He made himself comfortable on the bed with his shoes on the bedspread again, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine Zoë doesn’t want to know the content of. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly. The older of the brothers smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding. It might have taken her a while to get back, but at least she brought the good stuff. 

     Without responding to his comment, she throws him back his wallet without Sam noticing, who is occupied by research. Dean catches it with his left hand and answers her victorious grin with an unintelligible mutter. She sets down a small tray with two more coffee containers.      “I didn’t know how you guys like your coffee, so I brought you both an Americano,” she says.      “Francis over there prefers a half-caf double vanilla latte,” Dean comments, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother, who on his turn glares at him and takes his coffee.       As if Dean hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the burrito, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manners. Sam, however, can’t help but stare at his brother for a moment and clears his throat, disapprovingly. His sibling doesn’t seem to be bothered at all and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’.      “This is good,” he comments with his mouth full.      “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, after which he also takes a bite of his lunch.      “Don’t thank me,” she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid.”            The younger brother frowns and looks over at Dean for an explanation. Dean and paying the bill? That’s new. He doesn’t need to observe him for long before Dean stops chewing and his facial expression goes blank. Uneasy, he looks away and swallows his bite. Zoë watches him, too, smirking like a cheshire cat.      “She - uh,” he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “She kinda… stole my wallet.”      Sam almost chokes on his food and laughs out loud, the action earning a lethal glare. He then continues to look the huntress up and down. “That explains the new jacket.”      Dazed, Dean looks up. New jacket? What new jacket? Then he spots the black leather Harley Davidson bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it.      “You didn’t,” he reacts, shocked.      She grins at him, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, I did.”      He grinds his teeth, trying to keep calm. “How much was it?”      “Not sure, actually. I didn’t bother to check the price tag when I slipped your card,” she returns, utterly satisfied.      For a moment Dean just stares at her, his upper lip nervously twitching. What would that jacket be worth? 400, 500 bucks, maybe?      “Oh, don’t be such a cheap jerk about it,” she comments, when she notices his expression, as if he has eaten something spicy yet disgusting. “You have at least a dozen more credit cards hidden in the trunk.”      “How the hell would you know that?” Dean snarls at her.

     As she takes a bite of her burrito, she looks up, digs deep down in her pocket and tosses him his car keys. While she casually continues with her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand with his mouth agape, trying to figure out how the hell she got those as well. Sam has a hard time keeping a straight face, and who could blame him? There’s no finer entertainment than this: Dean is getting played.      “You touched my fuckin’ car?” his brother hisses.      “Obviously. I need to borrow this, by the way.” Zoë holds up a demon protection amulet.      “Give that back, Zoë,” Sam demands, trying to be strict. “What else did you take?”      “Some herbs, nothing expensive,” she admits, carelessly.      “You fucking thief. What did you take, Sullivan?”      It’s Dean who rises to his feet, holding his hand out to collect the stolen items. Reluctant, Zoë reveals a dried vine of Viburnum from her inner pocket.      “Gardener over here -” Dean nods at Sam, “- went through a lot of trouble to get ahold of that dead plant you have there. I’d give it back if I were you.”      “No. I need it,” she decides a matter of factly.      Sam narrows his eyes at the huntress, trying to read her. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a double shoestring. It only works for one thing…      “Not for yourself, I hope?” Sam asks, carefully.      “A case I’m working on the side, actually. Can’t find the damn plants anywhere,” she clarifies.      “Keep the damn twig, but I want the amulet back. Get your own supplies.” Dean ushers Zoë to hand the item over, which she does with a sigh.      He snatching his coffee from the table and returns to the bed without thanking her. In fact, he’s not happy at all that she has been sniffing around in his car. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.

     “I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?”       Dean nods, taking a sip of caffeine. “In detail.”      “Let me get this straight.” Sam, seated on one of the chairs by the table, leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The shapeshifter knows you’re a hunter.”      “It does, but it didn’t know that at the time of the meeting. It knew one of the callers was out to kill him, but for all it cared, I could have been an FBI agent. The fucker shot me anyway,” she elaborates, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash.      Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What’s your point?”      “Her point is that if we go to Beetles Bar, pretending to know nothing, it won’t take any risks. If the shifter shows instead of the real Terry Cliffer, it will try to kill us both,” Sam understands.      “You guys are not going in,” Zoë makes clear right away, taking a mental note of the bar’s name that Sam just mentioned.

     “So, what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?” Dean suggests.      “Not until I’m sure it’s the shifter, not Terry,” Zoë replies, as she walks over to the fridge.      Two confused faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside.      “You’re not making any sense at all,” Dean returns, puzzled, after which he apparently gives up on the conversation and props his feet up on the bed again.      “You might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy, not with that chameleon. No one would be able to tell, unless you shine a flashlight in his face,” she explains, as she takes out three beers.

     Sam looks back at Zoë, who beckons one of the bottles to him, but he rejects it. Dean takes both the beers without hesitation.      “You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours,“ Sam scolds at the older Winchester brother, astonished by the both of them.      “It’s happy hour somewhere,” Zoë defends, puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig, earning a grin from Dean.      “Want anything else, Sammy boy? Some juice, or milk perhaps?” she coos cheerily as if talking to a child.      Dean snorts, almost choking on his beer, but when Sam shoots daggers at him, he quickly takes another sip.

     “Don’t call me Sammy,” he warns the huntress, continuing their discussion on the case. “So, there is a possibility that we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer–-”      “Okay, stop there for a second. Let me make something very clear: there is no ‘we’.”      Zoë leans on the table, her knuckles resting on the surface. Her body language is strictly business all of a sudden; apparently she’s not very happy about Sam and Dean joining in on the case, especially not without her permission.      Dean eyes her as he sits up. “You could use our help, Zo.”      “Help?” She scoffs. “Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!”      “That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can offer a hand. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer,” Sam argues.      “I don’t care. This is my hunt. I’m going to that appointment myself,” she clears up.      A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig up more information on her guy. The boys better get going.      “No, you’re not. That’s our appointment,” Dean bounces back.      “Seriously? You really wanna fight me on this?” she returns snappily, pushing herself from the table and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “That appointment that you scheduled fucked up my entire case! I was here first and I’m gonna end it!”      “Oh, come on. How old are you? Five? Haven’t learned how to share yet?” Dean chuckles with an attitude, adding fuel to the fire. 

     Before Zoë can counter him, Sam comes between the two hot-blooded hunters.      “Knock it off, both of you. It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together? You lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll probably be in the bar anyway, either as Terry Cliffer or someone else.”      “No,” she decides without any consideration. “I’m gonna deal with this alone and I do not need your help.”      “I can see that,” Dean comments, nodding at her abdomen, reminding her of the bullet wound that’s covered by her shirt.      “Who’s fault is that again?” she snaps. “I’m gonna say it one more time: I fly solo. I don’t do teamwork, certainly not with you two. End of discussion.”

     She takes one last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table with a loud bang.      “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with your ‘end of discussion’? Our dad?” Sam bites back, defensive for the first time today.      She freezes at the comparison and turns her head. The boys can see the fury burning in her eyes, as if they just lit the fuse of a bomb that’s about to explode. His comment stirred something inside of her they should have left alone.      “I am nothing like your father!” she hisses.      “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean questions, offended.      “Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester,” she counters with a tone.      “What did he ever do to you? He exorcised that evil son of a bitch that was wearing you to the prom, for fuck’s sake.” Dean gets up and steps towards her, clearly not too happy about the way she’s talking about his father. 

     Trying to not lose her cool, Zoë chuckles sarcastically, looks away, and places her hands on her waist.      “You owe him,” Dean pushes, halting before her.      “I do not owe him a fucking thing,” she snarls fiercely, staring him down.      Their eyes battle, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. Her anger towards John Winchester radiates from her; the brothers can both feel it. They struck a nerve, that’s for sure.      “I want you out,” Zoë declares without even blinking. “And I’m serious.”

     Dean's jaw tenses as he grids his teeth. “Fine.”       With a sigh, Sam gets up from the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean already on his way out. The younger brother doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon.      “If you need us-–”       “- I won’t,” she immediately intervenes.      “If you do, we’re going south.” He leaves a card on the bed.      “Don’t bother, Sam. The stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway,” Dean responds, holding the door.

     She ignores his words, annoyed by the slightest sting that his bitter voice leaves. In a quick glance, Zoë sees two phone numbers written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t angry with her. His eyes ask her to please reconsider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. The door closes behind them and the brothers walk down the hallway.      “Unbelievable,” Dean scoffs. “What a fucking waste of time.”      Their footsteps echo through the hall as they pass the front desk. Sam nods at the younger guy who took over for the day when they exit Motel 6, and enters the parking lot. The sun is still shining and shimmers on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, tires rush over the blacktop. Dean halts on the driver’s side of his Impala.

     “Where to?” he asks, opening the door to get in.      “We’re staying in town,” Sam decides before he sits down in the passenger seat.      “What? No! We have better things to do, Sam,” Dean argues, still mad at the huntress.      “I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam admits.      Dean sighs. “Here we go again with that feminine intuition shit.”      Sam rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He can’t understand why, but somehow he has the urge to look out for Zoë, almost like it’s instinct. Unnecessary, of course; she has been fine by herself for four years. Why should today be any different?      “Let’s just go. You said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday? If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?” Dean reminds him.      “One night. We book a motel, check on her, and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there,” Sam suggests.      “I thought you were determined to find Dad?” Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response.      “I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue where he is,” Sam points out.      “Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling you, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all, ‘I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of,’ Dean bounces back, imitating his voice. “And now you’re ditching him for some chick?”       “I’m not ditching him for some chick!” Sam denies.      “Ah, come on. You like her and you know it,” Dean carries on.      “I do not like her, Dean! Jess just died, damnit!” he exclaims.

     Dean looks away and pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. He knows he went too far, so he keeps quiet and turns the ignition. When he flips the key, the V8 motor under the hood growls, impatiently waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road.      “You said it yourself: Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I don’t know about,” Sam suggests.      “Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep.” 

     He puts his car in reverse and looks in the rearview mirror as he guides her out of the parking spot. The shift of his body causes him to grimace, pain cutting through his shoulder.      “Feeling alright?” Sam checks.                             “Yeah, just tired. I need more painkillers, that’s all,” he mutters.      Sam takes out his phone and calls a booking agency he had listed in his contacts earlier. As the call goes through, he sighs. It’s going to be a difficult task to find a room with that poker event in town. He waits for someone to pick up on the other side, meanwhile wondering why Zoë got so worked up about their father. Dean has a point; John saved her from that demon, so how could she possibly despise him? Something must have occurred; maybe she crossed paths with him later on and John did something to upset her. She wouldn’t be the first to cross blades with him, after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seven here

The Sullivan Series tags: @a-gir1-has-n0-name​ @destielhoneybee​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​ @heartsaved​ @idksupernatural​ @laphirablack​ @magssteenkamp​

[mychemicalficrecs]

do you have any “best friends brother” frerard fics? frank and mikey are friends and frank has a crush on gerard ? thanks x

Found a few for you, Nonnie!

Frank/Gerard – Best Friend's Brother

When the sun comes up by GotSmokes, 9k [WIP], Explicit. Mikey was his best friend, his confidant, the person he could turn to whenever he felt like the whole world was against him, and now, Mikey was gone - In a world where vampires lurk in the forest, Frank's best friend Mikey is taken. Fuelled by booze, anger, and grief Frank and Mikey's brother Gerard decide to hunt down the evil blood suckers to make them pay for everything they've done. Frank finds himself confiding in Gerard, and the pair become great friends until tragedy strikes that will tear them apart.

Late Nights and Early Sunsets by mychemical_addict, 5k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank's best friend, Mikey, has a hot older brother that recently came home on summer break from college. Slowly, Frank and Gerard begin to develop feelings for each other.

Oral Fixation Lessons by MizErie, 2k, Explicit. Frank knows what he wants. He's known for a while. His best friend's brother. Mikey has been Frank's best friend since grade school, but Frank hasn't always wanted Mikey’s brother, Gerard. No, that happened when Frank saw a glimpse of Gerard's genius. Since then, Frank has been rapt with the reclusive artist.

Best Friend's Brother by cemeterybat, 15k [WIP], Explicit. Picture this: a cliche of a high school kid falling for his best friend’s brother. It’s exactly how it sounds, and I imagine you can predict what happens from there.

Mythical Affairs by vampirexchild, 55k, Explicit. Frank Iero has always had the strange ability of being able to sew up his own wounds without stitches, heal a broken animal with a single touch. Once he is introduced to the brother of his best friend, he may finally discover that he isn't the only human to posses an incredible power.

The Blind Leading The Blind by loganmai, 46k, Explicit. Frank's a troubled high school senior struggling through his finals with his best friend and part-time guide, Mikey. When Frank runs into Mikey's older brother (literally) will they hit it off?

Misadventures. by moshigami (manekinoodle), 46k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank Iero's just your average high-school guy on his last year of schooling. But with the sudden return of his best friend and his brother, an annoying crush and some supernatural influences, how is he going to survive his life shaken like a cocktail? Features feels, Starbucks, deep thoughts and a dash of IKEA.

My Best Friend's Older Brother, who Apparently also Happens to be My Soulmate by orphan_account, 959 words, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank makes friends with Mikey Way. Mikey invites him over, but when Frank knocks on the door, two things happen. One, his timer runs out. Two, it wasn’t Mikey.

My Best Friend's Older Brother by ChemicalPunkSongwriter, 9k, Mature. Frank Iero is pretty sure he's in love with Gerard Way, his best friend's older brother. Problem is Frank's too shy to admit it to anyone. It also doesn't help that Gerard just graduated college, and he's is still in high school. All of Mikey's other friends see Gerard as a loser who lives in the basement and draws comics, but Frank sees him as so much more. Gerard is clueless when it comes to these things, and Frank is tired of just dropping hints to get nothing in return - he wants action.

my bestfriend's gentlemen older brother by 10rings, 2k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank doesn't have a lot of friends but he does know this one cool kid named Mikey and he happens to be Frank’s closest friend and Mikey also happens to have an older brother who Frank did not know about.

A World So Small by wordslinging, 31k, Mature. When Frank, a sickly young man, is advised by his doctors to leave London for the country, he makes arrangements to stay with his friend Michael, who just so happens to be in possession of a large, old, and somewhat creepy manor house. What Frank has no idea of at the time is that Michael has an older brother, whose presence in the house he conceals. Gerard is an eccentric recluse who spends most of his time hiding in the attic and avoiding any kind of interaction with people, but he finds himself fascinated with Frank, who in turn realizes that the house has secrets, and becomes determined to uncover them. When he finally does discover Gerard, their first meeting is only the beginning of their story.

Purgatorio-verse by tuesdaysgone, 30k, Explicit. While on leave from the police force, Detective Frank Iero occupies himself with three things: drinking, brawling, and being alone. But when a series of brutal murders calls him back to active duty, he must find a killer while confronting people from his past, including estranged best friend turned businessman Mikey Way, and deal with his unwilling attraction to Mikey's enigmatic older brother Gerard.

[tommyquackson]

Getting Me a Little Bit | t. holland | part 2

Not My Gif

summary: toms an angel but his life begins changing when he meets one of the most dangerous monsters he’s ever heard of, you. angel!tom and demon!au

warnings: cursing, uh angels? blood and stuff

note: yea idek why i made a part 2 tbh but make sure y’all request!!!

Walking into the Office of Heavenly Affairs, Tom is nervous. Y/ns walking next to him, somehow acting confident and innocent at the same time. She has a small smile on her face and a file in her small hands and she’s leading Tom through the building like she’s been here multiple times before. It isn’t until they arrive into the Demon and Unholy Creatures Department that he realizes y/ns winging this whole thing. He watches her as they both walk up to the secretary’s desk. The secretary, Harmony, recognizes Tom, but her face twists in confusion when her eyes meet Y/n.

“Tom, they’re almost ready for you in the conference room. May I ask who you are?” Harmony speaks to y/n.

“Harmony, I know i’m not down in this division a lot, but I do find it insulting that you don’t remember me. But I forgive you.” Y/n smiles sweetly, showing a ID badge with her name and picture on it. Harmonys eyes widen in shock.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met” Harmony speaks. Y/n sighs and rests on her elbows on the desk, looking into Harmonys eyes. It’s only a few seconds but suddenly Harmonys face flashes with recognition.

“Ms. Y/n! My deepest apologies, i don’t know where my mind has gone, please forgive me. Are you on official business with Agent Holland?” She smiles typing things into her computer.

“Yes I am, it was great seeing you again.” Y/n smiles, tapping the desk before looking at Tom and winking and walking away and towards the conference room where the meeting will be held.

She waits at the door for Tom and he pulls it open, straightening his collar while walking in. He and Y/n walk up to the table and sit down.

“Ah, Agent Holland, im fairly busy today so- oh, who is this?” One of his directors speak now looking at y/n, who immediately stands and hands the file over.

“Hi, I’m Y/n over at the Government Division, as you know, our reports show there’s a suspected 434 demons and other unspeakable creatures in the government in New York City alone, not including Lower Statten Island, but once we tackle our larger issues we’ll take care of the smaller challenges. Anyway, I was doing work in Hell’s Kitchen last night and realized you had field agents stationed there, specifically in The Devil, a popular nightclub. Now that’s not his fault, but it is yours because it has come to my attention that you haven’t alerted us or anyone for that matter about suspected demon activity, now as you know that’s a serious offense and I would hate to see a lot of your hard work be wasted simply because you were careless on a small intel project.” She finishes and looks sweetly at all the Angels sitting on the opposite of the table.

“We sent Agent Holland because we believe there to be a succubus in that nightclub, we didn’t think we’d have to alert anyone about our own mission. What did you say your name was again?” The first Director speaks up, looking her up and down.

“What is it with you guys today? Is there something in the water? Y/n with the Government Division. Have you not been getting my memos?” She puts her hand on her hip and looks at all of them.

“Uh no, I mean yes mam we have, but we had a credible lead that-“

“Well your lead isn’t as credible as you think, Tom, please give them the status report from last night.” She looks at Tom and nods.

“Oh uh, upon entering I saw no suspicious activity, everything was surprisingly human. I was there for a while and no trace or word of a succubus in that club,” Tom gulps, he hadn’t realized how much he didn’t think of what he was going to tell them.

“Great, so, I think you it’s safe to say you can stay out of GDs jurisdiction and we can avoid stepping on each other wings. It was lovely seeing all of you, see you at the Christmas gathering.” Y/n speaks, grabbing the file back and walking out of the room.

Tom is dismissed immediately after and jogs to catch up with her.

“What was in that file, they believed everything you were saying,” Tom gasps.

“Oh it’s empty, i just projected whatever I was saying onto the file and it appeared, simple illusions. Now shall we go get lunch?” She smiles, clothes changing as soon as she steps out of the stark white building.

—

2 weeks later and Tom has been hanging out with the literal spawn of satan nearly everyday. Except for last week when Y/n disappeared for 4 days and came back looking a little worse for wear. She demanded Tom to not talk about it or even question her when she arrived at his place.

Toms been neglecting his heavenly duties to spend more time with her. Although it always made him sick when she brought men to his place while he was out for a bit. He hoped it wouldn’t be a regular occurrence in the future.

He hadn’t seen her today however, she said yesterday that she had important things to do and wasn’t sure when she’d be back. She seemed annoyed at whatever she had to do, but Tom held his tongue.

He sat in his living room, eating spaghetti and watching a beautiful nature documentary. The polar bear cubs struggling to find food always struck a cord in Tom, it seemed so cruel and unfair. He watched as camera men followed penguins and seals around for 5 months and analyzed their behavior.

He’s interrupted by a quiet knock and then a large thump against his front door. He stands and moves quietly to the door, wondering who could be knocking at 11pm on a Tuesday? Y/n always appears in whatever room he’s in, usually scaring him half to death.

He slowly pulls open the door and her smaller body falls into his arms. Y/ns halfway covered in dark blood and her horns look battered. She looks up at him and her face is covered in cuts and more dried blood. Her “human” eyes are hidden and the whole space is covered in black with low flames flickering. She smiles lightly and he can see her sharp teeth barely poking out.

He pulls her in and lays the demon on the couch, spewing questions in her direction.

“Tommy, relax. You yelling at me ain’t gonna cure my headache” She winces, clenching her jaw.

“Y/n, what happened” He asks softly.

“Don’t wanna talk about it” y/n goes to turn over but quickly hisses and grab her ribs.

“You have to” He stands up straighter.

“I don’t fucking want to” She nearly growls. He’d be more scared if she wasn’t so pathetic looking.

“Y/n, I don’t care what you want to do. You need to tell me what happened so I can help you, NOW!” He shouts the last part and she almost chuckles at how adorable the angel looks yelling at her.

“had’t go t’hell and ran into s”trouble with m’dad” She mumbles, looking at the TV instead of Tom.

“I can’t hear you when you mumble” He says rolling his eyes at her stubbornness.

“I had to go to hell to do some shit and Lucifer found out I was there and decided to meet with me but things took a bad turn and I got my ass kicked by a bunch of leviathans while my dad watched” She spits out, louder and clearer.

“Oh”

“Yep, and since they beat me so damn bad, none of my powers or magic works, had to walk all the way here from the nearest portal, which i’m not sure if you’re aware, is VERY far” She pushes through and sits up on the couch.

“Why did he do it?” Tom asks quietly, unsure of the question was upsetting.

“Eh, there’s a few reasons. Main one being he’s god damn Satan. The other is he found out I was at the Office of Heavenly Affairs, got pissed and accused me of being a traitor” She shrugs like the information is nothing, leading Tom to wonder how much stuff y/ns already dealt with.

“Well, uh. I can do my best to patch you up and you can sleep in my bed.” Tom pushes his glasses up on his face and rushes to get some things to help, he doesn’t usually get hurt so he’s not super prepared, but he’s got the basics.

He spends a few minutes trying his best to disinfect her most serious wounds and cleaning the voood off of her. His hands are shaky as he sews a few cuts up but she doesn’t seem to notice, by looking at Y/ns face, you wouldn’t even know she’s in pain. She’s staring at the now black TV, watching her blurry reflection. Her eyes have gone back to normal and her horns have retreated, though it’s still not easy to read her. Tom usually prides himself on being able to read body language but he’s drawing a blank with y/n. Is she mad? maybe upset? maybe just tired? He’s not sure.

“Thanks tommy.” She winks as he wipes the last bit of ointment on her skin. She stands and clenches her jaw to stop from groaning in pain.

She walks towards the front door, leaving Tom in complete and utter confusion before he snaps to action.

“Wait! What? You can’t leave you’re hurt and in pain, you-“

“I’m fine” She shrugs, not turning around.

“No you aren’t! Why are you denying this, you need to stay here.” Toms eyebrows furrow together.

“Why does it fucking matter?” She finally turns around, eyes switched back to her demon form.

“Because you’re my friend,” Tom speaks quietly. He looks down at the ground afraid of her glare.

“Let’s get one thing straight Thomas. I don’t need a friend, which means i don’t need the bullshit that comes with them. I don’t need you to care about me got it? I’m perfectly fine without you, so don’t act like I need you to survive or like you’re the goddamn air i breathe. You’re nothing to me but an idiot fucking angel. So i’m gonna fucking leave and you’re gonna fucking let me. Any questions?” She throws her hands towards him. His head shoots up at her.

“You came here? You didn’t go to the club, you walked all the way from the nearest portal, which is 34 blocks by the way, you needed someone and you came here. Don’t get mad just because you want to be the one to hurt someone instead of the other way around. So you can leave if you really want to y/n, but don’t lie about why you’re doing it because you’re only fooling yourself” He spurts out, face red and hands shaky.

Y/n doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares in anger, her eyes fill with tears and she quickly wipes them away as they fall.

“I don’t wanna be friends anymore Tom, that’s it.” She shakes out between her deep shudders of breath. She turns and limps out quickly, slamming Toms front door behind her.

[brohood-assassins-imagines]

So We Endure - Chapter 2: A Push Forwards

A/N: I completely forgot to post the second chapter here. What’s wrong with me? Way to go. Either way, please have this and now that I’ve quit my current graduation (Journalism) to start a different one (Psychology), I’ll have lots of free time in hands until possibly January. The fics are coming. I had a big ass inspiration streak for this fic, so bear with me. Wow I suck at keeping check with the requests. Again, there is a playlist to that fic! (x)

Word Count: 6k+

Tagging (due request): @ryuumaru-chan​

You made quick count of the coins on the table as the grey light of the early Sunday morning filtered lazily through the dirty windows of your flat. There were a few loose pennies, nearly a shilling!, thanks to the unexpected help from the man of yesterday, Mr. Frye — you hadn’t forgotten his name, and couldn’t be sure if you were to any time soon, really.

And if you had to be even more honest, you thought to yourself, you’d need even more time to forget what had almost happened yesterday. Breathing out tiredly, you sort out the rent money and quietly placed what was left of the lonely coppers back into the rusty tea can, shoving it expertly at the back of the cabinet. You still had to mend Charlie’s shirt and find out what had happened yesterday, pay your landlord and most likely go to the market since there wasn’t really much food left.

Peeking around the doorframe, you watched as Charlie slept soundly on the bed. You still had to find out what had happened yesterday and why he came back home with his shirt tore nearly to pieces — and you guessed Tommy wasn’t much better. You’d have to ask Mrs. Dolloway later if she knew anything about it. Sighing again, you pressed your lips into a thin line and turned around to gather the rent payment; and you couldn’t help, really, but stare at the two shiny shillings, gleaming as if brand new in contrast to the others you had in hand, dirty and covered in soot.

It was hard to remember having received that kind of help in a really long time — because, well, it had been mostly you and Charlie for as long as you could remember and you were keen on keeping that up. As hard as it was to get by alone, you grew used and hardened on the face of it, maybe even getting proud of what you had accomplished on your own. The coins were a token, a reminder of what you couldn’t do by yourself, and you ached to get rid of them as fast as possible.

Knowing it was Sunday and you had the day off — since Sunday nights were slow on business and Mr. Jackson gave a flimsy excuse about you needing to rest just so he wouldn’t have to pay for your working day —, you were ruminating about what to do after the market. Maybe you could take Charlie to the park? But did you have enough money for the bus?

You’d have to figure that out later.

A knock on the door halted your motions as you fixed your hair in place.

Maybe Mrs. Dolloway had come back from church and wanted to talk about the kids' fight yesterday?

“Mummy, are we going now?,” Charlie pulled at the skirt of your dress with a whine as you shushed him gently and headed towards the front door.

You had dressed him in his best clothing — a donated and barely used shirt which Tommy had outgrown of and the new shorts you’d managed to sew him from the ruined brown dress skirt you had. You fared a little worse, of course, but not that far behind with a relatively nice although simple burgundy skirt and a white half-sleeved shirt that used to have a thin black ribbon to be tied around the neck a long time ago. You folded the torn shirt, sticking the needle into the fabric as you got up.

“In a minute, Charlie. The park isn’t going anywhere, you know that. And remember, mummy has to fix your shirt, then we’re paying the Church a visit and only after that the park.”

Charlie pouted and followed you as you walked towards the door like any impatient child would. “But I wanna go now!”

“And we will, just be patient. It’s still early,” you chided, although gently, with a kiss to his head.

Turning around, you opened the door with an easy smile before fully processing what was in front of you — not Mrs. Dolloway as you had expected and were halfway through a greeting, but the man from yesterday. Mr. Frye, with a nervous smile, top hat and wool longcoat, as he held a paper bag filled with what seemed to be food, looked away briefly before shrugging apologetically. Charlie came behind you, peeking around your waist to look at the stranger as you stared at him in utter disbelief.

“Good morning is in order, I suppose,” he said in a rush with a sheepish smile that settled oddly upon his face.

“I… Mr. Frye, what in God’s—“

“Please,” he said quietly and adjusted the bag in his grip and the sheer absurdity of it all had you at a loss of words, “I’d rather if you call me Jacob.”

“Mis— Jacob,” you tested the word, trying not to think of how out of place the man felt in that corridor with that hat and how equally out of place the name sounded in your mouth as he shifted nervously in front of you, “what… can I help you?”

Jacob blinked slowly at you. “I… brought you food.”

Charlie frowned at the man, clutching tighter to your body as he eyed him up. “Is he a magician, mummy?”

With a smile and before you could say anything at the absurdity of it all, the man leaned down and whispered as if sharing a dark secret, “maybe I am? Would you like that?”

Your son coiled, scowling before pressing his face to your clothing, to which Jacob only chuckled and you frowned deeply because this still wasn’t throwing any light onto the situation. “My apologies… Jacob. But you still haven’t explained why you’re here and why…,” you gestured vaguely to the bag he was holding.

Jacob laughed half-heartedly at your bewilderment. “You wouldn’t take my money,” he explained as if it were obvious, “well, at least not all of it.”

“That’s because—“

“I understand,” he cut in and you could see the gentleness in his hazel eyes. “But it just didn’t feel… fair. It didn’t feel enough, is what I mean,” the man shuffled, still nervous and his voice softened. “… I only had my dad when I was a kid, you know?,” Jacob frowned briefly and a cloud covered his expression briefly, “and I only met him at six. If I can make this any easier on you and if you’d allow me, I just…,” he trailed off and looked up at you once more.

With a heavy sigh, you rubbed your son’s arm and stepped away from the entrance to allow him in. You didn’t like this — but there was something in his voice, the way he spoke and kept to himself… it was more than you had seen in most men. Or perhaps less of what you were used to.

Jacob nodded quickly in thanks and headed towards the table to put the groceries on as you closed the door. Charlie scurried away, curiosity getting the best of him as he investigated what was it that the newcomer had brought. “Mummy! Look! Ham!”

“That’s…,” expensive, you thought to yourself, “yes, I see.”

“I wasn’t sure of what you liked,” he explained as you settled on the other side of the wooden table, “so… yeah. There are… apples, bread, ham,” he said with a tap on Charlie’s head to which he looked vaguely annoyed of, “a few eggs, tea, a piece of cheese, some tomatoes… Now, I tried to find milk, but—“

“Mr. Frye,” you interrupted him as the food kept pouring out and you could tell, somehow, that he was somewhere halfway through. Jacob stopped and looked at you wide eyed; inquisitive, yet politely waiting for you to continue. You shoot Charlie a quick glance as he seemed to be too distracted by all the kinds of goods he never had a proper chance to take a closer look at — and at that, your heart skipped a beat. Sighing, you turned towards the man standing in front of you and offered slowly, “it is... very nice of you, sir, I truly don’t know what to say—“

“Oh, please,” he dismissed you briefly, a nervous edge to his voice you didn’t remember listening to from last night. “Jacob is completely fine. I like it better, if you don’t mind? It makes me feel old whenever you call me sir.”

A part of you were thankful for the way he held himself — politely holding his hand to show he wanted to speak before starting, the slight nod of his head, how he kept his hands close to his body and on top of that the sheepish smile on his lips. But another part, one more callous and untrusting, whispered that he was trying to gain an edge on, that he would ask for something in return, if not now, in the future, and screamed at you to make that man leave your home.

“I… Yes, Jacob,” you acquiesced and his smile broadened a little at it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jacob commented while taking his top hat off and folded it to put it away inside the pocket of his coat, voice tinged with light-hearted humor — and something told you that this was how his voice sounded most of the time, “but I swear to you. I’m here with the best of my intentions.”

Biting your lower lip, you crossed your arms and watched Charlie as he picked up a ruby red apple — and by God, it was fresh — and examined it with childish wonder. The boy looked up at you, then at the man and back at you. “Mummy,” he called, almost too low to be a whisper, hurrying to your side with a bashful expression, “can I have it?”

“I think you have to ask Jacob, sweetheart,” you proposed and the boy frowned, turning to look at the stranger and back at you.

“But I’m asking you,” the boy answered with a tiny voice, trying to avoid the other’s look.

“Of course you can,” Jacob called in, voice laced with softness, drawing everyone’s attention to himself, “because it’s yours.” Charlie eyed him suspiciously, glancing at you and at the food scattered across the table. “Do you want me to cut the apple for you?”

“No,” your son replied way too quickly, hurrying to clutch at your skirt with a somewhat sour expression, “I want mummy,” he pushed the fruit into your hand insistently, rounding your waist and trying to get as far away from Jacob as he could.

Your eyes widened just as quickly as your cheeks heated at your boy’s demeanor towards your benefactor and you cried out in embarrassment, “Charlie, son, this wasn’t polite!”

“It’s fine,” Jacob intervened, “I sure gave my father enough embarrassment for a lifetime when I was a kid myself, very unlike my sister,” he offered a smile to you and sounded slightly uncomfortable. “I was what you could consider a ‘problem child’.”

You smiled softly at his confession, prying away Charlie’s hands from your dress as you pulled an old dulled knife from the drawer and opened the top cabinet to find a plate for his snack — you didn’t know he was hungry and would have to tell him to let you know the next time — before answering, “I apologize anyway, Mis— Jacob. He’s a very sweet child, just a tad bit shy, unpredictable like any other, but I’ve never seen him be rude before,” you finished slicing the fruit and took it to the armchair where Charlie had found refuge, next to the rusty stove where you did the cooking and acted as some sort of heater for the small flat. “You should apologize, sweetheart,” Charlie pouted at your words, taking the clay plate from your hands and mumbling something about not having been mean.

Jacob chuckled, looking a bit off place as he shuffled a bit and scratched the bridge of his nose, “quite spirited too, from what I can see?” You huffed a laugh as Charlie scowled at his general direction.

He seemed nice enough, you thought to yourself. Hadn’t made any unfortunate comments on your situation and seemed to understand your position as he shared bits and pieces from his own life when young and you were— well, you were curious. And thankful, even if still with your own reservations, you still hadn’t forgotten how quickly he had pushed a man at least a head taller than himself against the wall that easily.

“I assume that’s how your father usually described you?”

“Oh, no,” he smirked at you, “father was way less subtle. He usually referred to me as ‘lost cause’, sometimes ‘problematic’. But I never minded it much,” Jacob was quick to add, “sometimes would even go out of my way to live up to it, just to hear him yell ‘Jacob, come here this instant!’,” his voice was cut by a short laugh, “ah, those were the days.”

Feeling more at ease with his openness, you offered meekly: “would you like staying for a cuppa? It’s the very least I can do to thank you for this. You really did go out of your way for it, I’d be most grateful if you joined us,” behind you, Charlie sighed audibly and mumbled something about the park and you had to fight the urge not to turn around and chide him for it.

Jacob watched you for half a heartbeat before breaking a smile. “Yes, I… I’d very much like to,” he fumbled for a second, somewhat embarrassed at your invitation, “thank you.”

Nodding, you put the water to heat and set the unmatched mugs on the counter — as much as you hated to admit it, you did miss the china mother had; the fine white porcelain, a disarray of colorful roses painted to it and rimmed with a golden line. It was meant to be yours, she had told you one day, but you had a hint that it wouldn’t come to be.

“Were you going anywhere?,” Jacob asked casually, shedding his coat and hanging it on the back of the chair, “you both seemed to be headed somewhere, if you don’t mind my prodding.”

Charlie mumbled some gibberish at the back about “a good day ruined” and you sighed before answering, “yes, we were planning to go to the Church for the morning after mending Charlie’s shirt,” you explained while putting the kettle on the stove, “but if I’m being honest, I’m perfectly fine with it. Didn’t fancy going to the Church today that much, you understand?” At your side, Charlie exclaimed in delight, putting the plate aside — dangerously inclined on one side of the armchair — and leaning over to grasp at your arm.

“That means we’re going to the park?”

You smiled and smoothed your son’s unruly hair and saving the dish from its predicament, “yes, but we have a visit for now. We can go afterwards, okay?”

In a second, Charlie’s face turned sour and he eyed Jacob rather begrudgingly before leaning in and whispering, “can’t you ask him to leave, mummy?”

Sighing, you turned around, “Mummy would appreciate if you were to be nice for now, you know?”

“But I—“

“Maybe that’ll make the visit leave quicker, I wonder?,” you interrupted, not paying any mind to his antics for now and he seemed pleased at the idea. “What do you say you fetch me my sewing kit? This way I can fix your shirt too, how does that sound?”

Your boy nodded briefly, hopping off of the armchair and making his way to the bedroom as you turned around to pay attention to Jacob.

“Children, right?,” he said with a rather pensive edge to his voice.

You reached for the clay teapot on the table, settling it over the counter and pulling the brass infuser from the drawer, proceeding to put a few pinches of tea mix into it, “too honest for their own good,” is what mother used to say, but you hesitated on sharing that bit of information. He had no need to know. “You have kids of your own?”

Jacob huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, “good heavens, no. My life wouldn’t allow for it, way too chaotic as it is for now; I’d rather settle down when I’m… not as tangled up.”

Nodding, you tried to figure out what the man did for a living. “Work, then?”

He smiled, cocking his head to the side, “I suppose, yes.” He watched you for a second before smiling, “work.”

You fiddled with the polished clay teapot, turning on your back with a pleasant smile and splashing some water into it from a bowl you kept near the sink. The answer wasn’t exactly clarifying and you didn’t know how the keep the conversation flowing. Charlie came back from the bedroom, eyeing Jacob suspiciously as if the man would suddenly turn into a monster right there in the living room/kitchen.

“Thank you, my dear,” you kissed his head and took the metal box from his tiny hands. “Do you want to eat anything else?”

Charlie bit his lip nervously as he eyed Jacob, “chocolate?,” he whispered hopefully.

“I—,” you shoot the man a look and he seemed ashamed of himself, shaking his head slowly. “Maybe later, mhm? Behave and we’ll see.”

The boy nodded eagerly and headed towards the bedroom where most of his toys were kept — mostly stitched together dolls and some old wooden carts —, and your throat knotted tightly. You hated to lie to him. Maybe you could spare some coin, but—

Jacob sighed, slightly frustrated at the exchange. “I should’ve known. I’m sorry about that, dear. Maybe next time—“

“It’s alright,” you pressed your lips together, trying not to think about how you’d have to postpone the new pair of mittens you wanted to buy; mother’s were ruined already. “You shan’t worry about us, I’m truly thankful, really am, but—“

“I want you to know I did this because I wanted to,” you turned around and held his gaze, eyes as serious as his voice, “not because I expected gratitude or a medal. I’m not that kind of person, you know?”

Feeling suddenly nervous and slightly bothered, you fidgeted with the uneven surface of the teapot. You didn’t need his help. You could manage. “Yes, I… I understand.”

“I wish to keep helping, if you’d have it,” he continued, already raising his hands and coming to a halt in his speech as your head whipped at his direction, “but I’m guessing you won’t.”

The audacity. You huffed, settling the teapot on the table and making your way to the oven rather exasperatedly, “with all due respect, I don’t know what you expect of me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m most thankful, but you’re…”

“A man,” Jacob offered.

So he wasn’t oblivious. Good. “Yes. And one I haven’t seen before, save from… an unfortunate event,” you saw Charlie lying on the bed, belly up, with one of his favorite playthings in hand as you took the kettle and poured the steaming water inside the teapot, dipping the copper infuser in and stirring lightly. “And I’d very much appreciate it if you could understand, Jacob, that I can make a living and take care of my child on my own, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

Jacob frowned, voice a bit more on the edge than before, “I did not say such thing—“

“You implied, which was enough,” you cut in, picking up Charlie’s folded tunic and settling the teapot on the table. “We’ve been well enough up to now,” you completed, pulling the spool of thread and fixing it through the needle hole.

“I have no doubts nor critiques about how good of a mother you are,” Jacob spoke slowly, fiddling with one of the mugs as you both waited for the tea to brew. “I can see that you do your best, any way you can; and that’s a great accomplishment, really is—“

“But?,” you cut in, eyes whipping up and towards his own hazel ones.

“But nothing,” the man smiled crookedly, “like I said before, I mean well and my only wish is to help, however I can.”

Soon, your teeth found your lower lip, gnawing on it impatiently. He did seem caring and honest, but you weren’t born yesterday; or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You fidgeted with the needle, unfolding the shirt, fingers following the almost imperceptible patched clothing. When you looked up, you saw that Jacob had been watching you.

“Just hear me out,” he spoke calmly, as if explaining something to a stubborn child. “I require nothing, only that you accept my help.”

“Jacob—,”

“I know there is a chance,” the man cut in, leaning over the table with a playful smile, “or else you wouldn’t have invited me for tea.” He gazed at you, eyes bright and defiant.

You frowned at his words, readying the needle upon the clothing and hesitating for a moment. Deep down, there was some kind of truth in his words, even if you wouldn’t admit such thing out loud. Drawing breath to deny once more because, absolutely no, this was too much and you couldn’t possibly expect anything more from a man you’ve only saw twice and properly talked to once; even if the little something in his face — something in his eyes — whispered that it would be okay, that as hard earned as trust was, you could place yours upon him; that betrayal and demands and humiliation wouldn’t become a part of the bargain.

Sighing, you picked up the teapot and poured the drink into the ugly mugs before settling back in place, thumb rubbing over the top of the teapot. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong.

“Charlie hasn’t been eating much lately,” you confessed quietly, avoiding the hazel of his eyes and twisting your lips resentfully. “With winter approaching, work just… gets harder. It’s too far and daylight doesn’t last as much as I’d like, but I make enough to keep a roof over our heads,” you stopped, pulling the mug into your hands and allowing it to warm you up. “It has to be, either way.”

Jacob didn’t seem all that satisfied, taking a quick sip of the tea and setting it back on the table as he ran a thumb idly over the metal handle. “Do you seriously need only food? I can give you money too.”

You frowned at his words. “You can’t expect to buy me, Jacob.”

“I’m not trying to,” he quipped back, smirking slightly.

You stared him down across the table, a stark contrast between your beaten up flat and his too-new woolen coat with the top hat in the pocket. All too akin to a fantastic beast in a world ruled by men, you thought to yourself. “What do you have in mind, then?,” you asked, swallowing the building anxiety in your chest.

Silence settled in for a heartbeat or two before Jacob cocked his head to one side as if in deep thought. “Let’s make it like this,” he started, clearly pleased with your question, “I can bring you food around once a week,” he raised a hand to stop your protests, “and I’m compromising myself with, say… a pound each week?”

Bewilderment took over and you couldn’t help but protest, because with that kind of money you’d be able to move to a better off neighborhood, “you cannot be serious!”

Jacob clasped his hands together over the table, like a proper businessman negotiating a deal — only he was bargaining for paying more instead of less — and smiled. “Cross my heart.”

Hearing the commotion, Charlie came out of the bedroom; horse toy clutched in his hand as he looked at both adults sitting by the table. You drank a small amount of tea, barely tasting the enriched flavor — a quality tea, not the already boiled dried-leaves you were used to buy in market —, as the boy approached you with no reason in particular; eyes switching nervously between Jacob and yourself every now and then.

“Let us shake hands on this,” Jacob prompted.

“Half of it,” you spoke sternly.

“Wha—“

“Half a pound, no more than that,” you repeated, looking down and threading the needle through the shirt as you closed the gap expertly, “It’s as far as I’ll go on taking other people’s money.”

Jacob held his gaze for a long a while, watching you with something akin to amusement in his eyes. “Make it 15 shillings, then,” and he held one hand up, index and middle finger in the air, “and take two days off work. I’d be happy to see you around the tiny man a little more.”

You eyed Charlie quickly, watching as he circled around the table, as if appeasing the man in front of him; and before you could speak up and say that staring wasn’t polite, he piped in:

“Are you really a magician?,” your son asked, still much too suspicious around the intruder ruining his Sunday morning.

Jacob looked at you, smiling as he turned around on the chair to look back at the boy, “so you’ve come to see the greatest magician in all of London?,” he asked, leaning forwards in a flourished motion and Charlie looked at you with uncertainty as you shoot your eyebrows up, making a show of being excited for him. “Tell me your name and Jacob, the great, shall perform a trick for you!”

The boy blushed slightly, a tad bit too flustered with the attention and still not used to him, but managed to mutter out, “Charlie.”

“Charlie!,” he gasped, looking over at you with a smirk, “my, my! That name!”

“What about it?,” your son asked promptly, coming closer with childish curiosity.

Jacob squinted playfully, looking around as if searching for imaginary dangers before leaning down and whispering, “do you really want to know?”

“Yes!,” Charlie shrieked, still not daring to touch him, but much closer now. “Tell me!”

“I had a feeling earlier this morning,” he confided, “that I’d meet someone named Charlie and they’d help me find something I lost.”

The boy turned towards you again, a look of bewilderment in his eyes as this new stranger proved to be way more interesting than before. “Really? What was it? Who told you?”

Jacob cocked his head to the side, closing one of his eyes. “That’s a magician’s secret,” he spoke much too seriously than the situation demanded, starting to pat his pockets as if in search for something before looking at your son once more. “What have you got there behind that ear?”

Charlie’s eyes widened and he scratched a little hand behind one of his ears at Jacob’s words, finding nothing, but then the man leaned closer and pulled a shilling from behind the other one and flipped it around.

“Wow!,” the boy gasped, grasping at the coin he was offered, the horse you had stitched together still clutched in his arms. “How did you do that?!,” he inquired quickly, double checking his ears and even the messy mop of hair for another missing coin.

You giggled at how easily Jacob had swayed your son’s temper with just a few words and a silly trick. “Oh, but with magic, of course!,” he exclaimed with the utmost surety. “I knew that name was special, and there you are, sprouting my lost coin from behind your ear!”

Charlie gawked at him, looking at you again with the most adorable childish smile you had ever seen, “that’s amazing!,” he shrieked, thrusting the coin at Jacob. “Another one!”

Jacob smiled, shaking his head, “how about you keep that copper and buy a piece of chocolate on your way to the park?”

The boy hesitated, watching him with suspicion and shifting closer to you; although his eyes betrayed how much he was willing to jump at the opportunity headfirst. He grimaced a bit, turning his face to press it on your side in frustration and Jacob smiled fondly, rolling the coin between his fingers.

You patted his back, trying not to giggle in face of his flustered retreat. “It’s okay,” you whispered, “you can say yes this time.”

Charlie’s head whipped up, brown eyes staring at you in disbelief, “really?”

“Really,” you reassured, “but only because mummy knows Jacob, okay?”

The boy nodded eagerly, gaze resting on the smooth movements of your benefactor’s fingers as he slid the shilling between them in an easy, well practiced manner. Noticing that he was the source of attention once more, Jacob offered the coin to Charlie again; only this time he took it with a tiny “thank you,” before getting himself flustered again and shifting towards you once more.

“He’s a bit shy,” you told Jacob once more, sipping at the almost lukewarm tea and doing your best to ignore how the man seemed so willing to give money away. Once more, you wondered what his job was. “He warms up after some time, like all children.”

Jacob watched him for a while with a soft smile before looking back at you, “I’m just glad he stopped scowling at me, felt like I was gonna be kicked out of the flat at any minute.”

You stifled a small giggle, watching as he drank a bit more of his tea. “Care for more?,” you asked, ready to get up and serve him; but Jacob shook his head instead, leaning over and serving himself before offering to do the same for you. Caught off guard, you simply nodded, poorly concealing your surprised frown as he filled up your mug.

This wasn’t what mother had taught you. Most gentlemen, especially at the first time interacting properly, wouldn’t budge to serve themselves or their host. Seeing the consternation upon your face, Jacob simply chuckled and leaned back on his chair as Charlie moved to the armchair; toy in hand.

“I’m not as fancy as you might think I am,” Jacob confessed with an amused lilt in his voice. “Never cared much for etiquette, think it’s terribly boring. My sister always did most of the talking, either way.”

“You said she moved to India?,” you inquired, goading him on, hoping you weren’t being as obvious as you felt asking about the man.

“Ah, yes,” he nodded, looking down into the amber liquid inside his cup. “She did. Got married and moved, far away,” scoffing, he took another sip. “I couldn’t believe it when she told me. Felt like I was being left behind, barely looked her in the eyes when the train departed.” His eyes shifted to the side and he sighed, “she hugged me either way. Sometimes I regret not having done so, but thankfully she has always been the smarter one. Good thing Greenie snatched her up before it was too late.”

You smiled sympathetically, thumb smoothing the unruly surface of the polished clay of your mug. “I’m truly sorry things turned out like this,” you offered quietly before asking again, “are you two on speaking terms?”

Jacob gave a lopsided smile, gazing at you with a look that you couldn’t pinpoint. “After a dozen unanswered letters from my dear sister, I cast the pride aside and came around it. Pity they take a dreadfully long time to make their way to her,” he sighed once more, looking terribly tired for a moment. “But I always knew we’d end up finding our own ways eventually, just didn’t expect Evie would stumble upon hers so soon.”

Feeling a painful squeeze upon your heart, you broke courtesy once more and leaned over to take a hold of his shoulder; squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m sure she is glad you’ve come to write letters for her. The way you spoke made it sound like you two are very close and I’m sure Mr. Greenie—“

Jacob burst out a loud laugh, stifling it against the back of his hand and you felt at loss. Had you said something wrong? “What’s so funny?”

“It’s not…,” he coughed, face growing red in his effort to hold back the laughter, “his name is Henry Green, actually,” Jacob explained, voice lilted with amusement, “Greenie is a nickname I came up with. Evie tells me I tend to do that a lot. Sorry for not letting you know beforehand.”

That man.

You huffed in disbelief, taking another sip of your drink. Jacob seemed easy enough to get around, perhaps a bit too trusting; like an open book, you thought to yourself, but kind. “My mother used to do the same,” you confided, “I learnt most of my singing from her, too. She came from a relatively well-to-do family, but married my dad against their wishes and was taken off the will.”

“They did not!,” Jacob exclaimed.

“Believe me, they did,” you giggled at his bewilderment, “I never got to meet my mother’s parents. Society might’ve started thinking less of them for commuting with the strays,” your voice showed off indifference, even if you still felt bitter over what your mother wouldn’t allow herself feel. “But mother did her best. She taught me most of what she had learned in whatever spare time we had. She worked in a cloth factory. I started there with her around 10, I think.”

“What of your father?,” he asked.

“Father worked at a construction site,” you explained, “he usually slept there on workdays and would come home on Sundays for church and to spend some time with us,” you reminisced in your childhood memories. Blue dress and black shoes, your Sunday best, waiting beside door for the knowing knock you had long since learned was your father’s. Mother’s food after the preaching, walking around the park and throwing pieces of bread in the lake for the fishes and ducks; going to sleep with each of them beside you in bed. “It was nice,” you muttered more to yourself.

Yes, it was nice, until one day he didn’t show up.

Jacob stayed silent for a second, watching you before asking: “where is your family?”

“Mummyyyyyy…,” Charlie cut in, leaning dangerously from the edge of the ruined padding of the armchair. You offered an apologetic smile, abandoning the tunic and needle over the table as you made your way towards the boy; and he stretched out a hand to you. “Can we go?,” he pleaded, pouting a bit. “I wanna have chocolate and see the ducks.”

It had been enough, you supposed. No child was good at waiting, even if Charlie was overly patient at times, much to your surprise; and you were somewhat thankful for not having to answer the man’s last question.

When you turned around to offer an apology, Jacob was already on his feet, pushing the insides of his top hat up. “I should get on my way,” he offered simply, fixing the hat on his head. “I already took enough of your time.”

“Are we going now?,” Charlie asked excitedly, hopping beside you.

You smiled politely, rubbing your son’s shoulder and pulling him closer to your hip. “Thank you for the help, Jacob.” He looked at you and you couldn’t help but feel like he was trying to figure you out. “It really means a lot.”

The man shrugged, as if embarrassed, and buttoned the coat. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed, jumping at the opportunity to change the subject. “I can accompany you both to the bus, if you’d like.”

Before you could answer that no, it wasn’t necessary, you could manage—

“Will you do magic on the way?,” Charlie inquired, looking at the man suspiciously.

Jacob huffed a laugh, lolling his head from one side to another. “I can think of something.”

The boy looked up at you, eyes big and pleading, and you sighed. At least his spirits were kept at bay. “There is no harm to it, I suppose.”

He smiled, then. “Shall we, then?”

The three of you left the flat with sunlight barely peeking from behind the heavy clouds that accompanied most of England’s autumn alongside the harsh wind. Jacob performed silly coin tricks you had tried to learn a million times, played word games and the such; successfully keeping your son’s attention long enough for you to think.

You felt nervous, for some reason, as if people were staring at you and— they definitely were, you remarked grimly. Men and women, society’s rabble — pickpocketers, thieves, muggers and the alike —, casting their eyes downwards; some defiantly staring you down or at Jacob, faces bitter with hatred.

And, funnily enough, none made a move — even if, by rough standards, the man accompanying you was dressed as if on his way to catch the Opera or whatever it was the rich did for entertainment. It only made you wonder even more what the hell it was that he did for a living. Your mind itched curiously, but you chose not to think about it for the time being.

When you got back home at the end of the day, there were 15 shillings neatly piled together at the top of your kitchen table.

[comfortablynumbonthepuzzle]

No Scissors Required (Byeler Fic)

Description: 

Joyce is changing Will’s sheets when she finds a tear in the bottom of his mattress. Upon further investigation, she finds he’s hidden a notebook, and even though she knows she shouldn’t, she opens it, finding some incriminating photos of a certain male celebrity and even more incriminating drawings of a certain male best friend. Joyce knows she shouldn’t meddle, but she can’t help it. Sometimes a mother knows best.

Angsty but has a (kind of) happy ending.

No Scissors Required

It’s 4 pm on a Sunday. As the daylight slips away and with it the promise of a productive weekend, Joyce is attempting some form of damage control.

She’s doing okay: she’s got dinner on the stove, a load of laundry whirring in the dryer, and neat stacks of envelopes, bank notices, and coupons divided on the kitchen table, waiting to be opened and handled and filed appropriately. She’ll get to that, of course. Right after she’s had a cigarette.

It’s one of those rare afternoons where it feels like the dust has settled, and that she’s finally got a handle on things. A small, spiteful part of her wishes Lonnie could see her doing so well. She then thinks of Hopper, feeling equal parts buoyed and daunted by the potential in their future, then, remembering Bob, instantly guilty. She tables that thought for now, but resolves to call the police station first thing tomorrow morning, certain she can conjure up something to be worried about by then. Hopper will know it’s a ploy, but he’ll appreciate it. He can’t seem to work up the nerve to call her unless it’s under silly pretenses either.

Will’s studying in the dining room. He told her for what, but she can’t keep track. Everyday, it’s something new, something for “organic chemistry” or “advanced calculus” or “studio art” or “classical poetry” (meanwhile, Joyce herself can’t remember ever taking anything but ‘math’ and science’). She trusts him to handle it himself; is continually amazed by his composure, his perseverance, his seemingly infinite capacity for information and instruction; balks at how much he seems to absorb. School is the one realm in which she won’t meddle; the one thing that seems to have stayed the same, even after everything. If anything, Will’s become more involved, taking on more responsibility, working harder, longer hours. Still, he sees his friends regularly, and though she wishes he’d spend just a bit more time having fun, she figures it’s all a necessary distraction.

She can barely see him over the piles of books and paper, just the top of his head bobbing every now and again, more aggressively when he’s erasing a mistake. She feels such strong fondness for him. She and Will have always been close, and continue to be even as Will and his friends careen ungracefully into adolescence, but still she finds herself, like any mother, wondering: What is he thinking? What is he feeling? What does he worry about? Is he okay?

He’s fourteen now, in his first year of high school, the same age she and Lonnie started going out. True, we didn’t date consistently until much later, she concedes, and for the briefest of moments her mind flashes back to Hopper. She wonders, not for the first time, if maybe Will’s found himself a- well, not a Lonnie.

But she knows the answer. Will spends too much time at home, too much time studying, too much time with her, or Jonathan, or his friends. And even if he didn’t, Joyce knows that Will is too careful, too cautious, too used to hiding his feelings. But she also knows it’s more than that. Will’s never expressed interest in anyone, at least not to her. In fact, as long as Joyce can remember, Will has looked so discomfited at any mention of romance, at any allusion to any sort of love life he may or may not have, that Joyce has stopped bringing it up. She’s even considered that maybe he’s not interested in that sort of thing at all.

But Joyce knows that’s not true. She just knows. And she’s tried, albeit in roundabout ways, to address whatever it is that flusters him. She speaks in cautious, neutral terms. She avoids pronouns. She never asks direct questions, instead making statements, testing the waters, waiting for him to agree or disagree. Things like, she’s kind of cute or he’s got nice eyes, don’t you think? or I just read in the school newsletter that the Snowball’s coming up. (Normally he responds to her questions with noncommittal shrugs but that one earned her a sharp so what?). And, she’s not sure why she feels so compelled, but she tells Will she’s proud of him as often as she can. She tells him how much she loves him, and how she’ll continue to do so forever, no matter what. Still, Will won’t budge, and Joyce worries, worries, worries.

The timer on the stove goes off, and Joyce jerks her head towards the sound. The laundry’s ready to come out of the dryer.

She’s unloading the warm sheets into a basket when she notices a loose thread hanging from the corner. She pulls at it, hoping it’ll snap, but it only ensnares more fabric. Annoyed, she begins to rummage through her sewing box, looking for scissors. They’re nowhere to be found.

“Will?” She calls.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have the scissors from my sewing kit?”

There’s a pause. “They’re in my room,” Will calls back, sounding slightly guilty.

“Baby, I thought we agreed you would use your own scissors for art projects?”

“Sorry! Yours are better.”

Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, Joyce walks into Will’s room, where the scissors in question are resting on his desk atop a nondescript pile of magazine paper scraps. Joyce notes the mess: clothes litter the floor, Will’s bed is unmade, and there are open books everywhere.

“Will, honey, your room’s a mess!” She calls.

“Sorry! I haven’t had time to clean it.”

Joyce feels a pang of guilt. “I know. I know, you’ve been working so hard lately.”

She sighs, eyeing the unmade bed. Normally, Will prefers to clean his own room. Joyce figures it’s a consequence of all his time spent in Hawkins Lab being poked and prodded and examined; that he’s eager to preserve his privacy and personhood in whatever little ways he can. Joyce doesn’t mind. She indulges him when she thinks it’ll help him cope, and knows, secretly, that if not for Will it would probably never get done.

The longer Joyce stands there, surrounded by teenage mess, the more she feels the urge to do something nice for him, for studious, brilliant, thoroughly decent Will, who’s studying so hard just meters away. So she decides she’ll clean his room, just this once. Because, she reasons, he shouldn’t study for hours and have to return to clutter. Surely he won’t mind. She begins to strip his bed of its bedding, replacing it with the soft, warm, forest-green sheets she’s just removed from the dryer, taking pains to smooth out every crease. She likes this, trying to make things comfy. It makes her feel most like a mother.

She’s pulling the fitted sheet over the fourth and final corner of the bed, when it comes loose on the left side of the other end. Joyce tries to pull it back over the edge, but it won’t budge. Frustrated, she lifts the mattress up, trying to get leverage. And that’s when she sees it.

There -- inconspicuous, but there nonetheless -- is a long slit cut into the underside of the mattress. Joyce almost doesn’t know what she’s looking at, until she reaches out and touches it, and realizes that the edges of the crater fold back. She reaches inside, and her hand makes contact with something thick and paper. A book, maybe? Her heart begins to thud as she pulls it out.

It’s a notebook. Nothing special. Just a beat-up, spiral notebook with a red cover. She knows she shouldn’t open it. She knows it’s a violation of Will’s privacy, that it would be wrong to trespass like this, that whatever is in there is clearly meant for Will’s eyes and Will’s eyes only. But Joyce can’t help thinking: What is he thinking? What is he feeling? What does he worry about? Is he okay?

So she opens the notebook. A stack of photos falls out, scattering all over the cluttered floor.

Joyce curses to herself in a whisper-shout, dropping the notebook, closed, onto Will’s bed. She drops to the ground, frantically assembling the photographs, trying not to make a sound. And she’s so caught up, and there are so many of them, that it takes a few seconds for her to even look at them properly.

The first one she sees doesn’t strike her as odd. It’s a black and white photo of River Phoenix, standing on what seems to be a balcony in New York City, looking over his shoulder at the camera. It’s a good photo, she thinks, but she isn’t sure why it’s been hidden. Confused, she looks through the photos she’s already collected, then at the other ones still around her on the ground. She begins to notice a pattern: some are in color, some not, but all are of River Phoenix. River Phoenix with long hair, with short hair, with hair wild and big, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. In one, he’s holding a guitar, and his shirt is only buttoned up halfway. Joyce stares at that one the longest. They’ve all been cut out of different magazines and newspapers (is this what he’s using my scissors for...?), meaning they’d been collected from different sources, over some length of time. But why? Why these photos? What exactly does he do with - And then it clicks, and Joyce knows exactly what she’s looking at.

Her fingers begin to tremble. She glances at the red notebook perched on the side of Will’s bed, just above eye-level. She grabs it and stares at it for what seems like forever, until finally resolving to open it. What she finds when she does is almost worse than the photos.

What she finds is sketchaftersketchaftersketchaftersketch of a face she knows all too well. It’s Mike Wheeler, as animated in Will’s drawings as he is in real life, displaying the full spectrum of human emotion. Will has drawn Mike sitting down and standing up, from all sorts of angles, and in a comprehensive range of styles. There’s cartoon Mike, for example, the protagonist in what looks like the beginnings of a comic book set in Hawkins High, drawn impeccably in sleek black ink. There are rough, imprecise renderings done in charcoal pencil that smear and blend into one another. There’s one particularly impressive full-page pencil sketch of Mike talking into a walkie talkie, his hair wild and big, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. It’s not just sketches, though - Will’s masterful drawings are interspersed with doodles and phrases written in his distinctive chicken-scratch. Mike’s full name is spelled out several times, alternately in cursive and in block letters. And all of Joyce’s suspicions are confirmed, all at once.

Joyce can’t help it when her nose starts to sting and she feels tears. She’s not angry, no. Not disappointed. Not disgusted. Joyce, in this moment, feels a sober sort of pride. She’s proud to know that Will feels love, in the same way that any parent rejoices when their child first begins that tricky, exciting ritual. For a few seconds she’s reminded how grown he is, how frighteningly close he is to leaving her. But this is what she’s always wanted for him, for as long as she can remember. She thinks, horribly, of the times she’d lie awake at night, imagining a future where Will is happy and in love, praying that it offers him some respite from a world full of Lonnies. She wonders if Mike knows about the drawings, or the sentiment attached. She figures he doesn’t, and if he does, it’s probably not because Will told him.

So she’s sad, too. She has sensed, from a very young age, that Will was different, and that his path would be a little darker, a little more treacherous. For the first time she really understands that Will knows this too. After all, there’s a reason the notebook is in the mattress. It breaks her heart.

“Mom?” Will’s voice calls from the living room. Joyce freezes.

“Mom?” Will calls again. Joyce curses to herself, rushing to tuck the photos into the notebook and shove the whole thing back into the mattress.

Will walks into the doorframe just as Joyce finishes making the bed.

“Yes, honey?”

Will’s brow wrinkles. “Did you change the sheets?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” Joyce says, trying to conceal how hard her heart is pounding.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Will says sharply. Then, softer: “I mean. Thank you. But you really didn’t have to do that. I like doing it myself.”

Joyce shrugs. “I know. I just thought you’d appreciate a mother’s touch.” She’s trying very hard to add humor to her inflection, not sure if he’ll buy it. Will smiles, forgiving. Joyce wraps her arm around him, kisses his temple despite the eye-roll it gets her, and grips him just a little too tight.

She feels guilty for the rest of the day.

----

It’s 1 am on Sunday morning, one week after Joyce first discovers the notebook, and the boys are all asleep on her living room floor.

They’d all gone to see Back to the Future at the Hawk earlier that night, returning to the Byers’ house afterwards to continue the fun. Once the shrieking and the laughter die down, and Joyce feels confident that they’re asleep, she ventures out in search of a glass of water. She moves quietly over the carpeted floors, but stops at the threshold of the kitchen. She can hear faint whispering, barely intelligible, coming from the behind the couch.

“I guess I’m just relieved,” she hears someone say. It’s too raspy to know who for sure. “There’s a part of me that hasn’t accepted that we’re finally together after all this time.” Joyce knows that voice. That’s Mike.

“Yeah. Me too.” This voice is weaker, sleepier, and she immediately recognizes it as Will.

Who? She thinks. Who’s together after all this time?

“...especially because I thought it would never happen.” Mike again. What would never happen?

“What would your parents think?”

“I’m not going to tell them.” Wait a second. Are they-?

“Well, yeah. But if you did?”

“Are you kidding me? They’d flip.” Is Mike-?!

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah. Can you imagine my dad’s reaction? With everything that’s going on in the country right now? Honestly, some shit is just too weird. Even for Hawkins.”

“What about at school? Are we supposed to pretend?” Joyce is frozen, she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Do we have a choice?” Mike says, softly.

“I guess not.”

“I guess we have to wait and see what Hopper says.” Hopper? Joyce thinks, confused. What the hell does Hopper have to do with anything?

“Does he want us to call her Jane, or El?”

Jane?

Mike laughs. “She’ll always be El to me.”

And then Joyce realizes that they’re talking about Eleven. Of course they’re talking about Eleven.

Mike starts to speak again. “But everything will be how it’s always been. You know, at school. Nothing’s going to change.” His voice is laced with something cautious. Will laughs softly, as if trying to bury it, whatever it is.

“What are you talking about? Everything’s going to change.” And Joyce swears she can hear the regret in his voice.

----

It’s 6 pm on a tuesday, three days after the sleepover and ten after Joyce first finds the notebook, and Joyce is finishing up a shift at Melvald’s.

She feels happy. She’s got a lot to look forward to. Jonathan is bringing home takeout from the diner, club sandwiches and french fries, and Will will come home excited and talkative after A.V. club. (And, of course, Hopper happened to stop in today, looking for hair clips for El. He of course played it off like he was overwhelmed, but it was impossible to miss how happy he was to again be participating in the rituals of having a growing daughter. What about these ones? He’d asked. Joyce tells him that the ones he’s picked, bright pink with acrylic bumblebees, look a little young for her, don’t you think? Oh. Well, you know, it’s been a while. Well, you know her better than I do- I only have boys. She does like pink. Then get them! He smiles. They smile. Bitchin’.)

Will and Jonathan will be home a little later than usual, with Will coming from A.V. club and Jonathan from work, so she has just enough time before they arrive, Will first and then Jonathan, to set the table and smoke a cigarette in the quiet emptiness.

Their family dinners, infrequent thanks to work and academic commitments, always seem to make everyone happier. Joyce remembers Sunday morning after the sleepover, how Will looked more subdued than usual, how he hugged Mike goodbye somewhat tersely and watched him ride his bike down the driveway until he disappeared, and thinks: he needs it.

She waves goodbye to Donald and heads toward the exit. The automatic doors open when she nears, but Joyce stops short at the threshold, staring at the magazine rack.

--

It’s 6:18 on a Tuesday, three days after the sleepover, ten days after Joyce first finds the notebook, 18 minutes after she has what she hopes isn’t a terrible idea, and Joyce is waiting in the kitchen for Will to get home.

She’s standing in a part of the dining room where she knows she can’t be seen from the door, watching and waiting for it to open. She’s relieved when it does and Will walks in. He kicks off his shoes and sheds his jacket in seconds, and Joyce is warmed by how eager he seems to just be home. “I’m home!” He calls, but Joyce doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Will lets his backpack drop to the ground with a thud and collapses onto the couch. He sits there a minute, idle. Come on. Joyce wills. Pick it up.

Almost a minute passes, and then Will seems to notice something on the coffee table, something Joyce can’t see from where she’s standing. His eyes are wide as he looks around, thisaway and thataway, to check if anyone’s there. Cautiously, he picks it up.

It’s a copy of People Magazine, with River Phoenix on the cover. It’s not Mike, Joyce thinks, but it is something.

Joyce watches as he flips through it, and when a pink blush creeps over his cheeks, she knows he’s reached the centerfold -- a glossy, full-page photo of River Phoenix, without a shirt on, posing behind a wire fence.

And it’s perforated. Able to be ripped out of the magazine neatly and cleanly, to be hung up on a wall or folded into a spiral notebook and shoved under the bed.

No scissors required.

Notes:

1. The last time I wrote fanfiction was in high school and I can say with some certainty it is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever produced, so ridiculous that when I went looking for it a couple months ago I knew I just had to distribute it to all my friends alongside a “reader’s companion” (yes- a reader’s companion to my erotica) highlighting everything cringeworthy. Point is I'm new to this, pls be nice!

2. This is not erotica. They’re 14. Not. Erotica. Not even close. Not even a little.

3. I know it’s a bit anachronistic. River Phoenix hadn’t even starred in Stand By Me by the time this fic is supposed to take place, but I really think that Will would be into him because he’s artsy and sensitive and beautiful, AND because he and Mike remind me of Chris and Gordie.

4. thanks eversomuch to @otpgod1 for their kind words of encouragement in publishing this!