#And I know I should be drawing more of the Ink and his emotion cookies thing but ssshhh I'll do that soon

[somegrumpynerd]

Thinking about doing drawings for a dadmare truce au

[whump-town]

You Dance With Tears In Your Eyes

Summary: a college AU set up in the late 80s/early 90s with football star and quarterback Derek Morgan and his secret boyfriend Hotch-- it's not a happy story but I don't think I really have to warn you guys about that anymore

Also, a little based on a story my grandmother told me about my great uncle and his partner. Never met my great uncle but everyone says I'm a lot like him, I think they just mean gay but don't know how to say it

Warnings: homophobia, violence, racism *I mean it when I say homophobia*

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Aaron Hotchner

@yourlocalheartbreaker

The title is from Frank Ocean's song Self Control

Now and then you miss it, sounds make you cry Some nights you dance with tears in your eyes I came to visit, 'cause you see me like a UFO That's like never, 'cause I made you use your self-control And you made me lose my self-control, my self-control

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

Living shouldn’t be reduced down to what it is, the bare bones of things that don’t even make Derek Morgan who he is. He lives by them anyways, stupid rules. Social norms, Aaron always clarifies because even when those silly rules drown them Aaron needs to be concise. Social norms dictate every inch of life and for once Derek wishes he were the type of person who could be given that inch and take a mile. They’re the reason he can’t hold his boyfriend’s hand in public. Why he can’t kiss Aaron on New Years’ and why he is reduced down to loving his roommate. Why, at this rate, he’ll never marry or adopt children, or why he could lose any career he goes into because some nosy asshole finds out his partner isn’t a woman. And, yes, he knows there are anti-discriminatory laws but he’s a black gay man. The world is stacked against him.

It makes him so angry. He’s blinded by the irrational of it all, why nothing can just be simple for them. Aaron tries to comfort him but Derek’s anger scares him, he doesn’t understand it. Aaron has long lost the ability to decipher the complexity of human emotions. Still flinches at loud noises like he’s expecting each bump to be accompanied by the pain that laced his childhood and has to ask, around every turn, if Derek’s angry with him. He can’t tell. Everything looks like anger. With Derek, it frequently is. They cope in very different ways, Aaron chooses nothing. Shutting down all his emotions until he cracks and that’s worse. It’s worse than Derek’s anger. That doesn’t mean Derek doesn’t hate the way he quakes with fury. If not because it feels childish to be blinded by emotions then because it scares Aaron.

There are a million other things, at twenty there always is. It’s his philosophy class with all this bullshit reading he doesn’t understand. He has to ask Aaron for help and Aaron has to ask him for help with things too but it makes Derek feel stupid. It’s philosophy, it can’t be that hard. That’s the same way Aaron feels about calculus. There’s maintaining rent and going grocery shopping and football (games, practice, gym, and training).

College had been a learning curve. Getting up at four in the morning to go to the gym for football had been the hardest thing in the world without his mother flicking his bedroom lights on and off or Desiréecoming in to smack him in the face with a pillow. There’s no one in the entire world in charge of getting him out of his bed other than him and, in his freshman year, while he had thought sleeping on that impossibly hard mattress would leave much to be desired, and it did, he found himself glued to his every morning. Not wanting to leave the safety of its flimsy comfort.

Sharing an apartment worked wonders, having a workaholic boyfriend was really the best trick. An unexpected answer to his problems but, also, a very cute one. He managed to add one person to the list of people that cared about where he was, that made sure he got up in time to make it to the gym and practice, and asked if he had a bad day or rub at his sore muscles.

Derek rolls over in bed, not as surprised as he should be to find the other half empty. “Aaron?” He still searches, runs his hand over the sheets as if he doesn’t know that if Aaron were in the bed he’d be right there. Hogging the bed and the blankets, pressed up against Derek’s back snoring like there’s no tomorrow. “Aaron?” Derek sits up and squints, grimaces at the light trailing in from the open door.

Aaron’s hunched over the beginnings of an essay, pen ink smeared across his left palm and steadily chugging along. He can write a full essay in the span of a night, five hours for about 3,000 words but if it’s a short synopsis sort of thing then about an hour. Despite this astonishing gift, Aaron still makes himself write all his essays weeks in advance and spends days upon days proofreading and combing through them for the tiniest mistakes. He’s a straight-A student so he’s doing something right but Derek gets mostly As too with far less hastily. Aaron is just extra.

Derek steps up to the desk, doesn’t make a sound as he leans up against the side of the chair. He wraps an around Aaron’s shoulders, leans down to kiss his head. “It’s two,” Derek informs him, “come to bed. Please?” Derek’s exhausted. He feels the regret of being pulled from his warm bed. Each second feels like twenty minutes, the world sluggish and too cold. He leans closer to Aaron, wrapping himself around him. “You always smell so good,” Derek whispers. He presses his face into Aaron’s hair, catching the mix of scents.

“Bakery,” Aaron grunts. His answer as simple and concise as he always is but even more so now that he’s tired. Aaron had worked an on-campus job for the entirety of their freshman year but after he got a scholarship that would roll over each year after that (so long as he kept a certain GPA) he started at a bakery down the street from their apartment. Derek had always liked the way Aaron smelled, gently masculine in a way only Aaron could ever be, and it had mixed with the scents of softly, perfectly made baked goods he works around all day. Cookies and cakes. He’s picked up a few tricks, Aaron can make moist cakes and perfectly round cookies but his bread… It’s the best food Derek has ever eaten.

The first time Aaron made bread Derek got down on one knee and confessed “Aaron Hotchner if I could marry you I’d take you to the damn chapel right now”. To which he was lovingly pushed and told to “shut up” but fresh-baked bread (even if Aaron had taken a single bite and concluded he hadn’t ratioed the sugar right) is heavenly. He’s gotten much better since and it’s really hot when he’s standing there in one of his dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up taking his stress out on the dough.

And he can’t tell anyone. Can’t boast about his hot ass boyfriend or the bread he makes from scratch.

Derek crouches down by the chair, knows he’s winning when Aaron breaks from his work just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “Can’t this wait just a little bit?” he asks. “I want to sleep with my boyfriend and he’s out here writing an essay that isn’t due tomorrow and likely isn’t due for the next month.” Derek reaches up, strokes a strand of hair back behind Aaron’s ear. His fingers graze an open wound and Aaron flinches away, the pain unexpected.

The bare bones of Aaron Hotchner are the along the same in principle to Dereks-- all things that he cannot change. Even as he stands as tall as Derek, their bodies are not the same. Derek is lean from years of football, his arms stretch his shirts. He looks like an athlete, has the benefit of the doubt whenever he’s around men. His teammates walk naked in front of him, no one for even a second thinks anything of it. No one suspects him of the atrocities he commits within his apartment.

Aaron doesn’t have any of that. His hair is a little too long, hangs down in his face when he’s studying or reading. Nothing about him is hulk-ish, he’s delicate with his movements and while it had been something that Derek was immediately drawn to it also draws other’s attention. Bad attention.

The same boys that play around with Derek, snapping towels at him while he walks, terrorize Aaron.

Derek wishes there was something he could do because if this were anyone else- if Aaron were a girl- he could. It wouldn’t be dangerous, not the sort of thing that would cost him his football scholarship or get him stabbed and left to bleed out in an alley or beat within an inch of his life. He would have to out himself to protect Aaron, to stand in front of his teammates that coach keeps calling his family and tell them to keep their fucking hands off his boyfriend. No. No, because something like that would be death. It would be worse than what’s already happening. And Aaron won’t allow it.

All Derek can do now is await the next attack, leave Aaron someplace to come home to. Give him a place to be, without burden, without hesitation. It’s not enough. They’ll kill him. Derek knows they will and it’ll be fun for them, only a matter of time.

“Come to bed with me,” Derek asks one more time. He doesn’t want to sound entirely needy but he really doesn’t want to go to bed without Aaron. The bed is lonely.

With a sigh, Aaron nods and Derek stands up, moves out of the way so Aaron can throw pens in his textbooks to mark his place. He steps away, from the desks, yawning as he makes lazy lurches forward towards their bedroom. “Turn the damn--” Derek rolls his eyes and reaches over and turns off Aaron’s desk lamp.

He passes Aaron in the doorway, places his hand on his hip, and reminds him of their objective. “Bed,” he mumbles and Aaron nods, jerking back to life as he steps further into the bedroom.

Derek lays down on the bed, crawls over to his side, and gets comfortable while he watches Aaron lazily strip down to his underwear. He gets caught in his head again for a moment, standing there just blankly staring at the dresser. Trying to figure out if he should put on pajamas or not. Derek calls his name and opens his arms. “Come here, “ he says and Aaron smiles. Sheepishly he comes, blushing as he crawls into the bed and where Derek instructs him. Humming, pleased, when Derek brings the blankets up over them. His eyes are already closed, head tucked under Derek’s chin when Derek wraps his arms around him. Pulls him close, tight.

He’d read in a book about deep pressure, its effect on the parasympathetic nervous system. He’d studied Development Psychology for some time, thought about all the ways in which it checked every box of his interests. He thinks he might want to be a teacher. That’s where he learned about the importance of the bond between guardian and child. Where he learned a hug sometimes really is a fantastic answer to the most startling problems.

It’s also the fastest way to get Aaron to sleep.

“Tighter,” Aaron whispers. He can’t quite feel Derek’s bones pushing into him, the hammer of his heart still too strong. He groans, choking up a laugh when Derek does just that. Holds him tight, makes him ache with the proximity, his inability to move.

Derek doesn’t mind, he’s got an armful of bakery boy. Couldn’t be more content with anything else.

0000000000000000

All things considered, Derek didn’t actually face that much scrutiny when he told his mother about the stupid twisting and turning feeling in his stomach when Martel Harris put his hand on Derek’s back. Leaned in too close and Derek could smell the cologne he wore and feel his proximity like lightning across his skin. He’d thought it was just nerves but at the end of a football match Martel lifted him up, threw him up in the air, and God that had felt better than flying. Lit him up inside like he was something, someone.

Desiréecried and Sarah wouldn’t speak to him for a week, opposite reactions because of the same fear. Their mother always said the two of them were two halves of the same coin-- too alike to get along and too different to ever get away. They came around, their mother’s gentle hand always the voice of reason. Three stubborn as all hell kids, too much like their father. That’s what she tells the three of them, tears swelling in her eyes as she proclaims that none of it matters. Orders Desiréeto stop crying tells Sarah to get over herself. She loved and married a black man despite the death threats that followed them everywhere they went. Despite the people that called it blasphemous. Called it sin. As if love could be such a thing.

Her mother told her not to come home, not to call. She wouldn’t do that to her son, she knows it won’t change a thing. There’s something about love that makes you blind to the small pains. She never looked back twice, never reached out to her parents. She chose love and Derek will too.

But that doesn’t mean the fear goes away.

It doesn’t actually change a damn thing.

Standing in the tiny bathroom attached to Derek’s friend’s bedroom Aaron leans over the sink, letting Derek rub

shampoo through his beer-drenched hair. “I just don’t understand why they have it out for you,” Derek mumbles, his voice has deepened, his frustration laced confusion evident. They’re in a rather suggestive position, Derek’s body keeping Aaron bent over the sink-- ass to groin. Aaron shoots him a look out of the corner, a pretty clear “look at us right now and take a guess at why”. Derek ignores the look, he’s rather good at ignoring Aaron’s sharp looks. He shakes his head, grumbling some more to himself and gently working the shampoo out of Aaron’s hair. He leans closer, Aaron groaning as the sink bites into his stomach, and smells his hair. Derek groans, unsatisfied with what he finds. “Smells like strawberries with a slight undertone of beer.”

Sounds about as close to a win as they’re getting. “That’s as good as it’s going to get,” Aaron mumbles, grateful when Derek sits back up. While Aaron’s come to terms with the particular hand he’s drawn in the terms of college social lives Derek isn’t as quick to accept. He feels hopeless, a feeling he thought he’d escaped upon leaving Chicago and everything Carl Buford. Aaron can’t stand to see that look, the one he’s grown so used to seeing after events like this.

He pulls a towel down off the rack, starts trying to dry his hair. This isn’t the reason he keeps his hair short but it’s certainly a helpful addition to keep in mind. “Don’t overthink it, it’s not your fault.” Aaron could go blue in the face trying to keep Derek from coming up with a mile-long list of all the reasons why that’s simply not true. The truth is, it’s really not Derek’s fault. No one even knows about them. Their relationship isn’t the reason why Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is poured his cup of cheap, smells like piss, beer over Aaron’s head.

Not that what happened downstairs can just be so beautifully summed up as just that. Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is had grabbed Aaron as he was walking in, doing as Derek instructed by coming in the screened-in door at the side of the house. “Who’s dick did you come to suck?” and Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is cupped Aaron’s cheek. Dug his thumb into the wound he created and smiled, grinned happily at the sight of Aaron trying so hard to getaway. Hunter’s grip relaxed and as soon as it did Aaron was blinking the beer out of his eyes. “Get the fuck away from me,” Hunter shoved him, hard. “Faggot.” Aaron hit his hip on the counter but said nothing, he’ll leave the bruise for Derek to find another night.

“I should say something to that pig,” Derek’s distracting himself with putting everything back in the bathroom the way it was before they came in. Straightening out the rug and fixing the other towels. “Let me catch him trying something--”

Aaron can’t take it, all of Derek’s pointless anger, his stupid guilt. He’s just had beer poured down his back. He can’t even accept Derek’s sweatshirt to replace his smelly shirt, can’t walk out of here wearing his boyfriend’s sweatshirt without getting shanked. The beer smells awful but he’s fairly certain getting stabbed is a whole lot worse. Derek doesn’t have to deal with that. No one messes with him because no one thinks to. “It’s because of how I look!” He’s shaking, bangs hanging down in his face still damp but no longer dripping water down his face. “You? You look normal. You get to walk around with all your football buddies, no one bats an eye at the quarterback, Derek. At least you like women too!” He points to himself, digs his finger into his own chest. “Me? I look the part. I can’t even pretend. Everyone knew, the whole world knew before I did!”

Derek just stands there, caught in the headlights trying to figure out what to say.

He wipes his eyes, jerks away from the hand Derek tries to put on his arm. “No. No!” he can’t do touch right now. Not like this, not when his body won’t hold still and his knees keep trying to buckle. It happens, this panicked cornered feeling, and usually Derek would hold him down. They’d sit on the floor and Derek would hold his arms down to his chest and they’d just sit like that until Aaron can breathe again. Bones against bones until Aaron feels the fractures of his humanity coming back together but for now, right now? He can’t do it. He can’t be touched.

“I want to go home,” he manages, lower lip quivering despite how much he wants to hold it together. “Please take me home.”

Derek just stares at him, stands there, and watches Aaron cross his arms over his chest and curl in, trying to squeeze the panic out himself. “Okay,” he caves. “Go on, I’ll follow you down.” It’s degrading, humiliating the fact that they can’t even leave this room together. Aaron’s upset and Derek can’t do anything about that right now. It’s not safe until they’re home.

It’s never safe.

With his hair dripping into his face Aaron stumbles in the dark. His shirt is soaking wet, stuck to his skin, and freezing him as tramples down a thin stretch of grass between houses. He wishes he had Derek’s sweatshirt. Something warm. At least something to cover his arms. It had been a stupid idea coming here right after getting off work. The bakery is so impossibly hot and after getting off his shift all he wanted was to be with Derek. To sit in whatever little room Derek could guarantee was safe and drink whatever cheap crap Derek brings him from downstairs. Just sit and listen to the music filtering in from downstairs.

“Hotchner!”

He freezes-- a deadly mistake.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

He knows what happened to Derek. In the hush of the night, laying facing each other in the dark, Derek had told him. Each word a puff of hot air against Aaron’s face, hitting the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. It was supposed to be even, Derek’s intention was to express alikeness. He’d seen the scars, no matter careful Aaron was about the light when he thought things were headed in the direction of nakedness, Derek saw them. He hadn’t said anything that time, run his thumb over the one on Aaron’s chest but kept up his ministrations. Acted as if he didn’t until that moment in bed.

Aaron still hasn’t found the courage to be honest about his own childhood.

Derek comes around the back, half-expecting tonight to go like it always does. Except Aaron hasn’t had any alcohol and he doesn’t come stumbling around the porch to greet Derek from the darkness. There are no stolen kisses or hushed laughter. No Aaron. Derek has half a mind to shout out for him, he couldn’t have gone off far, but then he sees him. Derek sees them. The moonlight shining down casting this awful hue between the houses. He sees Hunter draw his foot back and he can’t hold it back. Won’t let this go on. “Hunter!”

The second that Hunter’s attention is away from him, Aaron slumps to the ground. His blood smeared against the house. He’s still breathing, awful ragged breathes that shoot blood off his lips. He sees Derek in the moonlight, rushing past him. Aaron wishes he wasn’t a coward. Between each blood speckled breathe, he wishes that he wasn’t a coward and had just told Derek. That way he would understand Aaron can take it. He spent his childhood taking beatings for just being alive. At least now it was something coherent. Being beaten for being gay requires at least knowing something about him. His father couldn’t even bother with that.

But Derek doesn’t understand.

Aaron never told him.

He’s pulled down, out of orbit, and back to Earth when Derek squats down beside him, cradles his head in his hands. “Aaron?” he calls out, but Aaron can’t force his eyes to move from the dirt. “Can I--” Derek doesn’t know where to put his hands. If he can put his hands anywhere. “I’m going to-- to lift you, okay?” It’s not a matter of if he’s strong enough. He benches more than his own body weight and that’s significantly more than Aaron’s. He’s just not sure if Aaron’s going to fight him and if Aaron fighting him is good or bad.

“Lean forward,” Derek whispers, cupping the back of Aaron’s head and directing it into his shoulder. He turns, manipulates both their bodies and winces each time, no matter how gentle and calculated his movements are, Aaron still cries out. He still hurts him. “I’m sorry,” becomes his mantra. The only words he can manage out around the tears, the only thing he can get past the thickness in his throat.

Sorry he didn’t stop this sooner.

Sorry that he keeps hurting Aaron.

Sorry they couldn’t be other people. In other places. In another time.

Sorry that it’s all for nothing, that there’s no way this ends well for either of them. They’re going to end up dead or alone but certainly separate.

The second Derek has him in his arms Aaron grips his shirt tightly in one blood-stained hand. He rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, soaking in his warmth. “Home?” he asks, voice breaking.

“We’re going home.”

Aaron wakes up alone in bed.

He’s completely naked, laying with three blankets pulled up over him. One that he recognizes is from the living room. There’s one of Derek’s homemade sock heating pads digging into his sore ribs where he rolled over onto it, he can feel more of them underneath him. He’s been laying here for a while. None of the socks are warm anymore. He’s on Derek’s side of the bed, facing his nightstand, and watches Derek’s blurry alarm clock change time. 1:36 passing to 1:37 to 1:38 just waiting for the fuzzy fingers in his brain to ease up. To allow him to think.

It’s Saturday.

Derek’s off at a football game, not due back for hours. Not until tonight, long after Aaron’s gone to bed.

For an overwhelming moment, his eyes fill with tears, desperation, and solitude creating an awful twist in his stomach. He doesn’t want to be alone. Protectively he draws his knees up, tries to knot himself up, and create a mangled ball. His heart picks up, anxiety increasing as he lays there. He wants Derek. He doesn’t want to be alone.

On the phone’s first rings he curls in tighter, overwhelmed by his own crying that he presses his face into Derek’s pillow and ignores it. He’ll let the machine catch it-- that’s the whole reason Derek bought it. With a sharp end, muffled by the blanket he pulls up over his head, a voice comes through. The machine catching the voice mail.

“Aaron, sweetheart? This is Fran, Derek’s mom? I’m sorry to keep calling sweetie but Derek’s awake now. He’s worried, says you should have woken up by now. I can send Sarah to come get you, Derek told me what happened last night. Please call me back? I hope you’re okay.”

He lays in confused silence, trying to process why Derek’s mother would call him. She calls all the time and occasionally he answers to tell her she’s just missed Derek-- he’s off with friends, at the gym, or at class. They know of one another Derek talks about him to Fran as much as Derek talks about Fran to him. But Fran call him? That’s never happened.

Then he catches it-- “Derek’s awake now”-- and he sits up. Pushed from his mind is the pain, his ribs scream and the blood he can see he’s left on Derek’s pillow. Derek’s awake now. Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is is on the football team. An offensive lineman. A guy whose entire job is to protect Derek but now he knows, he has to know.

Derek’s awake now.

He throws himself out of bed, clipping his already sore hip on the nightstand and staggering for the phone. Tears spilling over his face. What happened while he was sleeping? What did Hunter do?

Fran picks up on the first ring. “Aaron, is that you sweetheart?”

He sniffles, rubbing at his nose with his finger. “Yes, ma’am.” He knows she can hear him crying, his choked sobs as he falls in the direction of the closes chair.

“You had me worried sick,” she says and he can hear that unmistakable fondness in her chastising tone. That must be where Derek gets it from. It makes him smile, even if it’s weak. “How are you feeling, baby? Derek told me what happened. I’m sorry. If I see that boy I’ll wring his neck. Give him a piece of my mind for bothering my boys.”

He just nods, despite the fact that she can’t see that. He knows he should answer her question but he has no idea what he feels. Nothing. He feels nothing as he sits here holding his breath as he waits to ask about Derek. To know what happened because of him. “Is Derek okay? What happened?”

Hunter told a few other team members what he saw. Most brushed him off, Hunters a douchebag, and they like Derek. Others just hate Aaron enough for it to matter to them, enough to what to do something. Or, rather, not do anything. It only took one tackle, a limb bent the wrong way under the weight of three boys.

It was Derek’s knee. A career-ending injury.

A scholarship losing injury.

“Can I--” Aaron chokes. He’s afraid of what happens if Fran says no. “Can I see him?”

“Of course you can.”

Aaron turns away Fran’s offer of a car ride but Desirée still shows up.

He answers the door in a sweatshirt and jeans and knows immediately who it is when he opens it up. Desirée just stares at him for a moment, he can feel all of the seventeen-year-old judgment sizing him up. “You look… awful,” she tells him. She lets herself in, walking past Aaron with one more look. “Mom says I can drive but if you want to do it I have to let you.” She puts the car keys on the counter, sighs as she looks around. “Derek says…” she chews her lip, as she sizes him up again.

He wonders how intimidating he could possibly look to her. Hunched over and wearing a sweatshirt that’s too big for him.

“Would you teach me how to make bread?”

He can’t help but smile, nods without any hesitation.

“Really?”

Aaron nods, “it’s not that hard. More of a-- a waiting game. You have to give the yeast time to rise.”

Desirée has no idea what that means but she nods, “cool.”

He lets her drive. Mostly because his vision is swimming but because he tosses the keys back to her, a clear okay that she can drive, and she beams at him. She likes him. That’s so weirdly important to him.

She has to wake him up when they get to the hospital. The first thing she tells Fran is that he let her drive and Fran smiles at him, shakes her head, and says “you must have a death wish.”

Aaron blushes under the attention, eyes falling to the floor. He barely manages, “drives just like Derek.”

Fran laughs, nodding her head, “she does. Too heavy on the brakes.” Her smile fades a little when she sees Aaron’s sweatshirt, recognizes it from home. Knows it’s Dereks. “Will you let someone look at that,” she asks, too many of his wounds look deep. Cuts that need stitches and a nasty black eye that she knows he hasn’t iced. She’s reminded a little too quickly that Aaron and Derek are still very much kids. Tricky kids. Too old to be told what to do but still wanting direction.

Aaron nods, shying away again from the attention, but nods.

They leave him when the nurse steps in, doesn’t need to say a word. Fran sees him hesitate to lift his shirt and knows. Derek had managed to tell her most of what happened but the morphine made his speech slur, made him emotional. He’d sobbed, high and in pain. Told her what he’d seen the night before. Hunter hitting and kicking at Aaron, the way Aaron slumped forward. How he’d carried Aaron home. Washed the blood off him with a rag. She knew what was under Aaron’s shirt wasn’t something for them to see.

Derek wakes sometime in the middle of the night. The drugs from the surgery are wearing off and with it his blissful escape from the pain. Licking his dry lips he looks around the room, spotting his sisters and frowning as he tries to find his mother. She’s leaning over another cot, on the other side of the room. He watches her, hears the familiar chorus of Blackbird, and watches her stroke Aaron’s forehead, following the line of the relaxed brow.

It makes him smile, his mother used to sing Whitney Houston to him and his sisters to sleep. He told her about Aaron’s obsession with The Beatles, how of all the records the two of them own that’s the only one Aaron will play. Desiréebought the album, his mother told him a week later. She saved up to get it and was eager for her moment to speak to Aaron about it. To be able to befriend her brother’s boyfriend. That’s about the same time Fran began to hound him about bringing Aaron home, to Chicago. She wanted to meet him.

Fran kisses Aaron’s forehead, waiting another moment just to make sure Aaron’s truly asleep before she stands. “He was having a bad dream,” she tells Derek. In truth, he’d been crying in his sleep. In pain, she could tell, and restless. He’d settled with her there and it made her sad to think that maybe he’d just grown too used to sleeping beside someone else. She’d pulled his blankets closer and sang, just as she did with the other three when they were little. Even when they’re twenty, it still works like a charm.

Fran smiles, tries to soothe Derek’s nerves so he doesn’t worry about Aaron. He’s fine for now, sleeping soundlessly. She sits down on the edge of Derek’s bed, cups his cheek, and asks “how are you feeling?”

Derek just looks over to Aaron, his pale parted lips parted and the bandages holding him together. “Is he okay?” He’d been so scared last night watching Aaron sleep. No amount of Tylenol was doing a thing for his pain. Several times he’d sat up in the night and searched for a pulse, counted the far too many seconds separating each of his breathes. Derek thought Aaron might die right there beside him but he’d been more afraid of what might have happened if they went to the hospital.

Fran sighs, stupid love. It’s cute, she has to admit, but so senseless. “He’s sleeping, he’s okay.” She tries to redirect him, “how do you feel?”

Derek looks back over to Aaron. He looks. There’s more than just those pale lips and the bandages. It’s Aaron. He’s sleeping under multiples blankets and looks like himself. How he always looks when Derek rolls over to face him. He believes his mother, she never lies. “My leg hurts,” he whispers, voice cracking. It’s like the entire thing is pulsing, a continuous stabbing feeling. He cries but not from the pain. They betrayed him. The people he so stupidly thought of as his friends. They hurt him like they’d been hurting Aaron.

He should have known better.

He shouldn’t have been so stupid.

This is his fault.

“Derek?” Aaron sits up, hesitating under the combined attention of Derek and Fran.

Fran stands up, nods Aaron over. “Sit with him,” she offers. “I’ll go get a nurse.”

Aaron nods, still waiting, still hesitating to be where he wants to be. Derek motions him closer, manages to move his body over in the bed. Just enough room for Aaron to squeeze in beside him.

“I don’t think I”m supposed to--”

“Lay down.” Derek can see all the bruises and cuts up close again. He brushes his fingers through the hair above Aaron’s ear, turning his palm to his cheek. Gently tracing the outline of a bandage. “Runaway with me,” he whispers. He thought about it all night long while he watched Aaron sleep. “There’s only four more weeks left of the semester.” Aaron’s smart, he’ll get in anywhere he applies. “We’ll transfer someplace else, anywhere else.”

Aaron frowns, he doesn’t like the idea of this impulsivity. Mostly the number of uncertainties that it creates and the questions. Where will they go? How will they know it’s safe? Are they dropping out? Where will they transfer to? What Aaron can’t get into the college that Derek does?

“Hey,” Derek hushes, he strokes his thumb across Aaron’s cheekbone. “Hey, whatever you’re thinking stop. I’m not leaving, not going anywhere you don’t. We do this together, alright?” He smiles, leans forward, and softly knocks their foreheads together. “Four weeks and all of summer break, okay? That’s plenty of time for a smarty pants like you to figure out where we can go.” It had taken less time for Aaron to conclude Illinois was close enough to home for him to go if something happened to his mother but too far away for her or his brother to come to him.

They’ll figure it out.

“Runaway with me?” he asks one more time.

“Okay.”

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.16

Down the Memory Lane

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3880

Summary: You don’t remember your soulmate and all you knew his now is his name, his looks and that you have died on him... but perhaps you could at least learn the sweet parts of your story too?

Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing, light angst and fluff, oh, and Dean’s human skills in overdrive for a bit ;)

Story masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

The ten minutes it took Steve to return from the communal kitchen was enough of a breather, allowing you to put yourself together at least a bit. A bit. You spent most of the given time staring blindly ahead with your brain in overdrive, alternating it with the urge to get up from your ass to inspect the room closer.

Steve had your favourite tea stocked; did he have a picture of you somewhere? Was there anything that would clue you what he enjoyed doing when he wasn’t working? What did he like to wear? If you opened the rather spacious closet, would you find a pile of white tank tops and sweats like the ones he was wearing now or would there be a variety of shirts – blue ones, preferably, ones that would bring out his eyes? Was he a tea drinker like you (apparently)? Was he a health freak or that kind of a person who could eat anything and still stay fit due to lucking out and probably working out like a half of a day?

What was the notebook placed on one of his nightstands with a pencil on it? Was it a diary? A place to write down random thoughts? Things he remembered to do right before falling asleep, writing them down rather than leaving the bed to complete the task instantly? Or did he like drawing? Writing stories? Poetry?

So, so many questions… the anxiety from meeting him was still more than present, but now the curiosity was gently nudging it away. You felt calmer. The minutes were enough for settling your frantic thoughts.

That was what you kept telling yourself until Steve showed up with two mugs that smelled like heaven and… a plate of cookies.

They looked like sugar cookies (how did you know sugar cookies again?) and your mouth instantly started watering. You were very quickly falling for this man. It probably helped he knew how to make you fall for him, because he knew what you liked better than yourself, but damn.

You watched him put the items on the table, waiting for him to sit. He seemed more at ease too, as if the short time apart helped him collect himself, though his eyes were red-rimmed as if he had a quick cry and a freak-out; to which you could easily relate.

Nevertheless, his whole body appeared more relaxed, the tension in his shoulders dissolving. His features were soft, less worries clouding his expression. He even gave you a brief smile, gesturing towards the coffee table.

“Steve, how dare you?” you quipped in return, making him freeze.

“What did I do?” he asked, sounding wounded and alarmed.

“Cookies. How dare you to serve cookies with what apparently is my favourite tea. What is it, by the way? It smells amazing.”

His smile shone brighter when he realized you were only being playful. Why were you being playful again? Where did it come from?

“Black tea. Flavoured sweet cherry. And I thought… uhm, I saw the cookies in the kitchen and thought you might like some,” he revealed, the subtle blush rushing back to his cheeks, much to your delight. The tips of his ears turned pink too. It was adorable.

While you believed there was more behind his statement, you didn’t call him out on it. Yet.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You took one of the mugs to your hands, gently blowing the tea, swirling the aroma. Yeah, you could see this thing being your favourite beverage. When you sipped it carefully, you were sure.

Glancing at Steve, you saw him watching you, clearly content with your reaction. You smiled at him over the edge of the mug before setting it down again.

“So… what was the first thing I told you?”

“…that there must be a mistake,” he admitted slowly, a hint amusement soaking through his voice.

You, on the other hand, were horrified.

“I did what?! Oh my god, why would I do that?”

Steve’s amusement only seemed to grow, a bashful smile curling up his lips, an eyebrow slowly rising.

“I told you I really was 95. If you want to get into conversation about which of us should reconsider thinking before speaking, you might need a better argument here.”

That… yeah, okay, you had to give him that. But still.

‘There must be a mistake’ and ‘I’m sorry’? Wow, you rocked this whole talking to your soulmate for the first time thing, didn’t you?

“…okay. That’s fair. But that must have been terrible for you to think that… I dunno. Maybe thinking that I would consider meeting you a mistake, right?”

Steve shrugged and delicately –yes, delicately, despite his huge hands – pulled at the straps of his top, revealing the words for you to see.

Oh, great, the first time when you met him, there was even an ‘Oh no’ involved.

Upon seeing the lines of ink, your heart tried to beat its way of your chest. You convinced yourself it was the words and the words only. It had nothing to do with the fact you peaked a patch of skin you hadn’t before. It wasn’t that you could see his muscles shift. Nope.

Your mouth also didn’t feel like watering; that would be embarrassing. And inappropriate.

You really hoped Steve would think that the heat in your cheeks was caused by seeing an evidence of your perfect human skills showing when meeting him for the first and the second time (for the first time but the second time?).

You cleared your throat awkwardly and lowered your gaze.

“Uh-uh. You told me you were hoping to meet me at very late age, because otherwise would be weird. Not ideal either,” he remarked and once again, he was right of course. After all, you remembered the confusion it caused when you had been trying to figure out what it meant. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Both yours and my words actually have perfect explanation.”

You hummed, encouraging him to continue, taking a cookie.

Which was a mistake. Like, a real fucking mistake.

Because they weren’t sugar cookies. They were peanut butter, you knew that much even though not being sure how.

And you very quickly understood that you loved peanut butter cookies. You almost choked on the heaven that exploded in your mouth.

Steve raised a questioning eyebrow, but the way he bit his cheek gave him away. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You pointed an accusing finger on him, earning a sheepish chuckle and a confession. “I was hopeful.”

“Uh-um. Good call. I honestly know like five people by their name so far, but you are quickly becoming my favourite,” you joked, turning horrified a second later.

How did you make fun of your amnesia?

Steve stiffened too, but he was fast to recover. He breathed in shakily, catching your gaze, his suddenly serious eyes boring into yours.

“Look, I know… this must be really hard for you, but… if you let me, if you let me,” he emphasized, the blue with just a drop of green of his eyes calming and sincere, “I’ll help you. We contact your family, your friends, we tell you everything we know. We help you to explore what you like and what you don’t and… and if it’s different from what you liked before, that’s fine. These are… stupid cookies, but they made me think. You just met me, I’m aware, but I want to be there for you. If you let me, I will.”

You watched him breathless, absolutely taken aback by the honest aura around him. He meant every word. You barely registered that he took your hands into his again, too busy processing what he was saying, moved to tears. How much kindness and strength this man carried? How was he even real?

“Someone… something up there might be offering me a chance to fix what I messed up so badly, but it’s not guilt why I’d wish to be with you, I promise. I like you. You’ve just met me, but I already know you’re amazing. If there is a chance that maybe… maybe you could like me too, I’ll do everything to prove to you that I could be worthy of carrying the soulmark linking me to-- oh god, please don’t cry.”

You blinked, realizing that silent tears indeed started rolling down your cheeks. You stopped thinking.

You freed your hands of his hold, catching a glimpse of panic in his expression at that and then you couldn’t see his face, because you attacked him, throwing your arms around his neck, making him sway hazardously. You had a hunch that he wouldn’t have even flinched in any other case, the solid wall of muscle he was, but you took him by surprise.

The moment he steadied you both, his shaking hand went to rest flat on your lower back, his other arm curling around you in what could only feel like protectiveness. He held you a bit tighter than was decent, a barely contained tremble in his embrace. It might have even been a little painful, being squished like that, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Oh sweetheart,” he whispered softly, lowering his head to nuzzle in your hair slowly, as if he was afraid you’d withdraw with that action.

Not fucking happening.  

This felt familiar.

It felt like scratching an itch you weren’t quite aware of having ever since you had woken up from the dream called Death.

It felt right.

Which made you cry harder, ironically enough. You were a mess of a woman, happy tears mixing with those of regret and shame, but Steve still held you, steadily now, his doll and sweetheart, and you felt warm and comfy and safe, pleasant sensation curling around your heart like a fluffy blanket.

“You’re already doing it,” you murmured into the fabric of his top, already damp with your tears.

“What was that?”

Why did he sound apologetic for such petty thing like not catching what you were trying to mumble, when he was being the rock to your emotional raging sea?

You cleared your throat, this time taking care to articulate like an actual human being. “You’re already doing it, Steve. You’re so nice to me, so considerate and I’m such a mess. Keep this up and I’m not gonna think but know I don’t deser-“

He squeezed you tighter in what felt like a warning and you realized that once more, you were being ridiculous. This wasn’t a competition. And if you were self-conscious about being Steve’s soulmate, worrying you might not be enough with what a mess you were, well, he didn’t need to know. God knew he probably felt the same, his past choices haunting him.

“Just… thank you, Steve. I couldn’t wish for a more amazing soulmate,” you said honestly and when he pulled you closer after that statement despite you not thinking it was possible, you sensed his gratitude.

You stayed in his comfortable embrace for a while, just breathing in, wrapped in a somehow soothing scent.

A giggle escaped you when you realized what exactly Steve must smell.

“What?” he muttered lazily, clearly enjoying the proximity as much as you were – hell, probably more, because this could be what he was used to.

“Just wondering what it’s like to be hugging a girl who smells like men’s shampoo.”

His body shook with hushed laughter in response and he eased his embrace, retreating enough to look at your still damp face. He dared to fix your hair a bit with his gentle fingers, smiling sadly.

“It’s about as surreal as seeing you in plaid,” he remarked, sparkles in his eyes, and you had to admit that yes, your choice of clothing didn’t quite suit you. This couldn’t be your usual wardrobe. “But if this is gonna be the new you, I’ll take it. I meant what I said. It really doesn’t matter what you wear or smell like, though maybe next time I’ll just lend you my things instead. I like it. I like you.”

No. Don’t. It would be really awkward to start crying again. Stop that. Nope- don’t you dare…. You closed your eyes and breathed through the burning sensation in your eyes and rather focused on the pleasant warmth pooling in your chest.

“Steve, stop turning me into a puddle of jello. You’re laying it on a bit thick here,” you whispered, mentally begging him not to stop.

He was so sweet.

And apparently was a little shit too, because the corners of his lips twitched.

“Sorry. Can’t seem to help it.”

You couldn’t but roll your eyes at the cheekiness somehow tangled in flirtation and absolute seriousness.

“It’s… not bad,” you assured him, feeling a bit self-conscious under his intent gaze. “I guess I’m just apologizing in advance if I’m not… responding the way you would wish or you’re used to. I know you said you’d take what you can get, but still—“ Upon seeing the silent warning in his eyes, you pressed your lips together to contain the babble threatening to spill out again. “Okay, shutting up now. Tell me about how exactly we met.”

“Uh-um.”

“Can we stay like this though? Please?”

You looked up at him, hopeful, your heart skipping a pleased beat as he allowed you to nestle into a less neck-breaking position, letting you to lean onto his shoulder as his lips slowly curled up in a spine-melting smile. He made space for you by moving his arm on the backrest, allowing you to rest rather against his chest than shoulder.

Yep, this was it. This was your new favourite place… your only favourite place? Never mind.  

“Only if you have another cookie and finish your tea,” he teased, his fingers daring to tickle your arm lightly.

“Hard bargain, Captain,” you chuckled, but obediently reached for not one, but two cookies, offering the other to him.

He accepted it with a smile. “Deal with it.”

“Oh, gladly. Now spill…”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Steve talked for a long time, smoothly moving to different stories of you two after the meet-cute; and there was no mistaking it, it had been a meet-cute, sweet and a little embarrassing.

His narrative was surprisingly detailed – he remembered what the weather was like, what you were wearing, little things about Ryan, who was apparently your best friend. It should sadden you, all the things you forgot, but with the way he was talking it was as if you were there.

Simultaneously, the sharpness of his memories broke your heart – it only showed just how important those moments were to him. And you knew nothing of them.

Despite being intrigued by the stories and curious about what Steve had to say, you soon found yourself dozing off. You blamed the strange familiarity, Steve’s soothing timbre and the gentle warm embrace that instinctively made you feel safe and at home. You didn’t think he realized he started rubbing your arm in tender periodic motions, slipping into what he actually knew – unlike you – way too easily.

“Steve, should I send the Winchesters who brought her here to a hotel for the day?” a low voice asked, sounding from too much of a distance for you to bother opening your eyes.

“Unless Tony lets them stay. Tell them we’ll pay all of their expenses and not to worry about her. I promise to take care of her and not to let her out of my sight,” an equally hushed voice replied.

“As you wish.”

Your body felt too heavy, yet like belonging to someone else, your mind floating above it. You couldn’t move. You felt the change as you were being moved, warmth of another body replaced by soft cushions and a thick blanket smelling of comfort and home was tucked around you. A soft brush against your forehead and a light weight over the comforter in one particular spot on your arm.

“They don’t seem assured, Steve. They say they’ll wait for you so you could talk.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Jarvis. I’ll see them in a minute.”

You were far too gone into the dreamland to know just how long Steve sat beside you on the mattress, his hand on you to make sure you were truly here in his bed, no matter how little you remembered, silent tears of happiness and a pained smile never leaving his face.

You were only aware of your dreams being sweet, tasting of peanut butter and cherry flavoured black tea.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Steve was a bundle of nerves and heavy emotions by the time he finally forced himself to leave her bedside. It was one of the hardest things he ever had to do – both leaving her and spending the better part of the afternoon and evening with her.

He was… less cautious than he should have been from the very moment she walked into his room with Natasha at her heels, he was aware of that, but just seeing a person that looked exactly like her to very last freckle on the side of her neck was like a punch to his solar plexus; seeing her walking, talking and breathing was making his chest ache and as much as he wanted to believe from the start, he forced himself to be just a tiny bit cautious.

It all went out of the window the moment she said the words written on his collarbone. She was alive. His beautiful, sweet soulmate was alive and well, and nearly perfect.

Steve knew it was profane and that he should be grateful for such miracle; he was, God, how grateful he was and he was willing to do everything if it only meant she would stay, but meeting with her gaze, still admiring and curious, but not adoring as it used to be, not so full of tender love, because she had no real memory of him, broke his heart to tiniest pieces, shattered it just like he did to the mirror when finding his new words.

She didn’t remember him. He was her soulmate to her still – but a stranger. When she threw herself around his neck eventually, the sensation was as bitter as sweet. Steve belonged to her – he was so entirely hers with every bit of his very being – but she wasn’t his.

It made him swallow thickly as he leaned onto the wall by the door to his room, unable to summon the strength to deal with the men who had brought her back to him.

He was honestly grateful – beyond words, actually – and his actions towards her were genuine, every word true, every single of his smiles, her presence truly making him happy, but by God, there was a lot of pain he had to swallow whenever she asked him something about them and he was confronted with her amnesia once more.

Confronted with him being nothing to her.

Steve didn’t know how long it took him to actually emerge from his position, his eyes burning with fresh tears, but when he entered the common room and a snarky male voice welcomed him, he knew it was longer than it should have.

“Well, look who it is. The great man himself,” the shorter man of whom Steve assumed was Dean exclaimed and it caused both the other hunter – Sam, Steve recalled – and Bruce, who kept the brothers company, massage the bridge of their nose tiredly.

Steve sighed and nodded politely as the brothers stood up from the couch. Bruce had clearly dined them with a take-out judging by the boxes on the table, which Steve was grateful for. He mentally noted to thank his friend later.

“Dean Winchester, I presume,” he croaked, wincing and clearing his throat at the pathetic sound it released.

The sandy-haired man quirked up. “I see my reputation precedes me. Good. Because, you see, I’m a big fan. Really. You’re doing an A+ plus work, most of the time. But something happens to Nat--- ugh, you know who I mean – on your watch again, I’ll find you, skin you and make sure your soul never finds rest.”

“Dean…”

Steve only nodded at the threat, ignoring the scolding look the taller hunter gave his brother.

“What he meant to say was: nice to meet you, I hope it went well. She… uhm, she is your soulmate, right? You exchanged the right words?” Sam asked kindly, his eyes compassionate and inviting.

Steve smiled tightly, ignoring the knot in his stomach and deliberately passed on the unspoken question if it did go well. He assumed it had, but… well.

“Yes,” he whispered softly, offering the man a hand to shake, which was instantly accepted. “We did. Thank you for bringing her here. Keeping her safe. Taking care of her. I already asked Jarvis – we’ll make sure to pay any expanses-“

“Alright, stop with the speech, Captain. We did what he had to – what we wanted to. She’s a good kid. She deserves the best, though she wasn’t always willing to accept that as a fact. If you want to help guys with little money, that would be nice. But we’re not bounty hunters or some shit. You’re not paying us for her,” Dean stated, sending a white lightning of rage though Steve’s body at his implication.

She was not a merchandise to order and have delivered. She was a human being. Steve was very much aware of that.

He took a deep breath to tell the man what an inappropriate comment he had made. “Mr. Winchester-“

“Oh god, don’t ever call me that again. And relax. Please. I’m not totally serious. Calm your tits.”

“Captain Rogers, I apologize for my Neanderthal of a brother. He grew rather protective of your soulmate as did I. I assume she’s asleep-“ Sam interjected again with his diplomatic talk and Steve forced the indignation aside, trying to remember he was beyond grateful. He only nodded once more. “Good. We thought to stay in town in case she needed anything. We left a small bag for her, but she doesn’t have much, she’s modest. Had a little trouble eating, worrying about spending our money. Please, make sure she eats.”

A sharp pang hit Steve’s chest when hearing another implication of her doubting her worth. He had a lot of work to do. He was going to spoil her. So much. As much as she let him and just a tiny bit more. She always seemed to have a weak spot in the form of his pleading eyes, she was a pleaser and Steve would be very much pleased to give her everything. All of his things, all of him.

“Thank you for telling me. I’ll look out for that. Hopefully, she’ll let me.”

“Good. You do that. She just needs a little push sometimes,” the older brother smirked and finally shook Steve’s hand too, possibly going for tighter grip than necessary. Good tactics that didn’t quite work on a supersoldier, but Steve met his gaze to hint him he received his message again clearly.

Hurt her and you’re a dead man.  

Steve felt the same about everyone.

“Now, she has our number and we should probably hit the hay. Before we leave though…” Dean hesitated and the sudden lack of snark surprised even Bruce, who released his head from his hands as he had rested his elbows on his knees, sitting on the couch, embarrassed for their guests; he looked up curiously as Dean continued.

“Can I have an autograph? I really am a huge fan…. And I’d love to touch the shield.”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 17

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Thank you for reading, lovlies, and if you happen to leave ♥ or/and comments, reblog... thank you for that too :-*

[codevassie]

a heart he couldn’t control (destined to love and hate and damn forever) Part 7

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | On Ao3

CV:  You know when you're smelling candles and you smell so many candles that you can't tell which ones smell good or bad anymore? Let's just say I don't know what this chapter is. There's a lot of words. And a lot of important things happen in it. And I've gone a bit insane trying to make it. Hope you enjoy <3

CW: Kidnapping, Guilt, Historical Discussions of Prejudice, Mentions of Death, Unreality, Weapons

@winterwynd @escalatingtoofast

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

When Remus was little, nothing but a scoundrel on the streets, orphan, alone but his brother and a hyper-defiant attitude, he never used to dream.

Each morning, Roman would wake and recount a world better than their present–where a wealthy family came to town and adopted them; where they grew up and ran a bakery together, with all the bread and cookies they'd ever desire; where Remus didn't have to hide his magic; where Roman didn't get ganged up on in alleys.

Where they had… more than this.

Dreams kept Roman going, and, in a way, it kept Remus going too, hearing his brother tell all these magnificent stories–all while Roman wasn't even awake to imagine them. A lot of them didn't even make sense, but those were Remus' favorites. He loved hearing the impossible ones–ones where you walk out the door of your house and you fall into the river, or dive out the window and fly into the sky.

Remus never got any of his own, or if he did, he never remembered–until he lived in the caves, at least.

His first week waking in his new “home” was plagued by nightmares. Virgil told him it had to do with the magic running freely through the caves. Out there in the towns, among the regular people, magic was obsolete, dried out like a desert. In the caves it was everywhere. Where before Remus’ head was dry, it could weave worlds upon worlds with a bit of magic.

Dee thought something similar. He said Remus had been repressing his magic in order to hide it. However, now that he was in the caves, it was still difficult to access. The magic was blocked up like a dam, and that caused his psyche to go into turmoil.

The witch, on the other hand, thought they might be visions. That hadn't gone over well.

They never were visions–not that they could make out. Not once did Remus dream of anything that had once or would be true. So in the present day, as Remus went to sleep on the fifth night Roman had been gone, he didn't worry too much when he realized he'd walked into a nightmare.

That, really, should have been what tipped him off. Remus never had lucid dreams, and while he couldn't control a thing in this one, his mind knew well enough this wasn't his reality.

Remus walked along a corridor in the castle, one that he didn't recognize very well. In his hands he held a long sleeve of parchment, marked all over in different types of ink and at least five different hand-writings. Gripping the edges of the paper, he noticed his fingers were bedecked in rings with heavy jewels and, on the thumb, a large crest. His hands were wide and aged, and paler than usual. His shoulders were heavier, but his mind felt lighter. Remus wasn't Remus in this dream.

Strange. He still knew he was Remus, but that’s not what his voice or body understood.

The man–whoever Remus was–sighed and rolled up the parchment restlessly. He bopped the paper to the side of his leg, looking about the hallway and to a room a couple paces off. The closer he drew, the easier his shoulders relaxed. No sound came from the room, and that nurtured something content in the man’s chest.

Until, that is, he rounded the corner and through the doorway.

It was a nursery, from what Remus could tell. An ornate crib stood at the center of one wall, a carousel of horses hanging like wind chimes above. The room was dark, lit only by the blue light of the night, shining in easily from the wide open windows. The rug was soft and plush, fit for a baby to crawl safely, and there was a shelf of toys and books in the corner.

Something felt wrong. Remus didn’t know what it was, but going by his sudden gasp, the man did.

He rushed into the room, going to the cradle first. It lay empty. His heart dropped, abandoned down a well like a draw bucket without a string. There was a noise behind him, and he spun.

There, closer to the bookshelf, was a bundle of hair and fabric. When she looked up, the king bolted over, heart again in his chest, but pounding, hammering a painful dent into his ribcage.

“Yolanda? My love,” he said, kneeling by her side and taking her into his arms. “What is the matter? Where is Janus?”

Yolanda? Remus wondered, tilting his head in thought. The head in his dream remained unmoved. Janus?

The names seemed familiar, but Remus couldn’t remember- He was so tired of not remembering.

“She took-” the woman panted, barely able to get her words out before a coughing fit seized her. The man helped her to sit up, eased her into a position to aide her air passage. The man said nothing, kept an appearance of calm and reassurance, but he was scared to death. Remus could feel it.

The woman was crying. She was sobbing as she tried to get her voice to work, grasping at her throat. “Easy,” the man said softly. “Easy, Landa.” But she couldn’t stop crying. Finally, the man had to ask. “Please. Where is our boy?”

The woman, Yolanda, breathed once, body shaking fiercely. “He’s gone,” she whispered, the sound of a broken woman. Remus didn’t know what was happening, but his own heart stopped. Something unthinkable had happened here.

“Guards! Guards!” the man turned his head to yell out the door, raising minutely away in the moment.

But the woman was already shaking her head. “It won’t help. She took him hours ago. I couldn’t- I couldn’t move-”

The man placed a hand to her shoulder again. There were no sounds of rattling armor. The castle was silent.

This should have never happened. Where was everyone?

“Where? We must know which way to send the men. I will go with them – I have to go with them,” the man rambled. The woman clutched his arm, beckoned him to look at her. She wept, but her eyes were fierce, commanding.

“You must find him,” she said.

Remus felt the man’s eyebrows furrow. “I will.”

“She will pay for this,” she said, voice shaking in barely restrained anger. “She took my baby.”

“Where did she go?” the ringed man asked.

The woman’s eyes vacantly moved across the room to the blowing curtains at the balcony window. The man followed her gaze, frowning.

“She scaled the tower,” he said, voice terrified. His son… this kidnapper had put him in so much danger already.

“No,” the woman said. “She appeared. And then… disappeared.”

The man looked back, expression puzzled. Before he could ask, however, her gaze met his, eyes dark and disheveled hair barely concealing her fiery look.

“She had magic.”

Suddenly, the room went dark. Remus felt his body jolt, and he blinked, head whipping around, back and forth, back and forth. Black spots danced before his eyes as they grew accustomed to the pitch black room around him.

He was no longer in the man’s body. He had woken up. But he was no longer in his room either.

Remus was in the nursery from his dream. It was dustier. The curtains were drawn, and looked to have been that way for a long time. But it was unmistakable. Virtually nothing had changed in the room. And now that he was awake, he understood where he was.

He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, shutting his eyes.

There was still so much he didn’t understand.

-/-

If they’d thought the library was difficult, then Logan’s house was a whole other challenge. The place was a library in itself.

Roman had been thumbing through volume after volume all night, trying to pinpoint something that might point to Virgil or this ‘Dee’ guy. They were looking for anything at this point, and that made the search even more difficult. If only they’d had something a bit more specific, something to go off of.

He was planted at the coffee table, hunched over and trying not to think about the crick that was forming along his spine. He flipped a page, squinting to understand what it was saying through the fog in his brain and the dim candlelight.

Earlier, Patton had cast a light to illuminate the room a bit better, but after hours of tireless research, it had gone out. Patton had gone home a while ago, hinting pretty strongly that he expected Roman to follow. Roman hadn’t, and that meant he had no Patton to recast it.

Roman vaguely heard someone walk into the room. In his periphery he saw a figure lower itself to the floor across the table. “My prince,” it said in an even voice. Roman blinked up at the man, clearing his vision of letters and misshapen words he could no longer understand.

“Oh, hey Logan,” he said, giving a tired smile. He’d never seen the man out of a tie. He was in a t-shirt and some pajama pants, eyes soft and still behind his glasses. It was funny seeing him so calm after the stress he’d been under earlier.

“Have you found anything?” Logan asked kindly. Odd, Roman rarely heard emotion in the man’s voice. Logan didn’t seem like the type to slow down his thought process enough to implement it.

But Roman just shrugged. “It’s a bit hard to figure out what he meant,” he said. They’d come to Logan’s house assuming he’d know the exact book Virgil had meant. Turned out Logan was just as clueless as they were.

Actually, more so. Logan hadn’t even known Virgil was gone.

Logan knocked his glasses askew in an attempt to rub his eyes, giving a small sigh. Roman noticed there was still tension in his shoulders–the same tension that had grown there after they’d explained everything.

“Hey,” Roman spoke up, too tired to put himself under any kind of filter. Earlier he’d left all of this up to Patton, afraid to screw it up. Comforting was more in Patton’s capabilities anyway. Now Roman just couldn’t keep himself back. “I know you’re worried about Virgil, but you should get some rest.”

Logan adjusted his glasses, putting them back in place as he scrutinized Roman. In a moment Roman was wriggling in place, regretting his decision to be open, but then Logan let out a breath that somewhat resembled a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Funny,” he said. “I came out here to tell you the same thing.”

Roman stared for a second then cracked a smile. “That is funny,” he said, too tired to say anything clever.

“Roman,” Logan said, voice a bit more somber. Roman looked back to him and took note of his frown. His hand hovered over the book in front of him protectively. “We all want to help him, but we can’t if we exhaust ourselves.”

“I’m not exhausting myself,” Roman said, shaking his head. “I work nights all the time. It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s not healthy,” Logan said. “Your body needs rest to function properly.”

Roman looked back down at the book. “I’ll rest when we’ve gotten Virgil back,” Roman muttered, trying not to come off too irked. Logan was just trying to help.

“I know this is likely not something you want to hear,” Logan put a hand over the page Roman was trying to make out, “But we may not get Virgil back for some time. Things like this take time.”

“Then I’ll work night and day to make it happen,” Roman said, head snapping up with a scowl. His blood was boiling for some reason–the same as it had been when he’d talked to Patton in the library.

“Neglecting yourself will not bring Virgil back any faster,” Logan said, his own voice tighter now too. Unlike Patton, he would match Roman in intensity rather than try to soothe it. “In fact,” Logan carried on, “It would rather slow it down.”

“You don’t know that,” Roman said, heart speeding up at the thought. He couldn’t rest. Not when Virgil needed help. The more he tried, the faster it would help–it had to.

“Then tell me, are you actually absorbing anything you’ve been reading for the past hour?” Logan asked.

Roman pulled the book back from him, holding it close to his chest. “Yeah, of course!” he said, voice defensive.

“What is it you’re reading then?” Logan asked. Roman stopped, thinking for a moment. “I’ve read all these books, Roman. I know what that one is about too. So tell me; what is it about?”

“Give me a moment!” Roman argued, trying to grasp something, anything that he remembered. Was this the one on the northern regions or the fiction story about wolves? Roman had lost track.

“Roman,” Logan said, drawing his attention back. Logan sighed, something too close to pity crossing his features for Roman’s comfort. He shifted, clutching the volume tighter and looked on almost in fear as Logan opened his mouth. “Did you notice the inscription at the front of that one?”

Roman furrowed his brow, pulling the book away from his chest. No, no he hadn’t noticed an inscription. Setting it back down on the table, he flipped to the front, keeping a hand on his page to not lose his place. On the title page, he found it.

Logan,

I don’t know if you remember, but this was the first book you lent me. That copy was a library book, so I thought you might like your own. I know you own the library and all, but I hope you like it.

Virgil

Roman was frozen, eyes going again and again over the words. The letters were in small, cramped script, but he could tell it was carefully written. He hovered over Virgil’s name with the pad of his index finger, holding his breath. A part of him felt it would flake apart just at his touch.

“Virgil gave you this,” he said at last, glancing up to Logan’s face. There was sorrow there if you could look between the lines. He had sobered up from his exhaustion, placing a mask of emotionlessness on, but Roman could see it like a reflection. “Do you think this is it? Is this the book?”

To Roman’s disappointment, Logan shook his head. “I doubt it. He could have simply gone to the one in the library. It would be a lot easier than borrowing this one from me.”

“What if there’s something hidden in this one specifically?” Roman asked, desperate at this point. He felt so close, yet Logan didn’t look convinced at all. Could nothing be easy? Couldn’t Roman just do this one thing right?

“If there is, then I doubt you’d find it as tired as you are. It would have been very cleverly hidden considering I’ve reread that particular volume many times throughout the years.”

Roman furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Is it that good?”

“Not particularly,” Logan said. Something soft flashed across his face as he gazed at the volume Roman held so possessively. “It’s mostly for sentimentality’s sake, I suppose.”

Roman looked again at the book, at the inscription. “Oh,” he said, understanding.

“Virgil is like family, you see,” Logan said. “I’ve known him for years, so when I accept that I need rest in order to help him, it is not me giving up on him. I am not standing by while he is back there. I am simply doing what is in my power to get him back. As long as I am healthy, I will be at my full power to figure out a solution to get him back. Do you understand?”

Logan said this like it was a challenge, like he was daring Roman to argue with him on this, and Roman realized that he had given Logan the wrong idea completely.

“Of course!” he said, eyes wide. “That’s not what I meant. I just meant I needed to do this. Of course you’re helping Virgil. Of course you deserve rest.”

Logan folded his hands on the table, leaned forward to look Roman dead in the eyes. “Then why not you, Roman?”

Roman’s heart rate picked up. He leaned back, eyes darting around as he suddenly wanted nothing more than to avoid eye contact. “I just need to keep going. It’s different.”

“Why is it different?” Logan asked. “Why do you need to keep going? Why do you need to push yourself and hurt yourself to try to help Virgil?”

Roman frowned, eyes going back to Logan. “I’m not hurting myself.”

“You are,” Logan said. Roman’s hands turned into fists, but not from anger. From confusion. From something a little too close to vulnerability.

His voice went lower. Roman’s eyes bored into the table. “It’s just different.”

“Different how?”

His hand drifted above the inscription, but he didn’t touch it. Roman couldn’t bring himself to. He was unworthy.

“I’m the reason,” he said. He was greeted with silence, but he couldn’t look up. Couldn’t look Logan in the eye. Roman and Patton had already told Logan the full story. He knew it was Roman’s fault this had all happened, but Logan hadn’t actually said anything to the prince about it yet. Patton had forgiven him, but Patton had always been too nice for his own good. Logan surely wouldn’t be so forgiving. “Why should I get to rest when every second he’s there, anything that witch is doing to him, it’s all my fault?”

“You… feel responsible,” Logan said, as if it was only now that it had occurred to him.

“Of course I feel responsible. I made that deal,” he said.

“The deal that she pretty much forced you to make,” Logan said. “That deal?”

“I still made the deal , Logan,” Roman said, imploring the man to understand. Logan was smart. He should get this. “I knew someone would suffer for it. I knew someone I would come to care for would suffer for it.”

Logan squinted at him, one moment confused and another looking older beyond his years. He seemed both weary and wary as he examined Roman, and the prince shifted in place at the attention.

“What?” he finally asked.

“How do you shoulder the weight of a country while so prone to guilt on things out of your control?”

“I’m sorry ?” Roman asked, aghast.

Logan shook his head, resting it on his hands where he’d propped them up on the table. “I’m sorry,” he said in return. “I just mean, you must have had to make tough decisions before. Nothing is cut and dry in politics.”

“I-” Roman’s eyes shifted around again, refusing to make contact as he came up with an answer. “I mean, yeah . Doesn’t mean I’m not responsible for those either.”

“You’re responsible for the well-being of your nation, but all decisions have unforeseeable outcomes. Surely you cannot carry guilt for each and every one.”

Roman frowned, unsure if he should be taking offense. “Why shouldn’t I? Are you saying I don’t care about my people?”

But Logan shook his head. “That is simply not in question here. You can care for your people while maintaining a healthy understanding for things that are in and out of your control.”

“But those decisions were in my control,” Roman said.

“And how are you to predict every repercussion?” Logan asked. “The best strategist in the world couldn’t predict every outcome. While decisions are in your control, repercussions often are not."

"So what? Am I just supposed to throw the hat in? Eh, didn't realize my actions would have consequences so I might as well just ignore it."

"No, Roman." Roman stopped when Logan's voice came out firm, curt. "Of course you try to fix it, but you do not punish yourself either. You let yourself eat. You let yourself sleep. You forgive yourself for a bad or wrong decision, or you recognize that a witch manipulated you into making it . That decision wasn't even your own, Roman! Yes, in the end you made it, but you had a figurative sword to your throat!"

For a moment all Roman could do was stare. He had never seen Logan talk so passionately before. He'd never seen so many emotions on the man. He was kind of in awe.

Then Logan took in a deep breath. He straightened himself, but the tension in his voice did not fade. "The only one here to blame is that witch. She took Virgil. She hurt him enough that when he ran away he wouldn't leave Patton's house for two months out of fear she'd find him and cast layers of wards for years following. She took your brother, and from what you've told me, hurt him beyond imagine. She took that other boy who has been with her this whole time, and I do not want to think of the pain she must have inflicted on him. You are not at fault for any of this. She is."

"I- I-" Roman stuttered, not quite sure what he wanted to say. What he could say.

He still felt terrible. He still felt a crushing guilt inside, ready to tear in with its claws and teeth any time he was ready to think too hard on it. But everything Logan said made sense. There was nothing Roman could say to refute it.

So all he could say was, "...okay."

Logan looked him deep in the eyes, and Roman felt seen like he'd never been seen before. Not by people who had seen him in the streets, everything he was and everything he owned laid before them. Not in front of the millions in their kingdom on his coronation day, feeling inadequate but ready–ready to take on this duty, ready to serve his people.

Logan looked at him now, and Roman knew he could see every thought. He knew Roman still hurt. He knew Roman couldn't quite shake it all off, and Logan knew that Roman believed him too.

It was the witch's fault. Roman believed that. But there was a tiny part of his mind that wouldn't stop insisting it was his fault too.

But Roman also couldn't find flaw in this logic. Logan could see that too.

Logan nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "Bed then?"

Roman blinked, startled by the sudden shift in attitude and priority. He looked back to the book, to the inscription.

"It will still be here tomorrow," Logan reminded him. "And you'll be literate enough to read it too."

Roman threw him a scowl. "I'm literate!"

"Not at this time of night," Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. He had gone back to that emotionless facade, but now that Roman had seen more emotion from Logan than ever before, he could pick up on more now. Logan was joking, a mirth hidden in his eyes.

Roman cracked a smile. "Fine. I concede."

"Good. The guest bedroom is this way," Logan waved to the hallway that branched off from the living room. Roman blinked.

"I can go back to Patton's," he offered.

Logan just rolled his eyes. "It's late, Roman. Take the bed."

"Okay," he said and got up. They walked together, and he stopped at the door Logan gestured to. He stood at it for a moment, watching as Logan continued on down the hall. As the man reached for the handle for the next door down, Roman called, "Um, thank you."

Logan looked up, then nodded. "Goodnight, my prince."

When Logan closed the door behind him, Roman was left alone in the hall, realizing Logan, who had never called him by his name at the park construction site, had used it their entire conversation.

"Huh," he said before turning to his own room.

He was faced again with the realization that these years of isolation had cost him some potentially great friends.

Roman hoped he could amend that.

-/-

Remus looked around when he awoke in his dream. It felt a lot more familiar than the last one. In this one he felt like himself. But not himself himself. A different self.

This self wasn't from too long ago, but it was still definitely a different Remus. He felt a whole lot more awake. Funny, as he was actually asleep right now.

"Wait wait wait," a familiar voice reached him from around the corner. "You said brother?"

Remus knew him. How come he knew him? Dang, not another memory. It was so close. So so close.

"Okay so-"

He felt his feet walk as if of their own accord. He turned the corner, and there they were. The purple one–what was his name?–and his brother. Remus always knew his brother. Roman.

"It is you," he said, but the words weren't his. They were the other Remus'. He said it, and dreaming Remus didn't know what it meant.

He remembered this vaguely, but it was all so fuzzy.

"Wait, do you know each other?"

" Remus ? What- How-"

Remus knew this one. It wasn't too long ago he'd seen this- lived this- what was it? What was happening?

"It's too late," other Remus mumbled, the words so familiar in his mouth. "It was a trap."

“A trap? What do you mean? A trap for who? Who’s trapping?”

“Remus, what the fuck? How are you here? How did you get away?”

Remus heard the words, he heard the voices, but he couldn't focus on where they were coming from. Who was this? Remus knew this man.

“Get away?”  

“What about Dee?”

“Dee…”  

It wasn't Remus who had spoken, but he perked up at the name. He knew Dee. He remembered Dee.

“It’s too late,” he said instead, ignoring the wonderful name. “Of course it was you.”

Then, the room erupted into chaos.

Remus jolted awake. His head hit the floor and he was left staring at the ceiling.

He didn't recognize this ceiling.

Slowly, he sat up. He looked around, taking in shelves, books, a cart pushed into a corner.

What was he doing in a library?

-/-

When Roman blinked awake, the light leaking through the curtains was strong. He sat bolt upright, blinking away his disorientation and pulling the curtains back. Sure enough, the sun was high in the sky, almost midday already. With a strong intake of breath, Roman leapt out of bed and stumbled his way to the guest room door.

He limped out towards the living room, fighting to keep the emerging guilt at bay. He and Logan had just talked about that last night–could he not keep it together for two minutes? Roman shook his head, stopping in the hallway to recuperate before revealing his rumpled form.

There were low voices coming from the living room, a small laugh and the shuffle of papers. When he finally turned the corner, he caught sight of both Patton and Logan, already scouring over books pulled from Logan’s shelves.

Patton was the first to catch sight of him, and he smiled. “Roman! Good morning!”

“More like afternoon,” Roman said, approaching. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

“We thought you could use the sleep,” Patton shrugged, picking up another volume and flipping through it. “Besides, I went to bed a whole lot earlier than you two. I figured I’d get a headstart.”

Roman turned to Logan, trying to keep the frown off his face. “How long have you been up then?”

Logan straightened, adjusting his glasses. “I work on a very strict circadian rhythm. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep more in any case.”

At this Roman did frown. He wasn’t an idiot; he could tell when someone was keeping things from him. But he could let it go. Whatever time Logan got up–it wasn’t a big deal. Just more time he’d been spending looking for Virgil. A responsibility that should have rested with Roman.

Roman pushed that thought back. That wasn’t right; he had to remember that. He wasn’t responsible for this. Roman wasn’t the guilty party. He wasn’t.

He repeated it like a mantra in his head.

He wasn’t the guilty party. He wasn’t. He wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t.

But he was going to make this right.

“Okay,” he nodded, sitting down at the coffee table again, fingers digging into the carpet. “Well, I’m fully rested now. Let’s do this.”

“Want some breakfast, kiddo?” Patton asked, already standing up. “Logan and I already had coffee, but nothing else really. I think I might make eggs for everyone.”

Suddenly, Roman was torn. He looked at the books, could see the one from last night at the corner of the table, the one with the inscription, then he looked back. He bit his lip. “Can I help with breakfast, Pat?”

Patton laughed, and it wasn’t his normal polite chuckle. It was something amused. He found something Roman did funny.

“I can see how you’re eyeing up those books. No sweat; I’ve got this. You might want to change into something that’s not a day-old though,” Patton said. Roman looked down at himself. He’d been borrowing clothes from Patton for the past few days, but he wasn't at Patton’s anymore.

“Follow me, Roman,” Logan stood, placing the volume he’d been perusing to the side. “We can find something that will work from my things.”

The morning continued in this domestic sort of haze. At Patton’s house it had been cozy–warm and welcoming–yet there was something so different in Logan’s. Before Roman had always been busy, on his feet, trying to do what needed to be done always.

And that was how it had been at the palace too, hadn’t it? And before–in his old village, on the move to find Remus. Roman had never slowed down. He was always on the go, always looking for ways to do better.

Roman had… never had something like this.

Slow. Comfortable.

The house was warm. The living room was well-lived in–the shelves riddled in books, candles, pictures; the coffee table had a coffee ring seared into its wooden surface; there was a blanket thrown over the back of the couch.

When Patton–lovely, lovely Patton–brought him coffee, it was in a mug labeled “#1 Architect.” The drink tasted slightly bitter–nothing like the palace’s coffee–but somehow, it was the best he’d ever had. So much so that Roman took a moment to simply revel in it, sit back on the couch and forget about the books, about everything else, and close his eyes to the taste.

He could hear singing in the kitchen. Patton had a lovely voice, and it was lower than he would have thought. There was another that joined it, however. He could barely hear it–wouldn’t have if he hadn’t taken this moment, just listened–but it was Logan’s. Through Patton’s slightly louder notes and the clings of utensils and bowls, Logan sang as well.

And throughout the day, that warmth never left. They flipped through books, but the tension from yesterday and all the days past had left. Patton said it was like a study group, but Roman didn’t really know anything about those. He’d started school when he’d arrived at the palace, and his tutoring was always one-on-one.

What he learned though, was that ‘study group’ was sitting around together, talking through different books, asking questions, joking to keep the air light and motivation up. It was passing around food, telling each other to take a break, leaning over to laugh at a funny picture or read over each others’ shoulders.

It wasn’t like that every day. Some days were somber, confronted with the low likelihood of finding what they needed, of finding anything. Some days Patton and Logan had to go to work, leaving Roman alone to his thoughts and pages. Some days Roman couldn’t move past his guilt, couldn’t think of anything but reading the night away because surely he had to be close. It had to be the next page, the next book.

They had to be close to the truth.

But who knew if the truth would help Virgil at all?

This was barely a lead, barely anything. It was a stray note Virgil had left on his desk that had loads of other incomprehensible items and a vague title, alluding something to his brother. They could find the book and not even know it was it. They could have past it already, dismissing it as nothing relevant. Or Virgil could have found a book he thought Dee might like, and it truly wasn’t anything at all to their search.

They could be going in circles. And they’d been searching for weeks.

Roman had scoured the pages of the book Virgil had given Logan to no avail. At night when they had all decided to retire until morning, he would bring the book to bed with him and read the story. He would try to see Virgil in it, try to pick out why Virgil had taken a liking to it in particular. Maybe it was sentimentality for him too, just like Logan.

He couldn’t tell. But Roman had to know.

One particular day, Roman picked up a book he had been dreading. It was a simple history text, dating back to the kingdom’s creation two centuries ago. It looked much like the ones the castle kept on hand–like the ones Roman had been forced to absorb in a week in his rapid tutoring. Reading two centuries worth of history in dense text had possibly been the worst part of his preparations to become prince–especially as he had still been learning to read at the time.

The thought made him dizzy. He frowned, looking up from the volume and realized his head was rushing, his vision spotting in places. He held to the couch and blinked. For a moment, he felt really sick–head light and stomach heavy and halfway between the floor and the toilet as his next destination.

Then it was gone.

Roman blinked again. No spots.

He frowned down at the book. “Maybe I have been overworking…” he mumbled.

He shook himself and sighed. No use resting now.

With a sigh Roman pulled it open, looking first to the table of contents. Perhaps he could start somewhere entertaining.

Two and a half hours later and Roman was ready to stab himself in each eye with a rusty fork. Logan and Patton walked in from work, looking weary, and he took the wonderful opportunity to take a break.

“You’re home!” he cheered. “Welcome back! And how was work?”

“Shelby is still trying to schedule a meeting with you through the castle,” Logan said, hanging up his bag.

Roman slowed as they approached him, sagging a bit where he sat. “Oh.”

“You really should check in with the palace soon, Ro,” Patton said casually. They’d had this conversation enough times where it wasn’t a big deal. Still, every time it made Roman feel like he was swallowing rocks.

“I will,” he promised, not for the first time. After we get Virgil back , his mind insisted, but he thought again of his brother, his people.

You’re letting down everyone.

“What are you reading?” Logan asked, walking closer to take a peek. Roman looked back at the book, feeling a tiny bit relieved to change the subject.

“This boring history book,” Roman lamented, sagging back into the sofa. “Do we even know Virgil borrowed this one? I can’t imagine anyone actually choosing to read it.”

Logan looked over the volume then nodded his head. “He definitely read that one. Actually, that was a more recent read. He was fascinated by its candor on the history of magic within the kingdom.”

“Magic?” Roman asked, brow furrowing. He hadn’t come across anything about magic.

“Yes. Where are you? Oh, you seem to have a couple more decades until it gets into that. You may want to skip ahead–this war is rather trifling,” Logan said, pointing to the page. Roman agreed. The war was really kind of stupid.

Roman leaned forward again, grabbing the book. He flipped forward, past the war–a three month endeavor–into reconstruction of the eastern lands and amendment of trade policies. He almost sighed again. Out of the fire and into another fire.

“Here.” Logan took the book and flipped forward himself, skipping a rather large chunk in the middle. Roman looked on, baffled and altogether so so grateful for this man. When Logan got where he wanted, he handed it back.

“This is where you will want to start. Magic wasn’t thought of as out of the ordinary until about fifty years ago. It became ostracized as a result of a dispute with Ilmita, whose population has a significantly higher proportion of sorcerers. Sorcerer eventually became synonymous with Ilmitian. Our people became more and more prejudiced against Ilmitians during the dispute, and being a sorcerer became rather taboo in our kingdom.”

“Taboo?” Roman asked, now intrigued. This was a part of their history he’d never learned about. He remembered the dispute with Ilmita, but none of that lesson had covered it relating to magic. “Magic is outlawed. I wouldn’t say that’s just taboo.”

Logan sat down next to him, flipping again through the pages of the book. “At first it was just taboo. Sorcerers were treated horribly in the kingdom. They couldn’t get jobs or housing. They were physically driven out of certain towns. Many chose to hide who they were even when it was legal.” When he came to rest on one page, he jabbed a finger at it as if to illustrate a point. Roman couldn’t make out what was so important about the page though. It was just another wall of text.

“Tensions heightened throughout the years, but it was here,” Logan pointed at the book again, a year, “Nineteen years ago when they banned all magic from the kingdom. After what happened to the prince, the unease in the kingdom finally came to a breaking point. The king and queen instated the new law: magic was illegal by penalty of death. Many fled to Ilmita. Many hid their powers. Many were sent to prison and executed.”

Roman sat still, eyes wide on the book before them. How had he never known any of this before? How could they have kept this from him? That was so awful. Those were their citizens–uprooted from their homes, forced to live as someone they weren’t, without a vital part of themselves. So many of his citizens, put to death for this.

“What happened to the prince?” Roman finally asked.

Everyone knew about the prince. He had only been a baby when he’d died. It was a tragedy that no one spoke of in the palace.

But Roman didn’t know anything about it. That baby was technically his adopted brother, and Roman knew nothing of him.

Logan flipped another page, and on this one they were faced with a portrait. It was the same one from the office Remus had taken him to that one time. Roman had barely gotten a good look at it.

“It is said that a sorcerer broke into the castle one night, went straight to the prince’s room,” Logan said. Something lodged in Roman’s throat suddenly. As curious as he was, he suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear. But then Logan said something Roman hadn’t been expecting at all. “The sorcerer fled with the prince, stole him. All the queen knew about the kidnapper is that they had magic.”

“Wait,” Roman stopped, looking away from the portrait to Logan. “What? You’re saying the baby was still alive?”

Logan furrowed his brow. “Yes, of course. The young prince was kidnapped.”

“I thought he’d died,” Roman blurted out. “You’re telling me he could be alive out there somewhere?”

“Of course,” Logan said. “Did they not tell you this? I assumed as the new prince…”

“No,” Roman said, shaking his head. He looked down at the picture. “They didn’t tell me any of this.”

As Logan’s finger moved away from the book, Roman caught sight of a caption below the portrait. He pulled the book closer to him, moving to read it.

“King Xavier, Queen Yolanda, and Prince Janus,” he read off. Roman knew those names. He said them practically daily–he had never called the king or queen “mother and father” or “mom and dad” or anything close to casual. They were the king and queen, and perhaps they were his parents, perhaps they had taken him in, treated him well, smiled warmly on him and spent holidays with him, but Roman had never taken to calling them anything else.

What stood out was the prince’s name, so rarely seen, even rarer spoken within the palace walls. The little baby, stolen in the night. His birthmark would make him obvious to anyone who saw him, even grown up.

Roman shook the thought from his head. His long lost… “brother” could wait.

“He was interested in the history of magic in this book,” Roman said. “Could this have to do with what Virgil was looking for?”

“I don’t know, Roman,” Logan said, sighing, His shoulders slumped minutely, but Roman could spot a change in his demeanor far better throughout the weeks they’d been working on this. “It could be. The facts of the matter are we don’t have enough information to go off of.”

Roman looked back to the portrait, dejected. He supposed Logan was right.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were close to something here though. Like they were barely missing it.

Prince Janus’ eyes were green, barely peeking up above the blanket he was swaddled in. He must have been old enough for his eye color to come in. How old was he when he’d been taken? What had the sorcerer done to him? What did they want with him?

Barely missing something…

Just then, however, Roman was stirred from his thoughts by the sound of a knock. Both he and Logan looked up. Patton emerged from the kitchen to stare as well, them all frozen in place.

Roman was careful to keep his voice low as he asked, “Are you expecting anyone?”

In his periphery he saw Logan shake his head. He heard him swallow thickly before he responded, voice unsettled.

“No.”

-/-

When Remus awoke in yet another dream, he wasn’t in a foriegn body, nor was he in a different self. This time Remus felt unbound, invisible to the mortal eye, broken from his reality.

Remus was used to feeling apart from reality. He never quite got what was going on around him, and there was always something he was trying to remember, always something just out of reach. He never felt like he belonged. Not in the streets he’d grown up in. Not in the caves where they’d said he’d had a home. Not in this new place where the window was his only friend and his brother covered his beautiful green colors when they said hello.

In this dream Remus was no one else, but he also wasn’t himself. He was above it all. An all-seeing eye. He stretched out an arm and it passed through the table to his right. He swung his leg and it didn’t stir the air.

He couldn’t do anything – even now that he had control of his body in one of these dreams. It seemed a bit unfair.

But he’d always just been an observer here.

“You can put it over there,” a voice resounded throughout the room. At first, there was no one there. Remus scanned the small space once, twice, but on his third go something suddenly shifted. It was like another reality had flipped into this one – like the pages of a book. A figure now stood in the middle of the room, bent over one of the tables and straightening a stack of papers.

Remus knew him. He squinted, hard, trying to piece him into the right memory. The man turned to place the stack on one of the many shelves that surrounded the room, all piled high in papers and vouchers and binders. Along the opposite wall were tables with pens and paper and random assortments of books. There was an empty cart in the corner. It was cramped, but organized – like some sort of office space.

“Here?” another voice asked, hidden away towards the back of the room. The original man looked back, a small smile gracing his features as he did so.

The man nodded. “Yeah, that’s good, Ro.” He went back to his organization, and after a moment, the man who was hidden emerged. Remus perked up when he saw him, realizing he’d known that voice – realizing where he knew this other man too. He was there last time with him and Roman, in that library.

He still couldn’t put a name to him, but Remus knew him.

Roman walked to stand at the other side of the table, taking the other man in with a lopsided smile. He pulled a chair over and sat down, placing his head in his hands and continued looking, stars in his eyes. “Hey,” he said, voice dripping with fondness.

The other man looked, a blush immediately coloring his face when he saw Roman. His eyes jolted back down to the papers, and he coughed behind a hand. “Hey,” he replied, and Remus could hear it in his voice that he was trying to sound casual.

Roman blinked, probably picking up on the man’s tone too. He looked down, a deep red covering his face as well, and pulled over a pen to fidget with. Slowly, suddenly replicating the other’s voice, he tried for casual too. “How are you?”

The man bit his lip and quicked a glance back to Roman. As his eyes fell again on the papers, he pushed them aside and picked up a pile of vouchers, thumbing through and every now and again, flipping one in the stack. “Alright,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “You?”

“Doing good, doing good,” Roman said conversationally, nodding.

The man lifted his head, for a second looking as though he wanted to say something. His eyes raked over Roman, brow furrowing minutely, but in the next second it was gone. He shook his head and went back to work. “That’s good.”

Roman looked up, and, feeling his gaze, the other man did too. For a moment they just looked at one another, eyes saying more than Remus could follow. They both smiled, barely the tilt of lips, but warm, something more.

Remus felt like he was barging in on something that wasn’t for him.

And with that thought, the scene turned to black. As it faded away, Remus felt the familiar jolt that signaled he had woken up somewhere new.

With a sigh he sat up to face the strange office room. He clenched his fist and thought of his room.

When he felt the plush feel of a comforter beneath him, Remus fell back against the bed, not even giving the teleportation a second thought before he drifted back to sleep.

-/-

Roman’s thoughts were on the sword in the guest bedroom. Could he get there in time? Should he leave these two in the main room by themselves?

“I can’t tell who it is,” Patton whispered, barely moving aside the curtain at the window. Roman stood suddenly.

“Pat, get back,” he hissed. Patton dropped the curtain and backed away.

“Everyone, calm down,” Logan said, voice level, but still low. “It’s probably nothing. I will answer the door, but Roman,” Logan turned to him, “You have to stay out of sight. No one knows you’re here.”

“It could be dangerous,” Roman said, grabbing Logan’s arm when he moved away. “Who the heck would be visiting at this time of night?”

“It’s not that late,” Logan said. “It’s only ten. I’m sure whoever it is has a good reason for showing up a bit later.” He pulled his arm from Roman’s grip and moved again around the couch. Roman moved to try to stop him, but Logan was light on his feet, at the door in no time.

“Lo-” Roman hissed, trying in vain to stop him, but Logan was already reaching for the knob. “Fuck,” he said under his breath, finally doing as Logan asked and ducking behind the couch.

Please be a civilian. Please be a civilian. Please-

A noise escaped Patton. Roman’s feet felt filled with springs, ready to jump at a hair’s breadth. He could see Patton around the corner of the couch, but he didn’t look alarmed.

Just… confused.

“Roman, you can come out,” Logan said. Now Roman was confused too.

Slowly, he stood up, his eyes immediately on the door. Logan stepped back.

And there was no one there.

[alonelytinywriter]

Bright Shadows

Yandere! Present Mic / Yandere! Eraserhead / Original Female Character 

Playlist ~ War of Hears (Acoustic Version) - Ruelle

Name: Izuku Nezuko ~ Birthday: October 28th ~ Age: 24 ~ Hair Color: White ~ Eye Color: Red ~ Gender: Female ~ Height: 4′8′’ ~ Quirk: Shadow Walking

Appearance: Nesuko is a short girl with a noticeably lithe, light figure. She is an albino, with snow-white hair, pale skin, and red eyes: even her eyebrows and lashes are white, though she commonly has her lashes darkened at the local Salon near her home in Tokyo. Her hair is extremely long, and reaches down to her knees at the beginning of the story, but she chops most of it off later on.  Her most noticeable feature is her prosthetic left leg, which has a large lace sleeve design etched into the material in red. ~ Nezuko’s casual outfits typically consist of sweatpants or leggings, and loose, comfortable tops. As a ballet dancer Nesuko is forced into uncomfortable clothing and she wants to be able to relax off stage, although she is not apposed to wearing a kimono.

Quirk: Shadow Control ~ Nesuko’s Quirk gives her full control of the shadows around, allowing her to use it for travel, attack, defense, and concealment. Her Quirk, however, is limited to the fact that in brightly, well lite places make the use of her Quirk difficult. Her ability to change her Quirks’ focus at a moments notice, allowing her to change the ability of her Quirk she uses, made her a choice candidate for Hero work, but after  the loss of her leg she quit that line of work and turned her attention to ballet instead.  ~ Power - 3/5 ~ Speed - 6/5 S ~ Technique - 6/5 S ~ Intelligence - 4/5 ~ Cooperativeness - 5/5

Random Notes ~ Originally, Nezuko’s name was going to be Mia, but I had about five different OFC’s knocking about in my head and all their names started with M, so I had to change it . . . to N . . . because that’s original. Also, it should be noted that the accident that caused Nezuko to loose her leg, and therefore stop attending a Hero program, would have been something to do with the Hero program. There would probably be a pretty dramatic backstory behind it, something that has to do with life or death, but I’ve not focused on that too much.

~Bright Shadows~ 

~ Nezuko and her fiance Hadao arrive in Musutafu, where their wedding is meant to be held in only a few days. They both visit Midoriya’s mother and upon learning that her little cousin not only enrolled, but was accepted to U.A. High School, she becomes thrilled, if not a little confused - how could her Quirk-less cousin become a hero? This is great though! He’s getting to live out his dreams! - and she decided that she wants to see him before the wedding, to invite him personally.

~ Nezuko travels to U.A., hoping to catch Midoriya before he begins home, and instead runs into Hero’s Present Mic and Eraserhead outside the academy entrance. They are just about to interrogate her - as in who she is exactly, and what she’s doing there - when Midoriya comes out of nowhere. Holy SHIT when did that kid get so fucking FAST? In his excitement, Midoriya accidentally mangles the knee join in Nezuko’s prosthetic leg, sending them both crashing to the ground.

~ “Midoriya! You have GOT to be KIDDING ME!” “I’m sorry! I”m sorry! I’m so sorry, Koko.” “Great Buddha Midoriya, I can’t even WALK now!” “I”M SORRY. OH my GOD, I’m so SORRY!” “Stop trying to TOUCH IT!” “CRAZY OLD HAG, I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP!”  I’m pretty sure you’ll know who is who.

~ It’s fine. Everyone knows that U.A. has Mia, and Mia can work on anything, and anything Mia works on, Mia fixes. And the fact that Nezuko has a pass card to enter the school . . . and knows Mia already . . . well, that’s fine. Totally, fine . . . right? It’s not until their already in the school, Midoriya and Bakugou helping Nezuko hobble along, that it suddenly dawns on the two hero’s in the group that the alarms never went off, and Nezuko seems familiar with the layout of the school already. As it turns out, she was a student, years ago, but after the accident which cost her her leg and her best friend, Nezuko transferred to a non-Hero academy. “I joined a ballet company only a few years after transferring. Turns out I’m really good at dance, I just never knew because I was so focused on becoming a Hero.” 

~ The Hero’s are fascinated and silently decide to stay along with the students as Nezuko waits for Mia to fix the knee of her prosthetic leg, perched atop a work table, her left leg ending just a few inches above her knees. The scar is smooth, a simple X, nearly hidden beneath the ink tattooed into her skin in a rich red that matches the lace design etched into the ceramic leg. Everyone is fascinated by her appearance, what had happened to her, where she had danced and what she typically danced too, and Nezuko chats away easily, flashing smiles and laughing madly. She and Midoriya exchange private jokes often and it’s revealed that she’s Midoriya’s cousin, one who had moved away years ago. The wedding is mentioned and in Midoriya’s exited, he inadvertently invites not only himself - which Nezuko didn’t mind at all - but also his teachers and classmates as well - which only bothered Nezuko the tiiiiinest, not that she would tell him that, with him smiling so wide and just so damn excited about her upcoming marriage.

~ The morning of the wedding comes and with it comes a mass text sent by Nezuko to, as far as anyone can tell, every attendee of the wedding: The wedding has been canceled. Please don’t try to come to the temple. I’m sorry. Of course, the chat absolutely blows up but for the next 10 hours but Nezuko doesn’t make a single entry to the speculation, accusations, words of worry, and any of the other hundreds of messages people continued to send throughout the day. 

~ That night Midoriya and the other students of class 1-A are sitting in the common room of their dormitory, speaking at length about their day of classes with Eraserhead and Present Mic, when suddenly Mineta starts screaming about ghosts, pointing  at the wall behind everyone, and they turn to see someone materializing in the shadows. Everyone goes on the defensive, but a moment later Midoriya is screaming for everyone to calm down. The shadows condense and Nezuko steps out of the darkness, clad in her white wedding kimono, her hair and makeup done - although her makeup is more than a little smudged - and absolutely bawling. She’s absolutely plastered, and shes babbling about not being able to find her hotel and how she kept getting lost, and makes more than one awful joke about walking into the wrong place at the wrong time, until she begins to sob so hard she can no longer be understood. 

~ Everyone looks at Midoriya, expecting him to know what to do, but he’s completely in shock. Growing up, she was the one who would go after Bakugou whenever he was bulling Midoriya. She was the one who could fall from a tree and jump up laughing. She never cried. Not when her cat died when she was in the eighth grade, or when her mother passed away two years later, or when she lost her leg and was forced from the Hero program. But now she looked . . . broken. 

~ The most he can think to do is get her to one of the couches so shes not collapsed on the floor. Pretty soon everyone starts coming forward with small items they think will help her. Mineta brings her a bucket, saying that every time his Aunt drinks, she’s sick. Yuga not only mentions, but prepares warm tea, saying that it will help sooth her stomach. Uraraka and Asui appear from nowhere, small towels in hand. “Their cold . . . they’ll help.” Asui doesn’t explain further, but Midorya doesn’t think to ask questions. 

~ And the question is finally asked: ”Nezuko . . . what happened?” 

~ It doesn’t take long for the story to unfold once Nezuko begins talking. It’s like she’d been holding it in all day and she was finally allowing herself to admit to what had happened. She arrived to the temple at dawn, as she was supposed to do, and it wasn’t until she had already prepared and dressed for the wedding that she learned that Hadao had yet to arrive. When she called it went the first mail the first time . . . and then the second, and the third, and the fourth . . . He didn’t answer until she had called so many times she was certain it would take her weeks to clear the calls from her phone. 

~ “He answers and acts like I - I can’t hear the woman talking in the background! Like she isn’t laughing, plain as day! And he doesn’t even act concerned when I bring up the fact he should have been at - at - at the temple over an hour before. He just said ‘Oh, that was today?’. He can’t stand me. He told me - he told me that the sight of me is disgusting. And that - that for the past year he’s - he’s - he’s been sleeping with my understudy!” 

~ Everyone finds it difficult to understand Nesuko after this story unfolds, as she sobs uncontrollably, but one sentence stands out, as she begins to repeat it over and over again. 

~ “What did I do wrong?”

~ The sound of her voice begins to rise, despite the fact she doesn’t appear to be yelling. Her emotions are beginning to carry so strongly that her Quirk is acting erratically. Shadows begin to draw in around her, then fade entirely, shrouding her in darkness before sending it spiraling away like smoke. Her skin begins to darken and Midoriya panics. 

~ He had heard Nezuko’s mother and father speaking with his parents when they were much younger. He had been trying to sneak into the kitchen to snag a couple of cookies for the two of them, but something his Uncle had said stopped him in his tracks.

~ “It’s lucky that she didn’t kill herself, or anyone else for that matter. I’ve never seen anything like it. The fireworks started going of and her Quirk - it - it exploded. I don’t know how else to explain it. It exploded, Inko. Everyone near her was thrown back and it was like . . . it was like the shadows were trying to take her. Like she was going to disappear into them.”

~ Midoriya never did get the cookies that day. 

~ In the end, it’s Eraserhead who steps in. He just walks up to her and sort of scoops her up before rocking her back and forth in his arms, almost like she was a baby, shushing her all the while. And it works. In minutes Nezuko is nearly silent, sniffling as she falls asleep in his arms. She needs to sleep this off, everyone knew, and no one questioned the Hero’s as they wandered away, a nearly unconscious Nezuko still held in Shouta’s arms. 

~ The students wouldn’t realize this but Shouta and Hizashi help Nezuko strip from her wedding kimono, helping her shrug from layer after layer of heavy silk and lace. She’s completely blasted at this point, barely speaking, and she doesn’t seem to understand who the two Hero’s are, not that they would complain. Instead they allow her to cling to them, shushing her delicately, smoothing their hands across her back and sides as they speak lowly between themselves.

~ “She’s beautiful.” “Like a doll. Why would that idiot -” “Shhhh, you’ll upset her.” . . . “He’s an idiot.” “Yeah, he is. But we won’t let her go, will we, ‘Zashi?” “Of course not. How could we let our Darling go?” 

~ They dress her in one of Hazhish's t-shirts, one that smelled heavily of the hero - even if it might have looked a bit to formal to be a sleeper - and a pair of Shouta’s boxers, and after stroking their hands across her soft - so soft - skin, they leave her in the nearest guest room to the commons, a glass of water and aspirin on the side table. Just as they shut the door behind them they say her sigh and roll over, her hands clenching at the air for a moment before she settled into a more peaceful kind of rest. 

~ The next morning dawns bright and early, a low mist hanging along the ground, and Nezuko has no idea where she’s at when she wakes up in a too large bed, her wedding kimono gone and replaced by an extra large t-shirt that smells of bourbon and hairspray. She’s nearly on her way to a full blown panic attack, the memories of the previous day muddled by her drink, when she stumbles from the room and finds herself staring down a brightly lit hallway that leads to . . . a living room? Or maybe a kitchen? There was a thought tickling at the back of her memory, one she knew would explain her surroundings. It evaded her, however, and she walked forward rather than focus on the lost memory. The the large windows spanning the length of one window show U.A. looming in the background, and Nezuko breaths a sigh of relief. The dormitories. Of course.

~ A clock near the kitchen entryway shows that’s it’s early, much to early for the students to have already awoken and Nezuko decided to cook, something to keep her hands, and mind, busy. By the time the first of the students begin to awake the smell of food is wafting through the dorm halls. Nezuko is found by Hizashi - barely awake and almost 100% scruffy - and Shouta. She’s ‘borrowed’ one of the students music players, and she’s dancing around the kitchen to the beat of the song that plays through her headphones, eggs being whisked thoroughly before she moved to pour more into the pan before her. On the table sits a spread of steamed rice, tamagoyaki, sliced watermelon and cucumber, and toast topped with bacon, lettuce, and small cherry tomatoes on the side. 

~ You better believed that Nezuko dropped the bowl, wasting what eggs she had left, when she turns and finds the two Hero’s standing behind the island counters, watching her move with wide, dazzled eyes. And her scream brings every single student of class 1-A running into the commons. 

~ “It’s fine. It’s fine, Midorya. I just didn’t know anyone was awake yet.” “We weren’t even doing anything! We were just standing there!” “I know, I just didn’t know you where there.” “It’s not her fault you two old geezers decided to sneak up on her!” “Okay, no, calm down -” “There so much food . . .” “Holy crap, is all that for US?” “No, stop Bakugou - yeah, it’s for you - because their your teachers, that’s why you little jerk.” 

~ While the students all begin to dig into the breakfast before them, Nezuko begins to muse out loud about what she would do next. There might have been more than a bit that she couldn’t remember - how exactly she’d gotten to bed was still a mystery - but she could remember the conversation with her ex quite vividly, and the one that followed - the one where she drunkenly called her ballet company, explained how Siesa, her understudy, was a dirty husband stealing whore . . . and then she’d quit. 

~ The comments start as a joke, the kids telling Nezuko that her cooking is so good she could give Lunch Rush a run for his money. Midoriya feeds into the hype, claiming: “She learned how to cook when we where kids. She used to make all the deserts for every family get-together, and every time she brought something different. It was great.” Bakugou even goes so far as to admit that, “Her cheesecake is really good. Fluffy, and really creamy.”

~ Of course the other students beg Nezuko to bring them each a different dessert, and Nezuko jokingly agrees, but Mina mentions that there’s never anywhere for the students to eat on campus, but for Lunch Rush, and he’s only available during school hours . . .the knowledge stuck with Nezuko, knocking around in her head for weeks. 

~ During these weeks she moves in with Midoriya’s mother and works at restarting her life after her failed wedding.  She learns of a cafe/studio apartment located on the U.A. campus, a building that was abandoned due to a main waterline break and after only one visit she falls in love and immediately begins to work towards taking ownership. Only a month later she’s moved into the building, and gutted the water damaged first floor. Within two she’s rebuilt and standing outside the doors of the cafe - named The Garden - welcoming students in for the grand opening. 

~ No one is really sure, but some time during these two months Nezuko cut her hair. No one seemed to notice for ages (Present Mic was the first to take note and he was horrified to see that her hair, which had hung well to her knees, had been lopped off so the tips brushed her shoulders) but once it was, Nezuko merely stated that, “It was too damn long.” 

~ The Garden ends up being the main spot for students who don’t want to cook their breakfast or late-time snacks. Even the teachers come here sometimes, especially ones who live on campus with the students, as Dorm monitors and the Principle. 

~ During the next few months Eraserhead and Present Mic become a nearly constant presents at the cafe. If one isn’t there after school hours then the other typically is, and more often than not, they arrive together, engaging Nezuko as she floats through the crowded store, handing out drinks and meals. They begin the transition into her life so smoothly Nezuko doesn’t even notice until it’s too late.

~ It happens out of the blue, Present Mics’ advance on Nezuko. One moment, they’re relaxing together in the cafe, sipping their favorite drinks and half-halfheartedly watching the news as a villain attack takes place across the town, both waiting for students to begin to arrive after their classes, and the next Present Mic has drawn Nezuko across his thighs onto his lap and his lips are on hers, and his hands are on her, and - 

~ “Stop!” 

~ Nezuko rejects him as gently as she can, she really does, but even as she explains that it’s too soon after her failed marriage, too soon after Hadao betraed her, how she doesn’t want to move into a relationship with anyone, there’s something . . . off, about Hizashi’s expression. For a moment he had appeared furious, damned that she would rejects him, but almost as quickly as it was there he smoothed the expression over and instead watched her with a cool sort of indifference. 

~ “’Zashi what’s . . . what’s wrong?” 

~ His answer is lost in the sound of sirens blaring, and the two realize that the school is under attack. Lights are cut off, although the sirens continue to wail, and in the distance Nezuko is sure she can hear explosions sounding. 

~ Present Mic leaves saying that he has to check on the students - “Hide, and don’t come out for anyone, understand?” - but Nezuko knows that he was looking for Eraserhead. She had heard about the U.S.J. incident that had happened only a short time before, and she knew the Voice Quirk Hero worried after his friend. The two were close in a way that had caused her to ask Nemuri if the two were a couple. Nemuri had merely shrugged, stated that she, and every other member of the faculty, had been trying to figure that out for years. 

~ Nearly an hour passes, and still the fight seems to go on until, finally, everything goes silent. Nezuko emerges from her hiding place, but a moment later a large hand covers her face, a rag smelling of something sickly and sweet enveloping her mouth and nose, and then everything goes black.

~ The next few days are a blur for Nezuko. She drugged more than once, sometimes with a something that puts her back to sleep, sometimes with something that makes her skin feel like its on fire and her body to twist and writhe with a strange sort of pain that wasn’t whole unpleasant, but made her want something more, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was that she wanted. 

~ When Nezuko finally comes aware, she realizes that the shadows been seeing through the fog of drugs, the voices she’s been hearing - it’s Present Mic and Eraserhead, and for their part, their acting as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing strange about the fact Nezuko is in a strange place, without know how or why. And no matter how many times she tried to slur the words out, Nezuko felt as if they purposefully misheard her. 

~ Present Mic convinces her that everything is fine. She’d been ‘kidnapped’ by ‘villains’ and they had ‘rescued’ her. None of this sets right with Nezuko . . . but why would they lie? They were her friends. But the unsettled feeling that bloomed in her stomach continued to unfurl as the day went on. They were no long on U.A. campus. Instead, they were in a large home, two stories, with a large wrap around porch, and windows that looked into the trees that seemed to surround the home on all sides. And the house is beautiful. A strange mix of exactly what Nezuko would have though Present Mic’s and Eraserhead’s homes would have looked like if they lived together: a subtle mix of loud and obnoxious, and a more subdued, simplistic combination that blended well with one another.

~ That day Nezuko glimpses the first taste of what her situation is truly like: 

~ It starts so innocently - lunch had been ate, dishes washed and put away, and Nezuko was just beginning to feel comfortable when Present Mic began to insist on her using their first names. “It’s no problem, Darling. You just call me Hizashi, or ‘Zashi, and you can just call him Shouta. We’re friends, aren’t we?” The touches began after than, soft brushes of Shouta’s fingers across her shoulder as he reached above her to point out something, or Hizashi rubbing against her as he walked by to take her to a new room in house - and there was a lot - and once she could have sworn that Shouta was standing behind her, nuzzling into her hair, but when she had turned around he was nearly a foot back, and merely watch Hizashi talk animatedly about his extensive vinyl collection. 

~ That evening things come to a head when she’s called to the bathroom to find that both Shouta and Hizashi are there, a steaming bath with rose petals waiting. “It’s time for your bath, darling.” . . . “What the fuck?” Nezuko is ready to attack within minutes. She had trusted them, believed them when they had said she as in danger but they . . . they were the danger. Delusional. They thought that she was theirs. Their girlfriend. Their darling. It was said so many times that Nezuko wondered if perhaps she had been kidnapped by villains, her memory modified is some manner . . . but she knew deep down that she wasn’t wrong when she looked them square in the eyes and said, “You’re crazy.” 

~ The fight that would have ensued or, more specifically, Nezuko’s escape was thwarted nearly instantly by Shouta’s Quirk. And despite her high school years being spent training to be a Hero, the years spent as a ballet dancer that followed had done nothing to prepare her for a fight between two Pro-Hero’s. And Shouta had been prepared. A vial of medication designed to slow a persons Quirk to the point of being non-usable was waiting in one of his many pockets, and the moment and scarves had Nezuko immobile he moved in, deftly forcing her to drink the liquid by simply pinching her nose shut and not allowing her to take a breath until she did as he requested. 

~ The medicine takes effect almost immediately and afterward Hizashi and Shouta have no issues undressing their Darling and easing her into the bathtub, Shouta’s fingers working soaps and conditioners through her hair lovingly while Hizashi uses a soft cloth to smooth a peach scented body wash across her skin. Neither Shouta nor Hizashi show any shame in their adoration of her body and the two allow their hands to stray often, fingers rubbing against her nipples, delicate caresses to the inside of her thigh and the sides of her neck, a single touch against her private area - it was enough to send Nezuko, in her drugged state, into a near hypnotized state, her breathing labored and her cheeks rosy. They take her panting whimpers and her hands pushing against theirs as signs that she is enjoying their administrations, and the begin to shower her with words of love.

~ “You’re such a beautiful Darling.” “We’ll never let you go.” “So lovely.” “He was a fool, baby. We’ll never abandon you like that.” “Beautiful girl.” “Sweet girl.” “Our girl.” “Ours.” 

~ Nezuko has enough and when Shouta moves to stroke her cheek she moves her head and bites him, growling lowly. She may not be able to speak well, due to the drugs, but she’s able to get across her point with little problem. Shouta sighs, and says, “I was hoping that it wouldn’t come to this.” 

~ And then he spanks her. He lifts her up, lays her so she’s bent over the side of the tub, her ass in the air, and he honest to god begins to spank her. He smacks her until her bottom is as red as an apple, and Nezuko has long since been reduced to a sobbing, blubbering mess. She hasn’t been spanked since she was a child and the experience is . . . startling. 

~ Afterward Hizashi exits, saying that he’s going to be late for a shift at the radio station, and with a soft kiss to Nezuko’s forehead, he’s gone, leaving her with Shouta as he helps her from the tub, towels her dry, and dresses her in soft cotton shorts and a cotton tank top. Despite her mind knowing that it was Shouta who had just inflicted the pain upon her, the moment he laid down in the bed wit her, his hands rubbing against her back soothingly, Nezuko found herself sobbing once more, her face tucked against Shouta’s chest, shoulders shaking, until she finally collapsed into a restless sleep. 

~ When Hizashi arrives home he finds Shouta still in bed with Nezuko, her head pillowed on one of his arms, her breaths short and even, and he can’t help but to climb into the bed with them, his phone at the ready. If anyone went through his phone in the next few days it would lead to a very awkward conversation since it would clearly show him laying next to Nezuko and Shouta, which wasn’t a problem in and of itself . . . except for the fact they may or may not have led everyone else to believe that villains had kidnapped her. 

~ But that was a worry for another day. 

~ Weeks pass and Nezuko falls into an uneasy routine with the two Hero’s. They make no moves to punish her again, so long as she doesn’t create that much of a fuss, and she doesn’t fight (although Eraserhead ensures that she’s fully aware of how easy it would be to track her if she escaped, as they placed a Quirk dampener around her next before she awoke her second day under their care, and how much trouble she would be in if she did escape) and Nezuko was more or less allowed to roam the house and do as she pleased. She was allowed outside, but only if one of the two Hero’s were with her, and as she tried to avoid them as much as possible, this happened very rarely. 

~ The two Hero’s do, however, seek Nezuko out randomly, touching her, kissing her, showing their love for her, and despite the fact she shows no enthusiasm for these embraces, the two Hero’s don’t loose hope and merely refer to her attitude as “her little pout” which they were convinced would fade eventually.  

~ Shouta and Hizashi are called away, and despite the fact neither want to leave Nezuko unattended, they agree that they have little choice in the matter. They spike her tea, hoping that she’ll sleep until they return, and once she’s fallen asleep they tuck her in and head out, Hero Gear already donned. But when their mission runs much longer than they expected and 6 hours  turn into 16, they already know what to expect when they arrive home.

~ The window in the kitchen is smashed and there is a trail of a single bloody foot print that staggers from the window, across the back porch, and down the steps, towards the trees. It’s already dark outside and the two panic, fleeing into the woods to find their lost Darling, and it doesn’t take the two long to find her curled among the roots of a tree, shivering from the cold and the mist spraying from the river. She’d clearly lost her way and fallen, her arms and legs scrapped and bleeding, and the way her prosthetic leg was laid out in front of her, knee askew and ankle bent to a strange angle, they knew that she had damaged it badly. 

~ Nezuko begins to panic, attempting to scrabble away, nearly hysterical, but Shouta and Hizashi are so reveled that she’s okay and they found her that they don’t even remember to punish her. Instead they scoop her up and begin to dote upon her, making sure that she’s alright, and the two take her back to their home, despite her protests of wanting to be let go. 

~ Hizashi soothes her, smoothing back her hair and Shouta whispers softly into her ear. “You’ve had a rough time, darling. Let get you bathed, and a nice warm meal, and then you can take a nap. Hmm? How does that sound?” 

~ It doesn’t matter what Nezuko says, their going home.

[lixiescheesestick]

Member and S/O getting matching tattoos. w/ Seo Changbin

Changbin always enjoyed the idea of getting a tattoo. Something inked into your skin to tell a drunken story, or maybe even just a sober, emotional tale.

Another thing he enjoyed was spending time with you. His best friend by day and his partner in crime by night (meaning you would stay up all night composing and writing lyrics with him).

You did everything together from the day you wore diapers to now. Always causing trouble in your old neighbourhood, yet nobody despised you children. In fact, everyone loved the joyful youth that your parents had provided your hometown with.

A lot of neighbours were also very sad when they found out that changbin was moving away to pursue a career in music, and they weren't surprised to hear that you would be joining him at the time.

It was now two years since you left the proud grown ups of your childhood and became roommates in a university together.

Both if you were happier than ever, helping with each other's arts projects and studying when absolutely necessary.

Now most nights, both you and Changbin would be busy, but some nights you would sit in the living room together at 3am and discuss things, having a good laugh and getting away from the depressing reality of life.

And that was the current position you were in.

"Come on! Mrs. Smith absolutely ADORED you Changbinnie and she hated my guts. She would always invite you in for cookies and try to leave me outside. You were the only reason I was allowed in because you said 'both or none'." 

"Nah nah nah, I bet she liked you."Changbin said, unsure, "she just had weird ways of showing her love, ya know?" he chuckled.

You giggled laying your head in his lap and looking up at your phone screen, quickly texting someone. Something you didn't know was that Changbin felt butterflies erupt in his stomach when you did so, but he swallowed down his feelings as he had been doing the past few months.

You see, Changbin had been catching feelings for you. It confused him often seeing as he had only ever seen you as his best friend up till now. But these last few months he began to really like you, heck he might even go as far as saying he loves you.

To distract himself from this feeling he was having, he decided to ask you who you were texting.

"Oh nobody, just some guy… ya know?" you giggled, making Changbin blush.

But at the same time he had a slight feeling of jealousy settle in his stomach. Who was this guy? A crush? Maybe already more?

The jealousy got to Changbins head a little, as he patted your head to signal you to move.

"You know, it's already 4am and I think we should head to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, muffin." Changbin said as he got up and walked out of the room.

You watched him, looking as handsome as ever even though you could only see his back.

As a matter of fact, you had actually caught feelings too, but just as Changbin was, you were afraid to jeopardize the relationship you two already had.

You sighed, texting your tattoo artist friend Chan the last details of the matching tattoo you were planning on surprising Changbin with.

Oh how you hoped he would like it.

**

It was 10am and Changbin was still asleep.

It was a Wednesday and you each had evening classes, giving you enough time for your perfectly planned surprise.

You walked into Changbins room, looking at his peaceful figure on the bed. His hairs tickling his eyelids making them twitch every once in a while.

You bent down towards his sleeping figure, placing a loving kiss to his temple and brushing the hair out of his face before admiring him again.

About two minutes later you finally were content and made a move to get Changbin up, uncovering him and jumping on the bed.

"Yah, Y/N. You got a deathwish?" he just about yelled, making you stop and laugh.

"I need you to get up now. We have an important appointment somewhere at 11." You said, getting up to get changed.

Just as you left the room, he shouted out behind you, "Hey! Where are we even going?" making you let out another giggle.

"It's a surprise."

**

There you were, stood in front of the local tattoo studio owned by one of your high school friends Chan.

Changbin looked at you confused before you shoved him in.

"Muffin, what are we doing here?"he asked, not sure about the situation.

"Well you always talked about tattoos and how you would want one, so I was thinking we could get one together… maybe even, matching ones?"

You looked up at him eyes sparkling, and his face lighting up instantaneously as you mentioned matching tattoos.

"I am so down!"

**

Changbin had gotten his tattoo, a little drawing of a cartoon muffin because that had been his nickname for you since elementary school.

Now it was your turn, and you were beyond nervous.

Changbin didn't seem to even flinch, only hissing slightly when the needle was taken away and replaced with another.

"Hey Muffin, hold my hand." he said, reaching out to you.

You grabbed on tight, getting ready to have a small waffle inked into your wrist.

As the needle hit your skin, you winced, grabbing Changbins hand tighter and it only got tighter as the tattoo went on.

Changbin kissed your knuckles lightly as a way to soothe you, and it really did. Your nerves calming at his touch.

**

It was now 5pm and you were officially done. Looking at your newly done tattoo, you were proud.

This experience meant a lot to you and Changbin. Your tattoos forever reminding you of who your childhood best friend is and forever will be.

**

You each decided to skip your classes today, with them not being the most important and you could always revise later.

As you sat on the couch together admiring your tattoos, Changbin suddenly grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers with his making your heart flutter.

"Y/N… I have something important I want to say." he slowly started. You nodded, allowing him to continue.

"Okay, so…" he sighed out before gathering his breath to talk, "it's been a few months and I think I finally know now that I don't just want to be your best friend. I mean, you mean the world to me. You are so beautiful and kind and always look out for others, especially me." You both chuckled "I am not sure you will feel the same but I must tell you this now. I really love You, Y/N."

It was silent as he stared into your eyes. You could see the sincerity reflecting in His, making you lean in and peck him on the lips quickly, only pulling back slightly.

"I love you too, Seo Changbin." You said, leaning back in again.

Changbin deepened the kiss by placing his hands on your face, keeping you as close as possible and not wanting to ever let go.

And in that moment, your beautiful friendship blossomed into a strong and loving relationship.

~~~~~

a/n: did I spend time writing a 1.2k word long fluff about changbin for the prompts? yes. Does it seem like I love changbin more than the other members because his did are always longer? Maybe.

lowkey love them all the same tho.

[manage-mischief]

The Negative

PART ONE

Read on AO3 here. 

Summary: Two-shot inspired by the song from “Waitress.” In which Tonks knows something’s wrong—she just doesn’t want to admit it to herself. Good thing Molly and Fleur are there to offer some support.

Author’s Note: This fic is inspired by the song from “Waitress,” the musical. If you haven’t heard it, definitely give it a listen. Some of the dialogue is included here. This work is focused on Tonks as a character, because she was really underdeveloped in the last book. Since we clearly saw Remus freak out when he found out about Teddy, this is me assuming that Tonks did, too. I tried to get the timeline right as best as possible. It’s a bit confusing in the Deathly Hallows, tbh. Anyways, here’s the story. Equal parts fluff and angst. I’m new to fanfic writing, so any kind feedback is appreciated! P.S. I refuse to write Fleur’s dialogue in that horrid French-style that JK used. I omitted her “h’s,” but that’s it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Waitress. What I do own is…nothing. I own nothing.

“Come now, poppet. It’s better to know,” Molly cooed as she rubbed Tonks’ back in slow, soothing circles.

“It is probably nothing,” Fleur nodded encouragingly.

Tonks withdrew her head from between her knees to glare at the Frenchwoman. It sure as hell wasn’t nothing.

The last few months of her life had been absolutely perfect. After a long and arduous battle, Tonks had finally dragged Remus down the aisle. Well…it was a lot more romantic than she made it sound. The couple had wed in a small, intimate ceremony earlier that summer. They both knew there was no stopping the impending darkness of war that was fast approaching, but nonetheless, had decided to spend whatever time they had left together: a massive “up yours” to Voldie and his goons.

True, life since their union had been a bit hectic. When they weren’t working undercover for the Order, they spent all of their time together in their bedroom—the only room in their small London flat that got any proper use. Undoubtedly, that’s how Tonks had ended up in her current predicament. After being late, followed by several days of morning sickness, she was fairly certain she was pregnant.

“Here, we have the test, we’ll soon find out. It will all be fine.” The kindly ginger handed her a cookie and a cup of tea.

Merlin bless Molly Weasley. After concluding that her illness may be more than a common stomach bug, Tonks had visited The Burrow straight away. She wasn’t exactly sure why. She could have gone to her parents’ place, both of whom would have been thrilled about their daughter’s growing family. Somehow, though, the prospect of going to her mum and dad with such news had terrified her. It made the situation more real. And Tonks was not ready to accept that any of this was really happening. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want kids. In all honesty, she had never really thought about it. She still felt like a kid herself. Plus, with the current violence sweeping their world, now was certainly not the time to be thinking about new life. She had never even discussed the prospect of a family with Remus. But, she was sure that even if he did want children—something she slightly doubted, given his anxieties about his condition—he would agree that now was nowhere near the proper time to start a family. Oh Merlin. She hadn’t yet considered how Remus would react. Her nausea returned. She groaned and brought her head back between her knees.

“Oh my, is she going to be alright?” Fleur questioned Molly as if Tonks wasn’t there. “She looks like she is going to faint! Poor thing!”

“Maybe I’d feel better if I broke your nose,” Tonks growled.

“It must be the ‘ormones,” Fleur remarked, throwing a look of pity in Tonks’s direction. That did it. Tonks rose from her chair, fully intending to draw her wand and wipe that look off of the blonde’s pretty little face. Molly was quicker. She firmly placed herself in between the two younger witches.

“Alright now, let’s all calm down and let Tonks take her test.”

“Calm down? Calm down?!” Tonks was shaking. “How can I calm down! This is a bloody disaster! I’m… I’m not ready for any of this. Remus isn’t ready!” Her voice broke. She collapsed back into her chair. Merlin’s pants, she had never been so emotional before in her life! Perhaps Fleur had been right about the hormones.

Molly kneeled in front of the anxious witch and stroked her hair. “We don’t even know if there’s anything to panic about yet. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“So, you think there’s a chance I’m not pregnant?”

Molly pursed her lips. “Well there’s always a chance,” she replied, unconvincingly. “But you’ll feel better once you know for sure. Isn’t that right, Fleur? Don’t you think Tonks should take the test and find out?”

“Oh yes. It will be much better to know for sure. I ‘ope you drank enough of your tea. Apparently, this Muggle test requires you to pee on it! Quite odd!” Fleur cheerfully opened the little box containing the pregnancy test they had hastily picked up at the pharmacy in town. Tonks was hoping to avoid a trip to St. Mungo’s until she deemed it absolutely necessary. There were too many prying eyes at the hospital for her liking. Merlin forbid some loose-lipped colleague of hers spotted her in the Magical Maternity Ward…

She sat up properly. “Alright. What do I do with that thing?”

Molly walked across the small kitchen to Fleur’s side. “Read us the instructions, Fleur. What does the box say?”

“’N’insérez pas le bâton dans vôtre…’”

“English, Fleur!”

“’Do not insert the test stick into your vagina.’”

Molly rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Wow! Thank you, Fleur!”

“I am sorry. That is obvious…I am getting nervous!”

“You’re getting nervous?” Tonks wasn’t sure she had made the right decision by coming to Molly’s after all.

At least all of the antics allowed for a momentary distraction. She joined the Weasley women on the other side of the kitchen. “Fine. Gimme the damn stick!” She yanked it from Fleur’s hands and headed for the loo, slamming the door behind her.

Sitting down on the toilet, she stared at the small object in her hands. What would this mean for her marriage? Was a kid really something she was ready to handle? She was snapped out of the beginnings of what would have been the day’s fifty-seventh panic attack by the sound of scuffling outside the bathroom door.

“I cannot ‘ear peeing. ‘As she done it yet?”

“Shhhh, give her some privacy! She’s clearly terrified, poor thing. Why, I remember when I found out about Bill…”

Oh, for the love of…

“I can hear you, you know!” Tonks shouted. The whispering stopped. Footsteps quickly retreated from the door. After a few more moments of existential crisis, she finally took the test.

Tonks emerged from the loo and found her companions sitting inconspicuously at the table. Molly was staring blankly at a copy of Witch Weekly, while Fleur was holding the latest issue of The Daily Prophet, whistling. Both were failing miserably in their attempts to act casual. Fleur peeked her head out above the paper. “Oh, are you finished? I ‘ave been reading the news this whole time. I did not notice. Did you know Rita Skeeter is writing a book about Dumbledore?”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Fascinating. So, how do I find out the results?” She shook the stick, which she had wrapped in toilet paper, as it was now covered in her pee. She wrinkled her nose. Did Muggles really live like this?

Fleur dug the paper instructions out of the empty cardboard box. “You will ‘ave to wait three minutes, and then lines will appear. One line means it is negative and two means it is positive.”

“Well, let’s focus on the negative, shall we?” Tonks sarcastically quipped, flopping down beside Molly at the table. She picked up The Daily Prophet that Fleur had been pretending to read and immediately regretted it. The headlines stood out in thick, black ink as she flipped through the pages.

Five Wizards Killed in Mystery Attack

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore: Rita Skeeter Reports

Dolores Umbridge Continues Crusade Against Half-Breeds, Muggle-Borns

She hastily crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it into the hearth. Molly and Fleur stared at her, surprised.

“Piece of rubbish, anyways,” Tonks whispered. In reality, she had been frightened. Too many horrible things were happening in the world, and the thought of bringing a child into being at such a time felt extremely irresponsible. “How long has it been?”

“Thirty-six seconds.”

“Dammit.”

“Thirty-eight seconds…”

“Okay!”

“Thirty-nine…”

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Molly came to the rescue, yet again. “Fleur how is construction on the cottage going?”

“Oh, it is quite wonderful! Bill ‘as been marvelous. ‘E ‘as built it so our room overlooks the sea. It is very beautiful. I cannot wait to move in for real. And I am sure you will be glad when we are out of your ‘air, Molly.”

“Oh, no, I will miss you both dearly,” Molly assured her daughter-in-law, though the hint of excitement in her words betrayed her. Though the two women had got on much better since Bill’s attack, their very different personalities often clashed. It was probably best for the both of them to get some distance.

Tonks’s leg was bouncing up and down at the table as she fruitlessly attempted to take her mind off of the time that seemed to be moving cursedly slow. “How long has it been, now?”

“One minute and twenty-three seconds.”

Tonks groaned impatiently. “How’d I ever get myself into this mess?”

“Well, did you not use protection? I thought you and Remus were very careful about that sort of thing,” Fleur innocently questioned. She immediately winced, and Tonks was quite sure that Molly had kicked the girl underneath the table.

The Auror felt her face flush. “Well, he got me drunk,” she replied, defensively. “I do stupid things when I drink…”

“Stupid things, like sleep with your ‘usband?” Fleur giggled. The girl was ballsy, Tonks had to give her credit. If she hadn’t been filled with crippling anxiety, she would have appreciated Fleur’s positivity and wit.

Molly suppressed a laugh. “Focus, Fleur. We’re trying to take Tonks’s mind off of her… predicament.” Molly chose her words carefully. “Remember. We’re focusing on the negative!” She smiled optimistically at the metamorphmagus.

“Well, the test could be negative. What if…maybe, ah, what is the expression…maybe Remus’s wand does not cast any spells…if you know what I mean. That would be lucky!”

The other two women choked. Tea spurted out of Tonks’s nose. Molly huffed. “Oh yes, miraculously lucky, to get away with an unprotected f—“

“Funny how one night can ruin your entire life,” Tonks lamented. How she was going to survive this last minute, she didn’t know. Fighting Death Eaters was less nerve-wracking.

“Just, calm down, goddammit!” Molly snapped, clearly getting anxious herself. There was only so much complaining the mother of seven could take. “Let’s all just pull ourselves together! Now,” she chided.  

The three women sat in silence, shocked by Molly’s outburst. Tonks had the unshakable feeling of having been scolded by her mother. She gazed at her hands shamefully, picking at her fingernails until Fleur spoke once more. “The test should be finished.”

Tonks’s heart flip-flopped in her chest. “I can’t look. One of you do it.”

Fleur eagerly reached for the test, but Molly held her back. Her face was stern. “You can, and you will, Tonks. It will all be alright.” Her eyes softened.

“It was only one night,” Fleur added. That did nothing to assuage Tonks’s fears. She could hear the seconds ticking by on the clock. Her stomach was in knots. But, she knew that they were right. She had to find out the truth. Whatever the result.

“One line. One line,” she chanted to herself. Fleur nodded encouragingly. Molly remained still, her face unreadable.

Tonks picked up the test, carefully unwrapping it, as if it were a Hippogriff that would attack if she approached it too quickly. “This is it.”

She turned the stick over in her hands, only vaguely disgusted by the fact that she had peed on it not five minutes earlier.

“Shit.”

[lalainajanes]

kc + we promised to stay friends but we’re doing the same stuff we did when we were a couple and i don’t wanna point it out because i don’t want it to stop

Five seconds after walking into the courtyard, Carolinerealizes she’s miscalculated.

Super annoying because planning on being nearly late hasbeen making her anxious all freaking day.

It looks like her neighbors are all present and accountedfor, which she should haveanticipated. Last quarter’s tenants meeting had resulted in a screaming matchand Mrs. Bolton’s carefully frosted cupcakes being used as projectiles – such awaste of the fluffiest buttercream Caroline’s ever had the pleasure of tasting.Obviously, no one wants to miss this little shindig and the possibility of highdrama.

The folding chairs are all filled. Except one.

The one next to Klaus.

Damn it.

They’d shared the usual meaningless break up platitudes. Theones about how they really liked each other as people and should still stayfriends and blah blah blah. Caroline’s never been in quite this situation, atleast as an adult. She’d known falling for a neighbor was a gamble but Klaushad seemed like a risk she needed to take. Since they’d fizzled she’s beencarefully avoiding him.

If only Klaus would have the courtesy to follow her lead.

She’s held her breath and checked the peephole every timeshe’s left her apartment. A Klaus-free hallway means she can bolt for thestaircase. She’s gotten some odd looks from her neighbors on the instances heroutfits had required heels. She’s ignored them, slipped the shoes on in thelobby, because the last thing she needs is a broken ankle.

Knowing Klaus he’d take such an opportunity and run with it.She’d need help if she were injured, with groceries and laundry and gettingmeals together. He’d be charming and helpful, all in the name of beingneighborly. He’d make her laugh and she’d see him in her apartment again, lounging on her couch and messing with her knick knacks, and Caroline can’tallow that. Not until she’sover him.

Any day now.

Their friend groups are pretty solidly intertwined and sheknows he’s been asking about her. Caroline’s not entirely sure why, since he’d been the one to backoff.

She’d been super pissed two months ago. Now she’s justconfused. She doesn’t trust the Klaus-shields she’s got in place just yet,can’t risk him slithering passed.

Klaus smiles at her, lifts his hand in a cheery little wave.Tips his head in the direction of the single empty seat tucked cozily betweenhim and the wall.

He’s probably done the intimidating murder eyes thing he’s sogood at to save it.

Caroline pastes on a bright smile – because she’s so notwilling to let him win the breakup –and makes her way over to him. He stands to let her pass. “Hey, Klaus,” shegreets. She keeps it warm, casual. Hopes it sounds natural. She scans the roomto avoid looking at him, holds her breath. Meeting his eyes with his body soclose, smelling the cologne that used to linger on her sheets, is dangerous.

“Caroline,” hemurmurs. When he sits his thigh presses to hers and she hurriedly crosses herlegs to cut odd the contact. “It seems you’ve been busy lately. I haven’t seenyou in what, two weeks?”

Clearly, Klaus had missed the post-breakup etiquette day atadulting school. He’s not supposed to call her out like that.

Caroline manages to laugh, “Has it been that long? One of mycoworkers broke her leg so I’ve been covering for her.”

That’s a big fat lie and she crosses her fingers Klaus won’task a follow up question. Luckily, Alaric Saltzman stands calls the meeting toorder. He starts talking about the meeting’s agenda. Caroline holds in a huffof annoyance. He’s talking slowly, probably already a few drinks in, and that’sonly going to prolong her torment. She’dread the materials that had been circulated already but, having lived in this buildingfor three years now, she knows that few other people would have bothered toprepare.

She stiffens when she feels Klaus lean in, his breathruffling the curls that have come loose from her top knot. “Care to liven thismeeting up with a wager, love?”

Her eyes widen and she almost chokes. A few people glanceover and Caroline hopes she hasn’t turned visibly red. “That would be highlyinappropriate,” she hisses and oh god she sounds like one of the Mystic Fallschurch busybodies who’d sniffed about the unladylike length of Caroline’sskirts in high school.

A sound of amusement comes from Klaus and she resists theurge to dig a sharp elbow into his ribcage. Mostly because touching him is a terrible idea. “My, someone’s thinkingimpure thoughts.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” she mutters. They’d bet sexual favorslast time (and Caroline has very fondmemories or collecting her winnings).

“As delightful as such bets would be,” Klaus says, soundinglike he in no way objects to the concept, “I was thinking cash. Five dollarssays Damon Salvatore’s once again behind on his recycling dues.”

Does he think she’s an amateur? She’s lived here longer thanhe has. “Please. That’s a sucker’s bet. You’re going to have to do better.”

She catches a hint of a smile, distinctly triumphant, beforeKlaus sobers, his head tipping back like he’s thinking deeply.

His next proposal is far more reasonable. She counters withanother. She finds herself relaxing, biting her lip to keep from giggling atKlaus’ more pointed observations about their neighbors.

She walks out of the meeting with an extra seven dollars inher pocket wondering if maybe, just maybe, she can stop with the ninjaavoidance moves.

A few days later, Caroline’s staring blankly at the fourtrays of cookies cooling on her kitchen island. She’d had a moderately crappyday at work and when she’d stopped at the grocery store on the way home anendcap of chocolate chips had caught her eye.

Hence the stress baking. She’s done it on autopilot,doubling the recipe, and now she’s got 64 cookies to deal with.

She’ll take some to work but her office is small and two ofher coworkers have been on health kicks. She’ll get serious evil eyes if shebrings in more than a dozen. She’s gotten used to Klaus taking baked goods offher hands. The man has an impressive sweet tooth but doesn’t even own a cookiesheet and he’s never had any qualms with storing the leftovers in his freezerand whipping them out whenever his agent calls him in for a meeting.

Apparently, he’s significantly better liked by the variouseditors and admins at his publishing company now.

Maybe she could just pop over and see if he still wantsthem. Just because he’s not her boyfriend anymore doesn’t mean Caroline doesn’twish him success.

Mentally patting herself on the back for her emotionalmaturity, Caroline grabs a Tupperware container and loads it up.

And then she runs to her room to put on something cuter thanan old Whitmore hoodie and flour dusted leggings. She switches out her sportsbra for something with more lift but draws the line at makeup. She isn’t tryingto impress Klaus, or anything. She’sjust making herself presentable.

She grabs her keys and exits her apartment. She takes thefew steps to Klaus’ door at an abnormally fast pace, raps sharply before shecan chicken out.

She can hear him on the other side, knows he must bechecking the peephole and it’s a struggle not to fidget or let her face dosomething weird. The locks scrape and Klaus looks pleased when he appears. Abit shocked too, but Caroline can’t blame him considering the lengths she’sgone to lately to avoid seeing his face.

“Caroline,” he says slowly, glancing down the hall like heexpects hidden cameras. “To what do I…”

He’s being stiff, a little formal, a tell that he’s notentirely confident. It makes Caroline feel a little better about her ownnerves. She jiggles the container a bit. “I baked. Kind of excessively.”

“Bad day?” he asks knowingly.

It’s tempting to say yes. To sigh and let her rigid postureloosen and unload like she used to. Klaus had never minded listening to her,not even when she got off track and rambled about issues that were onlytangentially related. He used to sit at her kitchen island and listen to hervent, calmly making his way through a stack of cookies while she’d eliminatedall traces of flour from her countertops and scrubbed down her mixer.

He’d ask questions and scoff at stupid things her clientshad done. The few times he’d stopped by her office he’d been cool anddismissive of the coworkers she didn’t like and Caroline had kind of enjoyedit. Petty? Yes. But she liked the proof that he’d paid attention.

She wonders if it would be so bad to be honest. To try totalk to him.

He’s watching her, waiting patiently for an answer andCaroline notes a smudge of ink on his neck. That his hair’s mussed and he’swearing worn jeans and a t-shirt that’s grey now but was probably blue of blackonce upon a time.

She knows that shirt, remembers how soft it was against hercheek as she’d laid draped over Klaus on his couch. It’s got a hole on the leftside, directly over a spot that Klaus lies and claims isn’t ticklish. Herfinger had always found it, wormed inside to stroke his skin, and whatever TVshow they’d been watching would quickly be forgotten.

The memories are too vivid. The times she’d managed to pinhim and dig her fingers into his skin, until he’d shaken with silent laughter,his eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched to keep the sounds in. Sometimes he’dbeen faster, had flipped her over and gotten revenge, until she’d been gaspingfor breath and pleading for mercy, sides aching but so freaking happy.

They can’t be friends, not when she can’t forget what it waslike to be more.

“Kind of,” Caroline snaps, angrier than she’d meant to be.She shoves the cookies in his direction and Klaus barely has a hold on thembefore she’s backing away. The container wobbles and he steps forward, pullingit closer. “I just didn’t want them to go to waste. I’ve got dinner on thestove, so…”

Another lie. She was going to order a pizza but she’s goingto have to scrounge something edible from her cupboards now.

“Wait,” he calls, “Caroline…”

She ignores him, turning, yanking her keys out of herpocket. She’s laser focused, jams the key into the lock.

“Caroline, can’t we just…”

He’s closer and she shakes her head, getting the door openand stepping in, “Maybe another time. Have a good night!”

She’s got the door closed before she’s finished speaking.Caroline presses back against it, sorely tempted to give her head a coupleknocks against it.

What had she been thinking?

She can hear Klaus, faintly, in the hallway. Can’t quitemake out what he says.

It’s at least two minutes before she hears his door shut.

“Caroline, darling, is that a new dress? You look positivelyedible.”

Huh. That’s suspicious.

Caroline’s used to Kol’s lavish compliments, knows to be onguard when he whips them out because it usually means he’s done something she’sgoing to hate. Or needs a favor. She drops her purse on the table by his door,takes the very large glass of red wine he hands her. Takes a healthy sipbecause she might need it. “What do you want, Kol?”

Kol’s got his most contrite expression on though Carolinesees a tiny bit of something else in his eyes. Glee, maybe. Anticipation,definitely. “There’s been a bit of a mix up,” he explains.

Well, that’s barely helpful.

“And…” she prompts.

He sighs, drapes his arm over her shoulder. “Bekah didn’tknow that you had custody of the group tonight. Nik stopped by her place todrop off something he’d borrowed and she dragged him along to dinner.”

“So Klaus is…” Kol’s steered her to face the kitchen andthere’s the answer to her question. Klaus is in the living room, talking toMarcel, his back to her. “Here,” Caroline finishes. “Does he know…?”

“That you’re here? We told him you’d be along shortly. Hesaid he didn’t mind though he’d leave if you did. I assured him that I thought we could all be adults.” Helooks at her, disapproving, and Caroline cannot believe that she is being judged by Kol Mikaelson ofall people.

“Are you seriously attempting to use reverse psychology onme right now?”

Kol grins, “Depends. Is it working?”

She takes another sip of wine that might technically be moreof a gulp. Kol’s brows rise but he’s smart enough not to comment. “I don’t seewhy I have to be the bigger person,”Caroline complains. “He got weird. And he broke up with me.”

Kol’s kind enough not to comment on her sulkiness, draws hertighter to his side. It’s almost a hug, something she’d sure he’d deny. “Mybrother can be massively thick headed.”

Ugh, how is it that there’s still a tiny part of her brainthat’s offended at the insult?

“That’s one way of putting it,” Caroline mutters.

“I’m sure you’ll be ever so creative and verbose once we getmore liquor into you. Assuming you’re staying?” Caroline nods, drains her wine.She hands Kol the glass. “And Niklaus?” he asks.

Caroline takes a deep breath, her hands coming up to smoothdown her dress. Part of her wants to leave but that would be cowardly. Asmaller, more childish, part of her wants Klaus to leave. He’d do it, Kol hadsaid, probably with a minimum of fuss. There’d be no hiding the reason,however, and she’d hate for Enzo and Kol’s gathering to get awkward.

An evening like this had been inevitable. Two of her veryfavorite people are in love with Mikaelsons (though Katherine’s still super indenial) and it’s kind of a miracle Caroline’s managed to avoid Klaus sociallyfor this long.

She can do this. Hopefully.

She surveys the room. Only a few people have noted herarrival. Kat’s perched on the arm of a chair, and she raises a questioning browwhen Caroline meets her eyes. Klaus is watching her too but he’s wary. Shemanages a smile in his direction, faint and only passingly polite. “He canstay,” she says. “Just don’t expect me to sit next to him at dinner.”

“What kind of host do you think I am?” Kol asks, some of hisoffense genuine.

She smiles sunnily, ducking out from under his arm, “Thekind that’s quick with the refills, I hope.”

Kol heads to the kitchen and Caroline makes her way towardsKatherine. She might be a mature adult but that doesn’t mean she’s not gratefulfor an ally.

Fingers crossed Kol keeps up the heavy pours.

Caroline’s still in the habit of checking to see if thehallway is a Klaus free zone. She does it automatically now, even late on aSunday evening, a bag of trash clutched in her hand.

The coast had seemedclear.

She nearly has a heart attack when she spots Klaus on thefloor, halfway between her doorway and his. He’s sitting down, leaning againstthe wall. His eyes are closed and he’s listing to one side.

She freezes, but only for a second. Then she’s moving, garbagedropped, forgotten, as she lurches over to kneel next to him. She checks hishead first, her hands gentle. “Klaus? Klaus, wake up.” He doesn’t even twitch,slipping further to the left.

Caroline runs one hand over his body, checking for injuries,her other going to his neck. “Please,be okay. I need you to be okay,” she mutters. Feeling around, she finds asteady pulse. “Thank god.”

She’s shaking and she regrets not bothering with any firstaid refreshers after college. Her panic eases slightly when she realizesthere’s no blood, that he’s warm to the touch. She manages to take a shakybreath in. “Klaus, open your eyes.” No response. She shuffles closer, raisingher voice, shaking his shoulder gently. “Klaus, please. Wake up. Tell me whathappened. What do you need?” Caroline leans closer, tipping his head in herdirection and he groans.

Caroline gets a strong whiff of bourbon.

Oh, she’s going to killhim.

“You’re drunk?” she shrieks. “I practically have a heartattack because I think you were freaking deadand you’re…”

His face creases in pain and she presses her lips together,still fuming. His lashes flutter and when he manages to open his eyes they’rehazy, confused. “Sweetheart,” he slurs, “Why’re you…”

He blinks, looking passed her, “Hallway,” he manages, aftera long moment. “Where’s my…”

Klaus’ hands go to pat at his pockets. One of them had beenkeeping him upright-ish and Caroline grabs him before he can hit to floor, tugginguntil he’s propped against the wall. “Careful!” she scolds.

Klaus is either unconcerned or unaware that he’d just nearlyface planted. “Couldn’t find my keys. I think I left them in the car.”

She considers leaving him. He’s a grown up who’d chosen topickle his liver without bothering to ensure he’d get to bed safely. He’s sonot her problem.

She can’t make herself stand up and walk away.

Caroline squeezes her eyes shut, sucks in a breath through herteeth. She’s a little calmer when she opens her eyes again. Klaus is slumpedwhere she left him, sleepy eyed and watching her raptly. “Okay,” she saysbriskly. “Who dropped you off?” She’s got most of Klaus’ usual drinking buddiesin her phone.

“Blonde girl. Pretty, but not as pretty as you.”

The compliment doesn’t land as Klaus had intended. Sheshoves his shoulder, forgetting his lack of balance, has to yank at his shirtto keep him from going down. “You were on a date?” she hisses. She shouldprobably try to keep her lid on her outrage, doesn’t want Klaus to know how herstubborn stupid feelings linger, but maybe he’ll be too out of it to remember.

A girl can dream.

“Pro tip, maybe don’t get falling down drunk on a date.You’re probably not going to get a second.”

He laughs, louder than he usually does, his head tippingback against the wall. She hates herself for it but she studies him moreclosely, looking for a lipstick smudge or a mouth shaped bruise, checking tosee if the buttons of his shirt line up.

When he quiets he reaches for her, his hand circling herwrist. “Don’t want a second. Or even a first. Don’t want her.”

That doesn’t make awhole lot of sense but he’s clearly had an awful lot of bourbon. Carolineignores the jealousy that’s still making her a little sick, does her best to bebusiness like. Once she’s solved this Klaus situation she’ll retreat to thebath tub with her emergency Haagen Daaz. She tries to tug her arm away butKlaus’ is unwilling to be shaken off. “Can you text your new pretty blonde friendand get her to swing back with your keys? Or does Rebekah or Kol have a spareset?” Elijah’s out of town, Caroline knows, won’t be back until Tuesday. They’dchatted about his business trip at Kol and Enzo’s.

“Phone’s dead.”

“Of course it is,” Caroline grumbles. Klaus had availedhimself of the backup charger she carries in her purse way more than she everhad. “I’ll text Kol.”

She pulls back enough to snap a pic of Klaus, sends it off.

Caroline [11:23 PM]:Found: 1 drunk brother.

Caroline [11:23 PM]:Please bring keys and take him off my hands.

Kol [11:24 PM]: Heleft them in the Uber. I found them.

Caroline [11:24 PM]:Awesome.

Caroline [11:24 PM]:Did you have a fun double date?

Caroline [11:24 PM]:I heard Klaus’ new lady friend is pretty.

She regrets the text as soon as she sends it. It’s not herbusiness and Kol will read way toomuch into the statement. Not that it’ll be hard when, even via text, it drips with how pissed she is. Klaus’thumb traces circles on her skin. It’s distracting so she’ll blame him for herimpulsiveness.

Kol [11:25 PM]:What? It was strictly boys only, darling. Marcel got a new job.

She’s not owed an explanation. That doesn’t mean she canresist fishing for one.

Caroline [11:26 PM]:He’s not my boyfriend anymore. You don’t have to cover for him. It’s not likehe’s cheating.

Kol [11:26 PM]:Like I’d have covered for him if he’d have been dumb enough to cheat on you.

Kol [11:27 PM]:The only women he talked to tonight were the waitress and the Uber driver.

Kol [11:27 PM]: Ioffered my world class wingman skills and a red head in a scandalous top madesex eyes but Nik was more interested in his glass.

Kol [11:27 PM]:His many glasses, I should say.

She’s probably a terrible person but she’s pleased. She’llnever admit as much, however.

Caroline [11:28 PM]:I’m confused.

Kol [11:28 PM]:Me too. I’m going to text our Uber driver your number. I gave her $40 to dropNik’s keys off. Will you grab them from her?

Caroline [11:29 PM]:I should make him sleep it off in the hallway.

Kol [11:29 PM]:Probably. But you won’t.

He’s totally right and it’s super annoying.

Caroline [11:29 PM]:Fine.

Caroline [11:30 PM]:I will get him safely inside his apartment but that’s it. I’m not tucking himin, I’m not making sure he’s hydrated. I might steal all the painkillers fromhis medicine cabinet.

Kol [11:31 PM]:Hell hath no fury.

Caroline [11:31 PM]:Shut up.

She’s not scorned, damn it. Klaus hadn’t technically wrongedher in any way. As much as she’d like to she can’t blame him for the lingeringsoft spot she has for him. That’s all on her.

Caroline makes sure her ringer is on, turns the sound wayup, and shoves her phone into her pocket. She debates getting Klaus to stand,hauling him into her place. She suspects he’d make himself at home on her couchand that getting him into his place would be more of a struggle. Instead, shesits next to him, resigns herself to waiting. She turns her head so she canlook at him, “Do you have to puke or anything?”

He makes a noise of denial, his palm slipping over hers. Hemoves closer, his head tipping down to watch as his fingers tangle with hers.She probably shouldn’t be allowing the touching, definitely shouldn’t beenjoying it, but if it keeps Klaus in this quiet and cooperative stage ofdrunkenness she’ll let it happen.

He’d never been particularly fond of PDA. Except when he wasdrunk.

In private he’d always been touching her, would pull herclose and tangle his hands in her hair when they watched TV. She’d usuallywoken up in the middle of the bed, Klaus pressed against her. He’d liked itwhen she wore his clothes, used his shampoo and soap. Liked leaving marks onher skin even more, scraped her with his stubble until her skin was red andsensitive, left little bites that would become bruises, hints of pain as aprecursor to pleasure.

She tries to pull away again, feels the back of her neck gettinghot. Klaus’ grip remains firm.

He flips her palm over, presses the back of her hand to histhigh. Traces the lines he finds delicately.

She sinks her teeth into the inside of her lip when shewants to shiver.

“Did you at least have fun?” she asks.

The shake of his head is slow. “Not particularly. Tried tobeg off but Marcel says I’ve been too much of a hermit recently.”

“Didn’t think you were susceptible to a guilt trip.”

“There might have been some threats too.”

She considers pressing. Drunk as he is, he might be pliantand Caroline’s always liked to new information. But Klaus’ secrets shouldn’t beof any concern to her. She’s struggling to let go of him, knowing more mightmake that harder. She keeps her reply disinterested, “That sounds about right.”

“Did you have fun the other night? At Kol’s? You seemed to.”

She’s still half-turned to face him, watches his expressiongrow darker. She’d kept a room between them at all times, had waited untiltheir various mutual friends had wandered into her orbit before talking tothem. Had excused herself to use the restroom whenever it looked like Klausmight get close, or a topic that might draw him in was brought up. She’d beenextra bubbly to try to cover any weirdness, had made jokes and laughed loudlyand steered all conversations away from her and how she’d been doing.

Honestly? It had been exhausting.

“I always enjoy myself at Kol’s,” she says. “He makes thedip I like.”

“You barely ate.”

She bristles and the idle patterns he’d been drawing on herpalm halt. Would it kill him to just make polite small talk here? She’s trying. “Well, that’s a littlestalker-y.”

Klaus doesn’t seem to take offense. “Guilty, love. I’dresolved myself to asking you to talk to me in private but you thwarted myefforts.”

She manages to yank her hand away, puts a few extra inchesbetween them. “We don’t need to talk privately.”

“I made a mistake.

Would he be saying this sober? Caroline’s not sure. “Klaus,stop.”

He doesn’t listen. “I thought… well, I was wrong aboutsomething. And then I realized what an idiot I was for…”

“Stop,” she repeats, more forcefully. “You’re drunk. Thisisn’t the time.”

“Would you talk to me if I was sober?”

She keeps her eyes on her lap. His tone is distinctlywheedling and she doesn’t trust herself not to cave if she looks over.

“You seemed awfully reluctant the other night.”

Her phone rings and she heaves herself to her feet, sends asilent thank you to the Uber driver with flawless timing. She pats Klaus’shoulder, makes sure he’ll stay upright. “You’ll just have to ask nicely andfind out.

Caroline takes the stairs, not willing to wait for the elevator,to give Klaus the time to formulate a reply.

The last twenty minutes have been an emotional whirlwind.Klaus can give her a little time to recover before he throws her into another.

Caroline doesn’t sleep. At all. She’s not happy about it.

When 6 AM rolls around she knows she should make a pot ofcoffee and hop in the shower, resign herself to going heavy on the under eyeconcealer. Instead, she grabs her phone, emails her boss, and takes a sick day.Something she never does so it won’tbe questioned.

She throws a robe on – her least cute one – and marches overto Klaus’ place. She knocks. And knocks, and knocks. Until her knucklesprotest.

He looks awful when he throws the door open (and a tiny bitmurderous but that evaporates when he sees her) his shirt wrinkled and skinpale. His hair is flat on the left, where an odd pattern from whatever surfacehe’d been sleeping on is pressed into his cheek, and a snarl of curls on theright. Caroline crosses her arms, “Invite me in.”

He wants to talk? They’re going to get this over with.Otherwise she’s going to dwell and Klaus has been occupying far too much of hermental energy lately. She figures there are two possible outcomes. First, theyresolve whatever’s lingering between them, for real this time, and he fadesinto the background of her life, a friend of a friend who happens to live downthe hall. In the other option, the one she’s kind of rooting for, he continuesto take up a ton of space in her brain and buys her dinner and provides regularorgasms for her trouble. Along with good conversations, cute drawings, andregular arguments about the merits of reality television.

Klaus steps back, pulling the door open wider, and Carolinebrushes passed him. She heads to his kitchen, goes directly for the cupboardwhere he keeps the coffee. “If we don’t do this now I’m going to be thinkingabout it all day. I won’t get anything on my goals list accomplished and I’llbe cranky. So I thought we could just… I don’t know, rip off the band aid.”

Klaus still hasn’t said anything but when she twists herhead to check his reaction he’s smiling. “Let me grab a couple painkillers andwe’ll have coffee.”

Caroline winces, reaching into her pocket. She sets theTylenol bottle on the island between them. “I was kind of pissed last night. Istole these.”

He laughs, opens his fridge. Pulls out a bottle of applejuice. Drinks directly from it like some kind of heathen. Caroline wrinkles hernose, “Gross. What if someone else wants some and doesn’t want your cooties?”

“I haven’t had anyone over in ages.”

It’s not surprising information, Caroline had gleaned asmuch from his comments last night. Still, she finds the confirmation that Klaushasn’t been having company welcome.

She turns her attention back to brewing the coffee. Onceeverything is set she flicks the button, takes a deep breath, turns to faceKlaus fully. “I don’t understand what happened.”

He sighs, all traces of amusement fleeing. “I know.”

“I thought things were good. We’d exchanged keys. We’d talkedabout me moving in when my lease was up. You didn’t seem freaked out about that.”

“I wasn’t. Honestly.” Klaus runs a hand through the flatside of his hair, making it slightly more symmetrical. “I heard that you turneddown a promotion.”

She stares at him and it takes her a second to realize whathe’s talking about. “What, the Seattle thing? I never even considered takingit. It was barely a move up. Andmoving across the country? I can barely get my mom to come here.”

He looks down, leans against the counter behind him. Klausisn’t one for embarrassment but she thinks his ears might be turning pink. “Ididn’t realize that at the time. Katerina kindly explained it to me a few weeksago.”

Yeah, Caroline would bet Kat hadn’t been especially kind.

“How did you even know about it?”

“I had to send my laptop away, remember? Borrowed yours afew times. You left a few of the emails open.”

Caroline groans, crossing her arms. “You broke up with mebecause you snooped?” She’d used theoffer to leverage a bit of a pay raise. Her boss had been only too willing tokeep Caroline around. She hadn’t told Klaus, had wanted it to be settledbecause she’d been pricing out winter getaways in St. Lucia.

“I feel as if snoopedimplies a bit of effort,” Klaus mutters. “An ulterior motive.” He’s lucky there’snothing she can throw at him.

“So not the point,” she snaps.

Caroline whirls, intending to get a bit of distance, but hegrabs her arm, steps in front of her. “Wait a minute, don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,geez. I wouldn’t have invaded your place this early if I wasn’t committed togetting all the gory details.”

He’s not entirely convinced, ducking down to catch her eyes,his pleading. “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

She snorts, claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, but that’sawfully conceited of you. Also, reallyarrogant. Kind of on brand, I guess.”

She’s only half teasing.

Annoyance flickers across Klaus’ features. “Funny. I thoughtI was being selfless.”

She swallows back the reply that wants to shoot out – she’sfairly certain he’d been scared butit she uses that against him flippantly he’ll be the one storming out and they’llnever get anywhere. “Klaus. I’m notselfless. Had I really wanted Seattle I would have asked you to come with me.”

That shocks him. His eyes widen, mouth falling open and hestruggles for words.

Her hearts started pounding, nerves tightening her stomachbut Caroline continues, flipping her hair over her shoulder and striving fornonchalance. “You work from home like 95% of the time anyway. You’d just haveto fly back once a month. And we’d need to get an extra bedroom or two becauseI’m pretty sure at least one of your siblings would be visiting every weekendbecause you’re co-dependant weirdos. But, since they all have excellent tastein significant others, I was prepared to deal.”

Klaus seems to be having trouble processing. “Why… why wouldyou…”

She knots her hands together because they’re shaking. Hervoice isn’t steady either, “Because I loved you, duh. And I was pretty surethat you loved me too.” He’d never said it but then, neither had she. Klaus isgood at actions – showing up with dinner when she’d texted that her day hadbeen busy, not complaining when she got his shirt all wet during the sad moviesthat he hated, keeping the scented candles she liked in his apartment. There’dbeen dozens upon dozens of tiny little things that showed he paid attention,that he wanted her to be comfortable and happy.

She’d found she hadn’t really needed the words.

He reaches for her, his hands settling on her hips. Carolinelets herself be pulled, fits her body to his. It’s just as right as sheremembers. When his head dips she dodges, resting her head against his shoulder.She tightens her arms around him, just in case he gets any silly, wrong, ideasabout pulling away. “I’m gonna need a little grovelling before I consent tomake up sex.”

She feels him laugh, hears the low husk of it against her ear.“How about I make you breakfast?”

Caroline thinks that’s a great start.

[sweettoothshipperrotg]

FrostedNature- Soulmate AU or College AU? Or whichever one you're feeling most inspired by really, I just need some FrostedNature fluff :))))

Hi! Sorry it took longer than expected, but I went to see Captain Marvel and got caught up with other stuff. ^^;To make up for it I made it a bit longer and extra fluffier

There was also this anonymous ask on my inbox: “FrostedNature- Soulmate or College AU? Preferably something with fluff :)”, so I decided to combine them. Hope you don’t mind.

(Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mate’s skin as well)

Here is some College Soul Mate Au for y’all :D

‘What’sthe answer for question 32?’

Therushed and messy handwriting that appeared in her forearm shouldn’t havesurprised her. She and Jack had been together for almost two years now.

But,really? Right now?

                                                       *****

Shehad been waiting her whole life to meet the owner of said handwriting, dreamingas many others of a sweet someone that the fates had decided to pair her with.

Emilymainly owed that to her mother. When she was a little girl she loved to hearthe story of the first time Kozmotis Pitchiner’s handwriting had etched ontoher skin; long delicate traces, as if he carefully trying to make a good firstimpression through his caligraphy.

Soit had been a surprise when Emily reached the age when she could meet her soulmate and nothing had happened for an entire year. At eighteen was when yoursoul mate could reach out to communicate.

Theyear of radio silence had been a little disheartening in the beginning, but herlife continued onwards and her college life had kept her busy enough. Shedidn’t write to her soul mate either. It wasn’t customary for girls to be onesto break the ice in this strange soul mate texting, but it wasn’t somethingthat had ever deterred her.

Shehonest to god had no idea what to say.

Shewas away from her home, knew no one, and felt like she had been pushed into adeep pool without knowing how to swim. The rhythm marked by these new settingshad her under complete uncertainty and was frankly overwhelming.

Shefelt like a mess and wasn’t confident enough to meet her soul mate just yet.

Solife had moved on and so had she. Slowly, she had adapted to her new situationand carved a small niche for her to build her life.

Imagineher surprise when on a day when she felt like crap – it was the anniversary ofher mother’s death, and she had decided to skip class and cry up a stormbecause she just felt like it –, her soul mate had decided to surprise her.

Shehad been sitting by the window sill, her body clad in pajamas and wrapped inblankets, and drinking a huge cup of cocoa with an amount of marshmallows andcinnamon that could only been described by any outsider as over indulging (asif she cared).

Emilywas almost certain that she had at least killed half a rainforest with theamount of tissues she had gone through, judging by how red and puffy her eyesand nose felt.

That’swhen the itching on her arm started. The foreign sensation wasn’t unpleasant,almost like the kind warmth that invades you when enjoying a nice book or whenfinding out that you still have a few more hours to sleep and don’t have toleave your bed.

Herforearm tickled a little and when she pulled back the sleeve of her pajama herbreath go stuck in her throat.

Gentleand soft strokes of ink started to appear all across her skin, spreading andtwisting into elaborate shapes.

However,the ink never turned into words but morphed into images of intertwined petals,stems and leaves.

Turnsout her soul mate was quite an artist.

Theywere drawing her flowers…her favorite flowers: Snowdrops, heathers, floribundaroses and freesias.

Tearsswelled in her eyes.

Soulmates felt more than saw theirsignificant other, inklings and sensations on the back of their brains ofemotions the other was feelings or things that they liked.

Despitethat she had never seen her soul mate, she knew things about them. Littleflashes and sensations that budded inside her but recognized weren’t her own.

Hersoul mate liked the cold. A deep feeling of happiness was linked to the idea offresh fallen snow. They also had quite the fixation on peppermint coffee,judging by the wave of satisfaction that invaded her and the ghost taste of thebeverage at the back of her tongue.

Theflowers that appeared on her forearm were to tell her that they were sorry thatshe felt sad and their wish for her to feel better. That she was not alone.

Asmile bloomed on her lips as she spent the rest of the day admiring thedesigned etched onto her skin, tracing it with her finger to appease that sideof her brain that kept on telling her that she was dreaming.

Sheeven took a few pictures of it. Although the markings were not permanent andwould fade eventually, a lot of people opted to tattoo the first phrase thatappeared as a memento of their first interaction – which was all fine and dandybut needles freaked Emily out.

Twomonths flew by before meeting her intended one.

To her delight, her soul mate continued todraw things. Turns out they were quite the artist.

Whenit happened, she was walking back from a class to her dorm, smiling at thebeautiful silhouette of a rabbit. It was drawn in such a way that it almostlooked that it would actually start moving and skipping across her arm. Whenshe got home she would add a new picture for her collection.

Soenraptured she was at how the traces stretched on her skin that she paid noattention to the world around her; her trance only broken when she foundherself stumbling backwards onto the ground and landing on her butt, her thingsscattering everywhere.

Alanky young man was also on the ground in front of her, a fellow victim oftheir collision.

“I’mso sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going!” He profusely apologized whilegetting up and offering his hand to help her get up.

Shecouldn’t hold back a tiny gasp.

Hisforearm sported a very delicate and detailed drawing of a rabbit in the sameplace as hers. The drawing now sported a disjointed line that the marker hadleft across the image due to them bumping onto each other.

Emily’seyes quickly scanned the boy’s face, registering each and every detail. Hiseyes were now focused on her arm, the drawing now matching his, even to theincongruent line that had been added in their little fender-bender.

Theireyes met, a smile spreading across the other’s face.

                                                    *****

Jackhad been surprised to find Emily by mere coincidence.

Hehad not tried to reach for her when he turned 18 and not after a whole year.

Hislife had turned upside down when his mother had become quite sick and he had tostay behind to help her and his sister out during a long and arduous recoveryprocess.

Theresponsibility of taking care of their house and their financial well being hadfallen on his shoulders, and had it not been for the support of his godfatherand family friends it would have certainly crushed him.

Northhad pulled enough strings for his college attendance to go from full time toonline and juggled around his papers and other homework into a more manageableschedule.

Sandywas always available to cover for him if he couldn’t make it to the hospitalwhen Jack was swamped with work at the local ice-skating rink or his homework.

Bunnyand Tooth were glad of looking after his little sister when he couldn’t. It wasalso a plus that they always brought food to his house or refused to chargethem whenever the siblings ate at the couple’s bakery.

Therehad been so much on his plate that finding his soul mate had been placed on theback burner. He had more urgent matters to focus on.

Ithad been hard, taxing every ounce of his patience, strength and spirit. He feltway older that he looked and he had come this close to giving up. But despiteeverything, he had managed to keep them afloat and pass his first year ofcollege.

Jackhad been rather apprehensive to leave his mother and Emma to finally attendcollege, but his friends at home had assured him that they would take care ofthe pair and that he should walk towards his future without feeling guilty.

Nowhe was at college full time and idea of having enough stability around himbrought back the idea of his forgotten soul mate.

Likethe rest of the world, he had learned details about his soul mate.

Thefirst impression came to him in the middle of the night while he was exiled inhis hometown trying to prepare a decent essay on how the influence of ancientart styles had evolved through the passing of time– he almost felt like he hadimagined that one due to the lack of sleep.

Thelingering smell of a floral perfume helped him deduce that his soul mate was agirl. It almost felt like it clung to his skin when in fact he knew very wellit was a sensation his brain was picking up.

Jasmineand coconut.

Judgingby how frequently she used it, it was her favorite.

Thenhe started smelling flowers. The sensation of soft petals and the fact that hedidn’t experienced them as much as the perfume lead him to believe these wereflowers that she liked.

Italso seemed that his soul mate was quite into baked goods. Out of nowhere, hewould find himself craving for scones, chocolate and pomegranate cupcakes,lemon cookies…

Hehad never tried half of the things he now felt an intense desire to eat. Itclearly had to be her influence.

Emmaand Tooth had teased him about his soul mate having an excellent taste when hearrived from his late shift with a box full of the aforementioned cupcakes(courtesy of Bunnymund at Jack’s request).

Afterhe had managed to ease himself into the whirlwind that was college, he had beenmore tempted to write to the girl that had slowly inserted her presence intohis life.

Hewas battling with the idea of what to even say when sadness struck him like atidal wave.

Itgave him an unpleasant sensation at the pit of his stomach and the need to cryalmost overwhelmed him.

Hewas entirely sure that this feeling belonged to someone else. Her emotions hadnever been so strong.

Aftereasing his breath and heartbeat into a normal pace, he sat there dumbfoundedwith his brain scrambling to analyze what was going on.

Hersadness was almost an echo of how he felt when he heard the doctor say his momwas gravely ill, when he felt the weight of the world almost crushing him down.It felt an awful lot like being drowned.

Hewanted, no, needed to make her feelbetter.

Beforehe even knew what he was doing he was grabbing one of his best and finestmarkers he had and drawing onto his skin.

Pushingdown the bout of emotions, he focused on carefully drawing the flowers thatalways seemed to cheer her up. He knew which ones they were. He had spent everyopportunity he had at flower shops trying to discern which ones matched theones that came to him. A vague shape or a tinge of fragrance had been his onlyclues and it had taken him a while to find them, but he had.

Ashe continued to spread the flowers onto their shared canvas, the sadness slowlywas dulled and eventually overcame by a sensation of warmth, happiness, andgratitude.

Bythe time he was done, a pleasant feeling of pride took over him. Not only washe proud of how beautiful it had turned out – he was pursuing a bachelor’sdegree in Art, after all -, but also of how happy it had made her.

Hesensed a ghost touch across his forearm and he closed his eyes, relishing andlingering on her contact while she traced her fingers across the petals andstems of the ink flowers.

Thisevent only served as incentive to keep on drawing. He would always have histool at the ready for whenever the impulse to draw something that may make herday easier struck. Although the desire to get to meet her and speak to her hadincreased tenth fold, he was enjoying their form of communication so much thathe didn’t want to stop. ‘Just a little longer’, he would say to himself.

Itwas an understatement to say that his heart almost jumped out of his chest whenhe saws the rabbit on the forearm of the cute girl he just bumped into.

Andthe rest, as they say, is history.

Theysay you feel complete when you find your soul mate. He had never been a fan ofthe concept, the idea that you feel incomplete and that you’re not truly worthyuntil you meet your other half sounding completely ridiculous to him.

Butnow he had to admit if life had given him a chance to meet Emily sooner, hewould have taken it without hesitation.

Itwasn’t that she made him complete. He had a life before her and it didn’tchange when he met her. But somehow, everything with her feels like more.

Beingwith her gave a particular shine to things: his hobbies, his surroundings. Itfelt more special whenever he got to hold her hand or see her smile.

Ithad been even better when they found out they were pursuing the same degree,and found it even funnier that they had never acknowledged the other’s presenceamong their classmates.

Whichnow brought them to the current situation…

                                                      *****

‘Howcan you not know? We studied this for weeks!’

‘Yeah,well we also made out in between said study. I might have forgotten the finerdetails’

Jacksmiled while imagining her blushing at the memory of said heated make outsessions. He didn’t have to wait too much for her answer, though.

‘You’rean idiot and I’m punching you once we’re out. Do you realize how busted we’reif the catch us?’

‘Maybebut think of what a bummer it would be if I couldn’t show up with you to myhouse on Christmas break.’

Afew minutes go by before she deigned to answer back.

‘Theanswer is B.’

Hesuppressed a smile in order to not bring attention to him. God, he loved her somuch.

Hefinished the remaining questions in record time and, after a quick revision ofhis answers, he handed the test to the teacher.

Onlywhen he was installed at a bench on the hallway to wait for Emily to be donewith the test, he dared to pull back his sleeve.

‘Andyou better be buying me a nice dinner after this’

Hechuckled. God, he loved her so much.

‘Asyou wish, princess.’

                                                         *****

There! Hope you enjoyed it and don’t hesitate to send more requests. It helps me flex my writer muscless ;)

[sidespromptblog]

Patton’s Break

(This was a prompt I did waaay before I started writing my series, so fixed it up and added some new stuff to it. Enjoy! :)  )

Part Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six

Looking back on it all Logan felt that he should have known better, in all honesty, he really felt like he should have kept his mouth shut and stopped talking so much. The others had told him time and time again, both in subtle and pretty unsubtle ways to shut his mouth and to not talk.

I should have known...It was all there, I was just.. I’m supposed to be the smart one and yet I was just too stupid to see it.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Thoughts like these rang around dizzily in his head, mocking him like the metaphorical demon on his shoulder, as the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, before slowly leaking down and staining the grey hoodie that was bunched up into his arms. A sob hitched in his breath, but once again he muffled it by pressing his face into the soft grey hoodie that smelled of baked cookies and cinnamon sugar.

Why did he have to be stupid when it came to the person he loved?

It had started simple enough, as usual, they were all together. Taking part in one of their usual family meetings in the mind space that currently looked like the Thomas’ living room, as they talked about whatever was going on with Thomas and how he could be expected to deal with it.  Roman shot off a few ideas that they were talking about even if a definitive point hadn’t been reached yet, all while Virgil and Logan idly chat together for a while. and

The moment that it seemed to happen was when Patton made a few of his jokes and in typical fashion Logan groans at one of them, he had rolled his eyes as the other’s snickered at his plight. Logan clapped his hand over his face being careful not to slap his glasses off of his face as he shook his head, the smile on Patton’s face seemed frozen there as Logan opened his mouth to speak.

“Another one of your silly jokes Patton, really?” The question was simple enough and something that was a normal response to one of Patton’s puns, and usually it wouldn’t have gone on without much of an issue like it usually did, but for whatever reason…Patton just lost it.

Patton wasn’t laughing along with them, nor was he even smiling anymore at Logan’s retort, that would have normally been deemed a joke between the two of them. Everything seemed to freeze at that moment, as Patton’s fingers curled into fists, and his smile now had one too many teeth visible, as he all but started to rip his cat hoodie off. The others weren’t laughing anymore either, Virgil’s expression held a look of stiff terror as the quick and jerky movements from Patton seemed to surprise him the most.

Even Roman wasn’t quite sure what to do, as he just watched, and before any of them even knew it he was throwing it at Logan’s face in what could most accurately be deemed a fit of pure unadulterated anger, then he started screaming. His torrent of anger filled screams ringing around the room, flooding out anyone else who would have talked over him.

“You know what? I am DONE being the comedy relief. I’m done being talked over, and walked over. I’m FUCKING sick of just being the silly character to lighten the mood. I’m fucking done.” There a little bit spittle could be seen flying from Patton’s mouth and even so, Logan wouldn’t have noticed it, all he saw was Patton’s flushed and angry looking face and the way that his eyes are furiously burning as he stared back into Logan’s widened eyes. The moral side was heavily panting, his arms stiff and his hands still clenched like he wanted to punch something, or perhaps someone. His gaze burned into Logan.

Or maybe it was his own eyes that are burning? His chest perhaps? Logan didn’t know how to name what he was feeling in that moment, but instead of thinking about it, thinking about the pain that was akin to having one's heart ripped out and stomped on just about a thousand times by the one person who held it. Logan instead swallowed thickly, swallowing down all of the emotions that wanted to erupt out of him like a cataclysmic volcano that would leave no survivors. No, instead of letting himself go, and instead of allowing himself to feel any of it right now, he chose to do something else instead.

In that moment of tense silence, with the other two sides looking back and forth between him and Patton, Logan looks down at the hoodie and then back over to Patton. He could feel it, he could feel everyone staring, was its judgment? Were they judging him? Mocking him? Were they blaming him like Patton so rightfully does? Do they hate him too now? The only thing that he can even bear to muster up is something small and pathetic as he is in that moment in time, and he’s sure that the others see it as such a thing as well.

The most that he can even let out right then, is a soft “Oh,” as he stares down at the cat hoodie, he stares for what feels like a long time his eyes still doing that irritating burning sensation that he wasn’t sure what to name, and then he suddenly sinks out.

When he is finally back inside of his room, Logan feels his fingers digging into the soft fabric of the cat hoodie, they’re clenching it tightly, completely wrinkling the material, but even then his eyes are burning more and more.

Why can’t I see now? What’s going on? Why…

“Oh…” The pathetic whimper of the single word slips out of him.

That one word left him, just like the little drops of salty liquid slide gently down his cheeks and drip solemnly onto the warm brown fabric of the hoodie, So this is crying. Logan humorlessly thought to himself, his chest feels like it’s going to explode any second now as he tries as hard as he can to hold it in for a second long. Eventually though….eventually he lets it happen for a second, he lets himself cry as his shoulders start to tremble for a second, and then just moments later, they start to shake as if his body was gripped with the terror and fear of being scared for his life.

It takes him far too long, but once that he is able to it stops as soon as it had started, and soon enough he’s wiping his eyes with the back of his hands trying to keep the uneven breathing down to a minimum. Finally, he lets out a breath and wiping his face once more before grabbing all of what he came for.

Logan sinks back out of his room, leaving the hoodie behind discarded on his bed. Forgotten for now.

It had alarmed Virgil for all but a few seconds when Logan had up and vanished on them, as it had with Roman as well as the creative side started to worriedly pace back and forth. None of them had expected him to just leave, perhaps not even Patton, who was just standing there now. His anger had drained away the moment that the heartbreaking emotion had crossed Logan’s face, and even more so when Logan had looked up into his eyes, the warm brown eyes that were glazed over with a well of tears, before being replaced with something colder that none of them were used to.

The anxious side just stood there, not entirely certain as to what he should do now that had been standing there in sheer frozen horror, at least before he opened his mouth to call out Logan’s name again. The first time, he had choked on his own words, Logan’s name coming out more as a gasp of letters more than anything. Honestly, Virgil didn’t want to admit it but he was scared, he was scared of what Logan was going to do. Or rather what he could do.

Would he shout back? Would he laugh at Patton’s face, his anger? Would he completely break down? Would he...duck out like he had done before? Would he simply cease to be?

His questions all too soon were answered though. As the sight of Logan rising back up within just a few seconds.

The first thing that Virgil noted to his own dismay, were Logan’s eyes. How red and puffy they were, like Logan had just been crying his heart and soul out, but hadn’t yet had the time to cover it up or to put a cool rag over his face to hide the redness from every one of them. It certainly wasn’t the only thing either, as in his hands much to Virgil’s, Roman’s, and even Patton’s muted surprise, he held Patton’s cardigan.

It had obviously been used a great deal, that much is obvious by its state of wear, not to say that it looks horrible. But rather it had the kind of state of wear that was there when someone has meticulously and carefully washed and cared for it over the course of months perhaps even the course of years.

That someone being Logan.

“I..I guess then, you’ll want this back I guess…I..I’ve been using it to sleep with. But it’s yours.”

When Logan gives it back his hands are shaking and his fingers don’t dare to touch Patton’s as he sharply draws away as if the moral side had just stung him, and Patton just in general looks awfully shocked at Logan’s words. A frown pulling at his lips, and barely..just barely Virgil saw something glimmering in his eyes as he took the cardigan back.

Patton’s fingers curled and dug into the fabric now drawing it close to himself, even from where he held it he could smell the faintest whiff of old books, ink, and ground up coffee beans. Even though he had never seen that cardigan again, Logan had been using it plenty when Patton hadn’t. Somehow, that made him feel all the worse for it too, as he watched Logan standing there his eyes locked to the floor. He couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes.

“I..I will not defend myself against your words…” Logan began, as he swallowed down the rising tears that wanted to spill over, he had to keep up this cold facade for as long as he possibly could. “All that I will say is…you are not comedic relief, you never were to me. In my eyes were..you were someone who knew when nobody else did what was wrong. While I was just mere exposition, you could help solve problems that I didn’t even see, and Patton….I am sorry if I mistook what that meant.”

Without even thinking, and with a face full of regret Patton reached forward, however, this time when Logan sinks out, he does not come back.

Tagged: 

@neko-ereri

@seas-space-and-stardust

[matchaball]

wip updates

It’s been a long while since I’ve updated a lot of my fics, but I am working on them! I’m working on multiple fics at the same time so even though the going’s been slow, it’s been steady for all of them- which means at some point, I’m going to be dropping a bunch of fic updates at once haha. But in the meantime, I thought I’d give some wip snippets for any of those interested :) 

inking indigo

“Adrien and I binged through all of Lord of the Rings this weekend,” Nino explains. He reaches up to rub tired eyes, knocking his glasses askew in the process. “The extended versions, too. I totally forgot so many details in the movies. Did you remember that orcs are born from that gross goopy mud? Although, speaking of…”

He snags a used mixing bowl and collects a chunk of cookie dough with the swipe of his finger. He looks at Marinette and pauses, a finger in his mouth and an uncomfortably knowing twinkle in his eye. “Are you wearing Adrien’s apron?”

“Don’t insult my baking like that,” Marinette evades, trying to laugh the jibe about orc goop off instead of answering his sharp observation. “Especially if you’ve just come here to mooch.”

“I would never,” Nino deadpans, bringing hand over his heart in mock hurt. As if he didn’t spend most of his childhood and adolescence gleefully chowing down every treat Sabine and Tom always left for him, Alya, and Marinette to consume after school.  He quirks a smile. “You’re definitely wearing Adrien’s apron. It’s got the flowershop logo on it.”

Marinette’s cheeks heat up and she hastily stands and bustles to the sink, grabbing a dirty mixing bowl to scrub clean.

“I just haven’t had the chance to return it to him,” she defends, not meeting Nino’s eyes. His gaze is always the one that catches her unaware, at times she never expects so can never prepare for. “And it’s the only clean apron I’ve got at the moment.”

“Uh huh.” The dryness of Nino’s tone isn’t one she can fight against. Sometimes, Marinette thinks he knows her weak spots better than even Alya. He softens and relents. “Though speaking of, Adrien asked me to bring this back to you.”

He nudges the basket on the countertop with his elbow, uttering a soft “Oh shi-” as he accidentally knocks a shortbread turtle off the edge. He catches it just by the tip of his fingers as he lunges for it, saving it from a crumbly demise upon the floor.

Marinette pauses, bowl and sponge dripping from her hands, before setting them both down in the sink absentmindedly and wiping her hands dry on her apron. A small sound of surprise escapes her as she draws the basket towards her, finding it heavier than she expected.

NIno comes up, turtle in hand, and watches expectantly.

The lid folds back under Marinette’s hands, and a soft sea of blue and purple lupines greets her. She plucks a single stem up, watching as the tall spike waves up with the weight of the numerous blooms spiraling around the long stalk. The blooms at the tip remain closed still, still green and growing, graduating into full bloom towards the other end of the stem. Marinette’s fingers hover over the fully opened flowers at the bottom, just shy of touching a violet rich and vibrant enough to taste.

She lowers the flower to place on the countertop and changes her mind halfway, tucking it instead into the pocket of her apron. When she closes the lid of the basket, her hands are shaking. All the questions she’s wondered since the day she met Adrien, all the new information gleaned from her mother, and all the mashup of her emotions churn in her mind, whirling faster and faster and faster until-

“He bugs me,” Marinette blurts out.

ninette companion piece to @tides-miraculous‘ incredible art! (part 1/?)

When the footsteps of the couple have faded from her hearing, she slings her yoyo out and chooses to drop neatly down to street level to start heading back home. The immediate urge to detransform is strong- she appreciates that she can leave Ladybug behind when there isn’t a need for her- but the veritable cityscape of responsibilities, deadlines, and questions waiting for Marinette back home stop the necessary words from rolling off her tongue. They stop her slow walk down the street altogether, and Ladybug’s not quite sure where to go.

She wonders if Chat ever feels like this- like he’s adrift in his own skin, like he's a little...

“Lost?”   

The familiarity of the voice is the only thing that stops Ladybug from whirling around and giving a good roundhouse kick to the head, except it's not Chat that she sees as she turns around, but Nino.

“Yes?” she automatically answers, then backtracks to his initial question. “Wait- no… umm, maybe?”

Being unbalanced by surprise has her sounding much more like flustered Marinette than confident Ladybug. Something in her face must've shown, because Nino doesn't comment on it despite his pause of confusion. He blinks once, twice, then shrugs.

“Well, I’m going to be hanging out here for a while if you want company,” he says. He looks at her for another moment before offering a small smile. It’s an invitation as he walks to a nearby bench and settles himself comfortably down beneath the low light of the streetlamp.

She doesn’t want to stay on among the rooftops, but she doesn’t feel like going back just yet either so- maybe here is where she’s supposed to be.

Nino’s eyes are dark, and kind, as Ladybug steps up and joins him on the bench.

follow the running stitch 

“You've been watching those detective TV shows again,” Marinette groans.

“What's a journalist but a detective?” Alya shoots back, laughing at her friend’s disgruntled expression. “Besides, if you're going to make a guess, you might as well make it an interesting one.”

“An informed one hopefully, oh great reporter of the world.”

“Then it’s no longer so much a guess, as it is practically a fact.”

“Extrapolation, Alya. Isn’t that the point of investigative journalism? To dig and dig until you uncover every dirty little secret?”

“Only the truth, dear Watson. Only the truth.”

The look Marinette shoots her at the nickname is entirely dry and unamused, but Alya merely plucks the macaron left on the plate between them and pops it pointedly it in her mouth, her eyes crinkled in wicked humour. The pleasant chatter of the café’s patio around them falls away as Marinette gives in and rolls her eyes, a grin tugging up despite herself.

“Well your truths aren’t helping me draw anyone properly so help a girl out?” The flip of her sketchbook’s page is Marinette’s version of a sigh. Her pencil skates to the corner and stands poised, waiting to try again.

replay, rewind, restart (naruhina, soulmate au)

It would rip her apart, to lose her soulmate. She could feel it too, how it would break him.

“Don’t scare me like that again ok?” He pulled back just enough so she could see his eyes again, the memorable blue of them. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, calloused thumbs shaking as they stroked over her cheekbones gently, reverently, passing over the bandages that covered her temples. “I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

It had been her choice, to intervene with the gunman. Hinata would do it again, if the situation called for it once more, and she knew that she couldn’t make a promise that she wasn’t sure she could keep.

She realized it then. How having your soulmate didn’t mean also having forever with them. There was never a guarantee of a happy ending. There would always be fears to face, realities to answer to, choices to make. What Kiba had told her long ago didn’t seem so true here; Hinata couldn’t see the strength in the choices she might have to make, not when it meant leaving a shattered heart. There was just pain, and a bittersweet seed of hope that those choices may never come to pass.

“I…” Hinata started, because she knew she should say something. The words weren't there- but he was.

Her hands lifted up to wrap loosely around his wrists before skimming down powerful forearms tanned by the sun. Her fingers stretched wide open as she reached his broad shoulders, but they still couldn't span the solid width of them. He swallowed, throat working as she slid her hands down the great expanse of his chest. She mapped him, feeling the unconquerable strength of him tremble beneath her gentle touch. Within the fighting beat of his heart, she found her words.

“I'll try,” Hinata promised.

His answering smile broke over his face like a rising sun, dazzling and breathtaking. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek, her nose, her lips, anywhere and everywhere that he could reach, drinking her in with unchecked emotion.

Hinata leaned into his embrace. Fear would make a fighter of her, but his love, this happiness was worth it.

“Hey,” he whispered softly at the end, his shining blue eyes the last thing she remembers. “You're the bravest person I know.”

naruhina drabble prompt (music au)

They make a stunning trio, dressed in formal black that soaks up the dark ink of their long hair. Their eyes shutter down towards their respective instruments, concentrating on the vibrato of the cello, the hum of the viola, the trill of the violin- and even though Naruto doesn't know much about classical music, he knows that they are very good.

Still, the pieces they play are very long and honestly a little tiring to listen to considering his minimal interest in classical music. Despite his best intentions, Naruto dozes off.

He swears, he only closed his eyes for a second but suddenly Tenten’s kicking his shins and the audience has surged into a roar of applause. Guilt springs Naruto to his feet and he cheers with all the heart and volume that had been denied to him before.

He can see Neji rolling his eyes at him, no doubt unfooled by his enthusiasm. The girl with the violin clasped in front of her smirks with wicked humour and Naruto gets the distinctive impression that he's become the butt of a joke.

The cello practically hides the other young woman on the stage but Naruto’s eyes flicker over to hers as she stands and bows. As she straightens, her long inky hair slides back from her face like curtains, revealing warm lavender eyes staring directly at him.

Maybe it's because her eyes had been hidden from view the whole time as she played before, maybe it’s because her countenance had been so unassuming before, but the open sincerity of her gaze now strikes him like a blow. The look of gentle amusement she gives him trips his heart and he can’t say why his face suddenly grows too warm. Even when she looks away to take in the rest of the crowd that’s starting to die down, he’s still clapping, still staring.  

“What d’you think Naruto?” Ino elbows his side. He totally misses the sly edge of her grin, the knowing tease in her voice. Something about the look from the cellist lingers in his mind like a note he’s trying to catch, and even though he can’t remember what he listened to, he knows there is something about that performer that makes him feel.

“...whoa,” he breathes.

[anarchistbanjo]

Creative Power

Crippling depression comes when we can't find any way out of a bad situation. We feel trapped and helpless. Each of us is doing the best we can in life. We each act in accordance to what we have learned through past experiences and in accordance with our current beliefs.

No matter how successful we are things will occasionally erupt in our faces and attempt to smash us. There is always a creative solution to even the worst situation. In the very worst situation it may cost us our life. Still, it is always possible to find a way to die with honor and self-esteem intact.

I recently read a novel that dealt with the horrors of Alzheimer's and Huntington's disease. I was deeply moved as I read about these diseases. I know some people that suffer from Alzheimer's but I did not know how badly they and those they loved suffered. In the novel, one person in a lucid moment beat the disease through suicide.

He was able to die with dignity at the moment of his choice and under his terms. The novel still haunts me. Why should our world be this way? True genius and creativity come from developing the ability to discover and use solutions previously unknown or unrecognized. Every situation has a solution, it is up to us to find that solution and discard those that are not acceptable.

We must train ourselves in the ability to find these solutions. This training helps us to be resourceful and adept at dealing with recurring crisis situations. In time crisis situations are no longer emotionally crippling to us. We gain the ability to deal with them rationally and competently. The key to finding creative solutions is to take ourselves out of the situation and perceive it differently.

We must change our way of looking at the situation because our normal way offers no solution. We do this naturally when we ask ourselves, "What would Dad do in this situation, what would Mom do? What would John Wayne or Clint Eastwood do?" We try to see the situation from the eyes and viewpoint of someone we respect.

A draw back of this approach is that it involves admitting our own inability to deal with the situation. It reinforces the weakness of our own chosen belief system.

As strange as it sounds, the use of divinatory devices such as horoscopes, fortune cookies, Tarot cards and daily prayer books are more effective.

These devices are more effective because they give information that is so vague and general we must generate creative energy to make the information even apply to us. "How in the world can that ever apply to me?"

After a few minutes of thought we arrive at possible interpretations that could apply to our own situation.

Do you see what is happening? At the last level we approached the problem not as ourselves but as someone else. In this stage we use divinatory devices to get our own creative juices flowing. These devices are crutches or aids and have no power in themselves. At this stage we are able to expand our options in creative ways with the help of these aids.

One of the great enjoyments in life is finding the correct solution to a problem or situation. Eureka! A light bulb goes off in our brain and we are overjoyed.

Most people enjoy horoscopes and other divinatory aids because of the joy of discovering possible interpretations to what would otherwise be nonsense. We enjoy creating meaning out of chaos and discord. At least we do when chaos and discord do not overwhelm us.

It is important we try for solutions that are within our ability to resolve. The key is to start at lower levels and not attempt the highest levels until we are familiar with the lower ones.

The next stage is much more rigid and demanding. A writing instructor may tell a student to take a list of 25 words and create a poem or a story containing those words. Likewise a person may spend days, months or years making his or her thoughts conform to a specific pattern.

The art and discipline of pen and ink drawing is an example. The artist is restricted to work in a specific medium and still expected to produce brilliant creative and original work.

This is also the level of active problem solving. Thousands of people enjoy crossword puzzles and other mental challenges simply because of the joy in finding the correct solutions. In addition to added creative power this also develops the analytical and reasoning skills.

As always, the more experience you have in problem solving the greater your ability to find solutions becomes. The more you do, the better you get.

The next level is illustrated by the concept of a Zen koan. A Zen master may ask a pupil, "What do an ice cube, a stop sign and your mother-in-law all have in common?" There is only one correct answer and it is highly personal and individual. You will feel the correctness of the solution deep in your soul when you find it.

The student or disciple may spend days, months or even years pondering this question. Whenever he approaches the master with a possible solution the master merely says, "That is not the correct solution, try harder." After perhaps two years the student runs up to the master laughing and with tears in his eyes. He is overcome with emotion and radiates intense excitement. "I know the answer," he shouts. "Whenever I see my mother-in-law she stops me cold!"

The master congratulates the student and then gives him another more difficult koan. With each success the student is able to find the correct answer more easily and swiftly. Of course the correct answer is always individual and personal but the master and student both can tell when the answer is the correct one by the emotional rightness it has.

This is a very high degree of problem solving where only a few simple words are used as a key to unlock the creative power within us. As before each effort builds upon the successes of previous efforts. With experience the difficulty goes away and the solution readily appears.

The highest level of creative problem solving is when a person blanks their mind and deliberately tries to be open to all possibilities. They reject "possible" solutions because they are familiar with the euphoria and inner joy that comes from the truly "correct" solution.

The exciting news is that this level of creative ability can be developed by anyone with practice and hard work. But they must first master the lower levels of creative problem solving.

Mastery of each of the lower levels is an important and easy way to get a great number of personal successes under one's belt. This assists in strengthening personal confidence and self-esteem.

The creative ability is like a muscle that must be flexed many times for it to grow strong. It is like dissolving salt in a glass of water. You can add more and more salt and nothing happens. At a critical point the water can contain no more salt and the salt crystallizes out of the water.

In the same manner when we focus our attention fully on our problem and give it our energy and effort a point will eventually be reached where the proper solution crystallizes into our awareness. With experience we become familiar with the process and it becomes easier and swifter to accomplish. Each success makes the next one easier and we learn to trust ourselves more.

In time our ability to focus and generate this creative energy can become spontaneous and happen without effort on our part. It is at this point we are competent and resilient in life. Our ability to deal with life becomes an enjoyable challenge and not a burden. We actually look forward to the next challenge from the unknown.