#Threadbare Trio

[lookinghalfacorpse]

dreamzablade where they get caught in an explosion and cTechno only has a moment grab the nearest bf and shield him bc humans are so, so fragile, and cTechno isn’t sure he’s big enough to protect them both :(

/dsmp /rp tw for descriptions of injury, blood, concussions, explosions, tinnitus

“Well, I guess it depends on what you consider ‘safer.’  Is it safer to be out of sight but crammed in a… in a little space like this?” Dream said, being a bit of a contrarian.  He liked to play devil’s advocate.  “Or is it safer to be out in the open, but able to move freely?  It’s a trade-off.”

“Bruh, I dug this tunnel specifically to keep us hidden, and I’d appreciate a bit of gratefulness, alright?”  Techno joked.

Technoblade, Dream, and Philza had been walking through this tunnel for at least twenty minutes.  It was connected to a mine that Phil started many years ago, so it didn’t look too suspicious for all three of them to enter at once, but its long and winding path eventually led to the Syndicate meeting room.  Despite its tactical advantage, it wasn’t the most comfortable travel.  Techno had to duck his head through some sections, and they had to pass single-file through the support beams.  Not to mention that it was cold, damp, and drafty.

“I’m just saying,” came Dream’s reply, his face briefly illuminated as he walked past a torch, only to be cast in shadow again moments later.

Phil chuckled, casting a glance over his shoulder.  He walked in front, his wings scraping against the walls.  Techno, directly behind him, was slightly hunched.  Dream trailed behind, still bearing a slight limp from his time in the Vault.  This would be Dream’s first time at the Syndicate meeting room, and Techno went all-out to ensure he’d be safe for the journey.

“This cold is brutal,” Phil complained.  “It’ll take a while to warm the meeting room up.  Hope you both dressed well.”

“We still have blankets, right?” Techno asked.

“We should.  So long as Niki didn’t steal them all.”

“I will not be sitting on my first Syndicate meeting with a blanket on,” Dream mused from behind them.

“Right, so lesson number one about the Syndicate is that we’re all friends, and we treat each other like friends,” Techno said, “Now, I know this is kind of a foreign concept to you, but friends normally don’t act like business partners.  If you’re cold, you’re wearin’ a blanket, no matter how–”

Upon Philza’s next footstep, Techno heard an observer click.  Faint and muffled– imbedded somewhere in the tunnel wall, perhaps– following by an even quieter but distinct buzz as a TNT fuse was lit.

“Phil, to me!” Techno bellowed, already turning around and taking Dream into his arms.  He lifted the human easily and pressed him into the bulk of his chest.  Dream’s breath left him on the impact, but with his limp, Techno worried about the boy’s ability to get out of harm’s way quickly.  He extended a hand towards Philza– his lifelong partner, his most trusted friend– and snatched his wrist, pulling him quickly into himself.

Techno remembered feeling the rush of adrenaline through his torso, his muscles seizing and stiffening as he turned himself into a shield for his partners.  He saw a flash of fear on Dream’s delicate, sharp features, his eyes lighting with concern.  He saw Phil’s hair flash like a flag as he rushed to them, and Techno put an arm around his wing to prevent him from wrapping it around them.  He worried about hurting them, but he determined it was worth the risk.  They were both too small, too fragile, too painfully shatterable to survive a blast at this range.  He pressed them into his stomach and prayed his size would be enough.

He remembered feeling an intense pressure at his back, a ringing in his ears, and blackness.

—

When Techno was next aware of himself, he was laying facedown on the muddy floor of the tunnel.  The blast had pushed him a notable distance.

The pain only hit when he tried to move.  His back was torn to shreds; he was grateful he wasn’t able to see it, but the hot pain (like the whips and flogs of the arena– how long has it been since he knew this pain?) gathered where his muscles flexed.  The ringing in his ears persisted as he raised himself from the ground.

Dream was pinned beneath him, eyes open but unseeing.  Philza, only half-tucked beneath Techno’s shoulder and arms, began to writhe.

“No, no no,” Techno started, finding his voice quiet compared to the tinnitus, “Hey.”

With a hand under Dream’s jaw, he discovered that the young human must’ve hit his head when they were flung, and his forearms were scorched and bruised.  He might’ve wrapped his arms around Techno at the last second.  Philza’s shoulder and neck were covered in burns, and his neck was bleeding badly.  Despite his initial writhing, his mumbles were unintelligible and his movements slow.  He was pale.

“No, no.” Techno scrambled for the remains of his cape, his hands searching along the ground for anything he could use to stop the bleeding.  It was burned off his back, but a few scraps of it remained a few feet in front of them.  He grabbed it and pressed it, desperately, into Phil’s neck.

Phil almost appeared to make eye contact, but his eyes held little intelligence.

“Don’t die, okay?  Don’t die,” Techno told him.  The tinnitus blocked out the voices of his Chat– a small blessing.  “Tell Kristin that it’s still my turn with you.”

Dream whined– a high-pitched sound from somewhere in his throat– and began to stir.  Techno placed his open hand flat on the boy’s chest.  “Hey, Dream.  Don’t move too much.”

“Wha–” Dream started.  He’d just began to recover from the head trauma Quackity inflicted on him, and Techno feared long-term repercussions.  “Techno.  Techno.  You’re bleeding.”

“We’re all bleedin’, dude.  You gotta take it easy.”

“No, Techno, you’re bleeding.”  

Technoblade was distantly aware that the blood on his back was seeping forward, drenching his white shirt with a maroon shade.  He was distantly aware that the string at his collar was dripping blood onto Dream.  He could think of nothing besides the fact that his two most beloveds were dying in front of him.

“It’s cool, it’s cool.  I’m fine.”  Techno leaned forward until he could press his forehead against Dream’s, just for a second, hoping to comfort him.  “You have anythin’ in your inventory?  Health pots, gapples?”

“Y.. Yeah, I… I do, I–” Dream tried to sit as he moved into action, and Techno gently pushed him back to the ground.

“Don’t move, dude.”

“Techno…” “Health pots, Dream,” The piglin reminded him, noting that the concussed boy seemed to have already forgotten his request.  Dream pulled up his inventory from his position on his back, clumsily sorting through the many items he carried with him.  Techno watched him, guiltily.  Phil’s hands roamed aimlessly around his own upper body, trying to clutch at the places that hurt him.  He found Techno’s fingers and clawed at them with his fingernails.  “Look, I’m so sorry,” Techno said, addressing both of them but knowing his words may not reach them, or may be forgotten, “I tried to protect both of you and I think I did a pretty bad job of it.  You both gotta live, okay?”

Dream’s head momentarily lulled to the side as he lost consciousness again, but he recovered quickly.  His green eyes wandered fearfully over Philza, lying half-dead beside him, before landing again on the spots of Techno's blood that landed on his shirt.

Techno felt his vision fade, and he was gone before he had the chance to warn them.

—

He’d wake on Philza’s living room floor, laying on his stomach.

Someone must’ve transformed the living room into a giant nest.  He was lying on a mattress that was a little bit too small for him– one of the human mattresses, surely– and his limbs hung ungracefully off its edges, but a few layers of blankets separated his fur from the cold wooden floor.  He noticed a tight weight around his whole torso.  He was wrapped in bandages from naval to collar, with some smaller bandages adhered to his long ears and neck, and the scent of burnt fur filled his nostrils.  The small hand of a human rested, comfortable and limp, in the palm of his hand.

Disoriented, he wondered for a moment why they chose to nap in such an odd spot.  Remembering the blast, he nearly leaped from the mattress, but the pain stopped him.

“Whoa, Techno.  Not so fast, alright?” came Philza’s warm voice.  

Techno never felt so relieved to hear him.  He lifted his head until he could face the direction of the fireplace, and there he found the beautiful sight of Philza and Dream cuddling together, Dream fully asleep with his face resting on Phil’s diaphragm.  It was Dream’s hand that was placed neatly in Techno’s, outstretched towards him as he slept.

Both of them were wrapped in bandages, their hair tousled and messy.  But they were alive.

“You saved us, love,” Phil continued, “I just wish you didn’t hurt yourself so badly in the process.”

“Worth it.”  Techno squeezed his hand around Dream’s.  “How’d we get home?”

“Not sure.  I think Dream did a lot of it.  And he hurt himself doing it, too.  He’s all bruised, and I think he pulled something in his shoulder.”  Phil ran a hand through Dream’s long hair.  “You two have that in common.  Self-sacrifice.”

An ironic statement from a man who lost a wing to protect his son.  Techno didn’t argue with it.  “Who would trap the tunnel?”

“Don’t know.  But I’m worried they know about the meeting room.  When we’re healthy, we should go check on it.”

“Or ask Niki to.  I don’t want either of you near it right now.”

“We could ask Connor.”

Techno snorted.  “We could ask Connor.”

In his sleep, Dream nuzzled into Phil and sighed.  Techno got accustomed to Dream sleeping constantly as he recovered from the last concussion, and he supposed he’d have to prepare himself for a similar recovery.  Techno imagined Dream dragging his giant piglin body through that tiny tunnel while his head injury raged, his thin body straining, his shoulder popping out of place.  But at least they were all alive.  So long as they lived, they would be okay.

But Technoblade has destroyed nations over smaller offenses than this. The moment he healed, he would solve this, and he wouldn't use cowardly tactics like traps.

[moonchildstyles]

rosemary

rosemary part one: harry has a lot of secrets and has perfected the art of being alone. y/n likes to wear bows in her hair and tries harder than anyone harry has ever known.

wordcount: 14.5k+

—————

The sound of the lock clicking in place as Harry twisted the deadbolt on his front door had his shoulders relaxing. The kind of comfort a locked door brought was something he'd never take for granted. 

He kicked off his shoes beside the door, the dingy carpet making his beaten Vans look a lot cleaner than they really were. His keys clamoring atop the rickety side table he had set up next to the door had him wincing at the volume. He didn't like loud noises much anyway, but especially not after one of his longer shifts. Harry bypassed the single curtained window in his apartment, leaving the drapes heavily closed despite the morning light crawling over the horizon. 

First order of business was changing out of his work uniform. He hated nothing more than relaxing in the same pants he had worked all night in, even if the dress code of the grocery store was on the lax side. He flung the maroon collared shirt into his hamper, followed by the set of stiff, dark pants he wouldn't wear ever in his daily life. He could have melted as soon as he threw on a heather grey t-shirt and tattered sweats. 

The second he sunk into his bed, springs creaking under his weight, he felt the knots in his muscles begin to loosen. He'd never worked over nights before at any of his previous jobs, and he hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to adjust to falling asleep when the sun came up and the challenge his body would pose over working when he should be resting. At least, he was home. 

His studio apartment wasn't heavily furnished—or even lightly furnished, if he was being honest. This was his seventh home in the last handful of years, and after a while the idea of lugging furniture around and anything other than the essentials made him just as exhausted as the actual process of moving. It was easier to pack up and leave when there wasn't much for him to miss. Instead, he often bought secondhand, or anything cheap whenever he settled in a place that seemed good enough for the time being.

This particular move left him with a plain bed frame, the legs uneven but fixed with the help of a couple of old books. His pillows were thin, matching the frayed sheets he had stretched across his mattress and the threadbare comforter topping the whole thing. Like with most of his past apartments, the carpets held stains from before he moved in, walls yellowed from cigarettes he didn't smoke, and the kitchen appliances worked at their convenience. The only things that were truly his, that he never parted with in any of his moves and made this place less of a crash pad, were the few well-loved books under his bed that weren't being used to prop up the frame, and the small photo of his mother and sister sitting on a shelf he was lucky enough to have found at a garage sale when he moved in. 

Despite it all, Harry liked this place. 

The town he'd landed in was on the quieter side, too small for much trouble to rise up. He hoped that would make it an easy place to stick around for a while.

His body felt heavy when he forced himself to stand from his bed and pad over to the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner of the space. As exhausted as his body was, his brain was still very much awake and urging him to eat something before he settled any.

His kitchen was made up of limited cabinet space, a trio of stubborn appliances, and a square of loosely-laid tiles marking the confines of the space. The flimsy cabinets were barely hanging onto their hinges, from before even Harry moved in. The shelves were sparsely dotted with canned food and boxed snacks. They were the easiest and cheapest things to grab, even if they weren't necessarily bites that he liked. Plus, they were easy to travel with if he needed to leave in a split. 

The stubby refrigerator manning one of the walls held only the bare essentials, leaving the shelves and door more bare than not. The appliance mostly held the frozen meals he was able to get a discount on through his job. The microwave embedded in the wall stunk like burnt hair every time he ran it for longer than ten seconds. The stove was the most reasonable method of heating up food in this apartment, Harry had found, even if only two out of the four burners operated on more than a simmer. He had never used the oven in the three months since he made this his home, despite the fact it had been cleared by his landlord on move in day. The exposed wiring sticking out of the back looked like it would cause a house fire instead of just heating a lasagna. 

Harry bypassed it all as he rifled through his near-empty cabinets. To be fair, this wasn't the worst place he'd ever lived, so he'd take it if things were on the rundown side and carried an odd smell if he paid close enough attention. It was a routine the way he pulled out a can from his cupboard, a Spaghettio's label wrapped around the tin, before reaching for the misshapen pot he kept in a lower cabinet. His movements felt robotic as he went along, forming his meal out of habit more than any conscious thought. His brain happily turned onto autopilot as he stirred the runny tomato sauce, noodles floating through, until boiling bubbles broke through the surface. 

Taking it off the heat, Harry scooped it into a bowl. This was good enough for him. 

With the pot in the sink to be washed and the can in the trash, he moved on tired feet back to his bed. He didn't have a dining table to eat at, and he didn't really care if he was honest. It wasn't as if he was hosting dinner parties or entertaining guests. He was happy enough with nestling into his blankets and eating on his bed. 

Tucked underneath his pillow, Harry pulled out a well-worn book. A dog-eared page marked his place in the oil-softened pages. The spine no longer cracked when he folded open the pages, the stiff set in the glue having settled somewhere after his fiftieth read. The bent and frayed cover no longer phased him anymore, nor did the name inscribed in the inside cover that wasn't his. No matter the state, this book followed him through every move, every change, and every sleepless night.

He knew this love story like the back of his hand; the pages one of the only constants in his life of transiency. 

Harry wasn't even that much of a reader the first time he had picked up the volume. He had only been looking for something to escape into when he first started going on jobs, the stress and guilt beginning to warp his mind. These pages still hadn't lost their shine in his eyes, this story having been one of the only bright points when he swore he was digging himself to rock bottom. 

Absentmindedly spooning bites of his meal into his mouth, Harry slipped into the familiar story. The comfort was almost enough to have him lulled into something safe enough that he could have fallen asleep where he was sitting, memories of every sleepless night when he had turned to this book hitting his system. It was a feat little else had been able to achieve, and Harry was grateful for that. He couldn't keep staying up at all hours now that he had the challenge of flipping his days with this new job. 

Sitting on his well-loved bed, a well-loved copy of his favorite book in hand, and something that could pass as breakfast if he squinted hard enough, Harry felt at peace for a moment. 

He didn't mind being alone, not when it was like this anyway. He hoped he wouldn't have to move on from this place for a while. 

—————

Cardboard scraped against Harry's forearm as he reached into his box, digging through the packages of cookies and crackers that filled this specific shipment. The fluorescent lights above him felt especially fried now that the sun had gone down, washing out his skin and paling the ink of his tattoos. 

While the rest of the night crew were paired off and working together to stock the shelves, Harry was commissioned alone. He worked better by himself, he knew that, and it was nice to have his boss know that now too. It only took almost two months into his employment until everyone realized he wasn't the kind of person that enjoyed idle chatter or wanted to get close to any of these people around him. Now, he was able to enjoy his music in peace, the white wire connecting the buds hitting his chest as he moved. 

Harry had a system with the way he worked. He wanted to finish as fast as possible, and not waste any more energy than he had to. He tried to organize his boxes as much as he could on the cart before he was stocking each line of product as quickly as he could, extras being cast aside until he could make a trip to the back room. It was all a system, something he planned out without even thinking. If not for the fading ache in his shoulders and knees he would feel at the end of his shift, he wouldn't even really remember his movements. 

Given this focus, there wasn't much that could distract Harry as he worked. His goal was to finish as fast as possible and move onto something else to fill his mundane nights, not to linger on the guests of the grocery store or fill the silence with small talk he didn't care about. There was a reason he gravitated towards the operations side of this job and not the customer service aspects.

That's why he didn't give it much of a thought when he saw a pastel streak flash in the corner of his eye. He continued doing his job, organizing his box some, as he filtered through the packages of biscuits and sweet crackers, soft sleeves of cookies, and bags of other products. It wasn't until the pastel streak drew closer did he instinctively glance in its direction. 

Her back was to him as she held her gaze upwards. She was scanning the shelves, this woman, complete with an overlarge cream sweater and a peach colored bow in her hair that shone in the light like the velvet fuzz of the color's namesake. One of the grocery store's signature maroon baskets was at her side, the handles tucked in her elbow. There was barely anything in her basket, but that isn't what had Harry's brows knitting in the middle by the time he stitched his attention back on his work. 

It was way too late for anyone to be doing any menial shopping in his opinion, especially not a girl who looked as if she might deem throwing flower petals in the face of an attacker to be sufficient self-defense. But, that wasn't his business, he reminded himself. It didn't help soothe the tears in his mental health to imagine the worst possible scenarios starring those around him. 

A centering breath was sucked in through his nose as he flicked the switch in his brain that had him thinking only of his body's movements. He curled around himself, stepping out of the way as much as possible so the pastel-peach girl could go about her business and disturb Harry as little as possible. The less approachable he looked, the less he'd be approached. 

He didn't know if she wandered that aisle for the next couple of minutes or traced down the shelves on the other side before coming back, but that telltale shift in the air around him told him she was now behind him. The static told him she was right there, at his back. 

Harry didn't acknowledge her presence, instead making it clear he was working and didn't want to be disturbed. He hoped she could see the wire of his headphones that much clearer against his dark shirt. He wasn't inviting her presence; if she needed help, Brett and Fawn were just a couple of aisles down and much more friendly. 

As with some attempts at camouflage, it didn't work in Harry's favor. Some people didn't always see what was clearly in front of them, he knew that. 

A small hand, complete with pearl polished nails and skin smelling of something sweet like honey and the savory bite of herbs, landed on the crook of his elbow. "Excuse me?" her voice leaked through his headphones. 

With a tick appearing in his jaw and a pace of breathing he was sure looked just as forced as it was, Harry halted his work with a sleeve of graham crackers in his hand. His features felt stiff when he turned towards this girl. 

He spoke as he twisted in his spot with a hand yanking his headphones out of his ears, her touch falling from his arm just as quickly. "What?"

When Harry's gaze brushed over her, cataloguing details to add to the pastel streak he had thought her to be before, the same attention that went into his work was now employed in keeping his features stoic and muscles hard. This woman... was very pretty. 

Her cream sweater he had seen from behind was actually a cardigan, buttoned loosely over her torso with a pale peach top underneath. The buttons were pearls, matching the shifting light that characterized the varnish on her nails. Her jeans were high waisted, ripped in places that lead to a pair of pristine white tennis shoes, complete with a set of pink laces threaded over the tongue. The bow held back pieces of hair that would have normally fallen around her face, leaving small strands fluttered as if matching the tendrils of her bow that drifted down her back. 

In the time he was trying to figure out who was standing right in front of him, she blinked at his harsh tone, almost recoiling as if she'd been struck. Her hands became a bundle at her middle as he squirmed under his gaze. Harry swallowed harshly. 

"Sorry to bother you," she started, recovering some with a short smile on her lips, "I was just wondering... God, this sounds so much more dumb out loud than I thought it would." She cut herself off with a soft laugh, dropping her gaze from his to settle on the cardboard box on his cart. "Do you have any of those white chocolate raspberry cookies that come in the bag in your box? The soft ones?" she tired again, shuffling her toes against the linoleum, "I didn't see any on the shelf, so I was hoping you might have some in one of your boxes. They're my favorite so..." 

Harry wanted to be annoyed, he really did. There were hundreds of less offensive situations he'd been in that bothered him more than he knew his mother would be proud of him for, but this just couldn't be added to the list. And that annoyed him. Though, there was something in him that felt a bit contented knowing that there was still a heart buried somewhere inside of him that wouldn't allow him to get upset at someone like her. 

"Let me look." His voice was gruff as he brushed a knuckle under his nose. 

He knew exactly what she was looking for, the packaging coming to mind. He liked this brand too, though he rarely ever felt as if he could spare the cash to indulge. He'd never tried the raspberry variation, though. 

Working stiffly, he rifled through the box until he found the bottom layer of product. A white, rustic looking bag was tucked in a corner. The brand name stylized as if it were embedded on a wooden board was printed on the white bag, with the name of the cookies and the variation underneath. 

White chocolate chunks with bites of real raspberry in a soft cookie. 

That's the one. 

Fishing it out, Harry unceremoniously presented it to her. He made a point to keep his eyes from lingering on her for too long. He needed to keep his clear head. 

"This one?" 

She lit up in a way Harry couldn't ignore. Her eyes had to have been holding glitter behind her irises the way the color brightened, matching her smile. Creases appeared around the corners of her eyes, soft lips stretched and complemented with laugh lines. 

"Yes, yes, those ones!" she chattered off, reaching out to take the bag from him. 

Harry shoved the crinkling bag into her grasp, watching as she stumbled back some before placing it in her basket among what he could now see was a bundle of rosemary and a package of noodles. Nonetheless, her smile didn't falter as she turned towards him again.

"Thank you..." she trailed off, her gaze dropping to his chest where a name tag was pinned to the breast, "Harry." 

There was a lag in between the second he heard her voice wrap around his name and the beats of Harry's heart resuming at a rapid pace. His throat went dry for a moment, something he couldn't believe was happening to him over something like this. When was the last time someone learned his name just because they wanted to know him? 

He swallowed that line of questioning down as soon as it popped up. "Um, yeah," he told her, turning back to his box as soon as he had the words out. 

His headphones he had dangling in his grasp were replaced in his ears, his music still playing on, a different song now filtering than the one that had been when he ripped them out. Harry pushed his objective to the forefront of his mind, leaving little space to keep up with the way his stomach tightened hearing this girl's voice saying his name. He didn't want to focus on the fact he could still feel her presence for a moment after he had dismissed her. He wasn't going to let any of this fluster him—or whatever it was that could happen to a person who barely had any feelings left. 

Calculating his movements was the only viable distraction until he could feel that static of her presence flitter away. It was only then that he dared to indulge himself in a short glance aimed in her direction. He caught the barest view of her wobbly bow and the edge of her loose cardigan before she disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone once more. 

He was going to forget her, Harry decided. Whatever reaction he just had, wasn't going to happen again. 

—————

Gazing down at his hands, Harry only saw red. It wasn't his blood that tainted his skin, but there was a pain in his body that made him want to argue that there was no way he wasn't injured. From somewhere far—but not far enough—away, a crashing sound rumbled through the warehouse. He felt his bones vibrate and his head go fuzzy. More blood dripped from his skin. 

Another crash sounded, this time much closer to where Harry couldn't move his feet. It was as if he were bolted to the spot. More blood, more scars. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw someone. They were walking with a purpose, heavy on their feet. 

His hands still shook even when he took his eyes off of the thick crimson dripping from his fingers. The person coming towards him looked familiar. Too familiar. 

The second they were close enough, Harry recognized that it was himself. There was a gun in the clone's hand, the barrel pointed right at his head. 

Another loud crash.

Harry woke with a start, rocketing up in bed. His breathing was heavy, thick and humid, with his hands shaking where they were clutching the thin bedding askew over his form. There was a sheen of cold sweat covering his body, his hair clinging to the back of his neck.

Looking at his hands, untangling from the bedding, Harry felt his heart rate go down a notch when he no longer saw blood coating the appendages. His vision still blurred at the edges as he came down, his lips mouthing a mantra he wanted so badly to believe: 

It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream.

He didn't live that life anymore, he reminded himself. That was a part of his past, but it's all over now. Those scars would never reopen and his hands would never be stained that way again. He would make sure of that. 

As he talked himself down, the rest of his apartment came back into view. The edges of his vision sharpened, showing him the rest of his full bed, rumpled sheets, and the book he had dropped when he finally managed to fall asleep in the middle of a passage. He busied his hands as fixed his book, righting the bent cover and smoothing back the crease that folded into the page he left on. With that sweat on his bare chest and thin comforter falling to his lap, he realized just how cold his apartment was.

Taking a deep breath, his lungs shuddering as he fought to regulate the pacing he lost in his sleep, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He worked slowly as he replaced his book back to his rightful slot underneath his bed. Lethargy weighed down his limbs as he searched for his phone somewhere on the floor as he sat with his legs crossed underneath his bottom, the scratch of the carpet dragging across his ankles from where his pants rode up grounding him. 

The screen of his phone was far too bright when he powered it up, the time being of no surprise to him even if he was disappointed. He only got a few hours of sleep before that dream woke him up into the real world, plenty of time left before he should begin getting ready to go to work. 

This was how it always was for the past handful of years. Harry was lucky to have slept at all really, as some days he wasn't that fortunate, but there was no way he was going to be able to drift off again. But, he'd gotten rather good at finding ways to fill his time. 

Standing on wobbly legs, Harry took his time stripping his bed. There was time to get through some laundry, he figured, hauling both his bedding as well as his full hamper to the rickety washer and dryer stationed in the hall closet. 

Every movement was a distraction: separating the colors of his clothing, the measuring of the detergent, and the three times he had to set the cycle before the machine finally came to life all did their part to keep him from obsessively staring at his hands as if they would do something bad if he wasn't watching. It was routine the way he didn't allow himself to dwell on the dreams he could no longer forget like he could when they first started sporadically. 

Harry felt like a shadow as the hours passed, even after a cold shower shocked his nerves and a bland meal had warmed his stomach. But, at least he was awake. 

—————

Watching his hands as he stocked and stocked the shelves in front of him, more and more of himself came back to Harry. This was the perk of the more manual of jobs he had. He could use his body and keep track of every movement he made, every stretch of his muscles coming from his own volition. 

It felt like a ritual the way a pastel flash struck the corner of his vision. 

It'd been almost a month since the first time he'd seen her, and she made more trips with a basket tucked into the crook of her elbow than he had seen most other patrons. Maybe he only noticed her now that he recognized her and the phantom ache that touched the muscles of his stomach every time he saw her wander close to him. Nonetheless, he saw her more often than not, barely anything in her basket but small items and snacks, never once with a full shopping cart or a list in hand. 

In an odd way, he'd almost begun to expect her—look for her. It was a part of his shift to see her drifting through the aisles in something comfortable, a ribbon in her hair, and that ever-present smile on her face. He'd never admit that though, even to himself. 

Instead, when he saw her drift into his aisle—the frozen meal section tonight—he kept to himself. Harry didn't even bother to look up at her for more than a glance, even when he paused his music as he listened to her footsteps padding over the floor. Just like she always did since the first night she went out of her way to read his name tag, she offered him a soft smile of recognition as she passed by. Even though Harry hadn't reciprocated a single one. 

Just like that, she kept moving, Harry's ear trained to hear her pad off until he couldn't distinguish her footsteps against any of the other noises filtering through the grocery store. He played his music again then, allowing something else to fill his head before she could wiggle her way inside. 

Though he would rather not acknowledge it, there was something about the fact that the haunted feeling that had clung to him since his nightmare earlier in the day, finally began to dissolve. That turning in his stomach every time he saw one of the thin scars of his hands turned into the residual flaps of a butterfly's wings, even if he didn't dare give the feeling a name or even think of the cause. 

Despite the fact there was something loose in his muscles now as he worked, his head a little bit more clear with that dream tied up in a peachy bow in the back of his mind, Harry was going to ignore it all just as he had every time he saw that girl. 

—————

"Thank you, Harry!" 

The bow girl's chirping gratitude only had Harry looking at her stiffly with a grumbled Yeah falling from his lips. Just as she had done the last couple of months since she made herself a presence during his shifts, she simply gave him a smile before bouncing away with her basket only containing a carton of banana milk and her favorite cookies. She was no longer perturbed by the standoffish responses he gave her. Harry couldn't decide if he liked that or not. 

It was like this at least a couple of times a week. She never did a big shop, only stopping by at later times to pick up individual ingredients for a dinner she had chatted to him about, or little snacks she couldn't seem to go a day without. During at least one of her trips, she found an excuse to talk to Harry; she asked him about his day if she was close enough to feel comfortable starting a question (Harry never gave her a good answer, honestly), she told him about her own day and what she was shopping for if there was anything specific she had in mind. She almost always had a bow pinned to her hair, fluttering behind her and matching whatever soft piece of clothing she had cinched around her form. Harry had even begun fishing out a pack of her favorite cookies from his boxes if he was stocking that aisle, just to make it easy if she came in and asked him for assistance. It made the interactions quicker and less bothersome—at least that's what he told himself. 

He knew more about her and her routines than he had any of the hundreds of people he'd met in the last handful of years since he started moving around. Even if that did make him feel a bit guilty knowing that she didn't have a clue about who exactly she was sharing these parts of herself with; she didn't know the mess she was tiptoeing around every time she interacted with him. 

Tonight was no different, her leaving a rattling in Harry's bones that he wanted nothing more than to ignore like every other part of his life. If he was superstitious, he would think she could have cast some kind of spell on him with the way she and her little bows lingered in his brain long after she had checked out and gone on her way home. 

That rattling followed him as he made his way into the backroom, his empty box needing to be replaced. An exasperated sigh fought to leave his chest when he saw almost half of the overnight team huddled in the area, puttering about as they chattered and pretended to work. He didn't like being roped into their conversations, and that almost always happened when he ran into more than two of them at once. 

Harry didn't say a word as he broke down the cardboard box on his cart, pushing it off to the pile of the other flattened boxes before he reached for another. The conversations had quieted some when he walked in, but he could still hear what sounded like Brett and Fawn flirting in the back corner with a cart of refrigerated items that needed to go on the opposite end of the store, and Theo talking to two of the other guys that Harry hadn't bothered to remember the names of. 

"Busy night, huh, Harry?" Theo started, dropping whatever topic he had been rambling to his friends about just a moment before. 

"Yeah," Harry answered, voice stiff. It wasn't any more busy than any other night as far as he was concerned. Besides, he had other things he needed to worry about than to be making conversation with a coworker he barely knew. There was still a peach colored ribbon tying his stomach in tiny knots that he needed to fix. 

Soon enough, a silence fell through the backroom when the others made their way out. Only Harry and Theo were left, Harry doing his part to semi-organize his chosen box before heading out on the floor again. 

Maybe it was the rattling in his bones, or the vision of a peach colored bow that he saw every time he blinked, but something in Harry felt a little reckless when he peeked over at Theo focusing on his own box. 

"That girl," Harry rumbled, feeling odd in his skin as he spoke, "The one with the bows in her hair... She comes in a lot." 

Theo looked taken aback for a moment, his eyes wide with furrowed brows as he looked in Harry's direction. He even glanced over his shoulder as if there were anyone else there for the conversation to be aimed at. Harry had to keep from scoffing, dropping his gaze back to his working hands. 

Floundering over his words, Theo tried to catch up once he realized Harry was voluntarily talking. "Um, the—uh—the one with bows in her hair?" 

Harry hummed in response. "She's in a couple of times a week." 

"Ohhh," Theo sounded, familiarity touching his tone, "You mean (Y/N)?" 

Harry swallowed at the sound of her name. He'd never asked for it himself. "If that's her name." 

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Theo nodding his head. "She comes in a lot, yeah. She's not good at keeping a list and always forgets stuff if she tries to do big shops, so she just comes in when she wants something or runs out." 

Though he didn't want this information to mean something to him, Harry felt a part of himself slowly being fulfilled the more details he learned. She didn't tell him these kinds of things when she rambled about her dinner choice for the night. 

Keeping his gaze tacked to his hands, Harry kept his words measured and calculated. "Oh," he started, "Is she from here?" 

"She's lived here forever, yeah. Why?" 

A beat passed as Harry opted to ignore the second part of Theo's response. He didn't need to have any details as to why Harry was asking after someone after working together for five months with only a handful of interactions. Even if he did want to share that, Harry didn't have any real answers to that why, anyway. 

"Does she... What does she do?" Harry asked, the phrasing of his words feeling awkward falling out of his mouth. He was lucky he was so used to shielding his emotions and staying stoic, otherwise he would have cringed where he stood. 

"Like for work?" Theo asked, his eyes warm on Harry's profile. 

Lifting his shoulders, Harry only shrugged in response. It was probably a good idea to keep his mouth shut. 

"She—uh—she works at the bakery over on Windsor. She and my sister work there together," Theo told him, acting as if Harry was supposed to know what bakery he was talking about and who his sister was. "(Y/N)'s pretty nice, though." 

"Right," was all Harry offered by the time he finished organizing his box. He didn't bother to give anything more in response or wait for Theo to elaborate before he was walking out on the floor again. Even when he could feel Theo's eyes stuck to his back.

No doubt would this interaction make its way to the rest of the team before the end of the shift. 

It was harmless curiosity, Harry argued. He just had to believe the harmless part. 

—————

It's funny the kinds of things that happened in the day that then were transported and highlighted in a dream. Stranger's faces, odd conversations, a passing thought, things that normally wouldn't have been catalogued at all by a waking brain but were held tightly in the middle of sleep. 

Despite the fact Harry made it home from work at three in the morning, he still ended up waking in the early morning after a lingering dream. He didn't remember much about the scene the longer he was awake, but he knew there were swaying bows in pretty hair. A soft voice could have been there too, along with a subtle smile, but he couldn't remember. All because he had seen those ribbons and heard that voice the night before. 

For a split second, when he was surfacing from sleep, he wanted so badly to just roll over and continue whatever play was running in the back of his mind. But, sleep didn't come easy for him; he'd have to take whatever small amount of hours his body allowed him and be grateful. 

That left Harry to lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling above him, peeks of sunshine beginning to filter through the heavy drapes on his single window. He pretended as if he wasn't waiting for flashes of the dream to come back to him, even as he reluctantly found his footing in the real world. 

He was off work for the next two days. Forty-eight hours he would have to fill with the kinds of tasks he dreaded almost as much as actually reporting in for a shift. 

Grocery shopping was at the top of the to-do list as well as the hated tasks list. He hated going into his work on his day off just so he could shop the canned food aisles and dodge small talk from the dayshift coworkers that pretended as if they had met him more than once during his training shifts. A trip to the library was due as well, his borrowed books packed away under his bed and read from cover to cover in the week since he'd last visited the building. There was also always cleaning and laundry to be done, more things to keep him busy before he would undoubtedly retire to his bed for the rest of the day and read as much as he could to keep his brain from going to mush. 

Harry sighed at the day's agenda. This was the life he wanted, though, so he was going to appreciate every day of the boring tasks and the mundane dredge. 

By the time he had a load of laundry running in his machine and his hands buried in the sink, doing dishes he put off until his weekend, Harry's mind was already wandering somewhere outside of his apartment. 

Theo had been complaining last night towards the end of the shift about how his sister needed him to pick her up from work today. She was opening and had stayed the night at her boyfriend's before, but he wouldn't be able to drop her off and pick her up. That left Theo to take up the job in exchange for gas money and whatever treats his sister could sneak from the bakery. Theo kept droning on about how since it was Sunday, the bakery opened up early, leaving him to have to fight to stay awake after going home so he wouldn't miss picking up his sister. 

Throughout all of the petty complaining and meaningless rambling, the only thing that stuck out to Harry was the hours of this bakery being narrowed down. He didn't mean to pay attention, not now after knowing who else worked there, but it was just another one of those things that stuck in his brain like a dreamy detail. 

An early opening could mean that his bow girl—(Y/N)—might be there as well. 

Harry's hands flexed under the soapy water. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to go to a bakery on a Sunday morning. No one would think anything of it—and neither should he. He liked pastries as much as the next person. Even if trying out one of the town's baked goods wasn't necessarily his goal for the outing didn't mean that it would be a bad idea. He had more self-control than most people—a bit of indulgence wouldn't break him. 

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, Harry focused on washing the dishes in the sink. He laid each piece gently out on the tea towel flattened out beside the sink, taking extra care as if his slow pace could prove that he still had all that control he was boasting about. If he was really on the edge of breaking—about to make a bad decision—he wouldn't be so in control, he argued. He even waited for the load of laundry to make that erratic beeping noise that notified him that he could trade into the dryer. 

Still clad in only a pair of sweats that acted as his pajamas, Harry lazily reached for his phone before looking at the time. Just before nine a.m. According the Theo, the bakery opened at eight in the morning today, right when he was picking up his sister after her early morning shift. Harry held onto that air of nonchalance as he looked up the open confectionaries around him, finding a link at the top of the page for The Flour Pot. 

They were marked as open, hours laid out on the same popup. Only a handful of miles away from the grocery store and on the same block as his library. It wouldn't take him longer than fifteen minutes to get there. He could even stop by the library on his way back or do his grocery shopping. 

There, he cemented. That just proved this whole thing wasn't just to see a fluttering bow or hear a soft voice. He had other things he needed to do, and after hearing so much about this bakery, he could try it out while he was in town. 

With his laundry rumbling in the dryer and his dishes laid out to dry on the counter, Harry changed out of his sweats and threw on a hoodie to keep him warm against the chill in the morning air. He tucked his library books under his arm and started out the door, locking up behind him just like any other day. 

Just as he figured, he was back in town in less than twenty-minutes, the directions on his phone taking him just a few buildings down from the library. With the early hour, he couldn't see the bakery being especially busy, but when he found a parking spot across the street from the building, his hands clenched around the steering wheel. 

Through the lit windows, he saw a line inside. Morning sunshine kept the glass especially translucent, even through the decals pasted to the panes boasting the bakery's name and pots of leafy plants to play on the pun of the title. He could spot glimpses of patrons lounging in the few tables provided while others were waiting in line, the queue long enough to have others shuffling aside when the door behind them swung open. 

Harry's heartbeat quickened at the sight. He never liked being where so many people were crowded. It was hard to keep track of so many and what they were doing and saying when they were packed in a tight space. He thought—hoped—that with the early time he'd be beating out the crowds. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry reminded himself that there was no harm in having more than ten people in one space. This was something he needed to work on anyway—something he was working on. There was no point to becoming so nervous over something like this. The odds of someone recognizing him or something out of his control happening were slim to none. 

The whole point in leaving those years ago was to have a normal life. This was part of that. 

Before he could dwell on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, Harry swung open his door. He planted his feet on the solid ground, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, and trekked on. 

Keeping his eyes on his feet as he walked, Harry didn't look up until the entrance to the bakery was right in front of him. He had his phone gripped in one hand, prepared to pull it out and fiddle with it in an attempt to sate his nerves, while the other reached out for the golden handle embedded in the glass and wood door. 

One peek through the crystal had his hand falling from the handle. 

Behind the counter was (Y/N). 

She had her back to the door, but he knew that bow. She'd worn it before. He knew that silken pearl color, the slightly lopsided loops, the fabric nestled in with the mess of hair on the top of her head. He knew that if she turned around, even spared a glance over her shoulder, what kind of smile would be painted over her features and the soft set of her features that was practically her trademark. He wanted her to turn around just so he could compare that smile to the ghost of the one in his dreams

It's the fluttering in his stomach and the pacing of his heart behind the cage of his ribs that had Harry turning around. He didn't care if anyone saw his reaction, if anyone noted just how weird the whole moment was. He wasn't able to make those extra steps to go inside. 

He shouldn't be that happy to see her. That wasn't the kind of reaction someone in control would have. That only showed him the kind of weaknesses the walls around him had, the bits of crumbling stone that he was going to have to solidify before he could boast about all of his self-control. 

This was the reason he never allowed himself to grow attached to anyone. The fact that she was the only person in five years to even bother attempting to penetrate those stone walls should have no bearing on how he conducted himself. He knew better than to let her soft smiles and fluttering bows and gentle conversations get to him. He was the one who knew better in this situation; (Y/N) didn't know what kind of person she was offering those niceties to, and it would be wrong of him to accept and even seek them out. 

She didn't deserve what could happen if he let this loss of control continue. 

Slamming his car door shut behind him with a reverberating rattle of the frame, Harry vowed that whatever had caused that flutter in his stomach and the clench of his heart would stop now. He can't feel that way about anyone or anything. He was taking back control now. 

With his hands tight around the steering wheel and the thought of the bakery wiped from his mind, Harry hoped he never dreamt of bows again. 

—————

Harry pretended as if he couldn't hear the conversation happening at the end of the aisle from him, a couple loudly wondering where they could find the artisanal bread. He didn't want to help them. 

This was why he hated coming in any earlier than the call time for his overnight shifts. Even with the fact he was only covering a couple of extra hours—coming in at six instead of eight—the difference in clientele was too stark for his comfort. It was too early in the night even to justify sticking in his headphones and drowning out the noise of others. 

Instead, he hoped that the slight frown on his features and the furrow in his brows would be enough to warn people away from him as he continued his stocking of the soup and other canned goods he was tasked with for the time being. The outfacing shelf gave him the advantage of leaving his back facing most of the customers that walked through, though he made a point to drift away whenever a patron stalked a little too close to his personal space. 

Despite it all, a part of Harry was grateful for the distraction of work and the extra people around him. That was why he had been picking up hours here and there throughout the week. Anything to keep his brain busy since he had recoiled from the bakery a week ago. 

He'd done a good job in his opinion, of keeping (Y/N) and all of the bows in her hair off of his mind. His resolve was being rebuilt brick by brick, reminders swirling in his brain of why he's never experienced those kinds of butterflies and the anticipation in his heart before. He wasn't the kind of person that needed that kind of feeling—deserved that overflowing of joy in his veins. He kept himself tucked away for a reason, and he needed to remember that. 

His shifts no longer held a current of anticipation, waiting to see if this would be the night she would wander on by, sparing him a smile and a breath of her attention. Her place in his brain had been corralled to a back corner that he was adamant on keeping the barriers to steady and clean. 

That was why when he saw a pair of white sneakers with pink shoelaces threaded through, he pretended as if his brain didn't go to one person immediately. It could be anyone in the world—should be anyone else. He shouldn't be able to recognize her from such a minute detail, but there was already that beat against the ladder of his ribs that told him everything he needed to know about how poorly he had maintained that corral in the back of his mind. 

With a tick in his jaw, Harry reminded himself of his resolve. He kept his focus on his cart, taking more time to dig around while he waited for those shoes to disappear from the corner of his eye. 

Of course, he couldn't be so lucky. 

"Harry?" that soft voice asked him. 

A slow breath was sucked in through his nose as he stood to the full of his height. He turned to find her looking at him with those eyes he could only remember glimpses of from the haze of his dream. Her face was clean from makeup, hair twisted back into a clip as she had forgone a bow for the day. Comfortable clothes adorned her body, slouching and stretching with pastel hues stitched through her top and flowers adorning her leggings. In her hands, nails sparkling with a pearly white polish, she had a solid block of cheese. 

Harry didn't bother to offer a response. (Y/N) was used to it by this point, though. 

"Do you know if this is any good?" she started, emphasizing the cheese with a flick of her wrist, "I googled a recipe for a grilled cheese today, and it wants this kind of cheese, but... I don't know. I just want to make sure I'll like it before I buy it, and all. Have you tried it before?" 

If Harry could draw his eyes away from the dewy planes of her face and the glimmering sheen of her eyes, he might have been able to read the label on the block she had in her hand, but that didn't seem to be an option his body was willing to follow. 

He knew he had been following the line of her nose and pillows of her cupid's bow for a beat too long when she tipped her head, a crease appearing in-between her brows. Clearing his throat, he dropped his gaze from her eyes to fall in the neckline of her top. He schooled his features, keeping himself in line as he brushed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his index finger. 

Skimming his gaze over the white cheese in her hand, he shrugged some. "Um, probably," he mumbled, voice a rumble.

That glimmer in her eyes flashed to amusement. "You've probably tried it before?" 

Under layers of the stoic front he put up, Harry could feel himself cringe. He knew he wasn't giving her a smart answer, but he didn't anticipate sounding that stupid. 

Again, he shrugged. That was as much of an answer as he could formulate at the moment. 

That same part of him that cringed at the lame answer he gave her, curled in on itself when he saw for the first time, (Y/N) grow crestfallen. She had always been very stubborn in her sunny disposition, only having been taken aback the first time they had met. Other than that, no matter how much of a downer he acted, there seemed to be a smile on her face she didn't mind offering to him, even if he didn't deserve it. 

This time, he watched her brows pinch in the middle, her smile falling some to leave a barely there, lopsided curl that didn't reach her eyes. She dropped her gaze down to the block in her hand. Even her body seemed to shrink under his gaze, drawing her limbs close to her body in a recoil. 

"Well, thanks anyway," she got out, the tone the same chirping pitch as usual, but there was no current. Nothing authentic sat beneath. 

He watched as she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes attached to the label pasted to the cling wrap fitted around the cheese, before she began to head in the other direction. He'd never seen her so dejected before, even if she was only matching the energy he constantly gave her. 

Guilt pooled in his stomach. It wasn't a nice feeling to see a light like her's becoming extinguished, especially from his own hand. 

Before she could trail too far away, he peered over her hand and read over the label attached to her cheese. He recognized the French name from when he would help his mother in the kitchen. He knew this as one of the ingredients she would use for her macaroni and cheese; shredded and added to a pot to melt before being added to the spirals of noodles. He remembered how his main job when he was too young to properly help was to stir the cheese sauce, his eyes following the swirls and strings tracing through the cream. 

Harry wasn't even aware he was taking a step to follow after her until he felt his toe push against the linoleum. "Actually—um," he started, watching as she turned to face him, features lightening, "That's a good cheese. Melts really nice. It'll probably be good for whatever recipe you found." 

Instinctively, he wanted to curl back into his work, give himself a distraction and soothe some of that rattle in his bones. Instead, he forced himself to stay firm in his spot as she made those few short steps back to him. 

(He couldn't help but to feel a bit silly, if he was being honest. All of this over a conversation about cheese. It verged into the territory of ridiculous if he wasn't actually experiencing it). 

"Really? Thank you!" That genuine contentedness he had missed from her voice before was back, lilting and molding her words. "I read that it was good for melting, I just wasn't sure if I should slice it or shred it. The page didn't really tell me much on that." 

Shrugging, Harry pretended to care about the box left on his cart he still needed to sort through and stock. "Shredding is good," he offered, "It melts easier that way, I think." 

(He actually knew that, but he didn't really want to get into the story of the time he had tried to make his comfort meal shortly after he was separated from his mom. He had gone about it all wrong, having sliced it without thinking only to have to go through the too-long process of watching it melt in a puddle of milk. He would have attempted it again after that, but money was especially tight right after he left home and the ingredients for a single meal were too expensive. Besides, it would never taste as good as the one his mother made, and he didn't need to break his heart any more with the attempts).

Decidedly, (Y/N) dropped the block in her sparse basket. "I'll try that tonight and I'll let you know," she told him, the stray tangles of her hair swaying as she spoke, "Thank you, Harry." 

Harry nodded his head, reaching into the cardboard box piled with different soups. "Yeah." 

It was hard to breathe when she heard him say his name with that smile on her face. 

But, (Y/N) didn't leave right away. She lingered for a moment, a step between leaving him behind and staying right there with him. He couldn't decide which outcome he was hoping for. 

A beat later, she swung back to face him. "Have you ever been by the bakery a few blocks over on Windsor Ave?" 

He swallowed. The vision of The Flour Pot immediately came to mind. 

"No, I don't think so." 

(Y/N) looked at him with a smile with shy edges, rocking on the balls of her feet. "Well, we have these cheesy breakfast soufflés that we only make on Friday mornings, that are really good. I bet you'd really like them if you like cheese and stuff." There was a slight wince and a huff of a laugh falling from her lips as (Y/N) finished. 

She must also realize how silly they both sounded, too. Breakfast and cheese, the great unifiers, Harry supposed. 

With the faint amusement bubbling in the back off his mind, Harry still felt something in him catch. Her recommendation felt something like an invitation. An invitation to go somewhere she would assumedly be. 

Harry checked his expectations as he dropped his gaze to his hands, rolling a can of loaded potato soup so the barcode faced him. "I usually work all night Thursdays, so Friday mornings can be a little hard to make when 'm tired." 

That nervous rocking continued even with the bright smile molding (Y/N)'s features. "I work there, so you can let me know when you have time to stop by and I can make sure we have an extra one for you," she told him, hands bundling together at her middle, "Or, just pop by whenever. Everything we have is really good, so." 

Around him, Harry could still hear the annoying couple from before complaining about the layout of the grocery store. The overhead lights were mismatched on this section of the store, leaving some amber spots to combat against the stark fluorescents. There was a buzzing to the left where the refrigerators were keeping the cheese section where she had shopped from cool. But all of his attention was placed a few paces before him. 

Harry spent years pushing people away. Not once had anyone ever been able to wiggle through even one layer of the protective walls he had around him. He made a point of that; it was the way it was supposed to be for everyone's safety. He didn't invite anyone into his life, and no one invited him into theirs. 

Of course the first person to do so would be someone like (Y/N). She would be the one to dare to cross that line, offer a hand out to someone so adamant about not wanting anything of the sort. He knew those butterflies in his stomach were a warning; they were creatures to be heeded, not cradled. 

Despite it all, Harry nodded. He looked at her, leaving his idling hands to play around without him. "I'll see what I can do." 

It was the smile that bloomed across her lips that had Harry remembering that there were flowers that were meant to unfurl in the night. 

"Cool," she said, something giddy replacing that authenticity, "Have a nice night, Harry."

"Have a nice night," he got out before he turned on his heel, pinning his attention straight on the box awaiting him. It was an abrupt ending to the conversation, but he couldn't look at her any longer if he wanted to keep some of his head. She was driving him mad again already. 

When Harry looked up, he found her turning the corner of the aisle. Their eyes matched for a moment when she looked back at him too, a ghost of a smile stretching her cheeks before she was gone. 

Taking in a deep breath, he centered himself. 

Harry can not go to that bakery. 

——————

As much as Harry loved his comfort reads, the volumes that became like classics to him, he couldn't read them all the time. Besides, he liked libraries. 

While every building was different, the librarians with their own rules and nuances that ran the shelves, the spirit was always the same. Even the smallest of towns he travelled to had their own shelves to peruse. The crackle of the covered spines, some old enough to still be sporting checkout cards in the front cover, with pages loved by others, made him feel less alone. The library in this town was no different. 

A quiet librarian manned the front desk or puttered through the shelves, offering Harry a quiet kindness he appreciated more than if she had given attempts to get to know him any more outside of the process of getting his library card. All she wanted to know was what kind of genres he liked so she could recommend books when he came in the more regular he became. He was left to ghost through the shelves, fostering books as he went before returning them home once their time was up. He was able to be comfortable there. 

But, this town had to be mocking him at this point. 

While he's been making a point to keep his head down and focusing on only himself and definitely not (Y/N), old habits die hard. A hefty portion of his life was spent with his eyes sharpened, taking in every detail and every person and every place around him. Even with years away from the circumstances that had him looking over his shoulder with every step he made, he couldn't shake every habit. But those habits made it way too hard to ignore what was going on just down the street from the library. 

The Flour Pot was busy as usual when he stepped out of his car, library books held at his side with his fingers flexing around the plastic covering. A line was trailing out the door with as many people walking out with the brown paper bags or cake boxes as patrons were walking in with hunger in their eyes. Harry could almost hear the bell chiming above the door every time it opened, just like he swore if he listened close enough, he could hear a familiar laugh. 

It took effort for him to keep his eyes ahead of himself, fingers tight around his books. He didn't allow himself to linger on the sidewalk or his gaze to stray, heading directly into the library. 

Harry could feel his features twisted into frustration even as he stepped in the substantially quieter building. But even with his furrowed brow and the tight line of his mouth, Ms. Klarke didn't bat an eye. She had to be used to it at this point. 

A lined smile had her lips stretched, showing off white teeth. "Done with this week's, Mr. Styles?" 

He only nodded with a hum as he approached the desk, dropping the trio of volumes on the glossy wood. It was instinct the way he worked, pulling out his green library card. 

Ms. Klarke worked with familiarity, scanning the code on his card before clicking through his profile. Her eyes didn't move from the computer screen as she spoke, "We got some new books in yesterday. I saved a few that I thought you'd like in the back." 

Perking up at the prospect of the new arrivals, Harry felt his features smoothen out, a light falling into the usual rumble of his voice. "Really?" 

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a short smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she slid his card back. "Mhm. I'll be right back." 

Taking his returns with her, she stepped into the backroom positioned just behind the front desk only to come back a moment later with another set of books. The volumes were freshly wrapped in the crinkling plastic, the covers still vibrant underneath without any smudging or scratching marring the art. 

"I've heard good things about these," Ms. Klarke said, spreading out the trio on the wood for him to look at. "The descriptions sound like something you would like." 

They were romances—the genre he had divulged to Ms. Klarke all that time ago. He recognized the covers and the authors, having read his own reviews and takes on the literature. Bright colors were splashed across, with the hallmarks of the genre coming in depictions of flowers or the minimalistic art that was becoming the norm. A twitch itched the corner of his lips seeing the pages she saved for him to have first. 

"Thank you," he told her, looking at her through the lashes as he kept his hands at his sides, "I've seen a lot about these, too." 

Ms. Klarke's lined features brightened at his words. "Gonna take them home with you this week?" 

"Yes, please," he answered in a rush, "If that's alright." 

Her brows pinched in the middle, already grabbing the books to scan them onto his profile for the week. "Of course it's alright. I saved them for you for a reason." 

Harry was struck then. He stood, listening to the sounds of her hands clicking the keys on her computer and the beep of the scanner reading the barcodes, his hands shoved deep in his pockets with his fingers clenched in tight curls. 

While Ms. Klarke didn't know really anything about him, she still had him in mind when she read these titles and made a point to save them off for him. She only knew him as far as the kind of literature he liked to spend his time with and the kind of care he treated each book with, but she knew him enough to trust him with these new reads. 

She knew him enough. 

He forgot what it felt like to be known. He missed the feeling of being known. Even if it was his fault that he was pushed into that forgotten corner in the first place. His impact wasn't supposed to be felt, even if he still felt the absence of the familiarity he had in a past life. 

Two people now, in this town, had given Harry more than a passing thought. 

The feeling was overwhelming. 

"Thank you," he repeated when Ms. Klarke passed back his books for the week, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

With his books in hand, he exited out onto the sidewalk. Down the block he could still hear the faint commotion from the bakery, but his stomach didn't sour like it had only ten minutes prior. In that kitschy shop was the one other person who was trying to know him, even when he insisted on being alone. 

The thought of walking in didn't sound so bad, even if he still kept on his path to his car. 

—————

Harry had a plan. 

Days after visiting the library, he had been tucked away in bed reading one of his new books when he couldn't get his mind off of (Y/N). The main female character was a baker with a softened heart, a bubbly demeanor shining through. Given the nature of the book, every peek into her heart was romanticized, especially in the first handful of chapters he was still working through. He couldn't help but to picture (Y/N) the more he read, disregarding whatever physical description the character was given. 

She hadn't left his mind since. 

Maybe it was the fact there was a scene written where the lead male character visited the pseudo-(Y/N) at the patisserie she worked at, but there was a niggling thought in the back of his mind that it might not be such a bad thing to take up her invitation from the week prior. While he was nothing like male lead—not in demeanor nor backstory—, he couldn't ignore the want he had for a moment like the one inked across the page. 

It felt entirely reckless to give into that want, the kind of idea that would come to him after too many hours spent awake and too many romance cliches floating through his thoughts, but he'd done worse. Indulging in the pattering butterflies and bruising beats of his heart would land at the bottom of the list of the most dastardly things he'd ever done.

Besides, if this Sunday morning was anything like the last, it wasn't like there would even be enough time for his defenses to weaken enough for an impact to be made. If anything, he would see her in passing, the flutter of the bow in her hair as she bustled through the shop, and that would be it. Maybe a smile in his direction, but he couldn't imagine any more being spared for him. 

He didn't need anything more than that, anyway. 

Harry would be careful. Butterflies weren't strong enough to break stone.

—————

His hands were clenched into fists in the pockets of his coat, the sign to The Flour Pot gleaming on the glass window from the corner of his eye. Though he knew well that there were just enough patrons inside to create a hustle within the shop, Harry kept his resolve strong as he stepped over the pavement. He didn't skip sleep for the last handful of hours since his shift ended just to run home without even taking a single step inside. 

Slipping inside, Harry forced his gaze to lift from his feet, a deep breath filling his lungs. Those small tables he had spotted from the windows were twisted wrought iron, the backs outlined with intricate shapes of flowers, hummingbirds, and shining suns. Cushions padded the seats of the chairs, a charming combination of mismatched patterns that all seemed to work together to make the space that much cozier. Customers Harry could recognize as some of the people he saw at the grocery store were littered about, though they looked decidedly much cheerier in this environment. Even with the chill in the air, hints of spring lingered within the confines of the shop. 

Butter and sugar kissed the air, twining with notes of lingering herbs and spices, different ingredients that made up the confections filling the display case up front. Tiny lights were embedded in the trim, shining right on the flaky crusts of croissants, glimmering glazes on sticky buns, and the golden skin of homemade baguettes. More intricate cakes and laborious treats were held in glass cabinets behind the desk. Warm wood made up the front cash register area, the grains twisting and curving in the way only real wood could. Hanging from the ceiling behind the desk was the menu with every treat laid out and priced, twirling descriptions following just underneath with every add-on available. A note on the bottom recommended talking to the bakers about seasonal specials and their favorite combinations. 

Everything looked new but second-hand at the same time. Harry didn't know what to compare the space to other than a home opened up for visitors. The treats in the case were just a bonus of being invited into such a home. 

The flapping of the cafe doors leading to the back caught his attention, pulling his gaze from tracing over the space that felt as if it lived within candlelight. (Y/N) emerged from what he assumed to be the kitchen, a pan in hand full of something golden brown and filled with herbs. She dropped that pan onto the back counter before disappearing again, a pearly gold bow pulling her hair back. Her uniform consisted of a long sleeved brown top with The Flour Pot printed in yellow lettering as if the words were dripping in honey. He felt like a moth the way his eyes followed each of her moves, her being the flame he didn't want to lose track of. 

That smile he pretended to not care about had her lips stretched with smile lines bracketing the curl. He watched on as she spoke to the dark-haired girl and the shorter boy working behind the counter, nodding her head with the tendrils of her bow going flying before she seemed to count out certain items in the case all before leaving to the back once more. In her hands, another pan reemerged with her.

As his eyes followed her, he was grateful for the first time for the amount of patrons occupying the building. The line in front of him gave him enough time to watch her—to get his fill to quell the battering ram made of butterflies in his stomach. Even if he wanted to keep his eyes to himself, drop them to his feet or find a blank spot to fix his eyes too, he didn't think he had it in himself. 

With the line moving, Harry shuffled forward a pair of spots. At that same moment, the cafe doors swung open once more, (Y/N)'s arms empty as her eyes scanned across the guests in her shop. She found Harry in an instant, her eyes brightening and smile blooming. She brought her gloved hand up to wiggle her fingers in a quick wave for only him. 

Before he could even lift his hand to wave back, she had sidestepped behind the desk and whispered something to the dark haired woman working the register. A quick conversation played out while Harry watched, (Y/N) whispering while the other woman gave small reactions. The conversation lasted only a couple of beats with the line still waiting before them, (Y/N) disappearing into the back after shooting Harry a look with bright eyes and a wide smile. 

In (Y/N)'s wake, the cashier gave Harry her own look. It was something quiet and knowing, a short curl only on the corner of her lips before she slid her gaze back to the patron waiting in front of her. 

(Y/N) and her bow didn't return again as the line slowly moved forward. Only the dark haired cashier and a shorter boy were working the counter, working as a team with the boy picking the pastries with gloved hands and the woman taking orders and collecting payments. The line dwindled as they worked, guests leaving with small paper bags and smiles wider than the giant muffins that took over the bottom shelf of the case. 

While Harry felt like he could breathe better with every person that exited, it all moved too fast. By the time he reached the counter, Harry's brain was filled with nothing more than a buzz. In all his distractions of watching (Y/N) and being a little too aware of the others around him, not once did he really examine the menu. He didn't have a plan of what he wanted to order, every quick glance at the menu hanging above was more panicked than the last, nothing being absorbed. 

The last patron in front of him worked quickly. The chatter of her voice was almost drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears, her order being rattled off in an instant out of practice before she was stepping off to the side to await her own brown bag of treats. 

Stepping forward to the counter, Harry couldn't help but feel a little silly. The amount of high stress situations he's been in in his life, the kind that warranted the kind of panic and fight-or-flight reaction he could feel himself building to was more than any person should ever go through. But in all of those moments, he remembered moving through them like an expert, not thinking before doing. 

This—ordering from a bakery—was going to be the one thing that broke his brain, it seemed. Figures. 

The dark-haired girl behind the counter held that same guest service smile on her face when Harry approached, only the ends curled that much more when she saw it was him. "Good morning! What can I get you today?" 

Harry's mouth dropped open, words intending to come out before nothing actually did. He barely recovered in the way he instead said, "Ummm." 

From the corner of his eye, the cafe doors to the kitchen swung open. A pan full of stacked baguettes were in (Y/N)'s arms, eyes trained on the pyramid before she chanced a glance up. That same wide grin pulled at her lips the second recognition filled her eyes. 

"Hi, Harry!" she chirped out over her shoulder as she deposited the pan onto the back counter, "How are you?" 

His dry throat finally began to work again when he swallowed, his nervous hands beginning to pluck at his cuticles in the pocket of his hoodie. "'M good, thank you," he mumbled, "You?" 

"I'm doing good, thanks!" She spun on her heel to take over the spot by the register. For a second, he saw the dark-haired girl bump (Y/N)'s hip with her own, before taking over the second station just to the left and tending to the line from there. It was a move that had to have come with a plan. "I wish I knew you were coming in today, I would have made you one of those soufflés I was telling you about." 

"Oh, sorry," he told her, shuffling on his feet as the rest of the line behind him meandered around him to the available register. 

The tail of hair she had pinned back with her bow bounced as she shook her head. "No worries at all! What did you come in for?" 

For the first time since she stepped out, he pulled his eyes from hers to the sign above her head.

Maybe it was the noise around him, the chatter of other guests, the way he was hyperaware of every inch of space around him and how close others were getting to him before hiking left to the other register, or the fact he knew (Y/N) had her eyes on him, but the letters didn't make any sense when he tried to take them in. He knew the words, could associate them with different treats, but there was nothing that connected his thoughts. 

Silence fell from his floundering mouth, the kind that felt too loud in a busy place like this. 

In a second, (Y/N) sidestepped to the case at her right, her eyes bright and still on Harry as she nudged the sliding door to open for her. "My favorite at the moment are the raspberry and almond scones," she bubbled off, using her gloved hand to grab the pastry from the tray, "I just finished a batch, too. They also come with this lemon cream kind of glaze, if you wanted to try it that way." 

Her energy didn't deplete as she spoke, showcasing the scone for him to see. She saved him from the way his throat was beginning to tighten the longer it took for him to come up with an answer. 

Chunks of raspberries were visible in the pale base of the scone, sprinkled with almond slivers. It reminded him of the cookies she so favored at his own place of work. 

"I'll try that," he told her, the even pacing of his breathing returning, "Thank you." 

"Perfect!" she chirped, looking genuinely pleased at his response. Nothing inauthentic touched at her features as she gazed at him. "Do you want the glaze and everything?" 

"Um, sure," he said, a nod of his head throwing a curl over his forehead. 

He saw as (Y/N)'s gaze tripped upwards, trailing along the length of that stray hair brushing the bridge of his nose. A glittering sparkled in her irises. 

The rest of the transaction went quickly, (Y/N) shedding her gloves and taking his cash as she asked about his work. Noncommittal answers were shared from Harry (he barely remembered the shift if he was being honest. His brain had been too fixed on this morning's plan). 

"I'll have that ready for you in a second," she told him, toothy smile and all, "You can wait over there in the meantime." 

A mumbled, kay... fell from his lips as he exhaled a deep breath. He nodded his head before he followed her direction and stepped off to the side. He half expected her to continue helping the line that had dwindled behind him, instead watching as she stepped off the side with his treats in hand. 

Dropping his gaze from her, Harry pulled his hands out of his hoodie to inspect the sore cuticles he could feel beginning to sting with every touch. Spots of blood had spread to the plate of his nails, skin frayed and irritated at all the picking. 

Harry expected to hear his name called when his bag was placed on the pick-up counter just as it had been for every other patron, only to have (Y/N) bounce around the entire case when she had finished puttering behind. The tendrils of her bow flowed behind her, skimming the length of her hair before she stopped in front of him.

For someone who didn't like mornings that much, she smiled a lot. 

"Here you go," she beamed at him, offering him the small paper bag with the business's logo inked on the front. Beside the picture was his own name written in looping script, a smiling heart printed beside it. "You have to tell me what you think the next time I see you, okay? These really are my favorites, so if you don't like them I don't know if we'll be able to be friends anymore." 

A breath of air caught in Harry's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow it down. Anymore, she had said.

"Got it," he forced out, taking the bag from her hand with their fingers barely brushing as he slipped his own under the handles, "Thank you, (Y/N)." 

At the sound of his voice wrapped around her name, her smile only widened. "Of course. I'll see you around, Harry." 

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, the indulgent butterflies in his stomach urging him to linger longer than he knew would be good for him, Harry spun on his heel and moved to the exit. He swore he could feel (Y/N)'s eyes on him up until he disappeared through the doors. 

There wasn't a thought in his head other than getting back to the safety of his car as he rushed over the pavement, loose rocks in the old concrete kicking up in his wake. The slam of his car door behind him left the cab going still. The air was silent finally, leaving him sealed away with the ticking of his heart evening out. 

Instinctively he locked his doors before reaching for his seatbelt. In that split second he seemed to forget the bag in his hand until he felt the warmth of the pastry in his lap. 

He hesitated. 

It would probably be best to eat it now while it was still warm, he decided. 

In his parked car across from the rush of The Flour Pot, Harry carefully extracted his treat. His fingers brushed a slip of paper clinging to the side of the bag, the end trapped under the cup containing the lemon cream she boasted to him about. Laying the boxed treat on the center console, Harry plucked out the slip of paper. 

It was a length of blank receipt paper, only to turn the page around and find that same looping writing that printed his name on the bag. 

Come by next Sunday and I'll have a souffle for you :) 

(Y/N)'s name was signed at the bottom, another smiling heart drawn beside the final letter. Another invitation.

Harry didn't need to take a bite of the scone to know that it was going to be his favorite too.

—————

Maybe he had been too giddy to see her again after those moments at the bakery, but Harry couldn't help but notice her the second (Y/N) walked through the glass doors. 

It was as if he had it all planned the way he had been stationed in the herb and spices section of the store tonight, an aisle that was conveniently situated by the entrance. He had a bundle of basil in his grip when he saw her walk in, a clip dripping with crystal flowers holding her hair back with a The Flour Pot crewneck on. Fatigue coated her movements as she reached for one of the maroon baskets stacked by the door, the handles tucked into her elbow before she started towards whatever aisle she was shooting for. 

There was a moment of her slowing on the front mat, eyes scanning through the shelves until she saw him, cart and all, and her expression changed. Her features softened and rounded, creases appearing by her eyes while her lips stretched into a smile. Her lips were soft and chapped, hair a bit messy, and sleeves dulled by a dusting of what had to be flour, but Harry still felt that knot in his stomach he did the first time he saw her all those months ago. Even more so, when his heart got carried away thinking that she may have been looking for him, too. 

Harry dropped his gaze when he saw her begin her way over to him. He didn't want to look too eager to speak to her again, especially not when he couldn't even admit to himself that he was looking forward to see her. 

"Hi, stranger," she greeted, voice lilting as the toes of her white shoes came into view of his downturned gaze. 

Swallowing around his dry throat, he slowed his work and looked up at her again, features schooled into something stoic. "Hi." 

Ever-pleasant and unperturbed by his attitude, she only looked to him with raised brows and expectant eyes. "So?" 

A pinch drew Harry's brows together as he looked at her. So what? 

When the beat of silence lasted too long for her liking, a teasing huff fell from (Y/N)'s lips. "What did you think of the scone?! You promised you'd tell me about it, remember?" 

For the first time in a long time, Harry could feel one corner of his lips twitch, the beginning of a titled smile. He thought of the length of receipt paper he still had folded away in his wallet. 

"It was really good," he started, shifting his weight on his feet, "The—uh—the lemon cream was really nice. Thank you." 

The look on her face at his compliments could rival that of the waning sunshine outside the windows. She was bright and shining, warm like the sunset colored sky. 

"I'm so happy you liked it!" she beamed, her shopping put to the back of her mind as she gave every bit of attention to him, "There's this recipe for a lavender version of the scone I've been wanting to try, but every time I tell the other girls they don't look as excited. They said it sounds like I'm trying to make soap." 

Harry didn't even realize what he was saying before the words were falling from his lips: "I'd try it." 

As much as he wouldn't—couldn't—say it out loud, he's sure he'd try anything she made. He wasn't lying about the raspberry scone.

Something sheepish touched at the corners of her smile as she dipped her gaze down to where he was now fumbling with a shaker of dried oregano on his cart. "Okay," she started, nodding her head, "I'll make some, and next time I see you, you can try them." 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed around the dryness coating his tongue. "Thank you." 

Under her attention, gaze peering through the fan of her lashes, those butterflies in his stomach and the beating of his heart traveled down to his palms, making them restless and the skin go clammy. 

All of this over another invitation.

—————

rosemary represents remembrance; looking back on the past with the future right in front of you

ahhhhh!!! hes finally here!!! im so excited to be sharing this story w you guys and letting you meet one of my kings thats sooooo in my heart!! def a little different of a story for me so I really hope you enjoy it!!!! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any ideas or requests or just thoughts about this story !

[jayextee]

Virtua Fighter (1994, SEGA Saturn)

So I said I'd be reviewing Saturn stuff I play.

Straight up, I'm a fan of this series. I'll try to be impartial as I can through this review but, heads up, I love it. Spoilers, I guess?

VF1 was not my first VF. Back in the 1990's my Saturn was bundled with Sega Rally, Panzer Dragoon Zwei, and Virtua Fighter 2. What an absolutely legendary trio of introduction games, there's no wonder I fell in love with the console immediately; and indeed, looking back I'd still say they're three of the system's finest. Play them. Now.

So, anyway, spoiled rotten by the amazing Vee Eff Two always made the first game seem quite basic to me. Threadbare, even. Except, those visuals. I couldn't get my head around them; in a good way, I assure you! Contrary to everything I'd heard at the time about VF1's graphics being "bad" and the texture-mapped VF Remix being released as an 'apology' for it, I thought those flat-shaded polygons were stylish as all hell. And I was here for it. And I'm still here for it.

Aside from how stylish the aesthetic is, it's got some problems and they're much-publicised. Polygons in the fighters can flicker between light levels or on/off entirely, and certain camera angles (usually during replays, or the intro) cut off parts of the arena that aren't even too far away, that's a hell of a myopic draw distance. And I'm not sure whether this is a side effect of me playing the game on Saroo or not (because I don't remember it from back in the day) but I've been witnessing certain HUD elements flicker when the action gets hectic. Bit messy.

But the thing is, the game really shines I think. Although the basic punches and kicks of every fighter are identical, they've got real character and strengths/weaknesses and all eight of them are real fun to play (even if I get the most mileage out of my main, Sarah, who I play most in every VF game). It's real fun to just slap these boxy fighter around, y'know?

But also, the game's strong in other areas. Not its meagre content, something also oft-discussed due to being constrained to arcade, versus, and a ranking mode; but the sound. Oh lawdy, that sound. Where do I start?

Music's catchy as all hell, even with the occasionally-grating reliance on that 'get go!' sample (oh, hi there end credits theme), but aside from one or two tunes that do this, there are some BOPS. Jeffry's theme, looking squarely at you. Hell, Sarah and Dural have some bangers too -- probably why both of them made it unchanged into the later Fighters Megamix.

But the sound effects, oh my, the sound effects. I'm more about how well sounds communicate the game's action over how 'nice' they might sound; but VF delivers in both areas to my ears. Firstly, there are different 'hit' sounds for different kinds of impacts (with a very clear 'reverb' to that thumping 'counter hit' sound, something Saturn VF2 didn't do right if I remember correctly) and it's never unclear what the audio is telling me. But also, they sound great. Hitting sounds crunchy and has impact, I dare say this is a really iconic bunch of effects here. If I were to levy a single criticism in this area, it's that vocal sounds are few and far between; but the sequels addressed this. It's good!

And that, to me, is the crux of how I feel with VF in modern times. I don't disagree with my older self that it's somewhat basic compared to later games, but as a streamlined VF experience; or even possibly an introduction to the series' staples and tenets; it's good. Not as great as the series would later go, but still incredibly fun.

I was about to end the review there, but there's one talking point I forgot to mention. Everyone seems to forget to mention it; which is why it's important for me to, even awkwardly-inserted into the tail-end of a ramble such as this. And that is, how well VF moves.

I'm not even kidding, it beat contemporaries like Tekken and ToShinDen to the punch and yet none of its rivals had animation anywhere near as damn good as VF's. Some movements are a joy to watch onscreen (such as that backflip with seemingly no other use than CPU Kage stalling for a time over victory) and absolutely cement that aesthetic in my mind as being "better than people in the '90s knew". Of course, I gather from YouTube comments here and there that I'm not alone in preferring this game's look to the later Remix and that assures me that I'm not quite as weird in that as my schoolfriends of the waybackwhen insisted. It looks good. It sounds good. It moves good. It plays good. It's good. 4/5

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

Burn off some steam.

(@quibble-auk I just needed some fluff from the stuff we are planning, maybe some more brotherly moments to make the whole thing hurt even worse. I love it all by the way. Maybe the dialogue in this isn't too hard to read-)

Comet could smell that the twins were tense. Not literally but anyone who grew up among the two terrors would know.

Comet yawned again forking through his datapad of information from Prowl, not really reading it. No his optics were on his crimson and gold brothers.

Sideswipe hadn’t been able to sit still, he got up constantly. His knee jumped with tension, he hadn’t touched his newest datapad in ages. Which is what both he and Sideswipe were supposed to be doing. Preparing for the meetings with their respective superiors, Sideswipe noting the newest tactics witnessed while escorting the latest bug out of a movable medical facility. He was not doing that. Comet huffed softly as Sideswipe stood again, snatching up a rag to rub at his armor, again. Sunstreaker snarled at the sudden movement, slamming his paintbrush down in frustration. “Can you not stop moving for five minutes??”

Comet glanced at the work on Sunstreaker’s canvas, it was rough and the mental block the golden artist was going through was obvious in the half repainted subject. Sunstreaker had been staring at the work for an hour, remixing colors and growling under his breath when the shades didn’t match what was in his mind. It didn’t help that the mech was constantly being distracted by Sideswipes nervous antics.

“Nope.” Sideswipe popped the p without even looking up from his arm. Sunstreaker glared hard as his temper flared.

Cometeater sighed deeply, and stood. He stretched with a yawn, his back snapping and gaining annoyed looks from both of his brothers. Comet glanced surprised at the way Sideswipe huffed at the noise, now rubbing a little too hard on his red plating. Sunstreaker stood sharply snatching the rag, “You're gonna make it fraggin threadbare, then it won't be worth slag.” Sideswipe snarled, trying to get back the innocent piece of cloth. “Im not in the mood for your bitching Sunstreaker-”

Comet furrowed his brows at the short fused display. The aggravation was thick in the air now, the twins looked as if they were about to lock horns.

Ah. Now that's an idea.

Cometeater smiled to himself as he skirted past the almost tussling siblings.  He started to snatch up the used cubes around their room, the liquid inside long since drained during their late night working on reports. Comet had a couple in each hand as he passed the now still brothers. Both stopped inches from each other’s faces. “What are you doing?”  “Now of all times you decide to clean up the place, Comet??” Cometeater elected to ignore the annoyed growls as he quickly nabbed the empty cube beside Sunstreaker’s open paints.

Making a show of not touching his brother’s things. 

Then proceeded to click the paints shut. 

Both twins had relaxed from their aggression, now looking more confused than annoyed. Well Sunstreaker huffed protectively over his art supplies, but Comet paid it no mind,

With a flourish and one final turn Comet left.

He slipped from the hab-suit with a handful of cubes and only had to wait a moment before his older brothers followed him out. Comet smirked to himself over the quick footsteps to catch up with him, either brother on either side of him in seconds. 

Neither said a word as they trailed him through the bustling base of operations. Some gave the trio a wave or a nod but none tried to stop and speak with them, it was high noon and most if not all of the bots had places to be. Thankfully. Comet’s plan needed the twins to hold off on an outburst for at least a couple more minutes.

They entered the mess hall and the twins could only continue in their shadowing of the smaller mech as they went. Comet ended at their destination with a satisfied huff, and threw the cubes in the recycling unit. One by one of course. He tossed them at a slight distance, as the twins stared.

Sideswipe stole a cube and made a shot with a bored expression as Sunstreaker’s optic twitched, “You made us walk all through the base during rush hour, just for you to do that, really??” The annoyance was resurfacing with the ease of a diver. Sideswipe threw the last cube with a frown. “Back off Sunny we needed to get out of the room anyway, your mood was fragging clogging the air.”

Comet quickly turned on his heel as the twins began to argue. Sideswipe stopped mid insult and looked after the green mech, his eyebrows raising, “He left us.” Sunstreaker only groaned, “Why does he always have to be so weird.” 

But they took after him without another word.

So they went. Through the mass of bots once more, dodging machinery and officers with ease. Both twins felt their frustration mounting as they lost sight of their younger sibling more than a couple times in the crowds. “When I get him I’m tying that little slagger to the ceiling by his tail,” Sunstreaker grunted as they once more stopped to try and catch sight of Comet. “We're gonna have to glue him.” Sideswipe said with an amused huff.

By the time the two mechs found Cometeater again he was on the sparring grounds, sitting like the smug fragger he was. 

“Wow, you two are bad at this.” Comet baited leaning back smirking like a devil. Sunstreaker raised a brow at his choice of destination.

“What are you up to?” Sideswipe felt an odd old exhilaration starting as Comet stood, his tail forming in a long braid of flesh behind him, head lowered.

“I’m planning on beating your aft?” Comet smirked, his body language purposely cocky. “Oh really?” Sideswipe felt old programming rev to life at the posture of the other, catching on in an instant. Sunstreaker only rolled his optics, though the idea of burning off some steam did intrigue him. That would involve a good fight though.

“Comet please, if we wanted to get all scratched up we’d go on a drive.” But Sunstreaker felt his stance widening, his center of gravity lowering. 

Comet was a fast opponent though, Sunny would give him that.

-

His leg gave out from under him at a sharp snap of Comet’s tail, who was gone before Sideswipe could even land a hit in return. The rush of trying to catch the green alien had burned up any of his earlier frustrations though, Sunstreaker only grinned. Comet danced away with a chuckle as Sideswipe pursued, trying to pin the smaller mech. Sideswipe laughed when the mech slid sharply between his legs. They traded light blows, Comet dodging and running off before either of them could grab him. He landed with a sharp thud on Sideswipes back to escape Sunstreaker who was grinning maniacally at the rush. He crawled high onto the large mech effectively using his brother as a shield. “Thats not fraggin fair!” No malice colored Sideswipes tone however as he could only laugh. Sunstreaker snatched the youngest out of the air as he jumped, only to be kicked in the face, landing hard on his back. He smirked, rubbing his jaw as he sat up, catching Sideswipe lock his horns with Comet, who’s small underdeveloped rack hardly caught the larger. Let alone overpower them. A nervous smile etched itself onto Comet’s face when he realised his mistake, “Hi Sides.”

“Sup Com.” Sideswipe tossed the younger mech with a sharp snap of his head, sending Comet sprawling. 

Cometeater grunted as the air was knocked from his lungs,  though the fast pace of his heart and the fun of their game numbed any and all discomfort it might have caused. He didn’t get a chance to get up before a pair of shadows loomed. A large servo pinned him with ease as Cometeater tried to catch his breath grinning brightly at Sideswipe. The red mech was crouched over him, looking bright and the happiest he’d seen him in days. Comet’s smile grew at the sight. Sideswipe laughed, shaking his helm at the expression, “You creepy fragger.” 

Sideswipe got up and offered a hand with a bright smile, “You just gonna stay down there?” Comet huffed, took his hand and was easily hauled up.

Sunstreaker had a warmth in his optics as he lightly shoved down Comet’s helm, brotherly affection bubbling from the gesture. “You sneaky fragger.” Comet only smiled, and shook himself off. Sunstreaker groaned at the shower of dust now coating them both, Sideswipe smirked and turned for the base.

“You know that just means he’s gonna pin you down and make you green again right?” Comet stiffened as the servo returned to his helm and began to steer them back towards the base.  Sunstreaker had a malicious grin as the younger mech began to make his case that he was fine, and no wash racks were needed.

[charmwasjess]

What meaning three hammers emoji tag?

:D I'm so glad you asked! ⛏️⛏️⛏️ tag, the holy trio of pickaxes, is basically a bat signal to indicate to other Miners that Sifo-Dyas-obsessive content is at hand.

What are the Mines, you might wonder? The Mines are a community - perhaps, a support group - of Sifo-Dyas appreciators. Artists, fic writers, readers, lovers of discussion, or literally anyone interested in experimenting with seer content. All are valid! Some of us ship him, some of us don't. There is no wrong way to love a character who came about because of a typo and only exists to suffer and fail in the narrative, then be sacrificed by plot and forgotten. Be we remember! So we band together and try to create a bigger showing for the character, support each other's works, and generally scream.

Come, crash on our threadbare couch in the break room! There is coffee - it tastes like the burning tears of the Cosmic Force! Yes, the mines are hot and haunted and full of poison gas, but YOU ARE WELCOME HERE! Join in!! Use the tag freely! Got Sifo-Dyas thoughts or opinions? Share 'em! Write fic! Draw his adorable hair loopies. DO IT FOR HIM! There is a shortage of content in this space but by god we're going to keep digging.

[mordenheim]

You were the first

Gabriel slowly shuffled his way through the ice cavern, wrapped from head to toe in cloth and furs.  Almost every inch of him was protected from the deadly cold as he picked his way through the newly excavated cave.

The ice was not slick beneath him, it was far too cold in there to melt at his mere touch.  He held his lantern high, skirting around the winding tunnels that had formed naturally in the ice so many years ago.

Finally, he saw something in the ice.  A shadow, shaped like a man but so much more.  It was massive, powerful.  Even as just a silhouette he just knew that they had finally succeeded in their task.

Whooping with joy, he raced back to the entrance of the cave.  The whipping wind almost took his breath away as it tore at his clothing.  The sun glaring off of the shifting snow nearly blinded him.  Holding up a hand in front of his eyes, he called out to his brothers.

“Azrael!  Abaddon!  Quickly!  We have found him at last!”

Two more shapes, similarly wrapped up against the elements, made their way towards Gabriel.  One of them had a pick in his hands which the man immediately slapped away.  “No, you fool!  We have to do this properly!  If we damage this treasure, father will never forgive us.”

It took weeks of backbreaking labor.  They spent many nights huddled together in their threadbare tent, listening to the wind tearing at the thin fabric as if it were some great beast sent to kill them all and end their task.

Inch by inch, they carved out the ice around the figure locked in the ice, feeling drawn to it as though they were family.  They lovingly lowered the block to the frozen floor and carefully started sliding the frozen tomb back towards the entrance.  They often stopped and took time to chisel away at the walls of the cavern, opening them enough to slide their cargo through.

Once they reached the surface, they knew time was of the essence.  Not even waiting to pack things properly, the trio tore down the tent, wrapping it around the block of ice and using the corners to drag it through the snow behind them.  

The pace was brisk and torturous.  More than once it looked as though one of the men would fall and not rise again, but driven by an almost supernatural force they pressed on.  After three days they could finally see the icebreaker that had brought them to this arctic hell.

They whooped for joy, calling out to the ship that they were half sure would have left them behind, figuring them all for dead before they reached it.

“Raguel, Jophiel, drop down the ramp!  We have him!”

The two men on the ship leapt up from their duties maintaining the ship in the freezing cold and lowered the ramp for their brothers.  Racing down onto the ice, they all threw their backs into getting the giant block of ice onto the ship.  Getting it up onto a table and setting it up so that any ice that melted would drain off before it could speed the thawing process, they strapped it down and immediately set off for the Port of Bremen.

Day by day they watched over their precious cargo in shifts.  THey tightened the straps as the ice melted away slowly.  More details of what was frozen within became visible.  It was a man for truly towering stature and muscularity.  Thick scars wrapped around and slid down the lengths of his limbs and torso where his flesh was visible.

Sliding off his wrappings as the weather grew warmer, Gabriel knelt down beside the colossus and touched the ice almost reverently with his own scarred hands.  His arms were covered with similar scars, though his very flesh seemed mismatched, pieced together like some mismatched jigsaw puzzle.

“You were the first,” he whispered reverently.

As they reached the port, they covered their charge with the rags they had used to keep themselves warm, protecting the remaining ice from the harsh rays of the sun.  Renting a wagon and fast horses, they made their way home.

Within days, they finally arrived at the castle they had awakened in.  They guided the wagon into the courtyard and awaited the arrival of the one who had sent them.

A decrepit old man made his way down the stairs and pulled aside the rags to gaze upon his prize.

“Ah yes… Adam..  We have found you at last..”

Jophiel approached the man with a smile on his face, reaching out as if for a hug, “Did we do well, father?”

The elder shot him a withering glare that caused the younger man to pull up short, backing away as if he feared being struck.

“I have told you time and time again to NEVER call me that.  Do I make myself clear?”  His glare swept over each of them in turn, causing them to back away.

As one, they nodded to him, almost bowing as they spoke in unison, “Yes, Dr. Frankenstein…”

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: Through Gritted Teeth

The automatic doors of the Kroger hissed open with a mechanical sigh, parting just wide enough to usher in a sharp, biting gust of November wind that sliced through the air like a damn blade. It curled greedily around the entryway, sweeping across the polished linoleum floors in a rush that sent a shiver racing up your spine. You stepped inside, boots thudding dully against the glossy tiles, the sound swallowed by the cavernous hum of the supermarket.

Sasha and Connie were right beside you, their own footsteps echoing faintly as the trio of you crossed the threshold into the fluorescent-lit chaos of the store. The chill clung stubbornly to your skin, prickling at the exposed patches where your outfit failed to shield you. You tugged the sleeves of your oversized gray sweater further down over your hands, the fabric soft and threadbare from countless washes, brushing against your knuckles like a whisper of comfort.

Underneath, the crisp collar of a white button-up peeked out, its starched edge resting neatly against the curve of your neck, a quiet nod to the effort you’d put into looking halfway presentable for class later. Your black skirt swayed lightly with each step, the hem grazing the tops of your brown thighs, while the dark stockings beneath did little to nothing to fend off the cold still seeping into your legs.

At least your boots, scuffed, worn-in leather that had carried you through too many late-night walks, kept your feet from turning to ice.

|♩♩♩ - All I want for Christmas is You| By: Mariah Carey

Inside, Kroger had surrendered itself entirely to the Christmas cheer, as if Thanksgiving had been a fleeting suggestion. Garlands of synthetic pine twisted lazily above the aisle signs, their deep green coils flecked with red and gold tinsel that shimmered faintly under the store’s harsh, flat white lights. Oversized plastic ornaments dangled from the ceiling on thin wires, their surfaces catching the glow of fleeting silver and gold glints.

In the seasonal section, a towering inflatable Santa loomed over a display of discounted wrapping paper, his painted grin stretched too wide, his rosy cheeks and unblinking eyes giving off an eerie, almost menacing vibe. And above it all, Mariah Carey’s voice reigned supreme, her saccharine notes drifting through the aisles like a spectral presence. All I Want for Christmas Is You looped endlessly, the melody weaving into the background noise of clattering carts and muffled chatter.

Connie let out a groan, dragging his feet as he shuffled past a towering stack of candy canes wrapped in crinkly plastic. His black shirt hugged his lean frame, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders, while a thin silver chain glinted at his throat, catching the sterile light with every movement. His baggy jeans slung low on his hips, the frayed cuffs skimming the tops of his scuffed black sneakers. A green beanie sat crooked on his head, the ribbed knit tugged down over his ears. He exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through Mariah’s singing.

“Man, I hate when stores pull this shit,” he muttered, shoving his hands deeper into the front pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders hunching as if the weight of the holiday decor might crush him.

You arched an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth twitching upward in a half-smile as you glanced his way. “Pull what, exactly?”

He gestured vaguely at the garish display around you, his hand sweeping through the air with all the disdain he could muster. “This whole Christmas shit when the turkey ain’t even thawed out yet. Like, can we get through one holiday before they shove the next one down our throats?”

Sasha snorted, her laughter a quick, bright burst as she snatched a pack of chocolate-glazed doughnuts from a nearby shelf and tossed it into the large cart you were walking around with. The box landed with a soft thud, jostling it. Her oversized yellow sweater swallowed her frame, the sleeves pooling around her wrists, the hem brushing the tops of her gray sweatpants.

Her hair was swept back into its usual high ponytail, though a few strands had escaped, framing her beautiful face. “It’s capitalism, Connie,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact as she added another box of doughnuts to the cart. “They’re just tryna suck every dollar out of us before the year’s up.”

“Not my money,”

“Yeah, ‘cause you don’t have any,” you said

Sasha’s laughter erupted again. Connie’s jaw dropped, and he pressed a hand to his chest, his dark eyes widening in mock betrayal. “Girl, you know I’m tryna lock down a job!” he protested, his voice rising an octave. Then, as if struck by a good plan, he pointed at you. “Yo, you think Miche would hire me at the café?”

You scoffed, turning toward the dairy section, your fingers brushing over the cool, damp surface of an oat milk carton. The condensation clung to your skin as you lifted it, inspecting the label absently. “You? Nah, probably not.”

Connie’s brows knitted together, his pout deepening. “Why the hell not?”

You glanced over your shoulder,“Because Miche’s looking for someone who’s actually gonna work, not just sit on their ass all day.”

Sasha hummed thoughtfully, her head tilting as she surveyed the yogurt aisle with an intensity that suggested she was solving a riddle rather than picking a snack. “Yeah, Miche’s pretty chill, but Mikasa and Y/n have told me he doesn’t mess around when it comes to work,” she said, then flashed Connie a teasing smirk. “Guess you’re shit outta luck, bro.”

Connie slumped his shoulders in an exaggerated display of defeat, his lower lip jutting out like a sulky kid. “I’ll find something,” he mumbled, kicking at an imaginary pebble on the spotless floor.

“Mhm,” you murmured, your amusement barely concealed as you dropped the oat milk into the cart.

Sasha’s eyes sparkled as she found the last box of Special K cereal from the shelf, waving it triumphantly before adding it to the growing pile. “You should’ve found your way to a hospital with how you were acting last night at Zeke’s place.”

Connie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I honestly can’t remember much of what I did, bro. It’s all a blur.”

You rolled your eyes, already fishing your phone from your purse. A few quick taps brought up the evidence, and you held the screen out for him to see, the shaky video playing in all its chaotic glory.

There he was, Connie, alongside Eren, sprinting full speed toward Reiner’s car in the dead of night, their laughter wild and unhinged as they launched themselves over the hood in a sloppy attempt at a flip. The footage wobbled, the streetlights casting jagged shadows over their reckless stunt.

“Daaammmnn,” Connie whispered, his eyes wide as he leaned closer to the screen, equal parts impressed and horrified.

“Keep acting like that, and I’m signing you up for the Olympics,” you snorted, slipping the phone back into your purse with a shake of your head. Sasha grinned, her teeth flashing. “Hey, there’s your money right there. Gold medals and sponsorships.”

“Tempting,”

Connie mused, scratching his chin as if seriously considering it. “But I heard they don’t let you smoke weed, so nah, I’m good.” You chuckled before turning to look him in the eyes. “Pretty sure they just mean during the competition.”

“I thought it was, like, a total ban,” Sasha interjected, her brow furrowing as she tilted her head.

Connie shrugged, unbothered. “Either way, still a no for me.”

“Waste of talent,” you teased, your voice light as you sidestepped a display of holiday-themed cookies.

With a shameless grin, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. The warmth of his body seeped through your sweater, and his cologne hit you, a familiar blend of Adidas Move and the weed that clung to his clothes, grounding and sharp all at once. “Come on, baby, don’t do me like that,” he drawled, his voice dropping low and syrupy in your ear.

“Hm,” you hummed, fighting the smile that threatened to break free as you leaned into him just a little.

Sasha’s gaze flicked toward the meat section, her focus shifting abruptly. “Oh, grab me the large ground beef real quick, I’m making spaghetti tonight,” she said, pointing toward the shelves. Connie disentangled himself from you, striding over to the cooler and snagging the biggest pack of ground beef he could find. He handed it to Sasha with a dramatic flourish, bowing slightly.

“Your beef, milady.”

“Thank you!”

Sasha chirped, tossing it into the cart with a satisfied nod. She turned to you, her expression softening. “Hey, Y/n, you wanna come over tonight for dinner? I’ll save you a plate.” You sighed, offering her an apologetic smile. “Can’t, sadly. Got tutoring tonight. Sorry, pretty girl.”

Connie gasped, clutching his chest again, his eyes gleaming with exaggerated woe. “Ooh, my Shayla! You finna hang out with another man tonight, and it ain’t me?”

“You gotta be quick,” you teased, winking at him.

His grin sharpened, a glint of challenge in his eyes. “I’m not so quick with other things, though.”

“You nasty bi-” you started, but he cut you off, clasping his hands together in a pleading gesture.

“One chance, baby, please!” he begged, his voice dripping with mock desperation, his lashes fluttering dramatically.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, smirking as you turned away.

Sasha laughed, poking your side with a knowing look. “She’s lying. I saw the way you were looking at Reiner last night, girl.” Heat crept up your cheeks, and you swatted her hand away. “We were just talking.”

“Talking?” Sasha raised an eyebrow, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Y’all looked like you were eye-fucking.” Connie groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t say that, bro, my heart can’t take it!”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “You were drunk, Sasha. You didn’t even know what was going on.”

“Ahh, whatever,” she said, waving you off with a flick of her wrist.

“You need to worry about yourself,” you countered, nodding at her. “You and Niccolo’s date is this Thursday, right?” Connie grumbled, grabbing a carton of eggs from the shelf with more force than necessary. “Her ass won’t shut up about it.”

“Because I’ve been craving this date, man,” Sasha said, practically bouncing on her heels, her eyes lighting up. “It’s gonna be perfect.” Connie shot her a sidelong glance. “That’s all you craving, huh?”

Sasha shrugged, unabashed. “I’m not afraid to admit I’ve been fiending over him.”

“More like gooning,” you muttered under your breath.

Connie’s horrified gasp ricocheted down the aisle. “NOOOO!”

Sasha just laughed, unbothered. “Anyway, I’m also craving some Dunkin, so once we’re done here, we can swing by before I drop Y/n off for class.”

“What else do we need?” you asked, scanning the crumpled list in your hand.

“Just the noodles and sauce, then we're good to head out” Sasha said, her voice chipper. Connie tossed his head back with a relieved sigh, brushing his hands together. “Let’s hurry up. I’m sick of hearing Mariah Carey scream in my ear.”

With the noodles and sauce for Sasha’s spaghetti secured, the three of you navigated the bustling aisles of Kroger, weaving past harried shoppers and overstuffed carts until you reached the self-checkout stations. You shift the cart towards the counter with a quiet clatter, its contents shifting slightly as Sasha immediately took charge, her movements quick and efficient so you can all hurry to grab some breakfast.

Her eyes glinted as she snatched a pack of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes from a nearby impulse-buy rack, tossing them into the cart with a casual flick of her wrist. The crinkle of the wrapper was barely audible over the hum of the machine as she began scanning more items.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning one hip against the counter as you watched her. “Aren’t we hitting Dunkin’ after this?”

Sasha didn’t even glance up, her focus locked on the box of cereal she was sliding across the scanner. “Yup. These are for later,” she replied smoothly, her voice carrying that easy confidence that made it impossible to argue with her.

Connie scoffed from beside you, his arms crossed over his chest as he shot Sasha a look of mock disgust. “You so big back,” he said, dragging out the words for emphasis, his lips curling into a smirk.

Sasha’s head snapped up, her hazel eyes narrowing into slits, “Didn’t your ass eat four Crunchwraps in one sitting last weekend?” she fired back, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Connie spluttered, his hands flying up in exaggerated betrayal. “And didn’t you do the same, but with three Baja Blasts chugged back-to-back?”

“Fuck you, Connie,” Sasha huffed, rolling her eyes as she swiped the ground beef across the scanner with a little more force than necessary.

Connie leaned against the edge of the counter, his self-satisfied grin widening as he rocked back on his heels. “You mad ‘cause I’m right,” he taunted, his voice full of satisfaction.

You chuckled under your breath, the sound soft and warm as you reached into the cart to help Sasha scan the remaining items. The plastic bags crinkled faintly as you gathered them back into the cart. The self-checkout screen flashed a total, and Sasha tapped her card against the reader, the transaction completed in seconds.

“Jesus, it’s cold,”

You muttered as the three of you stepped back into the biting November air. The automatic doors slid shut behind you with a hiss, sealing off the artificial warmth of the store as the wind hit your skin. It sliced across your exposed thighs, slipping past the thin barrier of your stockings making you shiver.

Connie snorted, yanking the strings of his hoodie tight around his face until only his eyes peeked out from beneath the green beanie. “Should’ve worn a coat instead of tryna look cute,” he teased, his breath puffing out in a faint cloud.

You shot him a sidelong glare, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “You think I’m cute?”

He didn’t hesitate, his dark eyes glinting with that familiar mischief as he stepped closer, his voice dropping low and smooth. “Fine as hell.”

A laugh burst from your lips, sharp and bright, your breath curling into the cold air like wisps of smoke. You shook your head, turning toward Sasha’s silver Subaru Outback parked a few spaces away. By the time you reached it, your fingers were starting to numb, the tips tingling even through the stretched-out sleeves of your sweater. Sasha pressed a button on her key fob, and the trunk lifted with a quiet whir, revealing a cluttered mess of reusable bags, a stray hairbrush, and an old blanket shoved into the corner. You loaded the groceries in, shifting them to make space, while Sasha unceremoniously shoved the empty cart toward Connie.

“Take it back,” she ordered, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the side of the car, her yellow sweater glowing faintly under the parking lot lights.

Connie groaned, his shoulders slumping as he dragged his feet toward the cart corral. “Damn, a ‘please’ would’ve been nice,” he called over his shoulder, his voice dripping with mock indignation.

“I’m driving. Remember that,” Sasha shot back, her tone dry as she slid into the driver’s seat with a smirk.

“Whatever,” Connie grumbled, though the sparkle in his eyes as he trudged off told you he wasn’t really mad.

Seizing your chance, you darted around to the passenger side and slipped into the front seat, the worn leather creaking faintly beneath you. You buckled in with a click just as Connie returned, his long strides eating up the distance. He reached for the door handle, but before he could grab it, you hit the lock button with a smile. Through the glass, his wide-eyed stare met yours, disbelief etched across his face as he mouthed, “Are you serious?”

You grinned, wiggling your fingers in a taunting wave. “I told you, you gotta be quick.”

His jaw dropped, but the glare he leveled at you held no real venom. “You’re lucky I love your crazy ass,” he said, his voice muffled through the window as he yanked open the back door with a muttered curse, climbing in with an exaggerated huff.

Sasha backed out of the parking spot with a practiced ease, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as she rolled them fondly. She scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other resting lightly on the wheel, as she played one of the songs from her playlist. The bass vibrated faintly through the seats, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of the city streets rolling by.

|♩♩♩- Will I see you again| By: Thee Sacred Souls

Five minutes later, you pulled into the Dunkin’ drive-thru, the neon sign casting a warm, pinkish glow through the windshield. Sasha rolled her window down, the cold rushing in as her breath misted in the air. She leaned out slightly, her ponytail swinging as she called out to the speaker.

“Hi, may I have a pumpkin cream cold brew and two Bismark doughnuts, please?” She nudged Connie’s leg with her elbow, barely glancing back. “What do you want, pinhead?”

Connie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the center console as he peered out the window. “Get me a bacon egg and cheese sandwich and an iced Americano with sweet foam,” he said, his tone casual.

Sasha repeated his order into the speaker, then turned to you with an exaggeratedly sweet smile, batting her lashes. “And for you, my queen?”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek as you glanced at the menu board glowing faintly. “I don’t know if I have enough for anything,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended.

Sasha snorted, waving off your concern like it was nothing. “I didn’t ask about that. I said, what do you want?”

A small smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest. “May I have one chocolate doughnut stuffed with the cookies and cream filling and a small pumpkin latte, please?”

Sasha snickered, leaning back out the window with a grin. “And two chocolate cookies and cream stuffed doughnuts with a large pumpkin spice latte. Extra cold foam,” she said, with a smile. The lady over the speaker gave the total and told you all to drive around.

Your eyes widened, a mix of betrayal and amusement flashing across your face. “I asked for a small and one doughnut!”

“Well, I got you a large and two doughnuts,” Sasha quipped, tossing you a wink as she rolled down the window and handed the woman her card. “You’re welcome.”

You stared at her, lips twitching as you fought a grin. “…I’m gonna marry your ass one day.”

“Finally admitting it,” she teased, leaning over to press a dramatic, smacking kiss to your cheek. The sound echoed in the car, and you laughed right as the woman handed Sasha her receipt.

The car inched forward in the line, and Sasha leaned back in her seat with a smirk. “Besides, you’re gonna need all that energy since Jean’s tutoring you again today.”

You groaned inwardly, your shoulders slumping against the seat as a wave of irritation washed over you.

Jean.

The name alone was enough to sour your mood. Smart as hell, sure, annoyingly so, with his perfect grades and that smug little smirk he wore like a badge of honor. But an asshole nonetheless, with his sharp tongue. You scowled, shoving the image of his broad shoulders and stupidly sharp jawline to the back of your mind. The nerve of him, looking that good while being that insufferable. It was unfair, honestly.

The Dunkin’ worker leaned out the window with a bright smile, handing Sasha a tray of drinks and a paper bag stuffed with goodies. “Have a nice day!” they chirped, and Sasha nodded back as the rich smell of coffee and warm dough flooded the car, banishing the cold for a blissful moment. Connie wasted no time, tearing into his sandwich with a groan of pure satisfaction as he sprawled across the backseat, his long legs stretching out like he owned the place.

Sasha’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, narrowing with a warning glint. “Connie, don’t spill nothing on my seats, I swear!”

He rolled his eyes, waving a napkin in the air like a white flag. “I’m not, damn! I got a napkin right here, chill!”

You bit back a laugh, lifting your latte to your lips and savoring the first sip. The warmth spread down your throat, sweet and hot. The car coasted down the street, heading towards campus.

In the backseat, Connie munched noisily on his bacon egg and cheese sandwich, the crinkle of the wrapper punctuating the quiet as he sprawled out, one sneaker propped against the back of your seat.

You shifted in the passenger seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath you, and glanced over at Sasha. Her profile was illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard, her lips still curved in that smug little smirk from her earlier victory at Dunkin’. You took another sip of your latte, the extra cold foam Sasha had insisted on melting sweetly on your tongue, before breaking the comfortable silence.

“So,” you started, your voice casual but laced with curiosity, “what are you wearing for your big date with Niccolo on Thursday? You’ve been hyping it up nonstop, so I know you’ve got something planned.”

Sasha’s eyes lit up, her smirk widening into a full grin as she flicked her gaze toward you for a split second before returning it to the road. “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it, trust me,” she said, her tone brimming with excitement. “I’m leaning toward that black dress, you know, the one with the slit up the thigh? It’s sexy but not, like, trying too hard, you know? Pair it with those gold hoops I got last month and the strappy heels that make my legs look sexy.”

You nodded approvingly, picturing the outfit in your mind. “That’s a solid choice.You’re gonna look hot as hell.”

“Right?” Sasha beamed, her fingers tapping the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. “I want him to be, like, stunned when he sees me. He’s been texting me all week about this Italian place he’s taking me to, and I’m not about to show up looking anything less than perfect.”

Connie’s voice cut through from the backseat, muffled slightly by a mouthful of sandwich. “Yeah, well, just make sure you shave, Sash. You hairy as fuck,Niccolo’s gonna think he’s dating Wild Mike if you don’t.”

Sasha’s head whipped around so fast you thought she might strain something, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could’ve melted steel. Without missing a beat, she reached back with one hand, her arm stretching across the console as she landed a sharp smack on Connie’s knee. The sound cracked through the car, loud and satisfying, and Connie yelped, nearly dropping his sandwich as he jolted upright.

“Ow, what the hell!” he protested, rubbing his leg with exaggerated indignation, though the grin spreading across his face betrayed him.

Sasha turned back to the road, her smirk returning as she shook her head. “Keep talking shit, pinhead, and I’ll leave your ass on the side of the road.”

Connie dissolved into laughter, the sound spilling out of him in deep, infectious waves that bounced off the car’s interior. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the edge of your seat, his breath warm against your shoulder as he wheezed. “I’m just sayin’, Niccolo’s gonna need a weed whacker if you don’t handle that shit.”

You snorted, nearly choking on your latte as you swatted at Connie’s head. “You’re disgusting,” you said, though your own laughter bubbled up, bright and uncontainable.

Sasha rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Y’all are lucky I don’t crash this car just to shut you up.”

You turned and looked at Sasha with your mouth slightly open.

“I didn't even say anything.”

Connie, still chuckling, pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face in a soft blue glow. “Yo, speaking of wild shit, you see that TikTok going around? The one where that dude’s just throwing chairs at people in a parking lot?”

You turned slightly in your seat, eyebrows lifting. “What? No, show me.”

He tapped the screen a few times, then held it up between you and Sasha, the video already playing. The grainy footage showed a guy in a hoodie hurling folding chairs at unsuspecting passersby, each throw accompanied by a dramatic yell and the startled shrieks of his victims. The chaos unfolded to the tune of some over-the-top action movie soundtrack, and by the time one chair sailed into a group of frat guys who scattered like startled pigeons, all three of you were cackling.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, clutching your stomach as tears pricked your eyes. “I'm hollering!”

“Probably a cradhout,” Connie wheezed, wiping at his face. “Imagine that’s Reiner after we messed with his car last night.”

“After you messed with his car last night.”

Sasha snorted, her laughter sharp and loud as she wiped at her own eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Nah, Reiner's a sweetheart.”

“Mhm,” you agreed, still giggling as you took another sip of your latte. “That guy lucky he didn't hit someone who was carrying.”

Connie shook his head, pocketing his phone as his laughter finally tapered off. “My thoughts exactly.”

The car rolled to a stop at a traffic light and you glanced out the window, the familiar silhouette of the math building coming into view a few blocks ahead. The mood settled slightly, the laughter fading into a comfortable quiet as Sasha turned down the music just a notch.

A minute later, she pulled up to the curb outside the building, the engine idling with a low rumble as you unbuckled your seatbelt.

You leaned into the backseat, reaching for your bag. The faint scent of Connie’s cologne lingered as you brushed past him, and he shifted to give you more room, still nursing the last of his iced Americano.

Sasha twisted in her seat to face you, her expression softening as she rested an elbow on the console. “Hey, call me if you need someone to pick you up after your session later tonight, okay? I don’t want you walking home in the dark.”

You slung the bag over one shoulder, the weight settling familiarly against your back as you nodded. “I will. Thanks, Sasha,” you said, offering her a small, appreciative smile. You glanced at Connie, who flashed you a lazy grin, then pushed open the passenger door. The cold rushed in immediately, nipping at your legs as you stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“See y’all later,” you called, lifting a hand in a wave as you turned toward the building. Sasha honked the horn lightly in response, a quick, playful beep that echoed faintly as she pulled away, the Subaru’s tail lights glowing red in the distance. Connie’s muffled laughter trailed after them, fading away as you pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The math building’s lobby swallowed you whole, the air inside thick with the sterile scent of industrial cleaner and the faint buzz of overhead lights. The tiled floor gleamed underfoot, your boots clicking softly against it as you headed toward the elevators.

You shifted your backpack higher on your shoulder, the straps digging into your sweater as you fished your phone from your skirt pocket. The screen glowed to life,five minutes early, not your best but you're still early.

The elevator stood just ahead, its silver doors catching the overhead light in a dull sheen. As you approached, it chimed with a bright, artificial ding, the doors sliding open to reveal a handful of students already crammed inside. Most were hunched over their phones, faces blank and eyes glazed, lost in the glow of their screens.

One guy in a puffy jacket leaned against the wall, earbuds dangling loosely from his ears, while a girl with a messy bun scrolled absently, her thumb flicking across TikTok with mechanical precision. You slipped in beside them and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors eased shut with a soft hiss, sealing you in, and you exhaled slowly, watching the numbers above blink from one to two, then three.

When the doors parted again, you stepped out into the third-floor hallway, the air noticeably quieter here, the clamor of the lobby left behind. The voices that lingered were hushed, muffled by heavy wooden doors and the occasional rustle of paper from behind them. Bulletin boards lined the walls, cluttered with flyers advertising study groups, tutoring services, and some faded poster for a some school event long past, its corners curling inward.

The math classroom waited at the end of the hall, its door propped slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out into the corridor. You peeked inside as you approached, catching glimpses of students scattered across the room. Some hunched over notebooks, pencils scratching furiously against paper, while others lounged with earbuds in, their thumbs swiping lazily across phone screens. The desks were a mismatched array of scratched wood and chipped laminate, arranged in uneven rows that spoke of years of indifferent use. Near the middle of the room, a familiar head of blond hair caught your eye, and a small wave of relief loosened the knot in your shoulders.

Colt looked up just as you stepped through the doorway, his face breaking into a warm, easy smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. He raised a hand in a casual wave, the sleeve of his navy hoodie slipping down to reveal a woven bracelet on his wrist, faded and fraying at the edges.

You mirrored the gesture, weaving through the desks to reach him, your boots scuffing softly against the linoleum as you slid into the seat beside him. The chair was cold beneath you, its metal frame biting through your skirt, and the desk’s smooth surface felt cool under your palms as you set your bag down with a quiet thud.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice light as you unzipped your backpack, the sound sharp in the low hum of the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here early.”

Colt chuckled, a low, rumbling sound as he tossled his hair. “Surprisingly I didn't sleep in this morning so, figured I’d actually be responsible for once instead of rolling in late like usual.” He grinned, his eyes bright with that effortless friendliness that had drawn you to him back in freshman year, when you’d bonded over a shared hatred of 8 a.m. lectures and lukewarm dining hall coffee.

You snorted, pulling out your calculus textbook and letting it drop onto the desk with a heavy thunk. “Well look at you.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, the sound bright and unselfconscious. Then his expression shifted, a spark of excitement lighting up his face as he reached for his phone. “Oh, wait, hold up, I gotta show you these,” he said, his fingers quick and a little clumsy as he swiped through his camera roll, the screen casting a faint glow across his features. “Falco had that soccer game this weekend i told you about, and the kid was all over the field. Scored twice, absolute beast.”

He handed you the phone, and you took it, the cool glass smooth against your fingertips. The screen lit up with a photo of a boy no older than twelve, his blond hair a sweaty, tousled mess sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink beneath the harsh glare of a midday sun.

His soccer jersey hung loose on his slight frame, the number 12 emblazoned in bold red across the chest, but the grin stretching across his face was pure, unfiltered joy, teeth flashing, eyes squinted shut in triumph. You swiped to the next image: Falco mid-kick, one leg extended as the ball sailed through the air, his focus razor-sharp. Another showed him with his arms raised, mid-celebration, while a third captured him half-tackled by a teammate in a messy, jubilant hug, both of them laughing as they hit the grass.

You smiled, the warmth of the moment seeping into you as you handed the phone back. “He’s getting taller,” you remarked, your tone soft but genuine. “How old is he now?”

“Twelve,” Colt corrected himself with a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck. “Just turned it last month. Swear he’s growing an inch every time I blink, kid’s gonna pass me up soon, and I’m not ready for that.”

You chuckled, leaning back in your chair, the cold metal creaking faintly beneath you. “He looks happy. You take these yourself?”

“Hell yeah,” Colt said, his grin widening with a touch of pride as he tucked his phone back into his hoodie pocket. “I was screaming on the sidelines like a damn maniac, mom had to elbow me and tell me to chill out. But, you know.”

The fondness in his voice was palpable, a quiet glow that settled comfortably in the space between you. You smiled, soft and unguarded. “Bet he appreciates it. Not every kid’s got a big brother cheering that loud.”

Colt’s ears flushed pink at the tips, but his grin held steady, unshaken. “Yeah, well, he’s stuck with me whether he likes it or not.” He glanced at you, one brow lifting as a teasing edge crept into his tone. “Anyway, heard about your tutor session with him. If he tries you do you want me to make an escape plan?”

You groaned, letting your head tip back against the chair, the ceiling’s acoustic tiles blurring into a dull white expanse above you. “Please do. Preferably one with zero calculus and zero smug assholes breathing down my neck.”

Colt snorted, the sound sharp and amused as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Can’t help you with the calculus part, but I’ll see what I can do about the assholes. Maybe smuggle you out through the back stairwell when he’s not looking.”

You chuckled, the tension in your shoulders unwinding just a fraction as you straightened up. The room was filling up now, more students trickling in The faint scent of damp wool and coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile bite of the classroom’s atmosphere. You glanced at the clock mounted above the whiteboard, two minutes to spare.

Perfect.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe, the warmth of the room seeping into your bones, the faint trace of pumpkin spice still clinging to your breath.

Colt was still rambling beside you about Falco tripping over a water bottle during halftime, but your attention drifted, snagging on the familiar sound of boots scuffing against linoleum just outside the door.

Jean stepped into the classroom, his presence cutting through the ambient noise like a blade, though there was nothing sharp about the way he moved today. He looked tired, more tired than usual, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he shuffled through the doorway, his gait heavier than the brisk, purposeful stride you’d come to associate with him.

Normally, he’d already be here by the time you arrived, seated in his usual spot, his notes spread out and his hazel eyes flicking up to track your entrance with a glint of smug superiority. Today, though, he was late, well, late for him. You noted it with a flicker of curiosity, your brow twitching faintly, but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.

You didn’t care enough to dwell on it, let alone ask. All that mattered was that he’d better be awake enough to make sense of derivatives and integrals when you met him later in the library for your tutoring session. If he couldn’t manage that, you’d have words, sharp ones.

He wore a black turtleneck today, the fabric snug against his frame, hugging the lines of his chest and shoulders in a way that was understated but deliberate. It covered the sleeve tattoos that sprawled across his forearms. His light-wash jeans hung loose on his hips, the denim faded and frayed at the knees, pooling slightly over the tops of his scuffed black boots. The silver chain around his neck glinted faintly under the fluorescent lights, a subtle flash of metal that matched the rings adorning his fingers. Two on his left hand, one on his right, their surfaces catching the light as he adjusted the strap of the worn leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

His ash-brown mullet was a bit messier than usual, strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, and faint shadows clung to the skin beneath his eyes, deepening the hazel to something darker, murkier.

He didn’t spare you a glance as he made his way through the room, his boots thudding dully against the floor. The other students barely registered his arrival, too absorbed in their own worlds, but you tracked him out of habit, your gaze narrowing slightly as he headed straight for the row behind you.

Of course.

He always sat there, close enough to loom over your shoulder, far enough to keep that unspoken distance between you. You shifted in your seat, the cold metal of the chair creaking faintly beneath you, and tugged your sweater sleeves down over your hands, a small barrier against the draft creeping through the room.

Jean dropped into the seat with a quiet grunt, the desk groaning under his weight as he let his bag slide to the floor with a muffled thump. You heard the rustle of fabric as he leaned back, the faint creak of the chair adjusting to his frame, and then the soft clink of his chain settling against his chest. He stretched his legs out beneath the desk, the toes of his boots brushing perilously close to the back of your chair—close enough that you could feel the faint disturbance in the air, a whisper of his presence that set your jaw tightening instinctively. You didn’t turn around. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. But you could picture it anyway: the way he’d slouch, one arm draped lazily over the desk, the other resting on his thigh, his rings glinting as he tapped his fingers in that restless, annoying rhythm he always fell into when he was bored.

Colt’s voice pulled you back, his tone light and oblivious to the shift in your focus. “—and then Coach was like, ‘You’re benched if you pull that shit again,’ but Falco just grinned like it was nothing. Kid’s fearless, I swear.” He paused, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “You good? You zoned out for a sec.”

You blinked, forcing your attention back to him as you offered a small, dismissive shrug. “Yeah, just thinking about how much I’d rather be anywhere else right now,” you said, your voice dry but steady. It wasn’t a lie, just not the full truth.

Colt chuckled, oblivious, and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head until his hoodie rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “Fair. This class is bad, even on a good day.”

You hummed in agreement, flipping open your textbook to the chapter on limits, the pages crisp and uncreased despite the semester’s wear. Behind you, Jean shifted again, the sound of his bag unzipping cutting through the air, a slow, deliberate rasp that grated on your nerves more than it should have. You heard the faint clatter of a pen hitting the desk, followed by the rustle of papers as he pulled out his notes, the edges crinkled and worn like he’d been poring over them for hours.

Probably had.

He was nothing if not meticulous, a trait that made your blood simmer. You didn’t need to see him to know he was already scanning the room, those sharp hazel eyes taking stock of everything, everyone,like he was cataloging weaknesses to exploit later.

The professor hadn’t arrived yet, the whiteboard still blank at the front of the room, and the clock ticked on, each second dragging heavier than the last. You rested your elbow on the desk, propping your chin in your hand as you doodled absently in the margin of your notebook, a small little turtle.

You shifted again, crossing one leg over the other, the hem of your skirt brushing your thigh as you adjusted. The movement sent a faint ripple through the air, and you swore you felt the slightest pause in the rhythm of Jean’s tapping fingers, a hiccup in his usual cadence. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the soft scratch of his pen against paper, and you clenched your teeth, forcing your focus back to the textbook.

Professor Levi swept into the room with his usual brisk efficiency, a small figure cutting through the sluggish energy of the classroom like a blade. Levi barely reached the whiteboard before he set down his battered leather satchel with a muted thud, the sound sharp enough to pull a few heads up from their phones. His dark hair was neatly combed back, though a few strands fell loose over his forehead, and his gray eyes, piercing, almost unnervingly so, swept the room in a single, assessing glance.

He wore a charcoal blazer over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a thin black tie that hung slightly askew, as if he’d tugged at it in irritation earlier. The chalk clicked against the board as he picked it up, his movements precise, almost mechanical, and without preamble, he began scribbling a series of equations, the white dust smudging faintly against his fingers.

The room settled into a reluctant hush, the rustle of notebooks and the soft clatter of pens replacing the earlier chatter. You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the desk, the cool wood grounding you as you tried to focus on the looping symbols taking shape on the board. Levi’s voice cut through the air, low and clipped, carrying that dry edge that made every word feel like a challenge.

“Alright,” he said, turning to face the class, the chalk still gripped between his fingers. “Intermediate Value Theorem. Someone tell me what it states. Don’t waste my time.”

The question hung in the air, heavy and expectant, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional shuffle of feet. You traced the spiral in your notebook with your pen, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper, and kept your eyes down. You knew the theorem, vaguely,but the specifics eluded you, tangled somewhere in the mess of limits and continuity you’d been struggling to unravel all damn semester.

Behind you, Jean shifted in his seat, the faint creak of his chair cutting through the silence. His voice came next, smooth and steady, with that infuriating confidence that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. “The Intermediate Value Theorem states that if a function is continuous on a closed interval and k is any number between f(a) and f(b), then there exists at least one point in the interval.”

You didn’t need to turn around to picture the scene: Jean leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the desk, his hazel eyes fixed on Levi with that quiet, self-assured look he always wore when he knew he was right. Which, annoyingly, was most of the time. Levi gave a curt nod, his expression unchanging,blank, almost bored, as if Jean’s correctness was a given rather than an achievement.

“Hm,” Levi said, turning back to the board. He scratched out another problem, the chalk screeching faintly as he drew a jagged graph, two points marked clearly at opposite ends. “Next question. Given this function, continuous, obviously, where does the value lie if I ask for a point between these two outputs? Explain it.”

The room went still again, the silence thicker this time, pressing down like a weight. You stared at the graph, the lines blurring slightly as you tried to piece together an answer. Your mind churned, grasping at fragments of lectures you’d half-listened to, but nothing solid came.

You didn’t know it,

Not confidently, anyway, and you weren’t about to raise your hand and prove it. Colt shifted beside you, his pencil tapping softly against his notebook, but he didn’t speak up either. The other students seemed equally frozen, their heads bowed or their eyes darting nervously toward the front.

Then, from behind you, Jean’s voice broke the quiet again, casual but pointed.

“Looks like Y/n’s got her hand up.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold jolt racing down your spine as your head snapped up. You hadn’t raised your hand, hadn’t even moved, and the lie hung in the air, bold and deliberate. You felt the heat creep up your neck, your fingers tightening around your pen as Levi’s sharp gaze swung toward you.

His eyes narrowed slightly, pinning you in place, the weight of his expectation pressing down like a physical force. The room seemed to shrink, the murmurs fading into a distant hum as every pair of eyes turned your way.

“Well?” Levi prompted, his tone flat but edged with impatience. “Go on. Answer it.”

You glared at Jean over your shoulder, a quick, searing look that you hoped conveyed every ounce of venom you felt. He met your gaze with a flicker of amusement, his lips twitching just enough to make your blood boil before he leaned back, arms crossed, the silver rings on his fingers glinting faintly. Asshole. You turned back to Levi, your jaw tight, and opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. The graph stared back at you, mocking in its clarity, and the theorem you’d barely grasped slipped further out of reach.

“I…” you started, then faltered, the silence stretching painfully. “I don’t know.”

Levi’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes hardened, a glint of disappointment, or maybe just irritation, flashing in their depths. He tilted his head slightly, the movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible, and set the chalk down with a soft click against the tray. “If you want to pass this class,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “pay attention. I’m not here to babysit.”

The reprimand stung, sharp and public, and you felt the heat flare in your cheeks as you held his stare. You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, letting your glare sharpen into something defiant even as your pulse hammered in your ears. Levi didn’t blink, his face a mask of cool indifference, but there was a flicker of something, challenge, maybe, before he turned back to the board. He picked up the chalk again, his movements fluid and unbothered, and began to answer his own question.

“The value lies at a point c where the function crosses the horizontal line at that output,” he said, sketching a quick line across the graph with precision. “Since it’s continuous, it has to hit every value between the endpoints. Basic application. You’d know that if you’d read the chapter.”

His tone was dry, almost monotone, and when he finished, he set the chalk down and brushed the dust from his hands, a faint white smear lingering on his fingertips. He didn’t look at you again, his attention shifting to the next problem as if the exchange had never happened.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled, forcing the tension in your shoulders to unwind as you sank back into your chair. Your pen dug into the notebook, the spiral you’d been drawing now a jagged, angry mess of overlapping lines.

Beside you, Colt shot you a sidelong glance, his brow furrowing slightly as he mouthed, “You okay?” You gave a tight nod, not trusting your voice just yet, and flipped to a fresh page in your notebook, the blank space a small reprieve. Behind you, Jean was silent, but you could feel him, his presence like a low hum at the edge of your awareness. You didn’t need to see his face to know the look he’d be wearing: that faint, disinterested slant to his mouth, his eyes half-lidded as if the whole thing bored him. He’d gotten what he wanted.

Rattled you.

Thrown you off.

And now he’d sit there, smug and quiet, like he hadn’t just tossed you under the bus for no damn reason.

You scratched a quick, furious note in the margin Jean’s a dick and underlined it twice, the ink bleeding faintly into the paper. Colt caught sight of it and stifled a snort, covering it with a cough as he ducked his head. You shot him a warning look, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself, a flicker of amusement cutting through the irritation.

Levi moved on and launched into the next concept, the chalk tapping rhythmically against the board. You forced your focus forward, your pen moving mechanically across the page as you copied down the equations, but the sting of Levi’s words,and Jean’s petty little stunt, lingered like a bruise.

You hunched over your notebook, your pen scratching out half-formed equations as you tried to keep up, the numbers and symbols blurring into a chaotic jumble that made your temple throb. Levi’s voice continued on, low and precise, dissecting the properties of continuous functions with the same dispassionate efficiency he brought to everything.

Beside you, Colt shifted in his seat, the soft rustle of his hoodie brushing against the desk pulling your focus for a moment. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he tilted his head toward you, his ash-blond hair catching the light in a faint halo. “Hey,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on his own notebook to avoid drawing attention. “You getting any of this? ‘Cause I’m kinda lost on where he’s going with this graph.”

You snorted softly, the sound barely audible as you kept your gaze fixed on the page, your pen hovering over a half-drawn tangent line. “Hell no,” you whispered back, your tone dry but edged with frustration. “I’m still trying to figure out what the hell the last problem even meant.”

Colt stifled a chuckle, the sound catching in his throat as he scratched at the back of his neck, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah, same. I thought I had it for a sec, but then he started throwing in all these intervals, and now I’m just, poof.” He made a small, exaggerated gesture with his hand, mimicking his brain exploding, and you bit back a grin, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

Before you could respond, Levi’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and cold, halting the quiet exchange dead in its tracks. “Mrs. L/n.” His tone was flat, but it carried a weight that made your stomach lurch, your pen freezing mid-stroke.

You looked up, meeting his gaze across the room, and found those gray eyes locked onto you, narrowed, unyielding, like a hawk zeroing in on prey. He stood by the whiteboard, one hand resting lightly on the chalk tray, the other holding a piece of chalk poised midair, a faint dusting of white clinging to his fingertips. The room went still, the other students’ heads swiveling toward you in a ripple of uneasy attention.

“Either stop talking,” Levi said, his voice low but cutting, each syllable deliberate, “or you can get out of my class. I don’t care which. But I’m not here to waste time, and neither are they.” He jerked his head slightly toward the rest of the room, his expression unchanging, cool, detached, and faintly irritated, like you were a minor inconvenience he’d rather not deal with.

“You’re disturbing everyone else’s learning. Pick one.”

The reprimand landed like a slap, sharp and humiliating, and heat flared in your cheeks as you clenched your jaw, your fingers tightening around your pen until the plastic creaked faintly. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, holding Levi’s stare with a mix of defiance and embarrassment that churned in your gut. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on you like a physical thing.

Colt shifted beside you, his posture stiffening as he ducked his head, clearly trying to shrink out of the line of fire, but Levi’s focus didn’t waver. It was all on you, and you alone.

Behind you, Jean’s voice broke the tension, smooth and casual, with just enough edge to make your teeth grind. “She’s just trying to keep up, Professor. Can’t fault her for that.” His tone was light, almost innocent, but there was a thread of condescension woven through it, subtle enough to slip under Levi’s radar but loud and clear to you. You could hear the smirk in his words, the faint lilt of amusement that said he was enjoying this. Enjoying watching you squirm, enjoying the chance to poke at you under the guise of playing peacemaker.

You didn’t turn around, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but your shoulders stiffened, the muscles coiling tight as a surge of irritation flared hot in your chest. Of course he’d chime in. Jean never missed an opportunity to twist the knife, especially when he could do it with that infuriating calm that made it sound like he was doing you a favor. Your pen dug into the notebook, the tip leaving a faint gouge in the paper as you forced yourself to stay still, to keep your mouth shut. The last thing you needed was to give Levi more ammunition, or Jean more fuel.

Levi’s eyes flicked briefly toward Jean, a flicker of acknowledgment, before settling back on you. “I don’t need commentary,” he said, his voice flat, dismissing Jean’s input without a second thought. He set the chalk down with a soft click, brushing the dust from his hands as he straightened, his posture rigid and unyielding. “If you’re struggling, figure it out quietly or don’t. But this isn’t a discussion group. Next time, you’re out.”

The warning hung in the air, final and unnegotiable, and Levi turned back to the board without another word, his movements brisk as he erased the previous graph and began sketching a new one.

The chalk scraped faintly, the sound grating against your frayed nerves as he launched back into his lecture, his tone as dry and unrelenting as ever. The room exhaled collectively, the tension easing as attention drifted back to the front, though a few lingering glances still prickled at the back of your neck.

You sank lower in your chair, your jaw tight and your cheeks still burning as you stared at the fresh page in your notebook. The equations Levi was scribbling blurred into meaningless lines, your focus shattered by the sting of his words and Jean’s smug little jab. You scratched out the gouge in the paper with quick, furious strokes, the ink smearing slightly under the pressure, and muttered under your breath, too low for anyone to hear,

“Asshole.”

Colt leaned closer again, his voice barely a whisper as he kept his eyes forward, pretending to copy down the new graph. “He’s brutal today,” he said, a note of sympathy threading through the words. “You good?”

You gave a short, sharp nod, not trusting yourself to speak without letting the anger spill over. “Fine,” you bit out, your tone clipped as you forced your pen to move, mimicking Levi’s notes even though they made no sense to you right now. Your hand trembled slightly, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and you pressed harder, the ink bleeding into the paper in thick, uneven lines.

Behind you, Jean shifted again, the faint creak of his chair a quiet taunt. You heard the soft tap of his pen against the desk once, twice, then a pause before he leaned forward slightly, his voice low enough to stay under Levi’s radar but clear enough to reach you.

“Don’t take it personally,” he murmured, the words dripping with mock sincerity. “Not everyone’s cut out for this stuff.”

Your spine stiffened, a fresh wave of heat surging through you as your grip on the pen tightened until your knuckles whitened. You didn’t turn around, didn’t dignify it with a response, but the urge to spin and snap something vicious clawed at your throat. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled, and scrawled another note in the margin.

Jean can choke.

the letters jagged and sharp. Colt caught sight of it and pressed his lips together, stifling a laugh as he ducked his head, his shoulders shaking silently.

Levi continued at the front, oblivious or indifferent, his chalk tapping out a steady rhythm as he dissected the new problem. The room settled back into its uneasy quiet. You forced your focus forward, your anger a tight knot in your chest, and promised yourself you’d deal with Jean later preferably with a textbook to his smug face if he dared pull this shit during your tutoring session. For now, you swallowed it down as the lecture dragged on.

The final minutes of the class ticked by in a haze, Levi’s voice a steady, unrelenting drone as he wrapped up the lecture with a final flurry of equations scribbled across the whiteboard. The chalk squeaked faintly as he underlined a key point, something about continuity and endpoints, but the words swam in your head, a jumbled mess of numbers and symbols that refused to settle into anything coherent.

Your notebook lay open before you, pages cluttered with half-formed notes and jagged doodles, the ink bleeding where you’d pressed too hard in frustration. Calculus felt like a tide pulling you under, the concepts slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you tried to anchor yourself. You rubbed at your temples, the dull throb behind your eyes growing sharper as the clock above the board hit the hour.

Levi set the chalk down with a soft click, brushing the dust from his hands as he turned to face the room. “That’s it,” he said, his voice flat and final. “Read chapter six by next class. Don’t bother showing up if you haven’t.” His gray eyes swept the room one last time, lingering nowhere in particular, before he stepped toward his desk at the front, the faint clack of his shoes against the linoleum signaling the end of the ordeal.

The room erupted into motion, chairs scraping back and bags zipping open as students surged toward the door, their voices rising in a sudden swell of chatter. You stayed seated for a moment, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of equations in your notebook, the lines blurring into a tangle of frustration. Colt shifted beside you, already shoving his textbook into his backpack with a careless efficiency, the zipper catching briefly on the corner of his hoodie.

“Man, that was brutal,” he said, slinging the bag over one shoulder as he stood, stretching his arms above his head until his joints popped. “You surviving over there?”

You snorted, flipping your notebook shut with a little more force than necessary. “Barely. My brain’s just swimming in all this crap, and none of it makes sense.” You started packing up, sliding your pen into the side pocket of your bag, the cold metal of the desk biting into your palms as you leaned on it.

Colt grinned, nudging you with his elbow as he adjusted his glasses. “Yeah, I feel you. I’m gonna need a coffee IV drip just to get through the reading tonight. You coming?”

“Nah,” you said, zipping your backpack shut and slinging it over your shoulder, the weight settling heavily against your back. “Gotta talk to Levi about something. Catch you later?”

“For sure,” Colt replied, giving you a quick wave as he headed for the stairs, his lanky frame disappearing into the stream of students filtering out. “Don’t let Jean get to you too bad later!”

You rolled your eyes, muttering a faint, “No promises,” under your breath as you turned toward the front of the room. The crowd thinned quickly, the last stragglers shuffling out with their heads down, leaving the classroom quieter, emptier, the hum of the heating system more pronounced in the stillness. Your boots tapped softly against the floor as you started down the row, your gaze drifting toward the stairs where Jean was already making his exit.

He descended with that same tired slump to his shoulders, his black turtleneck stretching faintly across his broad frame as he moved.

His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, that disinterested look clung to his hazel eyes half-lidded, distant, like he couldn’t be bothered with anything or anyone around him. As he passed your row, his shoulder clipped yours, a quick, careless shove that sent you stumbling half a step to the side. He didn’t stop, didn’t glance back, just kept moving toward the door with that same infuriating nonchalance, the faint creak of the hinges marking his exit.

You steadied yourself, your jaw tightening as a fresh surge of irritation flared in your chest. “Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at his retreating back until he disappeared into the hall. The thought of facing him again later in the library for tutoring twisted in your gut like a knot, hours of his smug commentary and that tired, superior stare. It sucked, plain and simple, but you shoved it down, turning your attention to the front of the room where Levi sat at his desk, his focus already buried in his laptop.

You approached slowly, your boots scuffing against the linoleum as you wove through the rows of desks, the faint scent of chalk dust and stale coffee lingering in the air. Levi’s desk was stark, save for his satchel, a stack of graded papers, and the glowing screen of his computer. He didn’t look up as you stopped in front of him, his fingers tapping steadily against the keys. Up close, the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, the faint lines etched into his face speaking of too many late nights and too little patience. His tie was still slightly askew, the knot loosened as if he’d tugged at it one too many times.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Professor Levi?” Your voice came out quieter than you’d meant, and you straightened, forcing a little more confidence into it. “I was wondering if there’s any extra credit I could do. You know, to… help my grade.”

Levi didn’t pause, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen. The blue light reflected faintly in his gray irises, giving them an almost metallic sheen. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you, the silence stretching thin and taut between you, but then he spoke, his voice low and clipped, as dry as the chalk staining his hands.

“I don’t do extra credit,” he said, not bothering to look up. His tone was flat, final, like the slam of a door you hadn’t realized was already locked. “You want a better grade, put in the work during class. I’m not handing out free points because you’re struggling.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and unyielding, and you felt the heat creep up your neck again, a mix of embarrassment and defiance churning in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue something, anything, but the steady tap of his typing didn’t falter, and his gaze remained glued to the screen, dismissing you without so much as a glance. The faint hum of the computer fan buzzed in the background, a quiet counterpoint to the tension coiling inside you.

“But-” you started, your voice sharper now, but he cut you off without missing a beat.

“No buts,” he said, his fingers pausing just long enough to adjust the stack of papers beside him, aligning the edges with a precise tap against the desk. “You’ve got the same shot as everyone else. Study harder, pay attention, or fail. Your call.” His eyes flicked up then, just for a second cold, piercing, and utterly disinterested before dropping back to the screen, the dismissal clear as day.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your hands tightening around the straps of your backpack as your jaw clenched. The classroom felt cavernous around you, the empty desks. You wanted to snap back, to tell him you were trying, that this wasn’t just laziness but the weight of his stare, brief as it had been, pinned the words in your throat. Instead, you exhaled sharply through your nose, turning on your heel with a muttered, “Okay, thank you sir” that you weren’t sure he even heard.

You shoved through the classroom door, the heavy wood swinging shut behind you with a dull thud that echoed faintly down the hallway. Your boots tapped against the floor, the sound sharp as you made your way toward the elevator, your backpack bouncing lightly against your spine with each step. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, sterile shadows that stretched across the gleaming floor, and the faint chill lingering in the air brushed against your legs, sneaking past your stockings to prickle your skin.

Your breath puffed out in a small, frustrated cloud as you jabbed the elevator button with more force than necessary, the glowing circle illuminating with a soft ding. The doors slid open, revealing the same cramped space you’d ridden up in, empty now, save for the faint hum of the elevator lights. You stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers tick down with a slow, mechanical blink.

The ride was quick, the elevator jolting faintly as it settled at the bottom, and when the doors parted, you stepped out into the math building’s lobby. The space was quieter now, the post-class rush having ebbed into a trickle of stragglers.

Students bundled in scarves and coats, their footsteps muffled as they shuffled toward the exit. You pushed through the glass doors, the November chill hitting you like a wall, sharp and biting as it swept across your face and tugged at the edges of your sweater.

The sky hung low and gray, a stark contrast to this morning. You paused on the sidewalk, tugging your sleeves down over your hands as you glanced around and of course, your car wasn’t waiting in the lot. Sasha had picked you up from your apartment that morning.

She’d dropped you off with a promise to call later, but she’d mentioned having something to do around this time, some errand or class you couldn’t quite recall. You fished your phone from your skirt pocket, as you scrolled through your contacts. Bertholdt was probably napping, Ymir was either asleep or working, and the rest of your friends, Connie, Mikasa, Eren, etc. were tied up with work or classes of their own. You sighed, the sound lost in the wind, and shoved your phone back into your pocket.

Walking home wasn’t an option, not in this cold, not with the distance, and you weren’t about to stand there freezing while you figured it out.

Your stomach growled, a low rumble that cut through the frustration, and you decided to head for one of the fast food spots on campus. The dining hall was too far, and your wallet was feeling the strain of bills. Rent, lights, gas, all piling up until your next paycheck. You trudged across the quad, as you made your way toward the cluster of restaurants near the student union.

Wendy’s glowed ahead, its red-and-white sign a beacon to your stomach, and you pushed through the door, the sudden rush of warm air and the scent of food hitting you fast.

|♩♩♩- Symphonia IX| By: Current Joys

The line was short, just a couple of students ahead of you, and you scanned the menu with a practiced eye, calculating what you could afford. Money was tight, and you hated dipping into your savings. Every dollar felt like a lifeline you couldn’t afford to lose. You stepped up to the counter, the cashier, a girl with a nose and lip ring, barely glancing at you as you ordered a small Frosty, the cheapest thing you could justify.

She handed it over in a flimsy cup and you mumbled a quick “thanks” before heading to a table near the window. The dining area was half-empty, a few clusters of students hunched over trays of burgers and fries. You slid into a chair, the plastic creaking under you, and set your bag on the seat beside you, digging the spoon into the Frosty with a slow, deliberate scoop.

Your phone buzzed against the table, the screen lighting up with a FaceTime call from your cousin Onyankopon. You swiped to answer, propping the phone against your bag as his face filled the screen.

A wide, easy grin spreading across his features. “Hey, what’s up?” he said, his voice rich and familiar, cutting through the dull ache of the day.

“Hey, O,” you replied, managing a small smile as you scooped another bite of Frosty. “Just surviving, you know. How you holding up?”

He leaned back in what looked like his living room, the faint flicker of a TV screen in the background. “I’m good, I’m good. Work’s been kicking my ass, but I ain’t complaining. How have you been?”

You snorted, the sound sharp and tired. “Calculus is a nightmare, and my professor’s a dick. Same old.” You took another bite, the chocolate cold against your tongue, and glanced at him. “What about you? Did you ever ask out that girl you were talking about? And what’s Meme planning for the holidays?”

Onyankopon laughed, a deep, rolling sound that made the screen shake slightly. “Man, I’m working on it. She’s still playing hard to get, but I ain’t giving up. And Meme’s already talking about cooking up a storm for Thanksgiving. Turkey, mac and cheese, the works. You better come this year, no excuses.” His eyes narrowed slightly, zeroing in on the Frosty in your hand. “Hold up, that’s all you got to eat? A damn ice cream?”

You shrugged, swirling the spoon through the melting chocolate. “Yeah. Money’s tight till my next check.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing as he shifted in his seat. “Nah, hold on.” Before you could protest, he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quick across the screen. A second later, your own phone pinged with a Cash App notification.

$50 from Onyankopon, Eat something real.

“There. Go get a burger or something.”

“O, no, let me send this back,” you said, reaching for your phone, but he waved you off, his expression stern.

“Nope. Keep it,” he insisted, leaning closer to the camera. “Meme’d have my head if she saw you out here eating nothing but a damn Frosty. You know how she gets.‘Ain’t nobody in this family going hungry on my watch.’ Go get a real meal, alright? No arguments.”

You sighed, the fight draining out of you as the warmth of his concern settled in your chest. “Fine,” you muttered, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, O. You’re the best.”

“Damn right I am,” he grinned, leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Now tell me more about this professor, what’s he doing that’s got you so heated?”

You scooped another bite of Frosty, the cold numbing your fingertips as you launched into a rant about Levi’s curt dismissal and Jean’s smug antics, the words spilling out in a rush.

Onyankopon listened, nodding and laughing at all the right moments, and for a little while, the weight of the day felt just a bit lighter.

The Wendy’s table was sticky under your elbows as you leaned forward, the small Frosty cup sweating a faint ring of condensation beside your phone.

“So this Jean guy,” Onyankopon said, his tone lilting with amusement as he propped his chin on his hand, “he’s still the same punk you’ve been dealing with since middle school, right? What’s it been, like, eight years of this shit?”

“Ten, actually.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as you slumped back in the chair, the plastic creaking beneath you. “And now I’m stuck with him tutoring me because I can’t wrap my head around this damn calculus. It’s humiliating, O.”

He laughed, the sound deep and rolling, shaking his head so his dreads swayed slightly. “Man, he sounds like a real piece of work. Almost kinda like you.”

“Don't ever say that again.”

You scooped a spoonful of Frosty, the chocolate melting slow and cold on your tongue as you rolled your eyes. “Today in class, he called me out in front of Levi, our professor, like I had my hand up when I didn’t. Just threw me under the bus so I’d look like an idiot. And then he’s sitting there behind me, all smug, like he didn’t just set me up. I swear, he lives to make me mad.”

Onyankopon’s grin widened, his eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, he’s petty petty. ”

“Sounds exhausting,” Onyankopon said, his tone softening a little as he leaned back, crossing his arms. “But you’re tougher than him, girl. Always have been. Don’t let him get in your head, especially not over some math.”

You sighed, swirling the spoon through the melting Frosty, the chocolate pooling at the bottom of the cup. “I’m trying, O. It’s just today sucked. Levi shut me down for extra credit, Jean’s being a dick, and I’m out here eating ice cream like it’s a meal because I’m broke till Friday.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Which is why I sent you that cash. Go get something real, alright? I gotta hop off, gotta finish some stuff for work, but you better eat, and you better call me if that guy pulls any more stunts. I might be in Marley, but I’ll still fly down there and handle his ass.”

You chuckled, the sound weary but genuine. “Noted. Thanks, O. Tell Meme I’ll call her about Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Will do. Bye.” He flashed one last grin, then the screen went dark as the call ended, leaving you alone with the hum of the Wendy’s dining area and the faint pop song crackling overhead.

You exhaled, pocketing your phone and grabbing the empty Frosty cup to toss in the trash. The Cash App money burned a hole in your conscience, but Onyankopon’s insistence echoed in your head, and your stomach growled in agreement. You trudged back to the counter, ordering a junior bacon cheeseburger and small fries, nothing fancy, but enough to count as a “real meal.” The cashier handed you the bag, the paper crinkling warmly in your hands, and you headed out, the November wind biting at your cheeks as you stepped back into the chilly campus.

The library wasn’t far, so you decided to head there early. Jean wouldn’t show up for tutoring for another hour, but you had nothing else to do, and the quiet might help you wrestle some sense into the calculus swimming in your head.

Your boots crunched through the orange and yellow leaves as you crossed the quad, the fries still warm in the bag as you pushed through the library’s double doors. The air inside was dry and warm, heavy with the scent of old paper and dust. You gave the librarian a smile as you made your way past the front desk.

You wandered toward the stacks, the tall shelves looming like sentinels as you trailed your fingers along the spines of books. The Greek mythology section caught your eye, a distraction, something to pull you out of the math-induced fog and you spotted The Odyssey wedged between a worn copy of The Iliad and a thick anthology of myths. You tugged it free, the leather cover cool and smooth under your touch, and carried it to the table where Jean would meet you later, a secluded spot near the back, tucked against a window overlooking the leaf dusted courtyard.

You dropped your bag on the floor, the burger and fries set on the table, and sank into the chair, the wood creaking faintly under your weight.

|♩♩♩- Its Hard to Get Around the Wind| By: Alex Turner

Opening the book to Chapter One, you slipped your earbuds in as Odysseus fought during the Trojan War, the wooden horse, the chaos of battle. The words pulled you in, a welcome escape from derivatives and theorems, and you munched on a fry as you turned the pages, the salt sharp on your tongue.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages or the distant tap of a keyboard, and the leaves outside fell in slow, hypnotic drifts, blanketing the world in silence.

By Chapter Two, though, the warmth of the library and the weight of the day began to drag at your eyelids. Odysseus was plotting his next move, but your focus slipped, the lines blurring as your head dipped forward. You propped your elbow on the table, resting your cheek against your hand, but it wasn’t enough.

The earbuds looped softly, the book lay open, and your breathing slowed, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. Your lashes fluttered shut, the Greek hero’s journey fading into a dreamless haze as the library’s stillness swallowed you whole, leaving the table littered with fries, an untouched burger, and the looming specter of Jean’s arrival still an hour away. . . . The walls are painted a soft lavender, peeling slightly at the corners where the tape from old posters still clings. Your twin bed sits snugly against the window, a faded unicorn comforter draped over you, its edges frayed from years of love.

The room smells faintly of strawberry lip gloss and the musty pages of library books stacked haphazardly on your nightstand. A tiny TV-VCR combo hums on a wobbly wooden stand across from you, its screen flickering with the opening credits of The Powerpuff Girls. The bright colors, pink for Bubbles, green for Buttercup, blue for Blossom, dance across the glass, and you clutch a worn stuffed turtle to your chest.

It’s late, probably past your bedtime, but this was one of your favorite episodes, so sleep didn't really matter.

You sink deeper into the pillows, the theme song’s bouncy beat filling the quiet. “Sugar, spice, and everything nice,” you whisper along, your voice small but steady. The girls on screen zoom through Townsville, saving the day, and you imagine yourself flying beside them, fearless and strong. Your room feels safe, a little bubble of warmth with the faint hum of the heater kicking on in the background.

The episode rolls on. Mojo Jojo’s cackling fills the air as he hatches another ridiculous plan, and you giggle, pulling your turtle plushie closer. The light from the screen casts shadows on the walls, turning your plushie collection into a silent audience. You glance at them, their button eyes glinting, and decide they’re rooting for the Powerpuff Girls too. For a moment, everything is perfect, your little world, your little show, your little escape.

Then, a sound creeps in. It’s faint at first, muffled through the floorboards, but it grows sharper, cutting through the cartoon chaos. Voices.

Your parents.

They’re downstairs, and they’re loud, not the fun kind of loud. This is different. Angry. You pause, fingers tightening around your rabbit, the TV still chattering away. Blossom punches a monster, but you barely hear it now. The voices rise, jagged and fast, words tumbling over each other like they’re fighting too.

“You never listen!” your mom shouts, her voice cracking like it might break. Your dad snaps back, “Don’t put this on me!” and there’s a thud, something heavy hitting the ground.

You sit up a little, the comforter slipping off your shoulders. Your heart starts to thump, a quick, unsteady rhythm. Yelling. You hate yelling. It’s like the sound itself is clawing at you, scratching at the safe little bubble you’ve built.

The TV blares on, oblivious. Bubbles is saying something sweet, but it’s drowned out by a sudden, sharp crash.

Glass.

Shattering.

You flinch, eyes wide, picturing the kitchen downstairs, plates, cups, something fragile now in pieces on the tile.

Your breath catches, and you pull your knees to your chest, the turtle squished between them. The yelling stops for a second, just long enough for you to hear your own heartbeat, then it starts again, louder, angrier. Heavy footsteps pound below, stomping across the floor like they’re coming closer. You stare at your door, its chipped white paint suddenly too thin, too weak to keep anything out.

The footsteps climb the stairs now. Each one shaking the house, shaking you. Your hands tremble, and you drop the turtle, its soft body tumbling to the floor.

You hate this.

You hate the noise, the way it fills every corner of your head until there’s no room left for anything else. The banging starts then, fists on your door, hard and fast.

Boom, boom, boom.

The knob rattles like it might give way. You can’t move. Your whole body shakes, a shiver that won’t stop, and the yelling is everywhere now, seeping through the walls, the floor, the air.

“Y/N!”

The dream shattered with a sudden, jarring thud, a heavy book slamming onto the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet like a gunshot. Your head snapped up, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your earbuds slipped free, dangling over the edge of the table.

You blinked rapidly, the world swimming back into focus, and wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, the dampness smearing across your skin as you registered the figure looming across from you.

Jean stood there, his broad frame casting a shadow over the table, that same tired, disinterested look etched into his eyes. His ash-brown hair was messier than it had been in class, strands falling haphazardly over his forehead, and the black turtleneck stretched faintly across his shoulders as he dropped his bag beside the chair.

You sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation, and rolled your eyes before rubbing at your temple, the dull ache blooming beneath your fingertips. “You just love being an ass, don’t you?” you muttered, your voice rough from sleep as you straightened in your seat, the chair creaking faintly beneath you.

Jean didn’t flinch, his expression unchanging as he pulled out the chair across from you and sank into it with a lazy slouch. “No,” he said, his tone flat and clipped, “I just want to get this tutor session over with.” He set a cup on the table.

A familiar logo from the café where you worked part-time stamped on the side, and he took a sip, his lips twisting into a faint grimace as he swallowed. “Whoever made this shit didn’t make it right,” he mumbled under his breath, more to himself than to you, his rings glinting faintly as he nudged the cup aside.

You didn’t bite.

Where you worked wasn’t his business, and you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of dragging you into a petty tangent. Your jaw tightened as you watched him, his disinterest a palpable thing that hung between you like a wall. He nudged the cup again, this time pushing it toward the spot where your head had just been, the faint sheen of drool still glistening on the table’s edge.

“Wipe your slob up,” he said, his voice edged with disgust as he nodded toward it. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

You bucked your eyes at him, reaching for a napkin from the Wendy’s bag with a deliberate slowness, the paper crinkling under your fingers. “People drool, Jean,” you shot back, your tone dry as you swiped at the damp spot, the napkin smearing the faint ink stain from the book into a grayish streak.

“That much?” he countered, one eyebrow arching slightly as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, the silver chain around his neck catching the library’s dim light.

You didn’t dignify it with a response, just finished wiping the table and crumpled the napkin into a tight ball, tossing it aside with a flick of your wrist. You opened your notebook, the pages rustling as you flipped to a blank one, and grabbed your pencil, the wood cool and worn under your grip.

Jean mirrored you, reaching into his bag for his own pencil, the faint scratch of graphite against paper filling the silence as he jotted something down. He slid the notebook toward you, tapping the tip of his pencil against a neatly written equation, some tangled mess of variables and exponents that made your stomach sink.

“Solve it,” he said, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on you with that same disinterested stare.

You stared at the problem, confusion knitting your brows as you tried to parse the steps in your head. “What?” you muttered, glancing up at him, your pencil hovering over the page.

He sighed, a short, impatient sound, and leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening as if you were the dumbest thing he’d seen all day. “Solve the damn problem,” he repeated, enunciating each word like you might’ve missed it the first time.

You grimaced, the irritation flaring hot in your chest as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil scratching out the first tentative step. You barely got through one line, substituting a value, your handwriting shaky and uncertain, before his pencil darted out, blocking yours with a quick, decisive tap.

“Wrong,” he said, his tone cutting as he sat back, tapping his pencil against the table in that annoying rhythm you’d come to hate.

“I didn’t even finish,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared at him, your grip tightening on your pencil until the wood creaked faintly.

“Didn’t need to,” he shot back, his voice cool and unyielding. “You’re wrong already. Do you even pay attention in this class?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just reached over and snatched the notebook back, his long fingers brushing yours for a split second. Enough to make you recoil instinctively.

He started solving the problem himself, his pencil moving with a fluid, infuriating precision as he broke it down step-by-step, the graphite leaving crisp, clean lines on the page.

You watched, your jaw tight, as he worked through it, substituting, simplifying, solving, like it was nothing, like the tangle of numbers that had stumped you was child’s play to him. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge you, just kept writing, his rings glinting faintly with each flick of his wrist.

When he finished, he shoved the notebook back toward you, the solution laid out in stark clarity, and tapped it once with his pencil.

“There,” he said, leaning back again, his tone clipped. “That’s how it’s done. Try not to screw it up next time.”

You stared at the page, the neat steps mocking you as the heat crept up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and anger simmering under your skin. “Gee, thanks,” you muttered, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil hovering over the next problem he’d inevitably throw at you.

He didn’t rise to the bait, just took another sip of his coffee and grimaced again, muttering something under his breath about “half-assed baristas” before setting it aside. “Just do the work,” he said, his eyes flicking back to you, that disinterested glaze settling in again. “I’m not here to babysit you.”

You bit back a retort, your teeth grinding as you forced your focus to the notebook, the library’s quiet pressing in around you.

A leaf outside tapped faintly against the window, a soft counterpoint to the tension crackling between you, and you wondered, not for the first time, how you’d survived eight years of this without strangling him.

Middle school felt like a lifetime ago, but the rivalry hadn’t dulled, only sharpened into this bitter, unspoken competition that neither of you could let go of. You sighed, shoving the thought aside, and started on the next problem, determined to get through this session without giving him more ammunition or losing what little patience you had left.

You exhaled sharply, shoving your curls back and out of your face as you glared at the equation, your voice low. “Okay, but that’s not what Professor Levi was saying in class today. He was going on about verifying if a function’s continuous on a closed interval or some shit—”

Jean cut you off, his tone clipped and impatient as he leaned closer, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s exactly what I wrote down. You’re just not listening, like usual.”

You bristled, your whisper sharpening as you leaned forward too, your pencil gripped tight enough to dent your fingers. “I am listening, asshole. You’re just shitty at explaining.”

He rolled his eyes, the motion slow and deliberate, like he was dealing with a particularly dense child. “It’s not that hard,” he said, his voice a hissed edge of frustration. “If f(a) and f(b) are on opposite sides of the x-axis and the function’s continuous, then there’s some point c in the interval [a, b] where f(c) = 0. How the hell are you not getting this? It’s basic.”

You jabbed your pencil toward him, your whisper rising into a strained growl. “Maybe try explaining it more human and not like a robot.”

He stabbed his pencil into the paper, the tip digging in hard enough to leave a faint tear as he glared at you, his own whisper turning harsh. “This is basic calculus and Levi looks like a human to me and he explains it just fine. What the hell were you even doing in class today? Staring at the ceiling?”

Your jaw clenched, the memory of Levi’s cold reprimand flashing hot in your mind as you leaned in closer, your noses almost brushing. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I was too busy getting my ass dragged in front of the entire class by Levi, thanks to somebody who can’t keep his damn mouth shut.”

Jean’s lips twitched, a flicker of something, amusement, maybe, crossing his face before he smothered it, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Not my fault you looked like you had your hand up.”

You slammed your pencil down against the table as you hissed, “Oh, you know damn well my hand wasn’t raised, Jean. Don’t play dumb.”

He shrugged, leaning back with that infuriating calm, his pencil twirling lazily between his fingers. “Looked like it to me.”

“No, it didn’t!”

“Yeah, it kinda did.”

You snapped, your whisper rising into a furious rasp as you pointed at him, your finger trembling slightly. “No, it didn’t, you lying-”

“It looked like it to me,” he repeated, his tone flat and unyielding, cutting you off as he met your glare with that same tired, disinterested stare.

You sucked in a breath, your hands balling into fists as you fought the urge to lunge across the table. “Are you ever gonna stop trying to piss me off, or is this just your life’s mission now?”

Jean stabbed the pencil into the paper again, harder this time, the tip snapping off as he leaned forward, his whisper a low, simmering growl. “I might if you’d stop whining and actually solve the damn problem instead of bitching about it.”

He tossed the broken pencil onto the table, the pieces skittering across the surface as he grabbed a new one from his bag, his movements sharp and impatient. “Do the problem,” he said, his voice a low, gritted command as he slid the notebook back toward you, his eyes boring into yours. “Or we’ll be here all damn night, and I’m not in the mood.”

You snatched the notebook, your fingers digging into the edges as you glared at him, your whisper a venomous hiss. “Fine. But if you stab this paper one more damn time, I’m stabbing you in the ass, you hear me?”

He smirked, just a faint twitch of his lips, barely there, before leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mhm,” he hummed, the sound dripping with sarcasm as he watched you, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

You forced your eyes to the page, the intermediate value theorem staring back at you like a taunt.

F(a) and F(b) on opposite sides, continuous, some point c where it hits zero. Your pencil scratched against the paper, tentative and shaky as you tried to piece it together, the steps Levi had outlined in class flickering faintly in your memory.

Jean’s presence loomed across the table, a quiet pressure that made your skin prickle, and you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every move like a hawk waiting for you to screw up again. Your jaw tightened, the frustration bubbling as you worked through the first step, then the second, the graphite smudging under your grip.

He shifted, the faint creak of his chair cutting through the silence, and you glanced up, catching the flicker of impatience in his expression. “You’re still doing it wrong,” he muttered, his whisper sharp as he reached for the notebook again, but you yanked it back, your own impatience boiling over.

“Let me finish, damn it,” you hissed, your voice trembling with the effort to keep it low. He rolled his eyes before grabbing his phone and opening it.

His thumb flicked lazily across the screen.

Twitter or X now, probably, or some other pointless distraction.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your focus back to the problem. The equation stared at you. f(a) = -2, f(b) = 3, continuous on [a, b] and you traced the steps in your head, the memory of Levi’s dry lecture flickering faintly behind your irritation.

Opposite sides of the x-axis, so there’s a point where it hits zero. Simple enough. Your pencil scratched against the paper, the graphite leaving a trail of tentative calculations as you worked through it.

Checking the endpoints, confirming continuity, pinpointing where the function crossed. It clicked, finally, the pieces slotting into place with a clarity that felt foreign after hours of frustration.

You finished the last step, circling the answer with a small, triumphant flourish, and slid the notebook across the table toward Jean, the pages whispering against the wood.

“Did I get it right?” you asked, your voice low but edged with a mix of exhaustion and cautious hope as you leaned back, crossing your arms.

Jean didn’t look up right away, his thumb still scrolling as he muttered something under his breath, a retweet, maybe, or a scoff at whatever dumb take he’d stumbled across.

After a beat, he lowered the phone slowly, setting it face-down on the table and dragged his gaze to the notebook. He raised an eyebrow, the motion slow and deliberate, his lips pressing into a thin line as he scanned your work. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, and you shifted in your seat, the chair creaking faintly under you.

“Shockingly, yeah,”

He said finally, his tone dry as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The words hung there, laced with that familiar condescension, but there was a flicker of something else, surprise, maybe, that he couldn’t quite mask.

You blinked, caught off guard, a small jolt of pride sparking in your chest before confusion crept in. “Wait, really?” you muttered, leaning forward to peer at the page as if you didn’t trust your own handwriting.

Jean didn’t answer right away, just picked up his pencil and started marking your work, the tip scratching faint lines and circles across your steps.

You watched, your brow furrowing as he paused at one point, then another, his movements precise and annoyingly meticulous. He tapped the pencil against the paper, the sound sharp in the quiet, and glanced up at you, his expression shifting back to that disinterested slant.

“You did it a different way,” he said, his voice flat but tinged with a grudging acknowledgment. “Still got the right answer, though. But if you want full points from Levi, you’ve gotta do it his way. The way he showed in class.”

You frowned, pulling the notebook back toward you to study his marks, the red ink bleeding faintly where he’d pressed too hard. “What do you mean, ‘a different way’?” you asked, your tone sharpening as you traced your steps with your finger. “I checked the endpoints, confirmed it’s continuous, found the zero, it’s the same damn thing.”

Jean sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily back over his forehead. “Yeah, but you went the long way around,” he said, tapping one of your lines with his pencil.

“You threw in all this extra crap, plugging in random points to guess where it crosses. Levi’s method is cleaner: endpoints, continuity, done. You don’t need to overcomplicate it.”

You bristled, your jaw tightening as you glared at him. “It’s not ‘overcomplicating’ if it works,” you shot back, your voice a low hiss to keep it library-appropriate. “I got the answer, didn’t I?”

He shrugged, leaning back with that infuriating nonchalance, his pencil twirling between his fingers. “Sure, you did. But Levi’s a stickler, you know that. He’ll dock you for inefficiency, and I’m not here to watch you bitch about half-points later.”

You let out another sigh before nodding slowly. “Alright.”

Jean nodded and pointed at another question in the notebook for you to try, “Now do these three.”

You grabbed your pencil again and got to work. You had to remind yourself,

No guesswork,

No extra steps,

Just the bare bones of it, the way Levi demanded. Your pencil moved tentatively at first, tracing f(a) = -4 and f(b) = 5 from a new problem you’d pulled from the textbook, checking the signs, confirming the function’s unbroken sweep across the interval.

The steps flowed smoother this time, your handwriting steadier as you followed Jean’s method, the solution snapping into focus with a clarity that felt almost satisfying.

Across the table, Jean slouched in his chair, his phone still in hand as he scrolled through whatever Twitter rabbit hole he’d fallen into, his thumb flicking lazily across the screen.

You ignored him, your focus narrowing to the problem, the faint thrill of getting it right pushing back the irritation that had simmered between you since he’d slammed that book down to wake you.

Your pencil circled the final answer. There exists a c in [a, b] where f(c) = 0 and you leaned back, a small, triumphant breath escaping as you double-checked your work. It held up, clean and tight, just like he’d shown you.

You glanced at Jean, half-tempted to shove it in his face, but before you could say anything, his phone buzzed sharply against the table, the vibration rattling through the wood. He didn’t even glance at you, just snatched it up and stood, the chair creaking faintly as he pushed it back with his knee.

He spoke in a whisper “Do your work” without breaking stride, his lips forming the words in that same tired, commanding way that made your skin prickle, and then he was gone, striding toward the stacks with the phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur fading into the shelves.

You waved a dismissive hand at his retreating back, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the gesture lost on him as he disappeared behind a row of dusty hardcovers. “Jackass,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to the notebook with a huff. His coffee cup sat abandoned on the table, the faint steam long gone, and your cold fries stared back at you, a silent reminder of the day’s chaos. You shook it off, flipping the textbook open to the next problem, the momentum of getting the last one right sparking a flicker of confidence you hadn’t felt all semester.

The new equation was trickier, f(a) = -1, f(b) = 7, with a note about the function being continuous but not necessarily linear, but the process felt familiar now, the steps slotting into place like a puzzle you’d finally cracked.

You scribbled out the endpoints, checked the signs, opposite, good, then noted the continuity, your pencil moving faster as you worked through it. The library’s stillness wrapped around you. You circled the answer, a quiet satisfaction settling in your chest as you leaned back, tapping your pencil against the table in a rhythm that mirrored Jean’s earlier impatience.

You glanced toward the stacks where he’d vanished, his muffled voice drifting faintly from somewhere deep in the mythology section, probably arguing with Eren or bitching to Connie about something trivial. You snorted softly, shaking your head as you pulled the textbook closer, flipping to another problem. The confidence lingered, a small ember in the pit of your stomach, and you decided to tackle one more, your pencil scratching out f(a) = -3, f(b) = 2 as you dove back in. The steps came easier now, the logic snapping into place without the usual fog of confusion, and you couldn’t help but feel a grudging nod to Jean’s method, clean, efficient, Levi-approved.

Not that you’d ever admit it to his face.

Your focus was sharp, the equations bending to your will for once. Jean’s absence stretched, his voice a distant hum, and you let the quiet carry you forward, the faint thrill of understanding fueling each stroke of your pencil. You were getting it.

Really getting it.

But that was short lived.

That peace shattered when Jean stormed back, his boots thudding against the floor with a heavier, angrier rhythm than when he’d left. The air shifted as he approached, charged with a tension that prickled at your skin, and you glanced up just as he dropped into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

His face was tighter now, his jaw clenched hard enough to make the muscle twitch, and his hazel eyes burned with something darker than the usual disinterest.

Anger, raw and barely contained.

His hair was messier, like he’d raked his hands through it one too many times.

He didn’t say a word at first, just snatched your notebook from the table with a quick, jerky motion, his rings flashing as his fingers curled around the edges. You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already scanning your work, his eyes flicking over the solutions with a speed that bordered on reckless. His breath came short and sharp, a faint hiss through his nose, and after a moment, he shoved the notebook back toward you, the pages fluttering faintly.

“Congrats,” he said, his voice low and clipped, laced with a sarcasm that stung more than usual. “You got ‘em right. Miracle of miracles.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bite in his tone, your earlier satisfaction souring as you narrowed your eyes at him. “Uh thanks?” you muttered, your voice wary as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil still hovering over the page.

He didn’t respond, just leaned back and crossed his arms, his gaze fixed somewhere past you, the anger simmering in the tight line of his mouth. “Work on the next three,” he said finally, his tone flat but edged with a sharpness that made your stomach twist. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

You glanced at the textbook, flipping to the next set of problems, three of them, each a two-part question, the instructions sprawling across the page in dense, unforgiving print.

The first one loomed: Given f(x) = x^3 - 4x + 1 on [-2, 2], (a) verify the Intermediate Value Theorem applies, (b) approximate where f(c) = 0.

You sighed, the faint ember of confidence still flickering as you tackled part (a). Your pencil scratched out the endpoints. f(-2) = -8 - 4(-2) + 1 = 1, f(2) = 8 - 4(2) + 1 = 1, and you frowned, checking your math. Same sign, not opposite.

You scratched it out, recalculated, then realized the function wasn’t crossing zero at the endpoints, but the theorem still applied if you adjusted the interval. You settled on continuity, cubic functions don’t break,and scribbled that down, your handwriting tight and focused.

Part (b) stopped you cold. Approximating where it hit zero felt like a leap into the dark, the numbers swirling into a foggy mess as you stared at the equation. You tried plugging in a few points. f(0) = 1, f(1) = -2, and saw it crossed somewhere between, but the precision eluded you, the steps slipping through your grasp. You hesitated, then glanced up at Jean, his silence a heavy weight across the table.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low, cautious. “I don’t get the second part, approximating where it hits zero. Can you help?”

His head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing as if you’d just insulted him, the anger that had been simmering now boiling over into something sharper. “Seriously?” he hissed, leaning forward so fast his chair creaked, his pencil stabbing the table. “You got through the last ones, and now you’re stuck already?”

You recoiled slightly, your own irritation flaring as you met his glare. “Yeah, seriously,” you shot back, your whisper tight and defensive. “I got the continuity part, but approximating’s throwing me off. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

He scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound as he snatched the notebook again, his fingers gripping it hard enough to crinkle the edges. “It’s not rocket science,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous as he started scribbling over your work, his pencil slashing through your tentative guesses. “You see it crosses between 0 and 1,plug in a midpoint, check it, narrow it down. How is that hard?”

“It’s not about it being hard,” you hissed, leaning forward to match his intensity, your hands balling into fists on the table. “It’s about you acting like I’m a fucking idiot for asking. What the hell’s your deal? You come back pissed and now you’re taking it out on me?”

He froze for a split second, his pencil hovering over the page, then stabbed it down again as he glared at you. “My deal’s that I’m stuck here babysitting you when you should’ve figured this out by now,” he snapped, his whisper harsh enough to cut. “Just do it. Halfway between 0 and 1 is 0.5, plug it in, see what you get.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding as the anger bubbled hot in your chest, his words stinging more than they should’ve. “You’re such a prick,” you muttered, yanking the notebook back as you grabbed your pencil, your hand trembling slightly.

He didn’t respond, just leaned back and crossed his arms, his jaw clenched tight as he stared past you again, the broken pencil rolling faintly across the table.

You turned to the problem, your mind racing as you followed his barked instructions.

Negative, so it was between 0.5 and 1. You scribbled it down, your handwriting jagged with frustration, and glanced at him, half-expecting another jab.

He didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes fixed on the window, his reflection staring back at him through the glass. The library’s quiet pressed in, the tension crackling like static, and you wondered what the hell had set him off.

Something bigger than you, clearly, but he was dumping it all on you anyway. You exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside as you stared at the half-solved problem, the faint satisfaction of part (a) overshadowed by the mess of part (b) and the even bigger mess sitting across from you.

You worked through the steps anyway, your pencil moving with a tentative precision as you followed his barked-out method, midpoint, plug it in, narrow it down.

f(0.5) = -0.875, negative; f(1) = -2, also negative now that you’d recalculated the endpoints correctly from the last mess-up.

You saw the pattern shifting. It crossed somewhere between 0.75 and 1, and you scribbled out a quick guess, refining it to roughly 0.86 after a final check. Your handwriting was tight, the numbers cramped as you rushed to finish before Jean could snap again.

You were about to slide the notebook toward him, your hand hovering over the page, when you caught it, a sloppy misstep in your midpoint calculation, the decimal off by a hair. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, erasing the error with a quick swipe of your sleeve, the graphite smudging faintly as you fixed it.

Still negative, but you’d narrowed it enough. Close enough for Levi, you hoped. You exhaled, satisfied, and pushed the notebook across the table, the paper whispering against the wood.

Jean didn’t look up right away, his eyes glued to his phone, his thumb scrolling with a furious intensity that made the screen blur. You cleared your throat, low and cautious. “Hey, I think I got it.”

He grunted, setting the phone down and dragged the notebook toward him. His eyes flicked over your work, his brow creasing faintly as he scanned the steps, his pencil hovering in his grip. After a beat, he scribbled a quick checkmark in the corner, the graphite slashing across the page with a sharp, impatient flick. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he muttered, shoving it back toward you, his voice flat but lacking the venom from earlier. “Do the next two.”

You nodded, pulling the textbook closer and flipping to the next problem. Another two-parter.

You paused, double-checking continuity quadratic, no breaks, then scribbled a note that the theorem didn’t guarantee a zero here, but it still applied if you shifted focus. Your brain churned, the logic twisting as you worked, and you glanced up, half-hoping Jean might chime in.

He didn’t.

He was back on his phone, scrolling with that same angry energy, his thumb jabbing at the screen like he was trying to punish it. His jaw twitched, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line, and his rings glinted as his grip tightened.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you despite yourself, what the hell had him so worked up? The call, sure, but this was next-level, even for him. You’d known him since middle school, seen him pissed plenty of times, but this felt different.

Personal.

Your eyes lingered, tracing the hard set of his shoulders, the way his free hand tapped restlessly against the table.

He felt it, your stare, and his head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a glare that hit like a slap. “Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped, his voice low and rough, cutting through the library’s hush. “Like you’re trying to figure me out or some shit. It’s pissing me off.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and leaned back, your pencil stilling mid-stroke. “Jesus, relax,” you muttered, your tone sharp but quieter, mindful of the space. “I was just-”

“Just what?” he cut in, his whisper harsh as he tossed his phone onto the table, the clatter louder than he probably meant. “Staring like I’m some damn puzzle? Focus on your work.”

You bristled, your own irritation flaring as you met his glare, your voice a tight hiss. “You’re the one acting like a psycho over there, scrolling like you’re about to break your screen. What’s your problem?”

“My problem’s none of your damn business,” he shot back, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You wanna get through this? Do the problems. I’m not here to spill my guts ‘cause you’re nosy.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a sharper retort as you dragged the notebook closer, your pencil digging into the paper.

You exhaled slowly, steadying your grip on the pencil as you finished the last step of the third question and circled your answer, a shaky c ≈ 2.1 after testing midpoints between 2 and 3.

You slid the notebook across the table, the paper whispering against the wood as it came to a stop in front of Jean. “Here,” you said, your voice low and tentative, the earlier confidence fraying under the weight of his simmering anger. “I think I got ‘em.”

He didn’t respond right away, his phone still clutched in one hand, his thumb paused mid-scroll as he dragged his gaze to the notebook. His black turtleneck stretched faintly as he leaned forward, the silver chain around his neck glinting dully in the dim light, and his hazel eyes, usually sharp with disinterest burned with something hotter, something volatile.

He snatched the paper closer, his rings flashing as his fingers curled around the edges, and scanned your work with a speed that felt almost violent, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs through his nose.

After a beat, he scribbled a checkmark on the second question and muttered, “This one’s fine,” his voice low and clipped, the words barely audible over the faint hum of the library. But when he reached the third, his pencil froze, hovering over your approximation, and his jaw tightened, the muscle twitching visibly beneath his skin. He stabbed the pencil down, the tip gouging a faint dent into the page as he glared at the numbers, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“How the hell do you get the second one right but fuck up the last one?” he snapped, his voice rising from a whisper to a harsh, grating hiss that cut through the quiet like a blade.

He leaned forward, his elbows slamming onto the table, and shoved the notebook toward you, his glare locking onto yours with an intensity you’d never seen before not in eight years of sniping, not in all the petty rivalries since middle school.

You flinched, caught off guard, and leaned forward to see where you’d gone wrong, your heart thudding against your ribs as you reached for the paper. “Wait, what-” you started, your voice shaky, but he didn’t let you finish, his words tumbling out in a furious rush, each one louder than the last, though still constrained to a library-appropriate growl.

“You had the damn pattern endpoints, continuity, midpoints and then you screw it up on the easiest part! Look at this shit!” He jabbed the pencil at your approximation, the tip tearing a faint hole in the page as he circled 2.1 with a vicious slash. “You didn’t even check it right. f(2) = -1, f(3) = 16, it crosses way before 2.1! How do you miss that?”

Your hands hovered over the table, your breath catching as you tried to follow his rant, the numbers blurring under the heat of his anger. “I thought I narrowed it down,” you stammered, your voice smaller than you meant it to be, your fingers trembling faintly as you reached for the notebook.

“I tested 2.5 and-”

“Tested wrong, obviously,”

He cut in, his voice a low, furious snarl as he shoved the pencil and paper back at you, the force sending it skidding across the table until it bumped against his abandoned coffee cup. “Jesus Christ, you’re not even trying it’s like you just guess and hope for the best! Do it again, and do it right this time!”

You froze, your hand hovering over the pencil as his words hit you like a slap, sharp and unrelenting. His face was flushed now, a faint red creeping up his neck, and his eyes burned with something wild, something unhinged that you’d never seen in him before, not even during your worst fights.

The library’s quiet amplified it, the faint rustle of pages from somewhere in the stacks a stark contrast to the storm sitting across from you. Your chest tightened, a cold, unfamiliar prickle creeping up your spine, not quite fear, but damn close, enough to make your usual snark wither on your tongue.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and picked up the pencil with a shaky grip, the wood cool and slick against your fingers. No comeback came,no sharp retort, no sarcastic jab, just silence as you pulled the notebook closer, your eyes darting over the torn page.

The checkmark on the second question mocked you, the slashed 2.1 on the third a glaring wound, and you forced yourself to focus, your breath shallow as you erased the mistake with quick, jerky swipes, the rubber crumbs scattering across the table.

Jean didn’t move, just sat there, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his gaze boring into you like he could burn holes through your skull. His phone lay face-down beside him, the screen dark but still radiating whatever had set him off, and his foot tapped restlessly under the table vibrating the wood.

You recalculated.

Positive now, so it crossed between 2 and 2.2. You scribbled it down, your handwriting wobbly, and tested 2.1 again f(2.1) = 0.261, closer refining it silently, your heart still pounding as his anger loomed.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t dare, just kept your head down and your pencil moving, the faint tremble in your fingers betraying the unease you wouldn’t voice. For once, Jean’s fury had stripped you bare, it gave you a feeling.

A weird one that you almost couldn't pinpoint.

No, you knew what it was. It was déjà vu.

The kind that hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and disorienting, dragging you back to a place you’d spent years trying to outrun. Jean’s yelling, his voice a low, furious growl slicing through the library’s hush, echoed in your skull, but it wasn’t just him you heard.

It was her, your mom, her raspy, nicotine-stained shouts reverberating through the thin walls of your childhood home, the sound bouncing off chipped paint and stained carpet until it lodged itself deep in your bones.

The memory clawed its way up, unbidden and relentless, as you sat there, your pencil trembling faintly in your grip, the notebook’s torn page staring back at you with its slashed 2.1 and Jean’s angry corrections.

You could almost feel it again, the heat of her breath in your face, close enough that her spit would fleck your cheek, warm and wet and nauseating as she loomed over you. Nights like that stretched endless, her voice a jagged blade tearing through the quiet, always sharp with frustration, always reeking of those damn cigarettes.

Marlboro Reds.

The cheap kind she chain-smoked until the air turned thick and gray. The smell clung to everything: her clothes, the couch, your hair, a sour, acrid haze that coated your throat and burned your lungs until you learned to breathe shallow just to survive it. She’d scream about anything. Your grades, the dishes, the way you looked at her wrong. Her words slurring into a torrent of rage that left you small and silent, your back pressed against the wall, waiting for it to end.

Jean’s outburst wasn’t the same, not exactly, but it hit the same nerve, raw and exposed. The way he leaned forward, his hazel eyes blazing with that unhinged fury, his pencil stabbing the table like he could pin his anger there, it mirrored her too closely, the posture, the venom, the way it made the room feel too small.

Your chest tightened, a familiar squeeze that wasn’t fear, not quite, but something close, something that made your breath hitch and your stomach churn. The library smelled of sterile air usually, but right now in your mind, it was cigarette smoke, curling into your lungs, sour and suffocating, until you had to swallow hard to keep the nausea down.

Your eyes didn’t betray it, though.

They never did.

You’d learned early to keep them steady, blank, a mask you’d perfected over years of standing still while she raged, a lesson she had taught you and stuck.

No tears, don't flinch, just keep a flat, defiant stare that hid the storm churning inside your heart pounding, your lungs seizing as the ghosts of those nights clawed at you.

You stared at the notebook now, Jean’s checkmark on the second question blurring faintly as you forced your hand to move, erasing the third problem’s mistake with quick, mechanical swipes. The rubber crumbs scattered across the table, tiny gray flecks catching the light, and you gripped the pencil tighter, willing the tremble to stop, willing the memory to fade.

Jean didn’t notice.

He was too lost in his own anger, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his phone silent but radiating whatever had set him off. His foot tapped under the table, a restless noise that echoed your heartbeat.

You recalculated.

You scribbled c ≈ 2.17, your handwriting shaky but legible, and circled it, your breath shallow as you pushed the past back down where it belonged.

You clenched your jaw, forcing your eyes to stay dry, your face a blank slate as you slid the notebook back toward him, your voice full of fake confidence that only you knew was inauthentic

“Fixed it.”

He snatched it without a word, his rings glinting as his fingers curled around the edges, and scanned your work with that same furious intensity, his breath hitching faintly like he was holding back another outburst. His pencil hovered, then slashed a quick checkmark, the graphite tearing faintly into the page.

His voice low and rough, still dripping with that unexplained anger.

“Next one.” . . . The meeting came to an end after an hour and a half, the library’s quiet stretching thin and brittle as the last problem sat finished in your notebook, its solution circled in shaky graphite.

Jean’s anger had simmered down to a low burn, his hazel eyes still sharp but less wild, the earlier fury dulled into a tight-lipped exhaustion. Your own hands moved mechanically, flipping the textbook shut, the pages creasing where you’d pressed too hard, and you leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking faintly under your weight.

The Odyssey rested beside your tangled earbuds, its spine bent from your earlier nap.

Jean didn’t waste time.

He shoved his phone into his pocket, the screen dark but still radiating whatever had set him off, and started packing up, his movements quick and jerky. His pencil clattered into his bag, followed by his notebook, the zipper rasping shut as he slung it over his shoulder. His black turtleneck stretched faintly across his chest as he stood, and he fixed you with a hard stare, his voice low and clipped.

“Be here on time Thursday,” he said, his tone flat but edged with a lingering bite.

“Hm.”

You didn’t say much.

You didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the fight left. Your throat was still tight from the echoes of your mom’s yelling, the phantom cigarette smoke still curling in your lungs, and you just nodded, your lips pressed into a thin, silent line.

The absence of your usual snark hit him like a quiet victory, and you caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his expression, his eyes narrowing slightly, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but close.

He was pleased, happy that your ass had finally shut up for once, and he didn’t hide it. Without another word, he popped his earbuds in, as he turned and strode off toward the stacks, his boots thudding faintly against the linoleum until he disappeared around a corner, leaving you alone in the heavy silence.

|♩♩♩- Anxiety| By: Doechii

You sat there for a moment, your breath catching in your chest as the weight of the session, of him, of her, settled over you like a damp fog.

Then you exhaled, deep and slow, the sound shaky as it slipped past your lips, and pushed yourself up from the chair. The wood groaned faintly, the table wobbling as you gathered your things.

Notebook, textbook, pencil, all shoved into your backpack with a careless efficiency, the zipper snagging briefly on the fabric. The Wendy’s bag crinkled as you tossed it into the trash nearby, the faint grease lingering on your fingers, and you slung your bag over your shoulder, the straps digging into your sweater as you adjusted the weight.

Your boots scuffed against the floor as you headed toward the library bathroom, the hallway dim and empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air grew cooler as you moved away from the main room, the faint hum of the heater fading into a distant drone, and you pushed through the bathroom door, the hinges creaking softly.

The space was small, white tiles gleaming under harsh lights, a row of sinks lined against a streaked mirror that reflected the faint moon glow seeping through the small window. You dropped your bag on the sink. A sound echoing in the quiet, and stepped up to the sink, your hands gripping the cold porcelain as you stared at yourself in the glass.

The reflection looked back, unblinking, your eyes shadowed, hollowed out by the day’s grind and the memories Jean’s yelling had dredged up.

Your skin was a tad bit paler than usual, the November chill clinging to you despite the library’s warmth, and your hair hung messy, strands sticking to your forehead where you’d rubbed at it earlier. You turned on the faucet, the water rushing out in a sharp, icy stream, and cupped your hands under it, splashing your face.

The cold bit into your cheeks, a shock that jolted you back to the present, and you watched the droplets slide down your reflection, clinging to your lashes, dripping off your chin. Your breath steadied, the nausea from earlier ebbing as the cigarette-smoke phantom faded, replaced by the sharp, clean scent of the library’s cheap soap.

Most days you could deal with the smell of cigarettes. It didn't affect you, but why did a bit of yelling have to make you go back to the place.

Make the smell come without a single cigarette being in the room at all. Why did it effect you so damn much?

You straightened, shaking the water from your hands, and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, the rough texture scraping against your skin as you dried off. The mirror held your gaze, your eyes still steady, still blank a mask you’d worn too long to shed now. Jean’s anger, your mom’s yelling, they tangled together in your chest, a knot you couldn’t unravel, but you shoved it down, deep where it couldn’t touch you.

You adjusted your sweater, the sleeves tugged over your knuckles, and slung your bag back over your shoulder again, the weight familiar and grounding. The bathroom door creaked as you pushed it open, the hallway stretching out empty and silent, and you stepped back into the library.

You took a deep breath and pushed through it.

A moment of weakness, you told yourself, shaking off the lingering echoes of Jean’s anger and your mom’s ghost as you stepped out of the library bathroom.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum as you adjusted your backpack, the straps digging into your shoulders. Your boots scuffed against the floor, the sound soft but deliberate as you fished your phone from your pocket, the screen glowing bright against your face.

Your fingers moved quickly, typing out a text to Sasha as you walked.

You: Hey, just finished with Jean. Can you pick me up?

You hit send, the little whoosh of the message cutting through the quiet, and shoved the phone back into your pocket, your breath still settling from the bathroom’s cold-water wake-up call.

The library stretched out ahead, you wove through it, the faint scent of old paper and dust clinging to the air, and approached the front desk where the librarian sat, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, her eyes flicking up from a paperback novel as you neared.

“Goodnight,” you said, forcing a small smile as you gave her a quick wave, your voice steady despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

She nodded back, her lips twitching into a faint, tired curve, and returned to her book, the pages yellowed under her fingers. “Goodnight dear.”

You pushed through the double doors, the hinges creaking softly, and stepped out into the night, the cold biting at your face with a sharp, dry edge that carried the earthy tang of decaying leaves.

The campus loomed dark and quiet, the streetlights casting long, amber pools across the pavement, the fallen leaves skittering faintly in the breeze. You paused on the steps, glancing left and right, your eyes scanning for cars.

No puddles to dodge this time, just the crunch of leaves underfoot as you descended, your boots kicking up faint clouds of red and orange dust.

The air nipped at your cheeks, tugging at the edges of your sweater, and you tugged the sleeves down over your knuckles, your breath puffing out in faint, fleeting clouds. Sasha hadn’t texted back yet, so you resigned yourself to waiting, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as the chill seeped through your jeans.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, a sharp vibration that jolted you out of your thoughts, and you pulled it out, expecting Sasha’s usual On my way, hold tight! with a string of emojis. But the name on the screen wasn’t hers, it was Reiner’s, bold and unexpected, and your thumb hovered over the notification as your pulse kicked up a notch.

You swiped it open, the message spilling across the screen in simple, unassuming text

Reiner: Hey, you free this tomorrow? Wanna grab dinner or something? Like a date?

Your heart pounded, a sudden, heavy thud against your ribs that made your breath catch, and your eyes widened, the words blurring faintly as you stared.

Reiner, big, strong Reiner with his broad shoulders and soft smiles, the guy who’d been your friend since middle school asking you out. On a date.

The phone felt heavier in your hand, the cold metal biting into your fingers as the November air swirled around you, the leaves rustling louder now, a dry, whispering chorus that matched the rush in your ears. You blinked, rereading it, your mind scrambling to process.

Reiner, who’d always been steady, reliable, the one who’d carried your books when your bag ripped in eighth grade, the one who’d laughed with you over Sasha’s dumb jokes. A date?

You stood there, rooted to the spot, the campus fading into a blur of amber light and scattered leaves as your eyes traced the text again.

Hey, you free tomorrow? Wanna grab dinner or something? Like a date?

Your stomach flipped, a mix of shock and something warmer, the faint flicker of excitement, twisting beneath the day’s exhaustion.

Jean’s yelling, the library’s tension, your mom’s phantom smoke, all of it dulled for a moment, overshadowed by the unexpected weight of those words. You glanced up, half-expecting Sasha’s Subaru to roll into view, but the street stayed empty, the leaves tumbling across the pavement in lazy, aimless drifts.

Your fingers twitched, hovering over the keyboard, but no reply came, not yet.

Your breath hitched again, puffing out in a shaky cloud as the cold nipped at your nose, and you tucked your free hand into your pocket, the other still clutching the phone like it might vanish if you let go.

Reiner. A date. The idea spun in your head, wild and uncharted, and you couldn’t tell if the pounding in your chest was nerves or something else entirely. You stood there, rereading his text over and over.

A date?

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (7/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~4k

Feyre has another reunion Under the Mountain. It does not go as well as the last.

Read on AO3 or you can find the seventh chapter below the readmore.

ch. 1 - the altar is my hips | ch 2. - an arrowhead leading us home | ch. 3 - by the way, i just may like some explanations | ch. 4 - can't not think of all the cost | ch. 5 - honey i rose up from the dead | ch. 6 - this mad, mad love makes you come running | ch. 7 - therein lies the issue, friends don't try to trick you

They left me alone for what I thought might have been two days. At least, that was my best guess based on how I was healing and how many more meals appeared in my cell. I slept as much as I could, hoping it helped the injuries fade.

During that time, the bond was mostly quiet. Despite the endless boredom, I didn't dare tug on it or bother Rhys. From the few glimpses I got out of his eyes, I could tell he was walking a thin line, trying to help without seeming suspiciously interested in me, and he was more on guard than ever. I wouldn't risk distracting him.

The nightmares didn't stop, either.

But when I was awake, his talons brushed against my mind occasionally. I skimmed them with my mental fingers, as if we were passing by each other in a tight hallway. It kept us both steady.

I had no idea what time it was when two female wraiths appeared in the shadows of the cell. Though we'd never met, I recognized Nuala and Cerridwen from the information Rhys had deposited in my head. I nearly blurted out their names at the sight of them, but I just let them wordlessly pull me through the closed door, as if we were a trio of ghosts.

I knew they wouldn't hurt me, but the sensation was strangely itchy, like a thousand spiders crawling over my skin. Rhys's shields were up so he didn't hear it, but I found myself calling him a prick in my head for not warning me about that.

They brought me to a bathing chamber in a long-forgotten corner Under the Mountain and stripped me down. I would have panicked if I hadn't caught sight of the paints and brushes sitting out near the tub and understood what was happening. Besides, even with my limited human senses, I knew I smelled, so I just let them shove me unceremoniously into the water. At least it was warm.

Once it was finished and I was dry, they held me down and painted me. It took effort not to give in to my instinct to struggle, and I wished they'd just say something. Perhaps they'd been ordered not to.

It was my first chance to survey my injuries somewhere with enough light to see decently. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, and I looked horrible. The swelling had gone down, but my split lip had begun to scab over and the healing bruises were mottling into sickly shades of purple and yellow.

It wasn't until they'd painted one of my legs that I realized I recognized that particular pattern of swirls—I'd seen it on Rhys's chest. For some reason, they were painting me to match Rhys, though I wasn't sure if anyone here but me and Amarantha had ever seen him shirtless and would know.

When it was done, they tossed a bundle of fabric at me that was so tattered that it took me a moment to recognize that it was a dress. It was stained and full of threadbare patches, but it was clean. I slipped it on and realized it covered most of the paint; some magic was keeping the dress and my own movements from smearing it. The cut was modest, the paint nothing more than an inner layer of protection, and the fabric hung off me loosely, not quite fitting right. Combined with the injuries, everything about my appearance was utterly pathetic.

But I recognized the costume for what it was.

Nuala and Cerridwen led me into a marble hall, one I remembered was closer to the middle of the passages Under the Mountain, a much higher-traffic area. Two of the dungeon guards were waiting there with a bucket and brush, and it was obvious enough that this was the beginning of my household chores.

As the wraiths melted into shadows, one of the guards threw the brush at me, clearly aimed for my head and intended to hurt. I caught it with one hand.

“If it’s not washed and shining by supper,” the other one said, its teeth clicking as it grinned, “we’re to tie you to the spit and give you a few good turns over the fire."

I doubted it was an empty threat, and with that, they left. I sighed, wondering exactly how much time I had. For a place with no sun or stars to mark the passage of time, the court Under the Mountain was awfully bereft of clocks.

I took one moment to breathe, willing myself not to panic at the potential short deadline. Then I sank to the floor and dipped the brush in the water.

It was filthy, and I quickly realized the task was impossible—all I did was turn the dirt to mud and push it around with the brush. I tried the door to the passage and found it locked, so asking for a clean bucket of water or finding it myself wouldn't be an option, either.

If Amarantha really wanted to torture me, I almost wished she'd just go ahead and do it, not set me up with a flimsy excuse about failed housework first. I tossed the brush to the ground in frustration, hard enough to crack the handle against the marble. Then I sat back down and considered my options.

Calling Rhys for help was the obvious choice, but I decided that would be a last resort. I didn't want to risk making it look like he'd come running for me the minute I was out of the cell.

From my mental maps of passageways Under the Mountain, I knew this was a central area, a hall that plenty of fae passed through daily. I suspected that this place was chosen for a reason, that I was supposed to be seen battered, wearing rags, and frantically scrubbing on my knees to send a message about a human's place in Amarantha's court. I decided to wait a while and see if anyone passed by.

When the door finally opened and I spotted long, auburn hair, I nearly cried with relief. Lucien.

"Feyre!" he said, breaking into a run at the sight of me. I jumped to my feet and let him pull me into a hug. For a moment, I forgot about everything—Andras, the curse, the lies—and just let myself be glad to see him again. When he finally pulled away, he looked me up and down, metal eye clicking as he took in my sorry state. "By the Cauldron, what happened to you?"

I had no idea how to answer that, so I didn't. There were more pressing issues anyway. "I need your help," I said, not even really needing to fake the urgency in my voice. "They'll roast me over the spit if I can't get this whole hall clean by supper. And all I have is dirty water."

He pointed at the bucket, and I watched the cloudy water turn clear. Another wave of relief washed over me, and I hugged him again. "It's barely noon, so you have plenty of time," he said, squeezing me tight again. After a moment, Lucien let go, taking in the sight of me. Even with the mask covering half his face, I could tell he was cringing. "Gods, what possessed you to think coming here was a good idea?"

Shit. I should have known someone was going to ask me where I'd been for six weeks, and I certainly couldn't tell him the truth. As much as I wanted Lucien on my side, he was still loyal to Tamlin.

And I definitely didn't trust Tamlin.

"I— Being gone made me realize a few things," I said. It was vague, but I needed time to wrack my brain for a suitable cover story.

"I knew something was growing between you and Tam but…" Lucien trailed off, shaking his head. I hoped that meant he believed that one night in the rose garden with Tamlin had awakened something strong enough in me to come Under the Mountain.

A horrible part of me pointed out that I'd done it for Rhys after knowing him for less time, but I pushed that thought aside and gripped the bond for support.

"I missed you while I was gone," I lied.

"The manor was serene without you running wild on the grounds," Lucien said with a smirk. I opened my mouth to reply, but his expression softened into something fond. "But I missed you too, Feyre."

I wanted to believe him. I needed as many friends as I could manage Under the Mountain, but perhaps my skin would always crawl at the thought of all the insults Lucien had flung at me for killing Andras when he'd known that I'd been set up to do it. And that was on top of the kidnapping he'd apparently been just fine with.

Maybe that didn't matter now that I was keeping secrets, too, though.

I put on my best brave face and said, "I'll be back and causing new kinds of chaos in Spring before long."

I could've sworn his mechanical eye pointed at my left hand, just for a moment. My chest tightened.

Lucien's face darkened. "Where did you go on Calanmai? Did Rhys take you?"

"He didn't," I said, just a little too quickly. Hopefully Lucien chalked it up to a healthy fear of the Lord of Nightmares. "I tried to get back across the Wall. I thought maybe since you were all busy with Fire Night, it would be easy to slip away."

"For six weeks?"

My heart was hammering so hard I worried he must have heard it. This was dangerous territory.

"I traveled along the Wall and hoped I could find a gap to squeeze through. I know Tamlin took care of them, but I missed my family."

I really, really didn't like the way Lucien was eyeing me, and I could've sworn his gaze landed on my left hand again as I tugged my sleeve down. Mor's glamour was strong, though. Lucien couldn't possibly see the tattoo.

Could he?

"Cauldron, you look terrible, but not like you were roughing it for six weeks before you came here," he said, sounding too much like he was putting pieces together.

But that was my opening, my last chance to run him off. I raised my chin and let my hands curl to fists at my sides. "I'm a huntress, in case you forgot," I snapped, letting myself feel a little indignation. I recalled Cassian's words about being a professional and reminded myself that Lucien had never afforded me that particular respect. "A damn good one. I know my way around the woods, and I didn't have any trouble at all looking after myself."

I took a step towards Lucien, and he raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture. "It's not that I don't think you're capable. You've never seen what Rhysand can do to a person—"

I only half-listened to the rest as Lucien warned me that if Rhys had done something to me on Calanmai, I might not remember. I yanked on the bond, harder than I ever had before.

RHYS. Help me scare Lucien off. He suspects something. Now. Please.

He said nothing, but a gentle tug back told me he'd heard the message and understood. I schooled my features into what I hoped was an appropriately horrified reaction to all the twisted things Lucien was telling me Rhys could do with his abilities.

Though it wasn't long, it felt like forever before the torchlight dimmed. I did my best not to visibly relax at the sight of Rhys making an obvious entrance. The sound of his boots seemed to echo through the hall as he strode towards us, a cruel smirk plastered across his face. Lucien stepped in front of me.

Rhys came closer, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I heard my name. Don't tell me you two were gossiping about me," he drawled.

"I was making sure Feyre knows exactly how much of a bastard you are," Lucien said with more ferocity than I'd ever heard from him.

I dug my nails into my palms and fought the urge to knock him aside for getting between me and my mate and for daring to speak to Rhys like that. Instead, I attempted to peer around him, opening a crack in my shields for Rhys.

"Were you now?" Rhys said, his voice dangerously soft and low. A threat, the kind you hear from someone too powerful to need to raise their voice. He looked from Lucien to me, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. It was strange to see when my hands already itched to draw Rhys's real smile, the one I'd committed to memory in the dungeon. "Then allow me to be kind enough to give her a demonstration."

What happened next was too fast for my human eyes to follow. Lucien moved first. With one hand, he swept me behind him, putting his body more completely between me and Rhys. All at once, Rhys was snapping his teeth and growling in Lucien's face.

The second Lucien touched me, Rhys's hands turned to talons. Something in his eyes went a bit feral, and for the first time, I understood why the fae were so wary of mated males.

Rhys, be careful, I said down the bond, and my voice in his head seemed to bring him back to himself. The rage cooled into a lethal calm as Rhys scraped a talon along Lucien's face, drawing blood as the pointed tip approached Lucien's remaining eye.

"I've made it perfectly clear that no one here touches her but me. If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I'll make sure you don't see anything again," Rhys said.

The talons disappeared as Rhys stepped back, stuffing his hands into his pockets again as if nothing had happened. I wasn't sure if Lucien was breathing.

I couldn't tell what Lucien was thinking, but Rhys was walking a fine line between possessive and protective. Right now, it was too close to the latter for my comfort—I couldn't seem important to him. Down the bond, I said, Be as awful to me as you need to get your point across. I can handle it.

Tendrils of darkness surged towards me, then seemed to just…stop. They didn't touch me. For a heartbeat, shock flashed across Rhys's face and lanced across the bond. He must not have understood what happened, either.

I needed to act before Lucien noticed. To draw his attention towards me, I cried out and slammed my knees down onto the marble, as if Rhys had broken into my mind and forced me down. The hard landing hurt enough to make my eyes water, but at least it made the performance more believable.

Thank the Mother, Rhys followed my lead. The smirk was firmly back in place as he said, "Human minds are so easy to shatter, it's almost not worth the effort."

"Let her go," Lucien said. His hand twitched at his side, as if reaching for a sword that wasn't there.

Rhys chuckled to himself. "Always sticking up for the rabble, aren't you? First your commoner lover, and now the help."

The door opened again, and a few faeries I didn't recognize filtered in. They seemed to be headed somewhere but stopped to watch the three of us. I couldn't make out what they said to each other, but I caught a tone of gleeful, delighted interest.

Good. If Rhys and I were going to put on a show, we might as well do it with a bigger audience.

"Stop. Please stop," I said, letting out a whimper—or at least, what I hope sounded like one.

"Listen to how beautifully she begs without me even having to ask. What a waste it would have been for Tamlin to be the one to deflower her."

I said nothing, just looked up at Rhys with sad, pleading eyes. Lucien growled. If it weren't so frustrating, I'd be touched he was so willing to go toe-to-toe with Rhys for me.

"Leave her alone, Rhys," Lucien said.

I almost groaned in frustration. My mate was the only person under this gods-damned mountain that I didn't want to leave me alone. If I weren't so worried, I might have laughed.

And perhaps if Lucien hadn't said that, Rhys could have chased him and the rest of the faeries off. Now it would only look suspicious if Rhys didn't twist the knife a bit more.

He must have realized the same thing; his voice floated into my head. I cannot apologize enough for what I'm about to do.

"Not when household chores are part of her bargain, and I have shoes that need shining," Rhys said. I reached tentatively for the brush, not sure where he was going with this. There was no soft cloth or shoe polish. His grin just went wider and colder. "Not with that, you'll leave scuff marks. Use your tongue."

Bastard. Brilliant, horrifically clever bastard.

I lowered myself down to the floor, making sure to tuck my left arm under me to block Lucien's view. My cheeks burned, and I hardly listened to whatever amused things the faeries behind Rhys were saying and Lucien's muttering about how unnecessary all of this was. I licked the top of Rhys's boot and made a face at the taste of dirt and leather.

His mind wrapped around mine, the closest thing to an embrace we could manage. He sent a pulse of remorse down the bond. I gripped a mental talon and pulled it closer.

I wanted to spare you this.

It's not your fault.

I licked the other boot, then sat back on my heels. The hall had gone quiet. I twisted my face into a hateful expression and tipped my head back to look at Rhys. "Is that enough for you?" I spat.

I'd let them think he hated me, but there was a long way to go before I'd let them think I was broken.

"More than sufficient," Rhys purred. "Good girl."

I nearly called him names, but I didn't want to give him a reason to escalate this further in response to disrespect. Instead, I just glared.

Rhys turned away from me, all bored dismissal. "The queen gave her a task to do. Run along and don't interrupt her again," he said, a subtle reminder that only he had enough of Amarantha's favor to do this.

The hall cleared out, and Rhys didn't look at me again.

His mind retreated from mine, and his shields went up. I went back to scrubbing the floor, waiting for a tug on the bond.

No one else came through the hall until I finished cleaning, and I wasn't sure if that was Rhys's doing or not. Left alone, I kept thinking back to the sight of his darkness freezing up and the naked shock on his face, trying to understand it.

Eventually the guards returned to find me looking satisfied in the spotless marble hall. It was a struggle not to look too triumphant as they grumbled about taking me back to the cell instead of wherever Amarantha preferred to torture her prisoners.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been laying on the straw pallet, staring up at the vent on the ceiling, when Rhys appeared, looking completely exhausted. I sat up and motioned for him to sit next to me. He didn't move.

Before I could get a word out, he said, "Why does Lucien scare you? Did he hurt you?"

"No," I said, and Rhys relaxed enough to sit down next to me, "but I don't trust him. Not after what he and Tamlin put me through."

We were quiet for a moment as Rhys seemed to consider that, and I wondered what he would have done if I'd said yes. It wouldn't be difficult to kill Under the Mountain and escape consequences, but I wasn't sure where Rhys stood on revenge.

Eventually, he said softly, "I'm sorry for what I did to you earlier."

"I would have lost all respect for you if you didn't do it."

He studied my face as if he'd find answers written there. "I don't see why you would."

It seemed obvious enough to me, but there was still so much we didn't understand about each other. I considered what to say next, not sure if this was the time or place for that discussion. Rhys might not have much time with me.

"If you get squeamish, you hesitate. If you hesitate, you miss. If you miss, you starve and die," I said, recalling the words of another hunter who'd given me advice years ago. I'd recited them to myself countless times I'd been up a tree and dreading watching the light leave another doe's eyes. "Maybe there could have been a better way, but you did the necessary, unpleasant thing."

There were no words for how much it meant that he'd come through for me. I knew his family, knew how they all would do anything for each other without a second thought. But Rhys hadn't seen me beg Nesta just to chop wood.

"That's an overly charitable interpretation of events."

I disagreed, but there was no point in arguing about it. "What happened with your magic?"

"I draw from the Night Court's power when I use my abilities. When I tried to use it to force you down, it…refused."

I'd never heard of magic just refusing the person wielding it, but I certainly wasn't an expert. He sounded just as bewildered–we'd never needed Amren and her knowledge more. "Refused?"

"It's never happened before, but it said, 'I will not hurt her.' It's only ever spoken to me once, when I became High Lord." The chill I felt had nothing to do with the cold dungeon air. A centuries-long silence broken just to welcome me home, and now this. "I'm not sure I understand it, but if I'm not mistaken, the Night Court itself is defensive of you, Feyre."

Another entry to the growing list of things I wanted to understand but doubted I'd figure out Under the Mountain. Despite the glamour, I moved my left hand out of sight.

Then it occurred to me that there was no reason we had to have this conversation face-to-face. I wondered if Rhys had come down here because he felt the same pull from the mating bond, or if he really did just want to be near me. Maybe there was another reason. Maybe it didn't matter.

We were sitting with a careful few inches of distance between us, so I said, "Can I touch you?"

"You don't have to ask," he said, as if it were a stupid question.

But I did and we both knew why and there was no point in saying that. I curled up against his side, his warmth drawing me in. As he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer, the mating bond seemed to uncoil in my chest. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I could almost convince myself that our too-many problems were far away.

I'd just started to relax when Rhys added, "I'm not looking forward to betraying Lucien."

I sat up. "You're betraying Lucien?"

"Those other faeries saw that the water in your bucket was clear when they walked in, and the three of us were the only ones there. It's gotten back to Amarantha. If I tried to cover for him, I'd have to take responsibility for helping you."

I felt sick. Rhys was right—someone would have to answer for helping me, and he couldn't step into the line of fire without risking everything. Not that I would ever expect him to do that for someone who clearly hated him and I wasn't even sure I considered a friend.

But still, Lucien had helped me because I'd asked, and now he was going to suffer for it. I couldn't silence the voice in the back of my head saying this was my fault my fault my fault.

I buried my face in Rhys's shoulder, not caring if I pressed on my still-healing bruises. This was the news he'd come to deliver in person, I realized. "I hate it here," I whispered.

"So do I."

We sat in silence for a long time, guilt surrounding us like a shared blanket draped around both our shoulders.

[rivalhughs]

numbers tag game

Tagged by: @darthnell :] ty nell!

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words (feel free to interpret however you would like; if not on AO3, can be on Tumblr or FFNET!).

most hits: threadbare, with 1047 hits! honestly not that surprised since it's my longest ongoing multichap so ppl probably are coming back to it when i update. i hope they are anyway ;w; <3

second most kudos: five o'clock can wait; i never want to see it, with 58 kudos! ah one of my sad angsty hatchetfield oneshots... the grace richie friendship still means so very much to me. theyre such a weird pair but make a very cute pair of friends (trio with ruth... not that... yknow... she's here... :( )

third most comments: recall, with 20 comments god im still so proud of this one. my longest zelda oneshot to date i think and i went crazy with the angst. totk fucked me UP

fourth most bookmarks: and only two hours later Pete would remember his error and frantically search how to completely remake his identity and run away. with 6 bookmarks. yes that's the title.

glad to have one of my sillier hatchetfield fics on here lol . this ones so sillygoofy. pete is such a fail. <3

fifth most words: sighs the wind, with 9071 words (currently) god i need to update this one again soon . i love writing this. my botw oc fic, where a social pariah and a self-proclaimed outcast find each other and adventure together. it's great. found family fr <3

least words: well. 2nd least words bc the least least was a 100 word drabble so im not counting her. anyway.

constant, with 538 words.

one of my fav short fics ive done tbh. legends arceus was so crazy and fucked me up so bad. im still deranged abt pla. i need to write more pla stuff.

tagging : @clearedpipes @antihibikase @savameh

[arisenreborn]

WIP Wednesday!

tagged by @fangbangerghoul! Thank you as always! :D I've been a little behind and playing catch up but I do still have something to share from the next Fateful Symmetry chapter! <3

Olivia sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. “So are there… two Arisen, then? Because I most assuredly have not been to any capital for…” Her words drew short and pursing her lips she looked to Emrys. Her recollection of her earliest days was hazy at best, entirely blotted out at worst.

“Two, three weeks, give or take a few days.” He said with a bob of his head. “I, for one, smell a plot. There can’t be more than one Arisen at a time in one world, master. I think it’s in your best interests to keep a low profile for the time being, until we can get a better idea of just what’s going on.”

She misliked each new word that came out of his mouth beyond his answer. As if trying to wrap her head around seemingly the very most basic of details was not already enough, now there was some conspiracy to unravel? 

“The idea is preposterous, pretenders in Vermund are not taken lightly,” Avierann scoffed, but a heavy sigh weighed down his sagging shoulders and he shook his head. “Still, I… cannot deny that the strangeness of events as they have come to pass has raised many questions.” 

Exasperated, she bid them cease any more discussion on the matter at that point. As it was they were like dogs chasing their tails with all of these mysteries around them. They sat around their beds at the makeshift inn, sipping cider and nibbling on rations that tasted a hundred times better than anything she’d eaten in the past weeks. 

It was strange settling in for bed -in a bed- for the first time. Not a very good bed, she didn’t think, but a step up from the jagged ground at the mines to be sure.

There was a pair of traveling merchants sharing the space with them, drinking and playing cards with a young soldier. While Avierann had excused himself to tend to a few more personal duties around the camp, to her amazement Emrys made it seem impossibly easy ingratiating himself into the trios game. 

They looked at him oddly, doubting he had anything worthwhile to put in the pot, but he produced a smooth chunk of onyx nearly the size of his palm, tucked somewhere in his threadbare shirt. One of the merchants’ faces went stony, and the other fidgeted his monocle into place as he examined the precious stone with great enthusiasm. 

As they dealt out the cards and started to play, she desperately wanted to go over and join them. Their laughter and (mostly) good-spirited ribbing put her at ease, quieting the myriad worries in her mind. But for now, this was good enough - simply watching. Anything more felt like she’d have been biting off more than she could chew, and she was already very full and very tired. 

Though she sat on her bed with her knees bunched up beneath her chin, she dozed a little to the sounds of their game. A slumber that rolled over her like a wave on the shore, and receded at times when interrupted by sounds of the losers groans and curses, or Emrys’s easy laughter.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

of threadbare birdcages (read HERE on ao3)

“He stopped bleeding a while ago, Sam.  Potions won’t help.  You’re just forcing the flesh to close over broken bones.”  Phil inched closer, wrapping his hands around the cold iron bars.  “Do you have gauze on you?” Sam was staring at Dream’s face. “Sam.  He’ll die.  Do you have gauze?”

(scrapped lore, but sam and quackity miscalculated.  dream took the bait before sam could prepare pandora for his arrival, and he showed up with philza and technoblade as back-up. now sam has dream and philza in a shoddily constructed cell, with technoblade at large.)

SO FAR: Completed oneshot, 4500 words

TRIGGER WARNINGS:  mentions of torture, descriptions of torture, descriptions of violence, descriptions of injury, panic attacks, ptsd, mentions of vomit

[forgedroyalseal]

His Worst Nightmare

Chapter 7

“Open this damn door!” Jenny pounded her fist against the heavy wooden door. George stood nervously behind her and Alyss was trying to peek through the drawn curtains.

“I know you guys are in there!” Jenny shouted.

“Jenny, maybe we should come back later.” George offered.

“Not a chance Georgie.”

He winced at the nickname but dropped the matter.

Gilan Davidson I swear-“ The door swung open revealing an exhausted Horace.

“Finally!” Jenny smiled and moved to push her way into the cabin but Horace blocked her.

“Jen, guys, you really shouldn’t be here.” His voice was threadbare and weary. Alyss’ heart ached for her friend and she wished that she could listen to him. Could do what he was asking and walk away. But she couldn’t. Because Will was inside that cabin, hurting and trying to push them, her, away.

“Horace, you know we can’t just pretend everything is fine.” She says gently. He opens his mouth to reply but George beats him to it.

“What if it was you on the other side of this door?” He challenged. “What if you knew Will was hurt and we were trying to keep you from seeing him? Can you honestly say that you’d let anyone, even the king himself stop you?”

Horace’s shoulders dropped and Alyss knew that they got him. Jenny did too apparently, because she ducked under Horace’s arm that was crossing the doorway and entered the cabin. Gilan was passed out on the couch, somehow able to sleep through all of Jenny’s shouting and banging, but Will was no where to be found.

“He’s sleeping, finally, so please be quiet.” Horace requested, moving into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“What’s wrong with him?” Alyss asked.

Horace sighed and set the mug down. He lean on the counter with his back to them. “A lot. He’s pretty roughed up. Ton of bruises, knocked around ribs.”

“That’s not all.” Alyss knew that if Will was just bruised he’d still be around. He hated isolation, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. Alyss couldn’t remember countless flus and summer colds that had Will bundled up in the ward’s common space desperate for company.

“No, it’s not.” Horace look down at his coffee, then somewhat longingly at the bottle of whiskey that was collecting dust on a high shelf in the kitchen.

“Horace, what aren’t you telling us?” Jenny pushed.

Horace finally turned to face them, “His right arm is gone.” Horace’s words were direct and to the point and yet Alyss still felt as though she couldn’t possibly comprehend what he had just said.

“No.” George said, simply refusing to believe Horace was telling the truth.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Another knock on the door interrupted Horace’s answer. Jenny frowned and looked around. “Who could that be? We’re all here?”

Alyss shook her head, “Not all of us. Where’s Halt?”

Another knock. “I’ll tell you where he better not be.” Horace growled and he yanked open the door. On the veranda stood the second trio of the day. Crowley and Pauline stood on either side of a gray and fatigued Halt.

“Get out.” Horace snarled.

“Horace,” Pauline said gently stepping slightly forward, “please let us in. I think it’s high time we all sit down and talk like the mature adults that we are.”

“Speak for yourself. Will and I have never once been considered mature and we certainly aren’t starting today.”

“This was clearly a bad idea.” Halt mutters to Crowley. “I’m sorry Horace, we should-“

“Halt? Crowley?” Gilan’s groggy voice pulled the groups focus to the center of the room where he was stretching and rising from the sofa. “Is it intervention time already?”

Horace scowled at him. “You set this up?”

Gilan shrugged, “I mean, not really. Crowley was gonna do this with or without me. He just gave me a heads up.”

“Glad to know whose side you’re on.” Horace snapped. Suddenly, everyone was talking over each other, all trying to get their opinions heard. In the uproar, no one noticed Alyss slip away and sneak into the bedroom.

“Either there’s a party going on that I wasn’t invited to, or Horace is trying to kill Halt again.”

She smiled to herself. “Well, it would be pretty rude to throw a party in your cabin and not invite-.” Alyss’ words caught in her throat as she turned. Will was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, an abandoned book by his side.

Will sighed, “Yeah, I know. It takes a while to absorb it all.” She didn’t need to ask what he meant. It was obvious. The mask of bruises that covered his body were a palette of yellows, blues, and blacks. Rusty scabs drew grotesque lines across his bare chest. And then there was the true show stopper, the miles of white bandages that swathed the stump that was once Will’s right arm.

“Will.” The name spilled out of her, watery and fragile.

“It’s ok Alyss. It’s ok.” She wanted to laugh. Here was Will, bruised and broken and severed, and he was comforting her.

“Come here.” He extended his left hand, his only hand, Alyss realized with a sick feeling in her stomach, to her. She slowly crossed the room and settled onto the floor in front of him.

“What happened?”

Will’s eyes dropped and he fiddled with the drawstring on his trousers. “It’s kind of a long story. Or” Will laughed sharply, “it’s rather short. I guess it depends on who’s telling it.”

“And if you’re telling it?”

“Very short. A bad man forced a good one to do bad things.”

Alyss turned the words over in her mind and like magic, the pieces all fell into place. “Wait, did Halt-“

“Yes.” Alyss’ heart sunk as he confirmed her suspicions. “But he had too. I’d be dead if he didn’t.” And she knew by the way he lingered on the words that he wasn’t quite convinced he was grateful for the outcome.

A crash interrupted their tender moment. “I’m gonna guess that was Horace.” Will sighed. “I probably can’t hide in here forever.”

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “No. I don’t think you can.”

He stood, and Alyss rose with him, carefully watching him to make sure he didn’t topple over. His hand found hers and he held it tightly. “Stay by my side?”

“You never have to ask Will.” She promised.

He nodded and let out a slow breath. “Alright, let’s go meet the masses.”

[mcalhenwrites]

Fuck, I'm editing Seasons, and if this part in chapter 7 doesn't break my heart, because I feel for Howie so much:

I examine a picture of Father holding newborn me in his arms. The baby in that photo is as wrinkled as a rotting pumpkin, but no one could ever guess it by the fond look in my father’s eyes.

It’s hard to hate him, and it’s hard to love him. I want to believe Vivian Liddell cares for me as he does all his children—that I’m not an annoying mistake. He would never refer to me as such, not even in privacy, but with the way he regards me, sometimes it’s hard not to feel as if I’m the misfit of this family. Some child Father didn’t want as much as he first thought when he decided to include autumn in his trio.

This picture proves that he once adored me. That I didn’t imagine his laughter when I was little and would tell him I’d make babies spring from the gardens with my magic someday.

But now…

It must be hard for him to love me now. All the questioning and defiance must wear his affections to something threadbare. I’m kept around, but I will never mean as much to him as I did in those early days.

I set the book back on Daddy’s desk, trying to arrange it exactly as I found it. The urge to pluck that baby photo right out and keep it to myself, to hide in some drawer, passes through me without action.

[thatndginger]

From the Soft OC Asks!

For Jay: 💫What is your favourite fact about this character and why?

For Warrick: 🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?

For Kerr: 🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

--@ceph-the-ghost-writer

Aaa thank you Ceph for the ask! I'm so excited to get to answer these ^.^

💫What is your favorite fact about this character and why?

My favorite fact about Jay is that she is scared all of the time. It might not look like it from the outside, because a scared dog tends to look a lot like an angry one. But she's the posterchild for the "do it scared" mentality.

🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?

Warrick isn't the kind of journals, but you can be sure that if he did keep one, it would be absolutely covered in little doodles and stickers and coffee stains. There are forgotten gum wrappers between the pages. As for an entry.... well I'm gonna channel 16-year-old War, since that'd be the most likely era for him to keep a journal.

"Apparently Carlisle is bringing in strays from overseas now. And turning my couch into a hotel. At least he found someone interesting. This new stray is my age, so I invited him to tag along with me and Jay tonight. We'll see if this Kerr can hang." [on the next page, next to a cartoon-y sketch of three figures standing on a rooftop] "He's awesome. We're keeping him."

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

Ok this is a dynamic that's implied in Into the Storm, but not fully acknowledged. Until now. Enjoy? Gabe’s eyes catch on the trio across the bar for the thousandth time that night. No, that’s a lie. His eyes catch on a single person within the trio. Kerr’s smile is brilliant tonight. It’s the soft, crooked one he reserves for friends; the one that spreads through his entire being, pooling in his warm brown eyes and the tilt of his brows, spilling out to infect those around him with every brush of his hand or shoulder or elbow. He reaches up to push his thick, dark curls away from his face as he laughs at something being said, playing at bashful.  In the dirty yellow light of the bar, Kerr’s gilded. Pale skin and a white tee that’s far too threadbare to leave much to the imagination are warmed to champagne; wild hair and shining eyes darkened to the richest brown and edged with gold. He’s vibrant and alive. There’s a warmth beneath Gabe’s skin that has nothing to do with how many people are in the bar now. He looks away again, and tells himself he’ll leave after he finishes this drink. This drink for sure.

[amaurotine-daydreaming]

XII. Dowdy

A chorus of giggling awakens Urianger from his slumber.

“Rise and shine!” sing-song a trio of pixies.

Urianger opens his eyes. He is laying on a threadbare bed in a small chamber nestled at the back of the Bookman’s Shelves. A faded blanket has been thrown over him, and the door to the main chamber is wide open. 

He sits up, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Good morrow to thee and thine.”

Light slants in through the long, elegant windows at an angle that suggests, at most, late morning. Urianger only went to sleep at dawn, at the blessed end of that riddle contest, and–

“We were feeling generous, so we let you sleep for a bell or two–” says Nyl Ul, poking his nose.

“–but since you’ll be living among us now,” adds Fyr Or, twirling in a wide arc over them, “there is something veeeery important we must do!”

Urianger sits up and gently pulls aside the blanket, knowing there is no more respite to be had until he has entertained his guests. 

“I prithee, enlighten me,” he says, but the pixies need no such invitation.

“Your clothes are horrid!” Fyr Or exclaims, poking at his collar, his chest, his sleeve. “Is this what you mortals wear? So dowdy!”

The robe is, like most of the few possessions Urianger has on the First, a gift from the Exarch. ‘Tis plain in appearance, true–light gray in color, with only modest accents on the hem, the sleeves, and the sash–but Urianger finds it suits him well. He has not sought to be overly ostentatious, nor would he ever cast aspersions on gifts…even gifts which also serve the purpose of being able to present oneself in public after having arrived with not a stitch on.

“Aye, such boring, dowdy clothes!” Selg Bir says, inspecting the hem with distaste. “Boring, boring, boring!”

“Dowdy U-ri-an-ger!” sings Nyl Ul.

“We must dress you, something befitting our [Kingdom of Rainbows]!”

“Lots of colors, oh yes!”

“And pretty shiny things!”

“Scales of a water snake!”

“Stones from the river! On the hem, in your pockets!”

“Cloth from the wings of morphoi! Their dust will make the cloth shimmer! You don’t mind a teensy bit of poison with your garments, do you?”

“A robe, a dress! Something to frolic in!”

“You do know how to frolic, don’t you?”

Urianger smiles wanly. “Pray, ere you begin, I wouldst fain give unto thee a gift in return.” The Exarch has warned him that “gifts” from the pixies may later incur debts at their whims, and to never let the ledger go unbalanced for long. 

“Oh?” says Nyl Ul. The trio of pixies gather back together, hovering just above Urianger’s knees. “What’s that?”

“A hundred years hath passed since thou perchanced to look upon the night sky in all her splendor, hath it not?”

“Aye. In truth, none of us have ever seen it,” says Selg Bir. All three pixies settle upon the bed’s footboard, intently listening.

“Pray allow me to weave for thee a tapestry of words to illustrate that ink black expanse, twinkling with countless pinpricks of colorful light…”

---

When the story concludes, the pixies are satisfied–and restless–enough to go on their merry way. Taking advantage of the respite, Urianger sets about tidying the lodgings he has earned from the fae. Books are reshelved; linens are taken outside to be beaten of dust and then washed; a broom is fashioned to sweep the floors with.

The pixies’ eventual return some bells later is only apparent by their giggling. When Urianger turns, he does not catch sight of any fae, but something else has appeared. 

Draped across a chair is a sleeveless chiton, dyed black as night yet which delicately shimmers when Urianger lifts it. Strung across the garment are ornaments of brass inlaid with rubellite in the shapes of the moon, stars, and other celestial bodies of Urianger’s tale. He checks, but detects no hex or other tricksome spell woven into the fabric. In the pockets he does indeed find rocks, but they are naught more than a few water-smoothed pebbles, which he arranges neatly atop one of the shelves. 

And when he dons the chiton, he finds it fits perfectly.

[applejuicemania]

It's a scrapped scene of a story that I've been trying to write, but I like it too much to simply throw away. (￣▽￣;)

For context; them murder boys were sent to an AU during lunch rush by hence the Blob[tm] reject known as their boss. It is literally just a character introduction, I just didn't set the tone right.

warning; one (1) cuss word

"...Seems like a good place to start."

Bane chirped a sharp whistle, a jagged grin like a dagger wide set on his rounded skull. He stood with the arrogant confidence of a middle school teenager that has managed to obtain a kiss from someone other than his mother, with fisted-hands firm on his hips and a dramatic chin jut. What a cute, charming boy, many would suspect, and by attitude and lithe statue alone you would be correct to assume — until he would whine a petulant 'but I'm twenty-eight!' in a very grown-up manner, of course.

Bane couldn't stay long in his main-protagonist pose, his body demanded the constant movement as if it would combust if stayed still a little too long. His hands flung in a spectacular coordination, his target-esque Soul bumbling, "It's like, rush hour right now so there's a lot of folk out n' about. A lot'a negativities and whatever, so—"

Ghoul, Bane's smaller than small brother in arms, hummed in absentminded agreement, their gaze steadfast into the distance of a busy intersection. Perhaps not as boyish or overly confident as his fellow skeleton companion, they were of the tranquil, patient sort that watched for drama rather than create it. If gifted with a different appearance than the mangled, dog-torn one they bore, they would blend into the background like the weeds between the sidewalk. They swayed idly on the balls of their feet and fiddled with a fraying drawstring of their threadbare jacket, the picture of someone with an empty skull — pun fully intended.

Ghoul continued to pay no heed to Bane, who continued in his comical charade, complete with some sort of jazz hand-tap dance combo of a bizarre notion — yet the same could not be said to the third member of the trio of loitering idiots.

"Bane." Called the jolly-good murder twig, heteromantic red-blue eyelights glaring from his sockets like a 3-D glasses reject with a growing, exhausted irritation. "Bane — shut up. shut the fuck up."

Ruin was as thin as he was tall, which was very, and he would look to be an even six foot height if he found the energy to straighten his usual lazy slouch. In a way, he looked like a delusional madman that you would find under the bridge, the figurative troll that would eat you if you didn't answer his riddle. Face obscured in a constant shadow, it was uncertain if it was his magic or his too-small hood to cast the mask; it was a deterrent all the same, hidden away securely and immensely terrifying. His flat teeth gnashed and grinded, noticeable only by the crack! his jaw creaked, and really you ought to wonder if it is the irritation getting to his temper or rather the sins that constantly claw up his spine.

To the ominous glare thrown his way, Bane was nonplussed. Nonchalant, cool as a cucumber as you could say. As if in mockery, he paused a moment, empty sockets staring blankly dead ahead and body frozen statuesque — but, well, "Anyways! I think it'll be real cool if we—"

The tallest skeleton huffed and shrunk a bit further into his shoulders, biting back a groan of annoyance. His fuzzy-gloved hands digged further into his basketball short's pockets, searching for refuge or maybe better, a knife. Ruin thought he might've succeeded in collecting the latter and might've indulged on an impulse, if not for the quiet tug.

At the end of Ruin's jacket sleeve, bunched at his elbow crook, Ghoul looked up with a knowing, unblinking eye. From the angle, Ruin could see the vivid gleam of their swollen, determination-red eye escaping the fist-sized hole at the top of their skull, shimmering from the spider-webbing cracks. The implications of it halted Ruin, treating the flare of light as a warning, because if he didn't — the consequences would be worse than the pleasure.

With a benign, comforting pat, Ghoul redirected their long stare elsewhere, and with the gaze removed, Ruin released a breath he didn’t know he held. Misshapen, burnt and gnawed and torn apart, hands rose, redirecting the attention of Ghoul’s compadres enough for him to sign a message: [y’all. start mission, now. is twelve noon.]