#a tag drop on the first night is unprecedented for me give the girl a round of APPLAUSE

[greenhillguy]

tag drop ✌️

[beautifultypewriter]

Everyone Has Their Price ~ Daenerys Targaryen

Requested: Yes / by @saegerphoenix (It’s very annoying when tumblr won’t let me tag people)

Warnings: Dungeons, attempted killing, actual killing (nothing graphic), fight scene, weapons, mentions of blood, injured reader

Word Count: 1,878 (I’m so sorry)

Pairing: Daenerys Targaryen x fem!assassin!reader

Summary: The reader is tasked with a very important mission. Unfortunately, that mission is not completed as Reader gets caught before it can be carried out.

A/N: The original plan was to take this further, but once I finished writing it, I thought that any more would have ruined what I had, so here we are. Also it got way longer than I had originally planned it to be.

It was said to be a difficult job. The target was established and powerful. She had guards surrounding her at all times and the most fearless army known to Essos. They told you it would be difficult, but they clearly didn’t know you. You never lost. You wouldn’t lose now. Not with the gold that had been promised for a confirmed kill. The trip to Meereen had been a long one, but it only served to push you more. You felt invigorated when the ship you had stowed away on landed in port and you felt invincible when you managed to slip onto land and away from prying eyes. Your next step was to observe the castle; to try to get a good idea of how things worked there and when would be the best time for you to engage the target.

 It had been surprisingly easy to infiltrate the castle, posing as a kitchen servant. After spending a few days learning every passageway in the castle and learning the routine of your target, you were ready. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, this was not going to be an easy assignment, but you were most certainly capable of completing it. You smirked to yourself. You were probably the only person in Essos who was capable of completing this mission. The universe knows that many others before you have tried and failed. You wouldn’t fail.

 When night had fallen and the activity levels in the castle had died down, you decided to make your move. You had brought a single dagger with you, knowing that anything else would have been too conspicuous. Clutching the blade in your hand, you moved quickly and quietly within the shadows, straight to where you knew the target would be sleeping. You encountered a patrol only once, deciding that your best bet was to press yourself against the wall and let them pass without noticing your figure, your dark clothing helping you hide. When the coast was clear, you took off again, gliding down the last corridor before stopping across the hall from a large door where two guards were posted. Pushing yourself further into the shadows, you observed the obstacle, deciding that you should take out the one on the right first. When the other guard turned to look down the hall, you jumped from your hiding spot, grabbing the guard closest to you and sliding your dagger across his throat. He fell to the ground at your feet, alerting the other guard to your presence. He turned, but before he could draw his sword, your knife was in his stomach. He fell next to his friend as you pulled your blade back to your side and turned to the door. You knew there’d be two more guards on the inside, so you had to be ready. Letting out a breath, you readied your blade and pushed the door open. Without giving the first guard any chance, you slashed and jabbed his torso, jumping back as the second advanced on you. He swung his sword at your head causing you to duck down. You swung your leg out to kick his feet out from under him. The guard fell onto his back and you were quick to take advantage of his prone position, lunging forward and shoving your knife into his neck.

 As you stood up, you wiped the bloody dagger on your pants before moving forward, towards the raised platform where the target was sure to be. Unfortunately, as you neared her, you were faced with something you had not expected. That something was a man with his sword drawn and pointed at you. A third guard? This was unprecedented. You had only ever seen two go into the room. Your shoulders sagged as you let out a breath, “Seriously?” The man smirked at you as you got into a fighting stance, your dagger held low by your hip. Your free hand was raised above your head and you motioned for him with your fingers.

 He advanced, bringing his sword down over your head. You threw your arm up, deflecting his blow with your dagger. Spinning around, you swiped at him, catching his arm with the end of your knife, ripping his shirt and making a small cut in his skin. You jumped onto a bench, watching as he glanced at his injury before swiping his sword at you. You jumped up, the sword passing through the air under your feet, and landed on the floor on his opposite side. You had an open lane and you took it, running straight at the target, your dagger held firmly in your fist. She stepped back and you smirked. Then the man was next to you, throwing his arm out and catching you around the waist. He threw you backwards and you hit the floor hard. Trying to regain your breath, you laid on your back for a second. When you looked up the man was above you, ready to drive his sword into you. Rolling towards him, you slashed at his legs causing him to drop his sword and stagger back. You pushed yourself to your feet and ran towards the target again. This time you sidestepped the man’s arm and were able to run up the three steps to finally be face to face with your mission. She stared at you with wide eyes, her silver hair falling over her shoulders as she stepped back. Shame you had to kill her. She was a beauty. You smirked as you raised the dagger, ready to bring it down on her. Right before you could swing, though, you felt something hard collide with the back of your head. You closed your eyes against the pain as you stumbled forward. Readjusting your grip on the knife’s handle, you looked at your feet to see a metal pitcher lying there. Blinking, you looked back at the target to see her eyes flash to the man. He must have thrown the pitcher. It doesn’t matter. You were about to be out of here. You lifted your arm again, but the pain in your head was too much for you and you felt yourself falling. The last thing you felt was your dagger slipping from your hands as the coldness of the bricks numbed your skin.

 As your eyes fluttered open, your hand flew to the back of your head. You groaned as you pulled your hand back. It was clean, which was a good sign. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up on the bench you had been laying on. You were surrounded by bars. Fantastic. You chuckled quietly to yourself, shaking your head. “Something funny?” You looked over to the cell door to see your opponent from the previous night glaring at you.

 You smirked, “Nice to see you’re still standing.”

 He sneered at you, “Oh really?”

 You pulled your hair over your shoulder as you laid down again, “We’ve got unfinished business.” You closed your eyes as you propped one leg up on the bench, letting the other hang over the edge. Your hands folded and rested on your stomach, “Think I’ll get a bit more rest first.” He scoffed and you smirked.

 A new voice entered the space, “Daario, step back.” Opening one eye, you looked over to see the target standing at you cell door. The man moved back, but you noticed that he stood close. She stared at you and you closed your eye, shifting slightly on the bench, trying to get more comfortable. The target cleared her throat, “I don’t know why you’ve come to kill me and honestly I don’t care. Just know that whatever you think I’ve done-”

 Your eyes snapped open as you turned your head, “I was hired to kill you.”

 Her face maintained the neutral expression, “By who?” You had to give her some credit here. She was not nearly as frightened and doe eyed as she seemed when you encountered her last night.

 You shrugged, “I don’t ask questions. They give me a name, I complete the mission, they give me a bag of gold and I go on my way.” You smirked at her, “It’s nothing personal, sweetheart.”

 She scoffed at you, “A sellsword?”

 You sucked in a breath through your teeth, “Not my favorite term, but sure.” Your eyes moved around the cell, checking for weak points, so you could plan your escape.

 “I figured as much. No honor. No loyalty-”

 You sat up, cutting her off again, “I have loyalty.”

 She scoffed, “To who?”

 You smirked as you threw your hands out to the side, “Myself, of course.” She glared at you as you flopped back onto the bench, “No one else in this world is looking out for me, so I’ll have to do it myself.” You glanced at her and you noticed her eyes soften and her frown deepen. You shrugged, “Everyone has their price.”

 She moved closer to the bars, “And what is yours?”

 You chuckled, “More than you can afford.”

 The man didn’t seem to care for your conversation, as he stepped towards the cell, pulling his sword halfway out of its sheath, “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

 You sighed, “Some little girl who calls herself a queen?” The man moved forward, a deep frown on his face, but he was pushed back by the target. She glared at you, her eyes full of fire. You quite liked it. You took the time to look over her then. Her silver hair was pulled back in an intricate braid and she wore a crisp gown of white. She looked more like a queen than you had originally thought. You tapped your tongue to the roof of your mouth as you stared at her.

 She leveled her voice, “I asked you what your price was.”

 “And I told you that it’s more than you can afford.”

 She held her head high as she squared her shoulders, “I can offer you a leadership position in my army. You’ll have respect and a place to lay your head. When I sail across the sea, if you help me take back my kingdom, I can offer you titles and a castle.”

 You waved your hand, “I’m gonna stop you there. I don’t care about castles, or land, or titles, or respect even. I care about gold and since you have none, I think I’ll keep my other job.”

 She shook her head, “You’ve already failed your other job.”

 You tapped your foot, “Something you should know about me, your grace, is that I never lose.” You smirked at her quickly before returning your attention to the ceiling.

 “You’ve already lost.” She motioned to the room around you, “You’re locked in my dungeon.”

 Looking over at her, you grinned, “This game isn’t finished yet. I haven’t lost anything.” You winked at her.

 She stepped back, her eyes widening, “My offer still stands.” She looked you over once before she retreated from the dungeon, her guard following close behind her. Sitting up, you watched her go, wondering if she’d add anything else to that deal of hers. You smirked to yourself as you laid down again. Silver might not be so bad.

[arsnovacadenza]

Day 4: Sway (Part I)

Characters: Napoleon, Jean, Mozart, and Yukari (MC)

Pairings    : Jean x Napoleon

Warnings  : Crossdressing Jean

Ao3 Link  : Here

Swordsmen who consort with each other on the sparring grounds make exquisite partners on the dance floor.

Napoleon's eyes darted around the ballroom uneasily. Even though he asked for permission from Comte himself, he was having second doubts about this mission to 'save' Yukari. And having doubts was never Napoleon's style.

The girl next to him sensed how tense he was. "Napoleon, I appreciate that you came out of your way to help me, but I feel bad seeing you look like that."

"Like what?”

"Like usual," she answered drily, "Handsome, even more so than usual. Relax, will you? I'm the one who's insecure here, tagging arms with someone so out-of-league like you."

Napoleon felt like he was the one betraying Mozart.

Just two days ago, he learned from Sebastian that one of Comte's socialite friends took an interest in Yukari and was determined to propose to her at an upcoming ball held in his mansion. The girl herself was summoned to the Count's quarter to talk about the matter. 

While concerned, he tried to think nothing of it and decided to leave the matter be. But then he remembered how close the girl and Mozart were and decided to inquire Jean about it.

"I don't see how any of this is of any interest to you." Jean shot back after Napoleon informed him about the ball and whether Mozart himself knew. "Even I, as his friend, can't urge Mozart to make a move. Their courtship is still too early, too fragile for him to make any claim on her."

"Yukari looked like she was about to cry." Napoleon retaliated. "How is that not deep enough for you?"

The other French soldier glared back at Napoleon with a ferocity that reflected hurt pride instead of protectiveness over his friends.

"If you think you're better suited to help them, I wish you the best of luck."

 With a wave of his cape, Jean turned away, leaving Napoleon ever more determined to help the couple with his own power.

 Which was why he approached Yukari and took her to Comte's room soon afterward. To Napoleon, it wasn't just about Yukari's wishes that were at stake, but Mozart's shot at happiness as well. 

Sebastian, after Napoleon involved him in the deal, suggested that he suit up and play the charming suitor. The purpose was to intimidate Adam, Comte's friend, into thinking him as a rival and withdraw his proposal. The butler believed that Napoleon was intimidating enough to do the job.

Napoleon didn't mind accompanying Yukari to the ball as her guardian. Hell, he'd go as far as to take the man out in a duel, even. But to pretend to be lovers with the girl?

To be an emperor was to be a world-class actor. Tonight, however, it seemed Napoleon had forgotten his cues.

Napoleon unconsciously kept patting at his waist all evening, internally cursing at the lack of comfort his rapier usually brought. He was so distracted that he paid Yukari no mind as she clung to his free arm.

"You seem out of it. Are you alright?"

Napoleon shrugged away that nagging feeling at the back of his head. "I'm fine," He flashed her a reassuring smile, "Let's go find this Adam fellow, shall we?"

But just before they could make a move, a hush swept over the room. Had someone important arrived? Was it Adam?

Napoleon immediately made a beeline towards the entrance with Yukari in tow. But all he saw was the familiar, indifferent visage of his composer friend and his mysterious companion walking onto the scene.

Much was to be said about the tall, raven-haired woman that stepped into the room with Mozart. She stood with her back straight, carrying an elegance outmatching that of the other noblewomen. The lady donned a midnight blue dress with a small cape draped her shoulders, accentuated with a string of gold inlaid with iridescent jewelry and a crescent moon. Pale willowy arms were without cover save for black lace gloves that displayed slender fingers. Her hair, dark and lustrous, was pulled into a ponytail that fell over a dignified shoulder.

Napoleon eyed her from top to bottom. The long skirt that fell from her waist didn't reach down to her toes at the front. The pearly arch of her foot was visible as she stepped forward— the click of her low, dainty heels echoing across the room.

He could hardly make out the woman's face, but Napoleon knew her chin vaguely reminded him of someone. The silence broke when a tall man approached the couple.

"Why, Monsieur Perti!" the man greeted jovially in a booming voice. "You've no idea how honored I am to have you play at my ball."

Napoleon frowned. This man must be Adam. He waded among the crowds with Yukari to reach where the trio stood.

As they approached, however, Mozart immediately recognized the two. The bewildered look he threw Yukari was unmistakable. Meanwhile, Mozart's companion remained impartial as she stared at Adam, whom she nearly towered.

Napoleon felt a tug at his sleeve, "We shouldn't get too close. We don't want to interrupt them." 

"Good idea," Napoleon agreed, moving to a spot not too far away behind Comte's friend. By accident, however, he locked eyes with the lady's single dark orb, unobscured by her bangs.

Ah, zut. 

Jean remained stoic as Adam heaped praises on Mozart, gazing impassively at the rare smile on his best friend's face.  

It also didn't escape him how Adam's eyes studied his face and down to his shoes. Mozart made a good point in making him show some skin. The perfume that they purchased along the way helped, too. Meanwhile, the high collar of Jean's cape helped obscure his Adam's apple in case someone came too close.

At first, the soldier hesitated at the prospect of having to seduce another man into forgetting Yukari. He knew nothing about the art of tittering and batting his eyelashes until a man dropped to his skirts. Fortunately, Mozart was a true man of the court and instructed Jean to play it hard-to-get.

“The more frigid you act, the more they'll chase after you,” Mozart smirked wryly. “Let's see if this old cow takes the bait.”

Jean took no pride in seeing men swoon over the sight of him or women scrutinizing at him, full of suspicion and envy. It was nothing new, even back during the War. Jean, uncomfortable as he was, tried to calmly shrug off their attention like water on a swan's back.

And this swan captivated Adam, whose lips lingered on the back of his hand for far too long. Bewitching, Jean heard him say. 

(The man couldn't even recognize a swordsman's hand).

Suddenly, he felt Mozart tense at his side as two new figures came approaching. To his surprise (and small relief), it was Yukari, striding towards them with a resolved look.

And next to her was the last man he wanted to see tonight.

"Monsieur Adam, thank you for inviting me tonight," Yukari bowed gracefully. "I believe we have a lot to talk about,"

Jean's inclined his head slightly toward Mozart, who remained in awe at what had transpired. He wondered how this unfortunate encounter would go, especially with the former emperor now involved. 

Jean felt his mask was ready to slip away at any given time. 

Out of nowhere, Adam grasped his gloved hand and guided him to Napoleon like he was Jean's companion and not Mozart.

"You seemed to be lost in your thoughts, Madamoiselle Catherine. Monsieur Napoleone Ramolino here said he's an acquaintance of Monsieur Perti's by the count's connections. And with him is Madamoiselle Yukari, a Japonesque woman whom I greatly admire and Monsieur Ramolino's family friend." Adam gestured towards the pair.

"Catherine" slightly nodded at the girl. Yukari didn't seem to recognize him, the nunche. Was Mozart's makeup truly that convincing?

"I beg your pardon," Mozart took their attention. "The lady is recovering from a sore throat and is thus unable to partake in the conversation. I hope you'd understand."

The part of playing a temporarily mute noblewoman, at least, was the only saving grace of the role Mozart instructed him to play.

"I see." Napoleon casually spoke. The man had a winning smirk on his face and joked. "Bold of you, Monsieur Perti, to take a woman out on a ball when she's at her most delicate. I can't imagine what the night air would further do to her lovely voice."

Jean had to stubbornly keep himself from lunging at Napoleon and smother him with his skirt. 

"Monsieur Ramolino, you're quite the charmer," Mozart answered civilly, refusing to take the other man's bait. He then turned to Jean. "Well, Catherine? Won't you offer our gentleman a hand?"

You're next after I'm through with Napoleon. Jean slipped off one of his gloves and gave his hand to Napoleon, who kissed it tenderly. Unlike Adam, he didn't let the kiss linger.

Adam's voice rose out above the distant commotion. "Now that Monsieur Perti is here, all we need to do now is wait for the dance to begin. But before we join hands on the floor," Adam seized the taller woman's hand. "Let's give Monsieur Perti some time to prepare."

Soon the four of them were standing at the side of the ballroom. Mozart had already left them to his assigned station to begin his performance, hoping to steal some time with Yukari while Adam was lavishing his attention on "Catherine."

 Napoleon's unprecedented appearance threatened to dismantle their careful planning. Reluctant as he was, Jean decided to keep a close eye on him while gluing himself to Monsieur Adam's side. It didn't bother him anymore that he had to let the proud man talk his ear off. All he had to do was hang on that delicate balance between politeness and nonchalance. 

To partake in a game of courting like this, it must be hard being a woman.

Soon, the sound of a violin flowed into the ballroom. The gentlemen around them turned to their ladies and asked for their hands. Adam himself turned to Jean and offered his hand. 

 "May I have this dance?"

 I thought you devoted yourself to Madamoiselle Yukari. 

Earlier that night, Jean had given Mozart his word that he'd steer away Yukari from Adam at whatever cost, even his dignity. Yet truthfully, Jean had secretly been counting on the smallest possible chance that this could fail. He hoped that Adam would remain uninterested in him, and thus Mozart would have to wrestle Yukari from the man's clutches himself.

But it seemed Mozart was correct. “Your beauty is a curse, he said. “Let's see if you can hex this man with this 'curse'”.   

Jean took his hand, shaking away his reluctance. Adam happily accepted it and led him towards the center of the ballroom. With each step, Jean's half-smile hardened with nervousness.

 I can't dance.

Before he could balk away, however, a familiar man figure stopped the couple in their tracks.

"M-Monsieur Ramolino?," Adam stammered. "Can I help you?'

"Monsieur Perti imparted to me a message before he left," 

Napoleon looked pointedly at Jean, "He requested that I look after Madamoiselle Catherine for her first dance. Although she's attended many balls before, this is her first debut on the dancefloor,"

Jean narrowed his eyes at the intruding gentleman. Don't you dare!

Adam swiftly declined Napoleon's request. "I'm sorry, but our Madamoiselle here has already given her hand. And I'm sure she'd be most welcome under my guidance since I too have had my share of partnering with novice dancers over the years. I'm perfectly capable of handling them, as you shall see. Shall we, Madamoiselle Catherine?"

The battle-hardened officer refused to move.

"Believe me, Monsieur," His adamant emerald eyes stared into Adam's. "Nothing wounds a lady more than leaving the ballroom in shame under the humiliating stares of fellow women."

"Monsieur, " Adam appeared ready to challenge Napoleon then and there, but Jean gently tugged his arm back, drawing his attention. 

I'll be fine. Jean gestured. Please, let's continue. He wasn't about to let this entire mission spoil because of an unnecessary scuffle. Linking his arm with Adam reassuringly, he began moving again towards the direction they were going.

Yet Napoleon stood his ground like an old, stubborn mule. He closed in on Adam's personal space and spoke to him in a steely voice.

"My friend, I'm on your side. I'm aware of your designs on Yukari." He patted the side of Adam's bulky arm. "Giving another woman your first dance instead of the one you're supposed to be proposing tonight doesn't make a good look, does it?"

It was quiet enough that nobody else could hear, but Jean's vampiric senses caught Napoleon's little threat word-by-word.

"H-how did you know?" Adam stuttered. "It must be the Comte, then. Yes. If that's the case, then I should," He glanced nervously at Jean. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I'm afraid there are more urgent matters at hand. Yes," Adam seemed ready to run at any moment.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle Catherine. I leave you in Monsieur Ramolino's hands, then." He then turned towards Napoleon and patted him back. "F-forgive me. And thank you."

Adam quickly disappeared among the crowd, presumably to find Yukari. 'Catherine' stood dumbfoundedly without turning to Napoleon, who was already offering his hand.

"Good riddance." He smirked triumphantly. "Shall we, Madamoiselle d'Arc?"

All onlookers' eyes were on them as Napoleon led Jean to the center of the hall. Even the musicians seemed to hold their signal in anticipation of the couple.

Jean remained unaware of his surroundings until Napoleon positioned himself in front of him.

He directed Jean to hold onto one of his shoulders while he lightly places a hand on his delicate waist.

 "No comments? Still playing 'Catherine,' are we?"

"There's no point to it anymore," Jean whispered harshly. "If you stand too close, they'll realize that we're of the same height. They'll know that this 'Catherine' is fake."

"If anything, they only see you as an unusually gangly lady," Napoleon answered dryly. "A rather fetching one, nonetheless."

Effortlessly, he guided them both to a position among the other dancers, completely ignoring his partner's aggravation.

While waiting for the music to play, Jean chastised Napoleon. "You ruined a perfectly formulated plan. I was trying to protect Yukari in my own way, and you had to swoop in and play the hero. I was ready to play escort for Adam and carry on with the night. But then you had to put a wedge in our plans and took me from—"

"You can't dance." Napoleon pointed out, matter-of-factly. "I can. And as I said, I'm good at helping out inexperienced dancers before they make a fool out of themselves in front of Parisienne socialites."

Jean pouted. "Well, Mozart taught me—"

"Bet he got frustrated after you stepped on his foot one too many times." Napoleon stared back at Adam's disappointed face among the crowd. A part of him was just as relieved that Jean didn't resist getting dragged away from the man. "I should teach you myself next time."

"The others will tease us relentlessly. They'll think you’ve gotten so bored you're doing things with me," Jean bit. "See if you can get past Mozart if I hide in the piano room."

"I'm doing him a favor then," Napoleon chuckled. "You shouldn't bother him too often when he's working. He might disown you otherwise. Who else will you go to then, other than me?"

That silenced Jean.

"Smart boy," Napoleon whispered next to his ear, "You're so irresistible like this, so open to teasing."

Jean seethed in embarrassment, not realizing that he was gripping the fabric too tightly. It was either Adam's sickening gaze or being at the mercy of the former conqueror of Europe. At least he wouldn't be stolen away into the night if he went along with Napoleon instead. 

This is a battlefield I'll never conquer, Jean thought to himself. 

Napoleon led them to a spot among the many couples on the dance floor. Even as they were standing face to face, Jean kept averting his eyes from the other man. He collected himself just in time for the first notes from Mozart's piano.

Only to miss his cue when other dancers started to move along with their partners. Jolted, Jean hurriedly bowed before reaching out for Napoleon's hand.

The bastard chuckled. "Really, Jean. Pay attention." His smirk grew wider as Jean attempted to rest his arm on top of his. "My bark may be vicious, but I won't bite. So trust me when I say I'd be guiding you through the night." 

His partner answered through gritted teeth, "Just...shut up and help me get over this." 

The emperor only snickered some more upon seeing him turn scarlet.

Even after entrusting himself to his bulwark of a sparring (now dance) partner, Jean still found it difficult to move along with the rhythm. Yes, he had engaged in folk dances as a child in his previous life, but that didn't prepare him for this new form of dance.

He was scandalized, to say the least, upon hearing Mozart's explanation that the men and women of this era danced in almost obscene proximity.  

"For God's sake, Jean. You're dancing with another man." Mozart argued. "No lady is harming you."

Jean felt the hoop of his skirt lumbering awkwardly with every movement of his hip. The heels, no despite how low they were, certainly didn't help. Mozart commented on how he'd already carried himself with ease after only several days of practice with the shoes. But conjuring that image now made Jean feel even more ashamed of himself.

It should've been Napoleon walking in these shoes, seeing how he adored those heeled boots so much. Jean squirmed. And he's so charming he'd most likely charm Adam no matter how unconvincing his disguise. 

Jean's heart sank upon realizing that Napoleon would have handled this situation better.

"If you want to survive tonight, follow my lead," Napoleon commanded in a low voice. "Focus on nothing else but me. As you always do."

Napoleon bit back a groan when he felt the tip of Jean's shoe stomping on his foot. The culprit glared at him with steely eyes.

That's it. "You're not playing by the rules, Jean." He scolded. "You deserve punishment,"

Before Jean could react, however, Napoleon spun him, completely breaking their formation and diverting themselves from the rest of the dancers.

Napoleon purposefully threw him as far as possible before effortlessly drawing his partner back. Jean found himself caged from behind, Napoleon's broad chest heaving against his back. 

Without so much as a care to spectators, Napoleon's arm left Jean's waist to toy at the crisscrossing ribbons on his bodice.

The elegant soldier was lucky that the emperor's head didn't slide against his neck, despite the compromising position. Even so, his heightened senses were more than enough to decipher Napoleon's muted orders.

"If you're trying to put on a show, go all the way," Shivers ran down Jean's spine as he felt the pressure behind every syllable. "From now, we're dancing to our own music. Capisce?"

"Catherine" nodded, swallowing the last of "her" dignity down before Napoleon twirled "her" again.

To Jean's surprise, Napoleon chuckled at him "We should stop worrying about Mozart. He, Yukari, and Adam can sort it out among themselves,"

He adjusted the position of their arms. "This night belongs to us." 

The fire that Napoleon stoked whenever he invited Jean into a duel...

Well, he's all too eager to draw it out once more. 

(tbc)

Historical Notes:

I gave “Napoleone” the surname “Ramolino” because that was the maiden name of Naps’ irl mother, Letizia.

Made for @kissmetwicekissmedeadly‘s Napoleon Birthday Prompt 2020. The prompt was “dance”. 

Whelp, that’s a good time to bring out my Crossdressing Jean WIP (now with minor adjustments for a better reading experience!)

Tagging  @kisara-16 @thedollarstoresatan @delicateikemenmemes @ikesensrandomninjagirl24 @ashavazesa @hokkaido-fox @nuclearwinterexe @lulu-the-hedgehog @longingkisses  @weird-profiterole @napoleonstan @scummy-writes @an-otome-cally-correct​ @nafeary​

[darkmindsotome]

Risque Rouge pt3

Tagging: @umbralaperture​ @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly. 

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 3

It came again for her once more that night. A sickening voice drifting on the wind, dripping its poison slowly in her ear. She could never forget that familiar haunting that sent every fibre of her body on edge. As far back as she could remember it had been the same dream, a voice like a memory casting a spell over her. It conjured up images that were distorted and blurred, scents that filled her senses and made her heart race wildly. For a time, it seemed the medicine had removed the nightmare from her body but it turned out whatever this was, was never far away.

Pain in her chest started to spread like an ember catching light on dry tinder. The burning reached her lungs and her eyes shot open as she gasped like a fish out of water clawing at her neck to loosen her nightgown. The buttons on the cotton popped and released their hold, but the restriction to her breathing remained. Her body arched and contorted as she fought against her bedding in a desperate search to try to stay anchored in reality fearing slipping back into the nightmare world she escaped from.

Tumbling from her bed to the floor, she crawled on hands and knees panting as she moved inch by inch towards her dresser. She had no idea of the time when she had been given her last dose but she needed her medicine. Her oil lamps had long since burnt out the only light in the room was the moon outside.

Dragging herself up onto her stool she gasped at the sight in the mirror. Green eyes glowing in the darkness. Her skin looked eerily white and her body released a growl that sounded beast-like as more tremors shot through her. With shaky hands, she moved to pull the draw and miscalculated her strength. The draw slid free of the dresser and dropped to the floor, the sound of wood splintering filled the room and all she could do was watch are the medicine bottles were sent to oblivion.

“N-no, no, no, no. Please no.” Dropping to her knees she cared little for the fragments that dug into her from the ground as she tried in vain to catch some of the liquid in her palms. All she could do was watch as it dripped between her fingers, running from her. She found it strangely poetic the source of her relief falling through her fingers same as if it were her last shred of hope. Tears fell from her eyes blurring what was left of her vision more as she sat there frozen and sobbing. “What is wrong with me?”

---

Le Comte arrived at a familiar house and knocked on the door even though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer at this hour. Heaving a sigh, he turned the handle and let himself in following a light in the vestibule to the drawing-room.

“Comte? My this is a surprise to be sure.” A man with reddish hair and miss-matched eyes looked up from his chair sipping tea. His words didn’t match his body language at all as he didn’t appear shocked by a sudden visitor.

“Will.” Comte gave a small nod in greeting, his usual manners escaping him as he felt the urgency of the situation. He recognised the contents of the vial as soon as he had seen it, but he also knew whatever it was, was too weak.  

“If you had sent word of your visit, I surely would have been better prepared to welcome guests.” Will put his tea down on the table and motioned for Le Comte to take a seat which he did all be it with impatience. “What merry jape have the wings of fate carried you gentle Comte to visit at this hour?”

“Enough Will, I have need of information and I think you might be a man to know the answers.”

“Ah, you come to seek the opinion of nought but a humble bard when you have in your care such a fine collection of minds at your mansion? Am I to be flattered by such a confession of faith?” Will chuckled and it managed to get on his visitor’s nerves.

“I am in no mind to play games right now William.” Le Comte was careful to say every part of the man’s name as if each syllable were a declaration of impending war. All of the men he had sired had their little quirks but his one was difficult, something that didn’t change even after they chose to leave and live separately. Where had it all gone wrong between them? A question for another time right now the sands had not fallen in that hourglass to allow such a conversation to take place. Reaching into his coat pocket he put a glass bottle on the table in front of him with a solid clink of glass hitting wood. “What do you know of this?”

“Tis a interesting object to be sure. I am no expert on such things but I imagine an apothecary be a better source for information.” Will reached out and took up the bottle, turning it this way and that. The liquid inside sloshed and swirled opaque white versus a clearer substance. It was like watching ink swirl in water. His eyes seemed to narrow in delight as he watched the mixture but nothing else was revealed in his smiling mask. “Might I ask where you found such a curio?”

“Someone I know is in possession of a quantity of this and calls it medicine. It is little nothing more than fake and I have a need to find where it came from.” Comte knew he was possibly talking to a dead-end here, but the truth of the matter was that Will lived outside of the mansion. He was also part of the bohemian artistic set of Paris and might have heard something useful. At least he was hopeful that was the case.

“A noble quest indeed. I wish you well fair and gentle Comte, I fear I have no tale to tell except one of woe.” Will’s lips pulled into a sickening smile as he placed the bottle carefully back on the tabletop and reclined in his seat.

“Your tragic tale might be at your door before I have a chance to return Will if you don’t tell me the truth. Someone is making fake Blanc and not only that…” Le Comte struggled to keep hold of his temper his words trailing off without verbalising the rest of his thoughts.

 It was all too easy for the author of great plays to draw out reactions with his words. He claimed it was his stock in trade and for a playwright that penned some of the greatest tragedies known to the world perhaps there was truth in such a claim. However, those pretty words spun by Will didn’t help the situation at all.

Le Comte could see fire burning and angry faces marching closer, brandishing any weapon at hand. It was a foreboding idea taking form in his head. He was anxious to avoid a comedy of errors. He also had no desire to see something like the revolution with his mansion at the heart of its focal point.

The plant that was used to produce Blanc was a rare secret and was protected. Whatever was in this vial, was at least in part a small dose of it mixed and diluted with something else. Was this a poor contrived attempt to out the existence of vampires or did it have another purpose? He had no idea what the intention was in producing such a dangerous blend and giving it to that sweet young woman, but he was going to find out.

“I give you a tale of bittersweet telling. A love unrequited and separated by light. Two creatures one nestled safely in the graces fair bosom and one fallen.” Will spoke as if addressing a theatre which in the small room they were seated in gave a gaudy grandeur to the spectacle.

“Get to the point and speak plainly Will.”

“Verily doth the sands of time slip by. Gentle Comte this is but the greatest tragedy of old, that of love.” Will’s golden eye sparkled as his other eye of blood-red darkened. His voice took on a delighted tone and his smile never faltered. If this had been a play it would have no doubt been one that gripped the attention of its audience successfully. Once more it felt like Will had difficulty in separating reality from his own ink and it was more than mildly frustrating at present.

“Will I swear if I discover any part of this can be traced back to you—”

“I am aware of my part and also none of it, gentle Comte. My tale is one to be penned by another and as yet remains unfinished. I for one cannot wait to see how it ends if it to be at the hand of my creator I should think that rather poetic.” Will took up his teacup of now stone-cold tea and began drinking once more signalling the end of their meeting. “Do come again fair Comte. It is far too long since last we met.”

Comte rose, pocketing the vial once more and left the residence of the great wordsmith. At the sound of the front door closing a man once known to all as William Shakespeare glided to the window and watched the retreating form of Le Comte de Saint Germain as it was swallowed up by the night. His mismatched eyes crinkling with delight.

“Oh, what a tragic tale we weave, kind and gentle Comte. When first we practice to deceive.”

---

The lamp light vanished and still, they sat watching. It is in the nature of all men to desire that which is forbidden. Temptation leads to damnation and yet they had long since been lost. Sitting in their window with one leg propped on its sill, a set of brown coloured eyes focused with unnatural heat on one set of windows of the performing house.

Luck had been on their side it seemed when rooms became available with an unprecedented view. Although the previous tenant might not have agreed with them, after all they did meet a rather grizzly demise. Still, everything it seemed was falling into place and it was only a matter of time before they could indulge in forbidden fruit.

They first saw the little Princess when their guardian ran from the building crying out for help. She couldn’t have been much more than five years old. With no memory of her life before and her body doubled over in agony. Still at the time little more than a student of medicine they had felt curious and drew near to the child. There was a haunting glow in the young girl’s eyes that held them rooted to the spot and stole their voice. Their mind had told them they should be screaming, running, anything to not be near the child. Their treacherous body had other plans and remained useless as the cute charming little girl turned into something feral.

It was the last night of their life, and also the first. While they were frozen in time itself, the girl grew up and with each passing season she achieved a grace and beauty comparable to the gods. They lost their heart and their mind slowly twisted as fantasy warped reality around them. With each life they took whatever sanity they had, ebbed and flowed out of them.

They had to find new ways to be near to her, growing as she was in that blinding light, she turned many heads and they had to find a way to keep her close. As it turned out the girl remained in the dark with no knowledge of what she was and continued living amongst such a collection of humans that protected her as if she were some sort of mascot, a beacon of hope. Each time her illness took her the worry of their faces that spoke of love could only reflect a fragment of what they felt for the girl.  

“If they only knew… What then Little Princess? Would you leave? Would you come to me then?” They sneered as long fingers came up their neck, brushing lightly over the flesh remembering the sensation of her fangs. The fear and pain were overwritten with euphoria beyond measure as their mind clouded and the world went dark. The last memory of a thought surfacing in their mind. If this was to be the end, what better way to go than in the arms of Angels?

A cruel and somehow soft smile came to their lips as they closed their eyes and leaned back against the window. The sight of her from before laying like a piece of art on her bed, the fading sunlight clinging to her porcelain skin giving her that heavenly glow they so loved. Her voice, how it spoke to them and staying in their mind like a promise. Her emerald eyes looking directly at them and her smile. She was perfect and for a moment, completely theirs, no one could come between them.

They could still feel her warmth even now on their fingertips. She had been so compliant, so thankful for their help as they examined her.

As if to drive them mad the green eyes of his dreams became soft and golden. The pure white replaced with warming shades of browns and creams. That flowing raven black hair turned dirty blonde and it was not the Princess they saw anymore but the usurper. They groaned in agony holding their head. Fingers plunging deep enough into their hair that they threatened to pull it out roots and all in their pain.

Had they not done everything needed? Had they not spent all these years as a faithful servant? They had spent a lifetime in study researching and training to be of best use to her. Sourcing medicine to alleviate her suffering even as he suffered watching from the shadows as she played games and laughed with others. They thought they had found the perfect balance, a way to keep them together. Such a cruel Mistress they had.

“I didn’t spend all this time devoted to you so I could stand by and watch as another swooped in to take what is mine.” The brown eyes devoid of warmth glowed, locked once more on the window of the girl. A sound of breaking glass and desperate cries. “My Princess… MY PRINCESS.” With a growl, they slipped from the window back into their rooms vanishing from even the touch of moonlight as the darkness took more of their mind.

---

[sandersstudies]

Quirky - Chapter 4

A High School Superhero AU - Sanders Sides

(US Boku No Hero Academia AU - Will add tag list in a reblog! If I miss you, please let me know ASAP - Sorry this chapter is a little shorter than usual- As always, asks, comments, messages, reblogs, and keysmashes are more than welcome.)

-> Chapter Five

<- Chapter Three

<<- Chapter One

You can now also find the fic with the same username and title on AO3 :)

Something’s wrong, Patton realized as he rolled through the doors of the school. Upperclassmen in the hallway were whispering to one another. Some of the first-years looked almost dazed. A group of students from Patton’s class huddled around a locker, looking at something on a smartphone. Nobody was laughing.

Patton knew it was rude to use his quirk without permission, but he couldn’t resist extending his mind into the surrounding space: a jumble of sounds and emotions, too thick to sort through. A passing girl almost bumped into his wheelchair, and made eye contact for a split second.

Something happened. The brief glimpse hadn’t been enough to give Patton any details. He stared around again, but everyone was rushing to class or focused on a conversation. Patton turned toward his classroom and rolled faster. He was a little early but he had a better chance of finding out what was going on there. A kid rounding the corner glanced at him, and Patton caught another image.

It’s the news, something on the news, he thought. The haze that hung over the school reflected that. His quirk was picking up general disturbances left and right, and most of the students’ thoughts seemed suspended in a cloud too thick to make out individuals. Something on the news — a murder? A natural disaster? An alien arrival?

When Patton reached his classroom, it was empty except for Virgil, who started to glance up and then immediately stared down at his notebook. He would, unfortunately, be very little help. He was always charged with nervous emotion, and today was no different. Whether he was even nervous for the same reason as the other students, it was impossible to tell.

“Good morning,” Patton tried.

“Mmm,” Virgil said. He was blocking his notebook with one arm, hunching over it so closely that Patton couldn’t see his face.

“What are you working on?”

“Nothing.” The response was clipped, and Patton took the hint to be silent as other students started to enter the room. Logan and Terrance sat down near Virgil, and Patton resisted using his quirk any more. Too much probing and people would notice. If Patton’s quirk had taught him anything, it was that whatever was upsetting the other students would come out eventually.

Some students were whispering harshly to one another as they entered the classroom, and others were silent. Patton tried to watch them out of the corner of his eye. A few, like himself, gave off bursts of confusion which grew dark as their friends leaned over to fill them in. Patton only caught a few words.

“Did you hear?…last night...police…”

There must have been a villain attack, Patton thought. That would explain it. But the attack must have been of some unprecedented size to raise such concern among the students. A little attempted arson or petty larceny was barely newsworthy as long as the event was stopped be a professional hero as most were. Only major destructions and deaths were widely known to the public, and Patton could remember no sirens, no explosions disturbing his sleep the previous night. If only he’d had time to talk to Dad in the morning…

Mr. Picani entered the classroom, began to shut the door, and then paused to hold it open one extra second as Roman rushed into the room with an apologetic nod. The nearest open seat was the one in front of Patton, and Roman slid into it instead of his normal seat on the other side of the room. Patton had never seen Roman look so demure. The boy’s shoulders slumped slightly, and his eyes were red, bloodshot even. When he reached to unzip his backpack, Patton thought he saw his hand shaking.

I wonder if the villain attack was near his house. That was always a scary event, especially late at night. He’s not hurt at all, though. Physical pain tended to fill a room like smoke; Patton could always tell when it was around.

Mr. Picani stood behind the front desk, and the room fell silent. He tapped a stack of papers against the table, and Patton felt the teacher’s nervousness seeping out of the cracks in his calm exterior.

“I’ll be filling in for Mr. Sanders today,” Mr. Picani said, adjusting his glasses twice. “I’m sure…” The teacher’s usually lilting voice was halting. “I’m sure some of you have heard the news that Mr. Sanders has been arrested.”

No gasp or chatter went up in the class, only silence and a wave of passive acceptance that Patton felt sweep the room. What had been momentarily doubted as gossip was now confirmed.

“I understand this may be a very stressful time for you,” Mr. Picani went on. “But we here at UA want to maintain our normal schedule in the face of difficulty as much as possible. In hero work, these kind of disturbances may interrupt at any time. That being said, if any of you feel you need someone to talk to, myself and the other school counselors always keep our doors open.”

Roman shifted in his seat.

The teacher went on. “Since homeroom is only ten minutes, we don’t have a lot of time at present, but if the class would prefer a more thorough discussion during Hero Studies, I can facilitate that as well. I’ll give you the rest of this time for yourselves.” He sat down.

Free time was usually coveted during the school day, but the students were not particularly talkative for the rest of homeroom. There was some whispering, clearing up of details, but that was all. Even Roman merely leaned back to pick the uneven edge off a piece of notebook paper, crumbling the shards between his fingers. None of his friends approached him, and he did not look up.

Patton scribbled absentmindedly in his notebook. Little swirls and delicate lines helped him focus his thoughts and keep out of other people’s heads, but he couldn’t help but notice Mr. Picani staring at a paper without moving his eyes, clearly thinking, distant. Patton wondered if the two teachers knew each other well, if they were friends, even. How much did Mr. Picani know about the arrest?

Patton felt something tap the wheel of his chair, and glanced down. A red pencil had rolled across the floor, just out of his reach.

“Excuse me,” he said, tapping Roman on the shoulder. “I think you dropped that.”

The other boy whirled around and in the split-second eye contact before Roman’s eyes fell to the floor, Patton felt a blast of confusion out of proportion to his discovery of the pencil. Patton sat back in his chair as Roman fumbled for the pencil and then turned around with a mumbled “thanks.”

Patton resisted asking any more questions. Roman was subdued at the moment, but Patton remembered his outburst in the cafeteria earlier in the week. If Remy hadn’t stepped in, Patton didn’t know how far Roman might have gone.

That’s another reason to keep my quirk to myself, Patton thought. Exposure to a quirked empath scared some people. Roman wasn’t the first to be startled, and even angered, when he realized what was happening. Patton didn’t like to think of his quirk as a weapon, but he couldn’t escape remembering that it could be used that way.

“It’s not polite to go through somebody’s thoughts like you’re rummaging through drawers,” Patton’s father always said.

Patton took off his glasses as the bell rang. It helped his quirk lay quiet when everything was soft at the edges.

***

Lunchtime was, for Patton, a respite from bombardment with endless thoughts. People’s heads got quieter when their voices got louder, and when he sat at a table by himself, the increased distance meant he heard even the strongest emotions as if through a wall. Joy sounded like a pounding waterfall, and Patton had often as a child fallen asleep to the sound of his parent’s warm thoughts like a distant stream. Sadness sounded like the hurried breaths that came before crying, jumpy instead of constant. Patton always tried to get rid of that sound. In middle school he’d purposefully sat with the kids whose brains sounded like that, to start a conversation. After all, people’s heads got quieter when their voices got louder.

Patton balanced his bagged lunch in his lap with one hand, rolling his chair with the other as he looked for an empty table. Remy waved from his seat between Terrance and Virgil, and Patton waved back. Virgil was leaning across the table to say something to Logan, who nodded in agreement. Patton could hear their waterfalls from a distance. It was none of his business, but Patton was glad that Virgil, always so nervous, had managed to make some friends.

Patton’s usual place near the back looked empty until he rolled past a group of upperclassmen and saw one figure half-hunched over the table. He almost turned to start looking for a new place when he recognized the wavy blond head.

Roman again. It was strange that the class representative had abandoned his usual place among his friends, and stranger still that he’d chosen the place where he’d mocked Patton only a couple days before, but Patton was reminded of the kids who sat alone in middle school, and rolled closer. He dropped his bag on the table. Roman jerked.

“What are you doing here?”

“I always sit here,” Patton said, unpacking his lunch. “Remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Roman said. He was still, and then suddenly moved to grab his tray. “I can go, if you—”

“That’s okay,” Patton said. He took a bite out of his sandwich. “I don’t mind.”

Roman settled back into his seat.

“Why aren’t you sitting with your friends?” Patton asked after a minute.

“Dunno.”.

“You must have sat here for some reason,” Patton tried again.

“Just don’t feel much like talking to them,” Roman said, a tinge of hostility in his voice..

“Or eating, apparently,” Patton said. Roman had been shoving his food around with a fork.

The two boys ate in silence for a minute. Patton kept a tight rein on his mind, fearing any probe might drive Roman away again. He was curious about the other boy’s behavior.

“You didn’t try for class president,” Roman said suddenly.

“No,” Patton responded. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Don’t you want to be the best?”

“At some things,” Patton said. “Not at being class president, though. Enjoying your new position?”

“Well, I haven’t done anything yet.” Roman paused. “Sorry if I’m bothering you.”

“That’s okay,” Patton said. “Not many people want to talk to me anyway.” He stirred his pudding. Not that I mind it much that way.

“Oh.” Roman said. “Is it because of—” He waved his hand in front of his eyes, and Patton noticed that he’d dared make eye contact.

“Probably,” Patton said. “You didn’t like it very much yourself.”

Roman used one fingernail to scratch at the edge of the table. “Actually, I.” He stared at his finger, and then dropped it into his lap. “I meant to apologize about that. I was a big jerk that day. I’ve been a big jerk a lot.”

“Thank you for your apology,” Patton said. He didn’t need to use his quirk to know that it was authentic. “Was that why you came to sit here?”

“Part of it, I guess,” Roman said. “But I think I’ve been lying to myself a little bit. I don’t know, really. Sorry to be blabbering to you like this, especially after I’ve been a jerk.”

“It’s okay,” Patton said. “I’m sort of used to it.

“I just don’t want to see my friends right now and, well, you seem like the kind of person it’s safe to talk to. Like you could keep a secret.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Roman’s eyes darted around unsteadily. “Could I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” Patton said. He felt a spark of curiosity.

“I was there last night, right before Mr. Sanders got arrested.”

“What?” If it wasn’t for his quirk, Patton wouldn’t have believed the statement for a second, but it was true — or, at least, Roman thought it was.

“I just need to get it off my chest, I guess,” Roman said. “Me and...some other students. We went out late last night to see the logo that got painted — did you hear about that?”

Patton nodded. It was another thing he’d heard a bit from other’s minds before he’d seen it on the news. But the logo was gone now, scheduled to be removed this morning.

“Well, we went to see it, and while we were there, I saw Mr. Sanders and...and the Flying Falcon.”

“That’s your dad,” Patton remembered.

“They had a fight like the ones you see in the movies and on the news,” Roman said. Throughout the conversation, he’d been leaning further across the table, toward Patton. “And right before I ran away I…You swear you can keep a secret?”

“Who would I tell?”

Roman nodded, but paused and chewed the inside of his lip. “That’s all, I guess,” he said. He settled back into his seat.“It was stupid of us to go out, really.”

“Well, maybe now it won’t happen again.”

“Maybe,” Roman said. He stood up. “Sorry to bother you, but thanks for listening and all. And I’m really sorry, again, about before.”

Patton nodded. “I hope everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, me too.” Roman said as he started to walk away. “Me too.”

Patton mused over his lunch until the bell rang and he rolled away to class.

***

“I’d like to begin with a quick activity,” Mr. Picani said, walking around the room to place slips of paper on students’ desks. “I often find that in group settings, students are shy to speak up in front of their classmates for fear of seeming silly. Now, I’m of the belief that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but sometimes we need a safe environment to share our questions and our feelings. So, let’s take a minute to write down any questions or feelings we might have that we may be too shy to share out loud.” He passed the last of the papers out, and then perched on the edge of his desk. “Remember, there are no stupid questions.”

Patton stared down at the blank clipping of paper. The top was uneven where Mr. Picani had sheared it away from the rest of the sheet. He tapped his pencil against his desk. Sometimes it was difficult to sort through everyone else’s feelings to find his own. He placed his glasses in his lap and blinked a few times, trying to retreat back into his own skull.

How did he feel? Well, he didn’t like that Mr. Sanders was gone. It made him...not scared...uneasy. Heroes weren’t supposed to go to jail. What had he gone to jail for, anyhow?

That’s a question, Patton realized. Was that information on the news? Oh well, no stupid questions. He wrote it down, his letters slightly crooked without the help of his glasses, and folded his paper in half. When Mr. Picani circled the classroom with a glass jar, Patton dropped  his paper in. When the teacher made it back to the front of the room, he lightly shook the jar before drawing a few papers in his hand.

“Remember,” he said. “We aren’t here to make judgements, we’re here to have a discussion. Let’s see what we have here.”

Many of the papers were about Mr. Sanders’ arrest, lots of feelings reflecting what Patton had felt from the students throughout the day. Uncomfortable, scared, upset, sad, angry, confused.

Every time Mr. Picani read off an emotion, he would say, “how many of you feel like that?” and several of the students would raise their hand. Mr. Picani sometimes raised his hand as well.

“I recognize,” Mr. Picani said, pulling his glasses off and setting the jar on the desk next to him. “That many of you still have a lot of unanswered questions. I want you to understand that we, the teachers, also still have questions. We are not hiding information, we’re right there with you.” He twirled the glasses between his hands. “I like to do activities like this to remind you that you aren’t alone, we all experience these emotions from time to time. This is a very confusing time for everybody, and it’s frustrating and saddening for us that this has happened right as all of you are beginning your time at UA.”

He reached into the jar again, and peeled open a scrap of paper which had been folded over itself many times. “Speaking of beginning your time at UA,” he said, a bit of his normal smile returning to his face. “This student says, ‘I am worried about Mr. Sanders because he seems nice but also I am still worried that my quirk is not as good as my classmates.’” As he read, Patton detected a sudden spark of fearful energy on the other side of the room. Virgil’s anxiety was spiking.

He wrote that, Patton realized.

“It’s almost nice to see such a common concern from a student,” Mr. Picani said. “And that’s what it is, a common concern. Anybody who is thinking or feeling this way, you are not alone either.” He smiled softly and gazed over the class. “Not everybody is so confident as they pretend to be here,” he said. “And many students compare themselves to upperclassmen or even to professional heroes. It’s important to remember that each and every one of you is here because you passed the same test as most of your classmates, or because you were professionally recommended by a current hero, and neither passing exam grades nor recommendations are given lightly.”

Patton drummed his fingers against his knee. He still wasn’t sure exactly what the entrance exam had contained, though he knew when the other students thought of it they experienced a rush of adrenaline. He was probably lucky he’d managed to bypass it. He knew without his quirk, of course, that Roman was the other recommended student. The son of two major heroes was unlikely to be otherwise.

“Everyone in this class has their quirk on record in student files,” Mr. Picani went on. “And every year we are impressed with the variety of talent among our students. Everyone in this room deserves to be here, and all of you are here to make the most out of your quirk, so you can use it for the most good.”

Virgil sunk lower in his seat, bouncing his leg.

He got in on the entrance exam that I didn’t even take, Patton thought. Hundreds of people take it and don’t pass. How can he think his quirk isn’t good enough?

Granted, Patton hadn’t seen Virgil’s quirk yet, but that was true for much of the class. People like Roman had the ability to be flashy and dramatic, but Virgil, Logan, and many other students chose to keep to themselves, and that included their quirk abilities. If it wasn’t for that moment in the cafeteria, Remy’s quirk would have remained secret until he’d tried to use it in the field test.

Think of the devil, Patton thought as Remy glanced over at him. Remy’s energy felt like pop rocks in his mind. It wasn’t a bad thing.

Mr. Picani talked through a few more questions and feelings before giving the students the rest of the class to themselves again. “However, assuming Mr. Sanders has not returned tomorrow, we will be picking up on the syllabus where you left off,” he said when the final bell rang.

Patton was always one of the last to leave; he didn’t like getting stuck in the crowd at the end of the day. He smiled politely to Mr. Picani when he left, and the man’s face wrinkled slightly around the eyes as he returned the glance. Patton wasn’t trying to pry, but there was a well of sadness below the teacher’s calm exterior, and Patton felt, as he always did, as if he’d entered into a room marked Private, where he wasn’t supposed to be.

As Patton rolled out of the doors of the school, he saw Virgil waving goodbye to Logan before shoving his hands into his pockets and slinking off in the other direction. Virgil always walked home at the end of the day; he must live close to the school. Patton rolled after him and reached out to touch his arm.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked.

Virgil started to turn around, and then abruptly drove his gaze into the ground. “Yeah, fine. See you tomorrow.” He shuffled away like he was in a rush at the pool, but the lifeguard was watching from under the “no running” sign.

Patton’s phone buzzed before he could decide whether or not he ought to follow. When he glanced at the screen, his father’s icon lit up.

“Hey, Dad,” he said as he answered. “Everything okay?” It was remarkable, the lack of thought he picked up over the phone. Every conversation seemed a little mysterious. He supposed that was what it was like for other people all the time.

“Everything okay with you?” his father replied. There was light noise in the background, and Patton supposed his father was still at work. “I wish we’d had a chance to talk before you got on the bus this morning. Did you hear about what happened last night?” He wasn’t a hero, but Patton’s father seemed to be always up-to-date on villain news. It came from working in a hospital and seeing the casualties. There was also, of course, the other reason—

“Yeah, Dad, I heard all about it,” Patton said. No need to think about that.

“Weren’t snooping, I hope?” Dr. Summers joked.

“Only a little,” Patton admitted. “You remember Mr. Picani? He took over our class today. But I’m fine. Some of the other students were kind of upset, though.” Roman.

“Well, you would know,” Dr. Summers said. “It’s all I heard about from the nurses at work today. You about to catch the bus home?”

“Yeah, if only I can get my dad to stop delaying me.”

“All right, all right, I get it. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”

“Love you.”

[kaitycole]

Everything Changed

Summary: There’s a counsel being held in Karlington which is unprecedented. What could Constantine and Godfrey be planning that requires this off the record counsel? 

Word Count: 3249

Warnings: Physical Abuse, language, 

Tag List: @itsalliepg @speedyoperarascalparty @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @zilch3 @lodberg @hopefulmoonobject

A/N: I don’t own any of these characters, I’m just borrowing them! (:

“You are to be on your best behavior, do you understand me?” Constantine glares down at Leo. He thought he was rebellious over the years, but ever since he hit 16, he acts more and more like his mother.

           “Yes, god, I’m not six!” He argues, rolling his eyes.

           Constantine jerks Leo back by the collar of his shirt, if he cared enough he might have seen his son flitch, but he doesn’t.

           “You will not embarrass me or my country, do you get that?” He growls.

           “Yes…yes sir,” Leo whispers as his dad shoves him away from him. Leo pulls on his shirt, trying to straighten out the wrinkles on his collar.

           “King Constantine. Crown Prince Leo. It is an honor to have you visiting Karlington.” The butler at the entrance welcomes the pair.

           “Thank you for the warm welcome,” the king replies.

           “Karlington looks beautiful this time of year,” Leo pipes in, after receiving another scold from his father.

           “The Duke will be with you soon.” They are escorted towards the grand hall.

           Leo looks around, he’s never been here before. Usually they visit Krona which is closer to Cordonia, however Godfrey asked them to come do a counsel in Karlington, a small country in England.

           He stands up on his tiptoes, looking to see if he recognizes anyone. He sees a quick blonde blur rushing around, a smile slowly spreads on his lips. There were lots of girls in the world, lots of girls in his circle, but Madeleine was different. She has almost a calming effect on him.

           “What is this counsel about?” Leo asks, instantly regretting it.

           “Do you really not pay attention?” Constantine glares before slapping him in the back of the head.

           “It’s just odd that we aren’t holding the counsel in Cordonia, is all.”

           “While I usually would agree, this seems like the proper course of action.” Constantine swallows, slightly nervous about how Leo will feel about being blindsided. He’s silently praying that Leo doesn’t react harshly, though he has two years to digest this before it goes completely public.

           “The Duke will see you now,” the butler ushers them into the large conference room where several nobles are seated. They all stand up when Constantine and Leo enter the room, some even giving a slight bow.

           “King Constantine, what a pleasure.” Duke Godfrey says, motioning him to the head seat.

           “Crown Prince Leo,” a few nobles nod towards him.

           “Afternoon,” he smiles at them before taking a seat, right of his father’s.

           “I understand that this unprecedented, but I thought it was important to show unity even though this isn’t a formal counsel on the matter.” Godfrey starts, a few of the nobles exchange a shared look.

           The office door opens, a flustered Madeleine walks in, “My apologies.” She walks over, taking a seat across from Leo, quickly smiling at him.

           “Sir, is this really something that concerns a…woman?” Duke Remy says. Remy is a super traditional nobleman. He prefers to stick strictly to the books which means he doesn’t see any reason for a woman to be in this room.

           “I’m the Countess of Fydelia, not just some woman. Anything that concerns my country, my people, concerns me.” For a fourteen-year-old, Madeleine was extremely mature and took to politics eagerly. Her mother disproved, wanting Madeleine to spend more time being a child, being a young, free soul while learning who she was, but she craves her father approval too much.

           “Well said,” King Constantine agrees, Duke Remy huffing.

           “Now, as stated before, this is more of a preliminary counsel to update Karlington on an agreement between them and Cordonia.” Godfrey adds.

           “It has been thrown around for a while now, but it seems that a deal has been drafted that benefits both Karlington and Cordonia.” Constantine starts. He goes into the short history between the two countries and how he hopes this deal, once finalized, would be able to create a long, healthy relationship between the two.

           “King Constantine and I have agreed on a marriage alliance between Crown Prince Leo and Countess Madeleine. Now we are still working out small details, but I promise both countries will thrive from this arrangement. Once the agreement is finalized, we will hold a formal counsel to make sure everyone agrees and then a press conference will be held.” Godfrey says, smiling proudly. I’m truly getting everything I’ve wanted.

           Madeleine and Leo stare at each other, unsure they heard their fathers correctly. Everyone around them erupts into negotiations, but the two of them can only stare at each other.

           Everything is going to be different now. There is a thick cloud of pressure now hanging over the both of them. The carefree friendship was now over, while their fathers stressed it wasn’t official yet, they knew it was. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t be here.

           Leo’s head starts to spin, his life flashes before his eyes. Not like it does when you think you’re dying and you see all the happy moments you shared, but instead this was flashes of his future with Madeleine. Them engaged, walking down the aisle, blonde-haired children running through the palace, the crown that sits on his father’s head now sitting on his and before he knows it, he has lived the same life of his father. The life that he has never wanted. The life he thought he still had time to try to avoid.

           Madeleine feels her chest tighten. Her vision gets blurry and breathing becomes difficult. Panic. Panic fills her lungs. She wasn’t ready for this. Queen? She was going to be Queen? She didn’t want that. This was what her father wants. Leo was a good friend, he was her first friend, this would be awkward. Them married? They were two different people, he protected her, he cared for her, that’s all. They practically grew up together, she couldn’t see him like that? Could she?

           “I say we let the two lovebirds get better acquainted while we adults celebrate over a glass of expensive bourbon and a cigar!” Duke Remy says, the other noblemen agreeing.

           “Don’t screw this up,” Constantine whispers harshly into his son’s ear, “Cordonia needs this. Time to grow up, son.”

           “Karlington needs this,” Godfrey says to his daughter, “Don’t ruin this.”

           All the older men head into the private study while Madeleine and Leo stay cemented to their seats.

           “Air,” Leo finally manages to say.

           “Pardon?” Madeleine says.

           “Air. I need air.”

           “Oh. Let’s take a walk in the courtyard.” She walks with him outside. The warm summer air brushes against their cheeks, calming them from the news they had dropped on them.

           They both walk in silence, neither one really knowing what to say. They are inches apart but it feels like miles. His hand accidently brushing hers, causing them both to stop and look at each other.

           “So, this is weird.” He says, chuckling.

           “Definitely.” She adds.

           “Are we like dating now?”

           “I hope not! I’m not old enough.” Madeleine blushes causing Leo to remember there’s a two-year age difference. Now it made more sense why they aren’t making it official just yet. They wanted to wait until she was 16, it looked better than marrying off a 14-year-old.

           “Oh.” He rubs the back of his head, blushing, “Well when we do start dating, I promise to be a better gentleman.”

*          *

           “What if I don’t love him?” Madeleine asks her maid, Emily. Emily begins to brush her hair.

           “That will come in time.” Emily reassures her, “Just remember that love is like a flower. It doesn’t grow over night and it takes time to bloom.”

           “Do you think I’m pretty enough to be queen?”

           Emily gives her a sympathetic smile. She thinks Madeleine is beautiful, that she is a force of nature, but she knows that the anorexia doesn’t let her see that.

           “Of course, I do. You are beautiful, honey.” Emily first noticed her eating habits changing when the fights between Godfrey and Adelaide became more frequent. Especially the ones about Madeleine becoming queen, those were the worst ones.

           At first, Madeleine was just becoming more of a picky eater, which Emily thought was her normal. Her daughter acted the same at Madeleine’s age, she just lumped it in with puberty and hormonal changes.

           But then she realized that Madeleine was skipping meals, lying about eating and her clothes were starting to fit poorly. It breaks Emily’s heart to watch the stress of everything slowly deteriorating a promising little girl. She has been able to get Madeleine foods that are healthy such as fruits and vegetables along with protein, but the more Emily gets her to eat, the more exercising Madeleine adds to her schedule.  

           “Do you think he will love me?” Her eyes meet Emily’s in the mirror. They are filled with worry. The kind of worry that no child should have to deal with.

           “What’s not to love. Now let’s get to bed.”

*          *

           Leo is sitting on the balcony off the ballroom when Damien finds him. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since they got back to Cordonia. Honestly, there wasn’t anything he thought saying would be worth it.

           “You good? You’ve been acting off today?” Damien says, sitting next to him.

           “I unofficially officially have a wife.”

           Damien laughs, “What?”

           Leo shrugs, “My dad finally picked a proposal agreement. It won’t be official until I’m 18, but you know how royal things go. I’m basically already married.”

           “Wow. I do not envy you.”

           “Thanks.” Leo rolls his eyes, his best friend could be more toxic than supportive, but he was all Leo really had.

           “So, who is the unlucky lady?”

           “Madeleine. Countess of Fydelia.”

           His friend pauses, “Wait. Like Madeleine, known since we were kids, Madeleine? As in the blonde girl that follows you around like a puppy dog?”

           A ball of anger fills Leo when he hears Damien speak poorly of Madeleine, “Watch how you speak about her.”

           “Calm down lover boy!” Damien teases as Leo storms off, “Go get ya girl!”

*          *

           Leo is storming through the palace when he sees his father’s study light is on. He hesitates, debating if it’s even worth it to go in. Talking to him means there will be some kind of lecture, a reminder of some way that he is a failure. All this considered, he still walks into the room.

           “Leo,” Constantine looks over his readers, “A bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?”

           “Guess I couldn’t sleep after today’s news.” He shrugs, sitting in the chair closest to the door. In case he needs a quick exit.

           “It’s the best deal for Cordonia.” His father’s words are dry and flat.

           He sighs, “But is it the best deal for me? What if I don’t fall in love with her?”

           Constantine takes his reading glasses off, placing them of the desk. He squeezes the bridge of his nose, “Do you enjoy pissing me off?”

           Leo doesn’t answer, he just stares at his father, regretting his choice to enter the study.

           “You don’t get to worry about a silly thing like love when you have a country to run.”

           “You don’t love Regina?”

           “I’ve grown fond of her. You’ll grow fond of Madeleine.”

           He thinks carefully of the words he wants to ask, “Did you….did you love my mother?”

           Constantine lets out a thoughtful deep breath. It has been years since he thought about Leo’s mother. “I did love her. Look what that got me. Do you really want that?”

           Leo looks down, “No sir.”

           “Get to bed, we have budget meetings tomorrow.”

           He waits until Leo shuts the door before he pushes himself away from the desk. He takes a deep breath. I’ll be damned if Leo doesn’t know how to get under my skin. Even when he isn’t trying.

           He wasn’t lying when he told Leo that he loved Liana. Hell, if he’d let himself attempt it, he still loves her. Even after all this time.

           He gets up, going over to his bookshelf, he pulls out a copy of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. It was a first edition, one that Liana had given him when she found out he had never read it. She was truly shocked that someone so cultured could have passed up the chance to read the best of Shakespeare’s work. In her opinion. He opened it and pulls out a piece of paper.

           Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe. He quoted this poem to her one night when they had snuck off to be together. She thought it was romantic, however he only had it memorized because they had just read it in class that day. Later in their relationship, she came to him with this page, ripped from a poetry book by Poe. Forever the rebel.

           Behind the poem is the only picture he’s kept of Liana. It was his favorite photograph of her; the night of their proposal. The picture had been taken earlier that day, in the flower garden. It wasn’t posed, which was why he loves it so much. The press caught it right as she spun around, laughing.

           He gently brushes his fingers down the photo. It’s aged and faded, the corners fragile. Her adventurous spirit still radiates through the photo. That was the first thing that he fell in love with, her ability to find adventure in almost everything. How she could be carefree on a whim and never thought of the consequences. That was also the first thing he grew to hate about her. Their first three years together as king and queen were almost perfect. They were constantly traveling, seeing the world together, and meeting tons of interesting people. Then Leo came along.

           He wasn’t planned, but they never thought of him as unwanted either. Liana loved Leo, he became her whole world. She took him everywhere they went, he was her little travel buddy. Yet by the time he turned two, their travels had stopped.

           Liana hated being stuck in the palace, she hated the tradition that the royal family didn’t travel as much once an heir was born. The rule set in order to protect the heir, the family, but this time it did more harm than protection.

           It was a few weeks shy of Leo’s third birthday. Liana had been planning it for months, wanting everything to be perfect. Constantine had passed out on the couch in his study when a frantic maid woke him up the next morning.

           “Sir! Sir!” The maid says panicked.

           “What? What is it?” He sits up quickly, trying to mask the yawn.

           “It’s Queen Liana. We can’t find her, sir.”

           He doesn’t hear anything said to him after that. He runs down the hallways, screaming her name. He stops to think, quickly changing up directions, praying she’s just in Leo’s room. He swings the door open, but all he sees is his son, sleeping in his racecar bed.

           Quickly, he closes the door and rushes to his room, it’s when the bedroom door opens that his heart sinks. The dresser drawers are opened haphazardly and the closet is empty. He walks over to the bed, trying to balance himself. There’s an envelope on his pillow, with shaking hands, he opens it.

                       My love,

           I knew I couldn’t do this face to face so please don’t hate me for doing it this way. I don’t regret meeting you, falling in love with you or having Leo. I just wish it hadn’t happened so fast. I wasn’t ready to stop going on adventures. I wasn’t ready to run a country. When we met, I figured we still had time to be us and figure out everything.

           But as I was sitting there looking at birthday invitations for Leo, I realized that I don’t want this to be my life anymore. I love you. I love Leo. But I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I crave adventure and I’m afraid if I don’t go and find it now, I’ll just grow to resent you or even my own son. That would destroy me.

           Please don’t let this make you bitter. And don’t take it out on Leo, this is no one’s fault but my own. Please don’t close your heart, I want you to find love again one day. I want Leo to know what love is. I don’t know where this adventure will take me, but I just know that I have to take it. Please take care of my little boy and never let him forget that I love him.

                                                                                                                                                           With love

                                                                                               Liana

           He stares at the letter, tears filling his eyes. While this hurt, it’s not a total shock. He was secretly waiting for this to happen, for the day to come when the life he provided for her just wasn’t enough. To be honest, the only thing surprising is that she left Leo. He couldn’t do this on his own. In Leo’s two years of life, Constantine had only held him a handful of times. Liana always had him in her arms. Every step he took was right to her. His first word was ‘Mama’. Constantine had no idea how to do the parenting thing, so he did the only thing he knew how, to raise Leo just as his father had raised him.

           A single tear falls onto the aged poem, a tear Constantine tried hard not to let escape him. He hasn’t cried over Liana in years. He locked all the pain and memories of her away shortly after Leo turned three. After months of Constantine feeling like a failure because Leo cried every night for a mother who wasn’t coming.

           He closes the book; the poem and photo disappear from his sight as he slides the book back on the shelf. He could never hate Liana, she gave him Leo. And Leo gives him a daily reminder of the only woman he’s ever truly been in love with. Leo is Liana through and through, her blonde hair, her smile, adventurous spirit and the ability to completely throw rules out the window. Maybe that’s why he’s so hard on him. He doesn’t want to lose Leo like he did Liana. He doesn’t want to wake up and his son be gone, never to hear from him again.

           He scans the shelf before pulling out an aged copy of Guess how much I love you by Sam McBratney. He probably wouldn’t remember it, but this was Leo’s favorite book growing up. Liana would read it to him every single night and sometimes first thing in the morning. He opens the book, stuffed in the middle are a couple photographs.

           The first one is a very pregnant Liana, the second one is Liana and Leo on the day he was born and the last picture is Liana and Leo on Leo’s second birthday. A small smile touches Constantine’s face briefly. Behind all the photos, there are a few envelopes. They are sealed and addressed to Leo. Some of them are faded and aged where the last three aren’t as old.

           Part of him regrets keeping the letters from Leo. But the other part of him knows this is what’s best. Leo has a duty to his country; his adventurous spirit is already proving to be an issue. However, if he was to start chasing ghosts, Constantine isn’t sure Leo would ever come back.

[gotatext]

yo, im not gonna lie guys, im super drunk, so this bio is like.... completely ocpy and pasted but;.... pls plot with me..... im so excited to bring this baby here.... i feel it is the perfect place to write her and i hven’t had the chance to in so long ..... love me..... and greta........ please im so excited this is back, last time i played jack..... n willow??? i think....... maybe archie too...... dont even remember...... who i fuckin played..... but i was here...... and queer..... loud..... and proud..... god this dumb bitch needs to sleep.....

GRETA O'DRISCOLL

20. born in marfa, texas. luvs wearing gingham print dresses and cowboy boots. vert into art and pornography, and particularly the combination of the two. wants to do a PHD on gender studies and female autonomy in porn.

( kristine froseth | she / her | cisfemale ) hey, you hear ( young lady, you’re scaring me by ron gallo ) playing over on the ( rv lot ) ? that’s where ( greta o'driscoll ) lives! i heard they moved in from ( marfa, texas ) exactly ( four months ) ago. they’re very ( zealous ) but also pretty ( erratic ). maybe that’s why davie keeps calling them the ( libertine ). starlit is full of people, but this ( 20 ) year old is really going to liven things up around here! ( nora | 23 | she / her | gmt )

personality: easy-going, deceptive, manipulative, self-reliant, profound, amiable, nihilistic, self-serving, laid back, independent unmotivated, self-corrupting, charming, lazy, impulsive, alluring.

likes: art, music, philosophy, DC comics, arcade games, candyfloss, fish and chips on the beach, deep red lipstick, marijuana, dogs, Kate Moss, late-night strolls, chemistry, suspenders, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, cold coffee, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, DJ sets, magnolias.

dislikes: bananas, coffee, mental mathematics, children, misogyny, the imaginary future, literature, Wes Anderson films

muse tag

pinterest

aesthetics: a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

cliffsnotes on biography

 - she’s called greta (under witness protection), and she’s a serial dater. she’s incredibly restless and doesn’t settle. before she came to seattle, she’d lived in 8 different cities in 3 years. born into a single-parent house with two older sisters so always surrounded by women and as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention  -   every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result everyone from her past views her as a completely different person depending on when she met them.   -   she’s been involved in a series of destructive relationships because when people discover she’s not who she pretends to be she often gets explosive and defensive.  -   (tw gun) she’s now under witness protection and moved to connecticut because she shot a previous boyfriend in self-defence and his family are trying to have her done for murder, but she got tired of being moitored so is now even on the run from the police / her faked identity.  - easy to get along with (provided you don’t anger, provoke or question her too much) because she WANTS your character to be entralled by her and will do whatever it takes to win them over. she wants everyone to love her   -  big into sports. big into gender politics. big into art. does a lot of art installation pieces to do with female and queer bodies. massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune. big fan of the honey bee.

full biography

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your bosom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out. 

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and daredevils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six-pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three-hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty-five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wildfire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you make your name as a downtown singer while he foots the bill with pills. they have a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you live like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self-defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to vegas where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[icanhearyouglaring]

pt.4: the one with the arrows

title: this is the why pairing: spitfire (main), supermartian, +more summary: It has to be a trick of the mind, or indigestion from last night’s Big Belly Burger, because there is absolutely no way Wally West could have that kind of effect on her. Ever. [pt.1] [pt.2] [pt.3] [Ao3] [ffnet] a/n: here’s a mighty long chapter for everyone who has been waiting a mighty long time for it! you guys should send @oochihas​ thank you messages for basically ensuring this fic will be finished in this century. Also leave feedback in the tags because when the writing gets tough, I look at your tags and find the will to continue! Only one more chapter to go after this! :) Enjoy!

“So, is that your boyfriend?”

Jade’s voice cuts through the silent house like an arrow through the wind, her question striking Artemis between the ribs and knocking the breath from her lungs. Artemis jumps away from the peephole and races to flip the nearest light switch on the wall. With the living room lit, Artemis can glare at her sister properly.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Artemis snaps, holding her sore hand to her chest. “What the heck are you doing hiding in the dark?”

“Not so loud,” Jade hisses from the living room couch. “Turn the lights off. Mom doesn’t know I’m home.”

“Mom isn’t home,” Artemis scoffs as she pulls off her boots and places them by the door. “You would know that if you ever called her.”

“Oh, really? Her light was on.” Jade perks up and rests her dirty sneakers on the coffee table. “Where is she?”

“She leaves it on so the house doesn’t look empty. It’s girl’s night at Veronica’s place and Mrs. Hall is dropping her off later,” Artemis explains, moving into the kitchen and speaking louder so Jade can hear her as she rifles through the cabinets and gathers what she needs.

“That’s perfect,” Jade replies smugly, sinking deeper into the couch.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Artemis reminds her as she returns to the living room with a bottle of water, an ice pack, a paper towel, and a pill in hand.

“And you haven’t answered mine”–Jade raises a brow as Artemis takes a seat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table–“though maybe I didn’t ask the right one. What happened to you?”

Artemis doesn’t mean to do it, but as soon as she finishes wiping the dried egg flakes off of her shirt, pressing the ice pack to her hand, and downing an ibuprofen, she unleashes the whole story (sans The Wally Problem) on her sister. Later, she’ll claim absence made her heart grow fonder and that’s why she poured out her feelings to Jade of all people, but the fact remains that Jade is the only person who could possibly understand where she is coming from right now. Plus, Jade is more likely than their mother to condone physical violence as a problem solving method.

“You should’ve kicked him,” Jade eventually reprimands her, breaking the familiar tension that flares up every time they bring up their father. “I mean, I’m sure you pack a good punch, but those boots would’ve done more damage.”

“Next time,” Artemis sighs, rolling her eyes.

“And eggs?” Jade scoffs. “Amateurs. My first Morse party ended in a paintball war. Took out three windows and a birdhouse.”

“You’re joking.”

Jade shakes her head and quickly adds, “It was before Michelle forgot how to have fun.”

“Wow,” Artemis breathes out slowly, unable to imagine Megan’s uptight older sister having anything to do with Jade or her old friends. She makes a note to ask Megan if Michelle ever mentioned Jade.

“Listen up, kid,”–Jade calls for her attention in a tone reminiscent of their mother’s when they’re in trouble–“when we moved here, I played along with the happy, little family front for your sake, but it’s past time to end this charade. Mom might think otherwise, but I couldn’t care less what the people in this town think of us. So your loser friends know about our deadbeat dad– who cares? If they’re really worth keeping around, they sure won’t.”

“They won’t,” Artemis says quietly, trying hard not to imagine the looks on their faces when they realize (if they haven’t already) exactly who Crusher Crock is.

After her outburst at the party, who could resist the temptation of digging deeper? Everyone being one search engine click away from finding the Gotham Gazette’s three page spread on her father’s unprecedented six month string of heists along the East Coast during her childhood was anxiety-inducing enough without having his name thrown out like a bad party favor. The paper never calls Artemis or Jade by name, but the media circus surrounding Crusher Crock’s nationally televised standoff, which only came to an end when two little girls dragged their own mother out of a burning hideout and begged for it all to stop, went on for weeks. Who could forget that?

The tight expression on Jade’s face says she never will.

Jade examines her nails with feigned interest as she goes on to say, “As much as I hate to admit it, Lawrence is always going to be part of our stories, but God, Artemis, sometimes you let him be the whole damn book. You’ve got to stop. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

A bright light shines through the half-open blinds and illuminates Jade’s sudden smirk.

“That’s my ride,” Jade says before she stands and searches for something in the couch cushion. “If you see Mom, tell her I’ll be home in time for breakfast.”

Artemis reminds her, “You could always call and tell her yourself.”

“Nope,” Jade says, popping the ‘p’ as she pulls her phone from the couch victoriously.

Artemis nods, rolls her eyes, and asks, “Of course not. Why bother having a phone if you never use it?”

“The camera, duh,” Jade replies easily, stuffing her phone into her jacket pocket.

“Of course,” Artemis repeats.

“So,” Jade begins innocently (which is to say in a not-at-all-innocent manner), “was that your boyfriend? He looked familiar.”

Artemis looks out the window, simply to not look at Jade. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Jade says, and Artemis doesn’t even need to be looking at her sister to know that there’s a grin on her face, “so he’s your boy toy, then? Looks like I have taught you something. I am so proud.”

“Jade,” Artemis groans, but her next words are overpowered by a car horn outside.

“So impatient,” Jade tuts as she puts on her jacket. She takes a step towards the door before giving Artemis a second glance. The horn outside honks again. Jade sighs shortly.

“A word of warning, Sis. Redheads in this town? Clingy as hell. Think about what I said”–Jade pauses to reach over the coffee table, pluck a piece of eggshell out of her sister’s hair, and flick it onto the rug–“and take a shower. Eggshell in your hair? Kind of pathetic.”

Jade may not be the kindest, most attentive sister, but when she walks out the door and gives Artemis one last look before she leaves, Artemis has to admit it.

Jade has her moments.

-o-

After a hot mug of tea and a hotter shower, Artemis crawls into bed and counts the glowing stars on the ceiling in an unsuccessful attempt to drag her mind out of the contemplative place Jade’s words put it in. It’s easy enough for Jade to say her friends won’t care (Jade’s friends didn’t care about anything). Artemis takes her input with a grain of salt, seeing as the friend department is the one area where Artemis has always had an advantage over her sister (that advantage being that Artemis is nice). Plus, Jade doesn’t even know Artemis’s friends. Not taking into account their brief overlap at school, Artemis could count on her fingers the number of times Megan has interacted with Jade.

A knock at her window cuts her star count off at 23.

At first, she thinks she imagined it, but then the knock turns into another, and another, and another, until it falls into a familiar rhythm and she knows it’s real.

Artemis’s brow furrows as she slips out of bed. She slowly makes her way to the window and pulls the curtains apart to reveal Megan, standing on the other side of the glass with a sheepish smile. When her best friend waves, Artemis can’t help but give Jade a little more credit. Redheads in this town really are clingy.

“What are you doing here?” Artemis asks as soon as she opens the window, making sure to keep a hand on the old frame so it doesn’t slip down between them.

“Well, you left your phone and your bag and your bike at my house,” Megan explains, shrugging off the messenger bag and passing it to Artemis through the window. “I brought these, but your bike’s still in the shed.”

“Oh, thanks,” Artemis says, tossing the bag onto the floor and accidentally sending her phone sliding out of its pocket. “You didn’t have to do that. I was going to come back in the morning.”

“It’s not a big deal, trust me. Michelle and Melissa are being...” Megan waves a shaking fist at the air and huffs. “I had to get out of there, and Conner offered to drop me off on his way home, so here I am.”

It’s then that Artemis spots the tattered Hello Kitty backpack hanging off of Megan’s shoulder.

“They booted you?” Artemis asks, even though she already knows the answer.

There exists a cruel and unusual punishment between the Morse sisters within their household, a punishment Mr. and Mrs. Morse have yet to discover even after the nearly eleven years of its existence. Megan has never divulged the full story of its origin, but Artemis has heard enough to know that the three eldest Morse sisters–Morgan, Mabel, and Minnie–are not to be trifled with in any capacity.

Legend says Mabel was the first to be booted, unanimously, by all five of her sisters (though perhaps five year old Melissa and four year old Megan’s votes should not have been counted) after refusing to tell their parents that she was the one who backed the car into the playhouse. Back then, Booting meant sleeping on the musty couch next to the spooky, drafty window in the basement. Over time, Booting only got worse, moving from a sleeping bag in the treehouse to full blown property banishment with only Hello Kitty as a companion.

“Yup. With the Iron Boot, too. Can I...?” Megan trails off, tentatively placing her hands on the window sill.

Artemis doesn’t hesitate. “Of course you can.”

Megan climbs through the window with practiced ease and Artemis closes it behind her. They stand and consider each other for a few seconds before Megan cracks first.

“You left,” she says, not accusingly per se, but Artemis hears the why in Megan’s words.

“I couldn’t stay,” Artemis starts. “I felt like a one woman freak show. I mean, people were watching through the windows, from the fence– I even saw a couple of people in your hedges. There was egg goop in my hair and my bra. I had to get out of there. I’m really sorry for disappearing and I know I should’ve said something, and, I mean, I definitely thought about it once I passed Fir Street and I was going to text you but–” Artemis cuts off her own rambling with a steep breath and a wave of her hand towards the ground where her (most likely dead) cell phone lies.

“It’s alright that you left. I was just worried.” Megan shrugs and drops her backpack onto the floor. “I am worried. I’ve never seen you so upset.”

“Well, I’m okay now,” Artemis assures her as she walks to her dresser and opens a drawer.

Megan takes a seat on Artemis’s bed and shakes her head. “I know that’s a lie.”

Not the worst one.

“Do you need pajamas?” Artemis asks abruptly, pulling an old band t-shirt from the drawer.

Megan nods. “Yes, please. I barely had time to throw on non-egg covered clothes before they kicked me out.”

Artemis tosses Megan the top and raises a brow. “It took you that long to get here?”

“Well, they waited until I helped get everyone else out before they booted me,” Megan explains, stripping off her sweater and replacing it with Artemis’s top.

“Convenient,” Artemis notes, as she digs deeper into the drawer.

“Pfft, yeah, for them. And then I had to finish talking to Conner. We were making up for awhile.”

Artemis pauses for a second and smirks. “Sure you weren’t making out?”

“Making up,” Megan emphasizes with a slight whine, letting Artemis know that she is one hundred percent on target about them making out.

At least that went right, Artemis muses, pulling a pair of bunny-print shorts from the drawer and handing them to Megan. “Here, you left these here the last time you spent the night.”

Megan smiles as she examines the shorts. “Oh, sweet, I thought Melissa stole them. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Artemis says as she moves from the dresser to reach underneath her bed. “Oh, and I’ve got a surprise for you– if I can– just–”

The tip of Artemis’s fingers brush against a battered box and she has to stretch to grab it and pull it out into the open.

“We don’t have to sleep back to back anymore,” she says, opening the box to reveal a mass of plastic. “My mom got an air mattress at the Lanes’ yard sale. You can take the real bed.”

“Ooo, fancy,” Megan notes, and she joins Artemis on the floor to help spread out the plastic. “And no, I call dibs on this one. It reminds me of camping. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, fact check: it was five bucks and has no holes. And they even threw in the hand pump for a quarter extra,” Artemis adds, shaking the box to get the tightly-wedged hand pump out and into Megan’s hands.

They sit on the floor as Megan holds the nozzle in place, and Artemis sends air into the mattress with steady pumps of the handle. As the mattress rises, so does Megan’s curiosity. Artemis catches a glimpse of the question in her best friend’s eyes and makes it a point to concentrate on the pump. Her arms begin to ache as she pumps a little too fast. When the air mattress is full and covered in some spare blankets, Artemis practically races to get under the covers of her own bed and say goodnight.

Not even a minute later, Megan breaks the silence.

“So,” she starts, in a sleepover–, we aren’t sleeping tonight– kind of way, “are we going to talk about it or are we acting like it never happened?”

Artemis sighs at the glowing stars above her, as though they’ll hear and grant her unspoken wish for another distraction.

“Is that a talk sigh or a go-to-sleep sigh?” Megan asks.

The stars aren’t on Artemis’s side tonight.

Artemis rolls over, looks over the edge of the bed, and finds Megan smiling up at her innocently.

“It’s a talk sigh,” Artemis relents, moving herself into a seated position.

“Oh my god, yes,” Megan says, before she bounces off of the air mattress and climbs up onto the bed with Artemis.

As soon as she looks into Megan’s sparkling, hope-filled eyes, Artemis freezes. A thought, one more horrifying and familiar than any other, strikes her. Bad Dad was one thing, but what if Megan doesn’t get it, it being the foundation of lies Artemis laid back when they first met? Until today, Megan had never had a reason to question the cover story Artemis threw together the day they became real friends.

What if knowing the whole truth, that not only is her best friend’s father a pretty notorious criminal, but that said best friend also lied to her face about it for so long, hurts her?  

She’s had enough of hurting people today (including herself).

“Actually, forget that.” Artemis turns away from Megan, lays back down, and begins to pull on the covers. “It was definitely a go-to-sleep sigh.”

She’s almost there with the covers over her head and her face a few inches from the pillow, but Megan promptly rips away the comforters and says, “You said you wanted to talk. So talk. Please.”

“I change my mind.” Artemis tries to pull the blanket back, but Megan’s grip is strong.

“Artemis,” Megan whines softly, yanking the covers so hard she pulls Artemis up into a seated position. “No take backs. Not this time.”

Artemis wrings the edge of the blanket in her hand, tries to swallow down her panic, and stumbles over her words. “If I tell you, you can’t– you can’t freak out, okay? Because what Cam said, it’s– I’ve done enough freaking out over it, okay? I’m so sorry. Just–please don’t look at me differently.”

Megan clasps both of Artemis’s hands in hers, gently untangling them from the blanket before she says, “Artemis, I look at you and I see my best friend– no, my sister. My favorite sister, and that’s saying something. Nothing anyone does or says is going to change that.”

Artemis bites the inside of her cheek before she softly admits, “I lied to you.”

Megan tilts her head, and Artemis takes that as a cue to continue.

“I lied a lot, to everyone. I told you my dad was living in another state and he’s a total douchebag, and that’s so true, but I never told you the real reason we moved here. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Well, why not?” Megan presses.

“Because it’s hard,” Artemis says quickly, not giving her voice a chance to break, and she pulls her hands out of Megan’s in order to tug at the end of the blanket, “I mean, how do you even have that conversation? Hey, nice to meet you, my dad’s a high profile thief and nearly got my whole family killed because of it, isn’t the weather nice today? That’s an icebreaker if there ever was one.”

“Well, don’t stop now,” Megan says, gently nudging Artemis’s arm.

“And it’s not like I want it following me for the rest of my life,” Artemis continues. “My childhood wasn’t normal in the slightest and when people find out all the details, I can’t get past it because that’s all they can see. I lived in Gotham for, what, maybe three months after my dad got busted? One person figured out who we were and after that, no matter where I went, all I heard was, Poor little Artemis, her dad’s a thief. Hope the apple falls far from that tree. Better hold onto my wallet a little tighter, just in case. Or Really? Paula is that woman? I’m surprised they didn’t take those girls away from her after all of that. Or Hey, Bill, did you hear? Those Crock girls just moved in downstairs. Guess the neighborhood really is going to the dogs, isn’t it? Everywhere, all the time. And those were just the adults. The kids were worse. And as much as I wish it didn’t bother me, it did. Jade and I got into so much trouble telling those people to mind their freakin’ own. So my mom moved us out here, for a fresh start in a new place where we didn’t have to live under a microscope.”

Artemis sighs and looks down at her hands as she continues, “When I met you at the park, I couldn’t get over how nice it was to have a conversation where I didn’t have to defend myself to a complete stranger. And I– I didn’t want that to go away, so as soon as I got home I made Jade and my mom swear to leave our past in the past.”

And they had done just that, with an apparent ease Artemis envied greatly.

“And that was it. After that, it was easy. A little lie here and there wasn’t going to hurt anyone. At least it wasn’t supposed to.” Artemis looks up and winces. “Sorry for ruining your party.”

“Woah,” Megan says, a wrinkle forming between her brows as she holds Artemis’s gaze, “you did not ruin the party. Cameron and his groupies did that, and then he had his meltdown.”

“Still,” Artemis says, shrugging, “it was a lot. This is a lot.”

“Yeah, it is,” Megan agrees with an understanding nod, “but I get it. I mean, when we met, I gave you directions to 7/11; you didn’t owe me your life story.”

This draws a laugh out of the both of them, but it burns out as quickly as it came.

Megan sighs slowly before she says, “You know, you still don’t owe me anything, right? You don’t have to tell me anything else if you don’t want to.”

“What happened to don’t stop?” Artemis half-jokes through a weak smile.

“Well, we all have our secrets.” Megan shrugs and smiles back. “Also, it’s late and I only do one big reveal a day.”

“So,” Artemis starts slowly, “we’re good?”

Megan nods. “We were never not good, dummy.”

Artemis smiles. “Good.”

Megan waits half a second before pouncing and giving Artemis a tight hug, a hug which she hastily returns with just as much feeling. When they release each other, Megan lies back on the bed, rolls off the side, and lands on the air mattress with a short laugh.

“Having fun?” Artemis asks, looking over the edge of the bed.

“Oodles.”

Artemis gives Megan time to get tucked in before she leans over and asks, “Hey, how’d you know I went home and not to the park?”

“I have my ways,” Megan says slyly.

Artemis snorts. “You went to the park and then came here.”

“No,” Megan laughs, “Wally told me when he came back.”

“Oh.” Artemis stills in confusion. “He went all the way back there?”

“Yeah, his bike was in the shed, and he tried to help clean up but I sent him home.”

“Hm,” Artemis murmurs before posing a question as nonchalantly as she can (which is to say not at all), “does he seem different to you?”

“Different how?” Megan asks, rising to her elbows.

“I dunno. Different. Like, less.. Wally?” Artemis says his name like it means something, and that’s not even her first mistake.

“Ohhhh,” Megan gasps, quickly dropping back into the mattress and hiding her traitorous grin behind her hands, “you do like him.”

Even in the dark, Megan’s brown eyes sparkle with uncontained glee, and Artemis is torn between hiding under her pillow or tossing it in her so-called-friend’s face.

“I do not– Wait, what do you mean do?”

“Well, I’ve had my suspicions but–”

“Suspicions from where?” Artemis’s voice cracks.

“Um, everywhere? You two were looking pret-ty close at my party.”

Artemis flops back into her bed, looks to the stars, and asks, “How’d you see that past Conner’s steely blue eyes?”

Megan presses on, unfazed. “And he walked you home.”

“He walked behind me, in the same direction. It was totally separate walking,” Artemis clarifies.

“You did talk a lot over the summer.”

“I talked to the mailman a lot, too,” Artemis says snarkily, leaning over the edge of the bed again. “Doesn’t mean I want to bone him.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; Artemis knows this the moment it leaves her mouth.

“Oh my god, you want to bone Wally.”

“What?” Artemis shrieks. “I didn’t say that!”

“You sound ready to smother me so I know I’m right. Aw, Artemis,” Megan presses her hands against her cheeks to soften her grin, “tell me I’m right. I want to be right so bad. This night’s been such a mess; let me have this.”

“Shut up,” Artemis whines, rising and turning in bed to face the window. “Aren’t you tired yet, Grandma?”

Megan props herself up, grinning from ear to ear. “I won’t be until you admit that you like him. Seriously, you two would be so cute together.”

Artemis feigns shutting her eyes and clips, “Sleep. Please.” To her surprise, this seems to do the trick, as there isn’t any immediate reply. Artemis settles into her bed and tries to follow her own orders, but curiosity and anxiety get the best of her only a minute later, and she makes the mistake of peering over the bed to see if Megan is still awake, which, obviously, she is.

The redhead quirks her eyebrow and holds Artemis’s gaze for a moment, as if determined to pry the truth out of her this very instant. It’s a good staring game, and she almost wins, but Artemis has had too much practice at this with Jade (even if she’s rarely won) and eventually, Megan flops back down to the air mattress with a dramatic sigh.

After a while, Artemis adds, “Even if I did like him–and I’m not saying I do– but if I did, I just couldn’t, you know?”

Megan doesn’t hesitate. “Couldn’t bone him?”

“No– God– Your mom is right. I’ve been a terrible influence on you. I just–” Artemis exhales loudly and flips onto her back as the words do backflips in her brain. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning, maybe?” Megan suggests before laughing shortly. “Remember when you threw an apple core at his head in middle school?”

Artemis snorts fondly. “I got lunch detention for it, so yeah.”

“You’ve come so far. I’m so proud,” says Megan, as she wipes a fake tear from her cheek.

“It’s so weird. I still can’t believe it. I don’t even know what happened. He has the nerve to stop being such a geek all the time and actually be nice and his hair freaking wooshes every chance it gets and it’s like, who the fuck gave Wally West permission to get hot? I have some choice words for them.”

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank’ and ‘you’,” Megan giggles.

“And my words for you are ‘shut’ and ‘up’.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” Megan huffs goodnaturedly. “You’re never like this about a guy. I have to get my teasing in while I can. You tease me about Conner all the time. It’s only fair.”

“So this is, what, karma?”

“Justice,” Megan answers. “You have to tell him. Oh, oh, can I please be there? Not there there, obviously, but you’ll tell me when you tell him, right?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Artemis says flatly. She rolls on her side and turns her face into the pillow, so the words she says next are only loud enough for herself to hear.

“Have fun waiting forever.”

-o-

For all the doomsday prepping they’ve done in the dead of night at countless sleepovers in the past, Artemis and Megan have no intricate survival strategy ready for what awaits them within the walls of Happy Harbor High on Monday morning.

Artemis takes it as a true sign of the end of times when they walk into Carr’s class and the room goes silent. She lingers in the doorway to watch her classmates avoid her eyes. Megan gently guides (pushes) her into the room just as the second bell rings. They sit in their usual seats and the chatter that usually fills the room before Carr snaps his fingers to start the day is noticeably absent.

Perfect, Artemis thinks, holding her pencil so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in half. The tip doesn’t hold up half as well, as it breaks as soon as she presses it against her notebook.

The rest of the day is full of the same stares and whispers, and had there been any other reason for people to be talking about her, Artemis would have been just fine, and Megan (and by extension Conner) would not be sticking to her like glue whenever possible despite her (quite vocal) protests. They’re part bulldozers, part brick walls; no one gets through to Artemis without their approval. And as much as Artemis would love for things to be a little more normal, she appreciates their enthusiasm.

Come lunch, she almost feels like a celebrity.

Megan keeps the conversation at the lunch table strictly about the party and the upcoming dance and Artemis could not be more grateful. Apparently, Megan’s party had been filled to the brim with dramatic moments even before Cameron showed up. Halfway through Bette’s story about catching some freshmen in a coat closet, Artemis loses interest and rests her head on her folded arms on the table. From her position at the edge of the table, she can see most of the quad, including the table where Wally and his friends usually congregate.

Artemis taps her feet against the ground as she contemplates her next move and watches Wally furiously write something at his table. She already knows it’s the history packet that’s due next period, but there’s a voice egging her on in her head (the one that sounds suspiciously like Megan) saying, Go tell him.

“Hurry, lunch is almost over. I want to watch,” Megan whispers into her ear, a little louder.

Artemis raises her head and gives Megan a withering look. Megan just smiles back.

“Absolutely not,” Artemis says, turning back to look at Wally.

“Please,” Megan quietly begs.

“Nope.”

Artemis watches Wally flip the pages of his homework back and forth and back and forth before he places his pencil and highlighter down and smiles victoriously to himself. It is only by chance that when he glances up he catches her staring. The smile slips off of his face faster than she can look away, so she’s forced to watch his expression flatline before he quickly looks away. Ouch.

“I am going”–Artemis abruptly addresses half of the table as she stands and picks up her backpack–“to the bathroom.”

“Boo,” Megan says next to her, pouting childishly as she starts to pick up her own backpack.

Artemis shakes her head and starts walking. “No entourage. I think I can handle this myself. I’ll see you guys in the locker room later.”

A chorus of ‘later’s send her off before they return to their regularly scheduled post-party debrief. Artemis can feel Megan’s disappointed gaze on her back as she walks out of the quad towards the classrooms. As much as she’d love to rip the bandaid off and get out of the limbo of not knowing, Artemis knows that confessing in the middle of the quad in front of half of the cross country team is not ideal. Things like this need to be done more discreetly. Megan will have to hear what happens secondhand.

Artemis walks straight past the bathrooms and enters Ms. Lance’s classroom with one thought in mind:

Today’s the day.

-o-

Wally walks into history class just before the late bell rings and sits down behind her without giving her a single glance.

The note folded up underneath Artemis’s hand is covered in shitty eraser marks and more than a few scribbles, but it’s sincere and that’s really all she has to offer. A series of what ifs creep into her mind as she prepares to pass it back when Ms. Lance tells them to pass up their homework. What if she’s wrong? What if it sounds too weird? What if the everything Megan had been talking about had been something else entirely?

As Ms. Lance sets up the documentary they're scheduled to watch on the projector, Artemis unfolds her note and reads it three times. As soon as she reads the last line for the last time, she panics, crumbles the note up, and stuffs it into her backpack.

This is so stupid, she yells internally.

After Ms. Lance passes each row a question sheet to go along with the documentary, Artemis peels a sticky note out of her binder, scribbles a quick Thanks for walking me home. I owe you one. -A on it, and posts it on Wally’s question sheet before she passes the paper to him.

She spends the rest of class waiting for a note that never comes.

No matter how many times the opportunity arises for him to successfully pass a message along, not one piece of paper with even a short No problem written on it makes it to her. Each passing moment makes Artemis more nervous. Her pencil taps against her desk in time with her foot tapping against the floor. She manages to fill in most of the question sheet even as her focus keeps flipping from the material on the screen to the figurative radio silence from the boy behind her.

It feels like an eternity before Ms. Lance turns on the lights and the bell rings. People turn in their papers to her as they file out of the room.

Artemis is the last to hand in her question sheet and she walks out of the room in a slight daze, wondering how on Earth she just got ghosted in person.

-o-

There’s something soothingly satisfying about the sound Artemis’s arrow makes when it hits the center of a practice target. It’s too bad she hasn’t been able to hit one all goddamn day.

Artemis’s eyes flit from her target to the tarp roof and walls of their temporary shooting range. Maybe it’s the new range that’s getting to her. She just needs time to adjust. That’s all it is.

To her left, Roy releases an arrow and Artemis watches it fly straight into the center of the practice target.

“Money,” Roy fake-whispers to himself, as he oh-so-unfortunately often does.

After making a mental note to see if Jade knows about that, Artemis takes a deep breath and roughly releases it through her nose.

Just one damn shot, she thinks, setting her shoulders back and narrowing her gaze at the target. Please.

But the tension in her shoulders, bruises on her knuckles, and mess in her mind keep Artemis from landing a single, spot-on shot and it sucks.

A bunch of teens talking about her is one thing, but that doesn’t bother her has as much as Wally completely blowing her off. Maybe “Maybe” wasn’t a good mindset to hold onto after all. She should have been more realistic. Wally probably searched “Who is Crusher Crock” over the weekend and decided she was more trouble than she was worth. Artemis sighs heavily as another arrow hits the dirt underneath the target.

There has to be a better explanation than that. Maybe he feels bad for her and doesn’t know how to treat her anymore. The look of pity he gave her back at the party flashes through her mind just as she releases another arrow. This one hits the top of the tarp and falls to the ground at the end of her lane.

“Okay, enough,” Roy says, quickly stepping forward to stop her from yanking another arrow out of their shared bucket.

“What gives?” Artemis asks with a huff, holding her bow closer to her before he can take that too.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you’re out here shooting worse than that human disaster,” Roy jerks his thumb towards where Coach Queen is currently confiscating the bow from Lori Lemaris’s panicked hands, “I feel like I have a moral obligation to make sure you don’t hurt somebody.”

Artemis blows a piece of loose hair away from her face and sardonically asks, “Haven’t you heard? I already have. You’re a little late.”

Roy scoffs. “Of course I’ve heard. Even if Jade hadn’t filled me in, the whole school has been talking about it all day– and you want to know what I think?”

“Not really,” Artemis deadpans.

“You should’ve kicked him,” Roy continues, pretending not to hear her. “Why the hell are you risking your hand when we have a qualifier next week? With Lori on deck, we need all the points we can get.”

“Aw, Roy, I didn’t know you cared,” Artemis says, rolling her eyes as she takes a seat on a bench near the edge of the shooting range and pretends to pick away invisible fibers from her bowstring.

Roy takes her lead and sits down beside her, but before he can say a word, Artemis silences him with her sharp eyes.

“You’re in a good mood,” she says accusingly, pointing the tip of her bow towards him.

“It happens,” Roy says flippantly, using a finger to push the bow away from him.

Artemis warily asks, “Is this a Jade thing?”

“I thought you said we were done talking about Jade,” Roy retorts, picking up a water bottle from underneath the bench.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“It is not a Jade thing, or an any thing. Who are you? The mood police?”

“No, it’s just that Jade was weirdly nice at breakfast this morning and that usually means one of two things. She won a fight or she got–”

“O-kay,” Roy interrupts her quickly, harmlessly thwacking Artemis’s arm with his nearly empty water bottle, “no more talking about Jade. If you want to talk, let’s talk about what’s turning your shots to shit.”

“That’s personal. We don’t go there,” Artemis reminds him.

Roy shakes his head. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been there longer than you think.”

“Wait, what?” Artemis asks, turning to face Roy fully. “You already knew? About my dad?”

“Well, yeah,” Roy says, shrugging. “After I found out you and Jade were sisters, I had some questions and, surprisingly enough, Jade gave me more answers than I expected.”

Artemis waits a few seconds before she asks, “And?”

Roy rolls his eyes at her. “And what? She’s my girlfriend and you’re the little blackmailer who keeps trying to break my records. It is what it is.”

“Yeah.” Artemis nods slowly, appreciating Roy's indifference.

“I can’t believe she just up and told you,” she admits after a moment, a bit miffed that Jade would spill the beans so easily.

Roy sucks his teeth before he says, “Oh, don’t bring this up with her. She said if I ever told you she told me, she’d tell Dinah we let Sin watch The Bride of Chucky.”

“You did?”

“Of course not, but Jade would still tell her that.”

Artemis wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, why do you like her again?”

“Well,” Roy’s brow creases for a moment before he shrugs and says, “I don’t know. She gets me? Also, I think if I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her.”

“That’s kind of fucked up,” Artemis says dryly.

“That’s life sometimes,” Roy says, clapping his hand against the bench and nodding towards the stadium bleachers in the distance. “I meant what I said about taking it easy on that hand. You need to let off some steam, constructively, and since you’re banned from using any more projectiles for today– hey, it’s for the greater good– you can go run. I’ll tell Oliver you’re conditioning.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Artemis says, smartly saluting him as she rises from the bench.

Roy raises his hand for her to stop. “Hold up. One request. Can we go back to doing that thing where I pretend not to care and you pretend to hate my guts? This was nice and all, but I have a reputation to uphold.” A small grin edges its way up his lips.

Artemis waves him off as she picks up her backpack and sports bag on her way out of the shooting range. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, you big softie.”

“Get out of here, Blondie,” he calls out after her.

“Stuff it, Archie.”

Artemis jogs all the way to the stadium bleachers with her backpack and sports bag in hand. She drops them at the bottom of the bleachers before she picks a set of stairs and starts running. With each step, her mind goes over the gameplan to solve The Wally Problem (this in addition to her usual bleacher mantra of ‘Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip’).

She comes to the conclusion that living between knowing and not knowing is no way to live. She should’ve just given him the original note in history and been done with it. Her cards would be on the table, plain as day, and if things went wrong, she’d get over it (though she’d really like it if things went right this time). Anything is better than being ignored (and if he is going to ignore her, he could at least have the decency to give her a reason why).

Halfway through her set, she decides to trash the note in her backpack and just talk to him face-to-face. No more hiding behind pieces of paper. While it would be a hell of a lot easier to write it out and chuck it in his general direction, she knows this needs to be done a certain way. She is going to tell him about her Big Feelings, and he is going to listen.

Artemis spends the rest of her run thinking of ways to talk about said feelings without sounding like a complete weirdo. It takes a concerningly long amount of time for her to settle on something, and her aching feet and burning lungs thank her when she reaches the bottom stair. She plucks her water bottle out of her bag before climbing back up at a walk to cool down.

A few rows from the top, she stops, lies down on her back on the bleacher, and laments not wearing a hat before flipping over onto her stomach. Through the gaps between the rows, she spots a small pile of backpacks surrounding one of the support beams. The collection remains undisturbed for only a while, though, as two familiar figures– one raven haired and the other red– jog into view. What kind of luck.

“Jay really ran us ragged out there today,” Wally says, taking a seat on the grass near the backpacks and stretching out his legs. “Become one with my feet, my shoes have.”

“At least you didn’t have to deal with Tommy trying to tackle you halfway across the field,” Conner says, sitting beside Wally and rolling his shoulders back. “I’m telling you, if Artemis hadn’t already met our violence quota...”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. You saw what went on with their freakin’ leader in Cross’ class.” Wally snorts. “Chucking my backpack at his head would’ve been worth the detention, by the way.”

Conner shakes his head and pulls his backpack closer to himself. “That was my backpack and no, it wouldn’t have been. They really don’t know when to quit, do they? I’d bet an entire pizza they were the ones who put tuna in Kaldur’s locker this morning.”

Artemis narrows her eyes and adds that bit of information to her list of Things Deserving of Retribution.

“Definitely,” Wally agrees pensively, and there’s a slight pause before he moans. “Dude, we’ve talked about this. No more food talk right after practice. It’s painful. Plus, I can’t believe you’d risk a whole pizza. Go half, at most. If you bet half of a whole pizza and lose, you still have the other half.”

“What if you’re buying by the slice?” Conner asks, pulling a water bottle out of his backpack.

“That wasn’t what you said.”

“But what if?”

“Fine,” Wally relents. “If you’re buying by the slice, then you must not be confident in whatever it is you’re betting on. At that point, you shouldn’t even make the bet. Go big or go home.”

“Hm... Speaking of going big,” Conner segues, rubbing the back of his neck, “Megan asked me to ask her to the dance by the end of the week.”

Artemis, intrigued, dares to peek further and get a better look through the stands. Megan had told her she’d been dropping hints, but since the girl is about as subtle as an Independence Day fireworks show, Artemis doesn’t doubt Megan said something to that effect.

Wally winces, not totally sympathetic but definitely trying to be. “Oof, tight deadline this time around, dude. She gave you a month for the Swing Dance last year.”

“Yeah, and I think she wants it to be some sort of– I don’t know,”–Conner waves his hand in the air–“grand gesture? She made it seem like it should be a big deal.”

“Oh, it has to be a big deal. It’s Homecoming, not Spring Fling,” Wally explains matter-of-factly, pointing the end of his sports drink at Conner.

Conner sighs, and Artemis can practically feel him rolling his eyes as he says, “It’s going to be just like the last one.”

“You know, this kind of attitude is exactly why Megs has to give you a timeline,” Wally says, raising an accusatory brow at his friend as he takes a sip of his sports drink.

Artemis takes her own swig to that.  

Conner bristles. “Yeah, well, what about you? Have you asked Artemis yet?”

What?

Artemis nearly chokes on the last of her water and stiffens to stay hidden on the bleacher as she muffles her coughs. Luckily, Wally is too busy choking on his own drink to notice her.

“What?” Wally asks once the worst of the fit subsides, voicing Artemis’s own train of thought (though her What sounds more like a flatlining heart monitor).

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Conner says, giving the still-coughing Wally a hard pat on the back for good measure.

Wally takes a long, dramatic breath before he says, “I am not dramatic. You just surprised me. What makes you think I want to ask Artemis to the dance?”

There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach, one strangely opposite to what she’s become used to feeling when he says her name. It’s different this time, as if asking her of all people to the dance would be as terrible an idea as asking Medusa to be your optometrist.

“Um,” Conner starts with an air of sarcasm, “I don’t know, maybe it’s the everything about you two.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wally laughs him off.

Conner doesn’t buy it. “Sure, you don’t.”

“Look, after everything that happened this weekend...” Wally trails off, shaking his head. “I just– I don’t–”

“If you’re that scared, ask her to go just as friends,” Conner advises (with an air of authority Artemis is pretty sure he doesn’t have on this matter).

Or, you know, he could just talk to her, Artemis thinks, hanging on every word.

“Ugh, dude, you don’t get it,” Wally says after a moment, and he continues with all the certainty in the world, “I don’t want to be her friend.”

Artemis, de-statuified, flinches hard enough to send her now-empty water bottle careening off the side of the bleacher bench and straight through the gap right above Wally. The plastic cracks against the top of his head and he yelps in pain.

Conner, quite dexterously, catches the bottle mid-air, looks up, and regrets (if the curse he mouths is any indication).

“What the heck?” Wally asks, one hand on his head.

He tilts his head upwards and scans the stands above him, and Artemis pinpoints the moment he realizes exactly who she is.

“Whoops,” she says flatly, loudly, as she fights the urge to take off her shoe and drop it down, too, because the bottle couldn’t have hurt Wally as much as his words hurt her, which she would personally liken to a Buffy-style stake to the heart (talk about flatlining). It was one thing for her to think he might feel that way, but to actually hear him say the words sends all of her plans straight into the garbage.

“Artemis?” Wally asks with a gasp, still rubbing at the spot the bottle hit his head. “Hey–I–”

Artemis doesn’t bother listening, not that she’s able to hear him as she makes her way down the bleachers at a record pace with thundering steps and remarkable grace. She plucks her backpack out from under the bottom row of seats, puts it on, and makes a beeline for her bike in the parking lot at the other end of the stadium. The signs and posters about the upcoming dance and class elections tied to the fences blur as she she rushes away, and her feet slam against the pavement, filled with every pushed down emotion she refuses to set free.

Not here. Not here.

Her theory had been wrong. Knowing was worse than not knowing. Knowing unleashed a whole new flood of questions.

What had she been thinking? Had Wally played her, or had she played herself? Had it been the fucking woosh, putting thoughts into her head, making her see things that were obviously not there? If only it was that easy.

But what if it had been there? What if everything had been real and good until the party? What if Wally couldn’t just say ‘It is what it is’ like Roy did and that be that? That thought alone makes her walk faster. He couldn’t handle it. That was it. She doesn’t even has to ask why because he said it himself.

After everything that happened...

She passes the shooting range, narrowly avoids bumping into Roy, and doesn’t look back when he calls out her name. For a split second, she thinks he calls her again, but upon closer listening, she hears that it’s another person calling out her name (and it’s a bit dangerous for him to do so considering she wants to put Jade and Roy’s advice to use and punt him across the football field for making her feel this way).

By the time she reaches the bike racks in the parking lot, Artemis decides she’s had enough for one day. She makes a run for her bike and rushes to unlock it from the rack, but when she moves to pull it out, the front tire detaches from the frame.

“What the fuck?!” Artemis shouts, her eyes blazing as she holds up her bike frame. “Who the fuck–”

Stupid question.

Artemis grits her teeth as she picks up her detached and undeniably flat tire. “Go to fucking hell, Cam.”

She quickly scans the ground for the missing pieces of her bike, but her chances of finding them are slim to none, considering Cameron probably took them and Wally’s getting closer. With her options limited, Artemis carries her bike frame in one hand and her tire in the other and starts walking.

“Artemis, hold on!”

“Go away! You walk me home, you act like my friend, and what?” The bite in her words increases even as her voice breaks. “You didn’t talk to me all day and now you have something to say?”

Artemis swings around, placing half of her bike between them. For a moment his face lights up with hope, but then he looks her in the eye and that quickly changes. Jade’s words flash through her mind and slip through her lips with a venom just as Jade.

“You know what?” she asks slowly, inconcealable anguish dulling the edges of her words. “I’ve heard enough. I’m done. Whatever problem you have with me, it’s your problem. Not mine. You don’t want to be friends? That’s your loss, Wallman. If I needed friends like you, I’d go hang out with the jerk who did this.” She raises the wheel in her hand and uses it to (rather restrainedly) push Wally further away.

Wally cringes and holds a piece of the tire as he quickly says, “Look, Artemis, that’s not what I–”

The screeching of brakes overpowers Wally’s words.

Artemis never thought she’d see salvation in the form of Roy’s ancient pickup truck waiting at the curb, but there it is.

“Are you bothering her, Wally?” Roy asks, as he steps out of the truck with a menacing glare on his face. He glances at Artemis’s broken bike, and his glare gets worse. “Did he do that?”

“What? No!” Wally shouts, frustratedly releasing the tire and taking a step back.

“This,” Artemis says, slightly lifting up her bike frame, “was Cameron and his stupid friends.”

“Yeah, Roy,” Wally interjects crossly. “Why on Earth would you think I’d do–”

“That,” Artemis interrupts, nodding her head towards Wally, “is really bothering me.”

Roy nods his head a few times before taking hold of the bike frame.

“You, get in the truck,” he says to Artemis, “I’ll put this in the back and drive you home.” Then he turns to Wally. “You, leave her alone.”

Artemis wastes no time sliding into the truck’s passenger seat. She places her tire at her feet and puts her backpack and bag over it. Through the rear view mirror, Artemis watches Roy load her bike into the bed of the truck and tell Wally to scram (at least, that’s what it looks like. Reading lips in a mirror is hard, okay?).

“What a freakin’ day,” Artemis mutters to herself as she tries to calm down.

Roy doesn’t say a word when he enters the truck, buckles his seatbelt, and pulls out of the parking lot going well above the 15 miles per hour speed limit. Artemis watches Wally disappear in the side view mirror and it’s then, when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, that she realizes she’s crying. She swipes the few tear tracks on her face out of existence with the back of her hand and wonders just how long she’s been doing that.

“Glove compartment, left side,” Roy instructs her, not taking his eyes off the road.

Artemis opens the compartment in front of her and pulls out a small packet of tissues.

“Thanks,” Artemis says, and she knows Roy knows it’s for more than just the tissues.

“No biggie,” Roy says nonchalantly. “I owed you one.”

He turns up the radio and the hits of the 2000s drown out the sound of her sniffling. The eight minute drive to her house gives Artemis’s just enough time to pull herself together before she sees her mother. When Roy slows to a stop in front of her house, Artemis gathers her bags, tire, and used tissues and gets out of the truck.

“Leave the tire.” Roy sticks his arm out of the open driver’s side window and plucks the tire from her hands. “Oliver and I will put your bike back together this weekend. Do you need rides until then?”

“I- uh- thanks, Roy,” Artemis says, slowly walking backwards towards her front door. “I’ll catch a ride with Conner, though, he lives just down the street. You don’t have to go out of your way.”

“Alright, then,” Roy says, nodding. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Artemis nods gratefully as Roy closes his window and pulls out into the street to make a U-turn. When he’s out of sight, she unlocks the front door and rushes inside. She makes it about three steps in before her mother looks over from the couch and stops her.

“Artemis,” Paula says, surprised, “you’re home early.”

“I have a lot of homework,” Artemis says quickly, avoiding her mother’s eyes as she slowly walks towards her room. “Super important project. Gotta get it done.”

Paula smiles and nods. “There’s chicken and rice in the kitchen if you’re hungry, but don’t take it to your room.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll eat later,” Artemis says, sending her mother a small smile before booking it to her bedroom.

Artemis closes the door to her room behind her and immediately tosses her bag and backpack to the floor. The thin smile she'd given her mother crumbles into a pained grimace as she balls her fists and mentally screams. A new flood of tears blurs her vision and this time she doesn’t bother trying to stop them from falling.

Why did I do this? What was I thinking? Stupid freaking boys and their stupid freaking stupid heads.

She crouches down, opens her backpack, and pulls out the crumpled up note she never passed during history class. She crumples it up some more for good measure before tossing it into the trash can in the corner of the room. It feels really good.

So why stop there?

Artemis reaches deep underneath her bed and pulls her shoebox full of letters into the light. Just looking at the pile of envelopes sends waves of frustration through her bones. She pulls out a thick stack from the box and nearly tears them all in half, but she stops herself just before the edges can rip.

“Fuck– nope, what am I doing?” she says, huffing before she throws the letters back into the box and runs her hands over her face. “Get a grip.”

Sitting on the floor crying in the middle of her room over a boy. What a way to spend the afternoon. Artemis kicks the shoebox away from her. It topples over, spins out, and sends envelopes sliding across the floor. Perfect.

Her cell phone buzzes from inside the front pocket of her backpack, and she doesn’t have to look to know it’s Megan (the Kim Possible theme song vibration pattern is telling enough).

This doesn’t feel right, Artemis thinks to herself, staring at the mess of envelopes in front of her. Her phone keeps buzzing.

Each envelope holds a letter and each letter contains a mixture of digs, jokes, and the occasional sentiment. It isn’t until she sees them scattered on the ground that Artemis realizes that the reason she can’t just tear them to shreds is because they mean something to her. They mean a summer’s worth of waiting for the mailman, a book of stamps, and a friendship she can’t just throw away, no matter how upset she is. Maybe it’s easy enough for Wally to say he doesn’t want to be her friend, but the pile of letters he wrote make it hard for her to just sit down and accept that.

So she won’t. Not like this, sniffling on her bedroom floor. Nope.

Artemis rises and takes a seat on her bed. She takes a deep breath, wipes away the traces of her tears, and decides to return to Plan A.

In the next minute, she gathers all the envelopes, shoves them into the shoebox, walks towards the door, and ignores her still-buzzing phone.

Sorry, Megan, you’re going to have to wait.

Artemis has her hand on the doorknob when a rapid rapping at her window turns her around.

Or not.

“How’d she get here so fast?” Artemis mutters to herself, moving across the room to the window. “I’m coming.”

She sets the box of letters on her bed before she pulls back the curtain and freezes.

The wrong redhead stands before her, flushed and jumpy, holding a piece of paper against the window. Artemis skims the top line–

Your mom wouldn’t let me in so you’re going to have to read this.

– and immediately drops the curtain closed.

Artemis looks back at her backpack, where her phone is still ringing, and thinks she probably should have answered that.

Wally knocks at the window again.

Oh, fuck it.

Artemis exhales softly, shoves open the curtain, and lifts the window up in one motion.

“The window opens, dumbass.”