#and she called like half the department over from their registers to look at how pretty i was??? prettyboy powers unmatched ig)

[yardsards]

i needed to express a sentiment in the creative stylings of @dunmeshiminimumwage

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This? - Bucky x Reader

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky had a wife during the 40s, she was left heartbroken after the telegram arrived (missing, presumed dead). It's surprising when 80 years later, she was working behind a bar in Madripoor of all places!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Part 2

Bucky followed Sam and Zemo into a loud bar, he immediately wanted to turn around and go home, why had Zemo demanded he go back to being the Winter Soldier (even if it was one night)?

The sound of heavy drums and guitars also deafened his hearing, a song he had come to learn was The Wild Boy by a band called Duran Duran. A few bartenders and waitresses were walking around, there was only one who stuck out to him - a dark-haired young woman who reminded him too much of his departed wife.

His heart breaks even more, thinking of the woman he had left behind, his girl. The love of his life. Bucky doesn't think he will ever 'get over' her.

The way the young woman walked, carrying a tray of empty glasses (before being tossed an empty bottle by a patron), was so similar to the way his girl walked in the hole-in-the-wall diner she worked in.

She wasn't quick enough to duck under the bar before they got to the door leading upstairs (which was coincidentally next to the bar), Zemo was talking to the bouncer. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the young woman said, squeezing between the back of Zemo and the front of Bucky. Which is when he got a good look at her face.

There she was.

His girl. His wife.

He couldn't even say anything to her, as he was taken upstairs and away from his girl. He could only hope he would be allowed back in at the end of the night to see her.

Y/N Barnes made her way behind the bar, glancing up at the TV where the Kansas City Chiefs were currently playing the Buffalo Bills at Arrowhead Stadium, then down at her phone which showed the live score of the Dodgers game against the San Francisco Giants.

She had been a long-time Dodgers girl, even after she found out they had moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles.

"Did you see the way he was looking at you?" Yasmine asked, pushing a dry Martini in front of a 26-year-old woman.

Y/N looked up from the glasses she was putting in the dishwasher. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"One of the men who went upstairs. The way he was looking at you," Yasmine fans her hand for dramatic effect. "I would drop my panties for him in a millisecond."

"Like you don't do that every night."

Yasmine rolled her eyes and served the next half-drunk who had come to the bar.

"Don't listen to her," Anastasia told her, rolling her eyes as Yasmine flirted with her current flavour of the week.

"It's not often I do, darling," Y/N replied, fiddling with Anastasia's curls for a second, before spotting a patron. "What can I get for you, darling?"

He hung off the bar, obviously far too drunk to understand what was going on. "Another beer and your phone number," he slurred.

She shook her head, reaching over and grabbing him another beer. As far as the boss of the bar (whoever that was) was concerned unless they were unconscious- why should you stop serving them? Y/N thought it wasn't right, but no matter how often she voiced this - she was shut down.

She set the beer in front of him and then went to the register to add it to his bill (good thing she currently has his credit card behind the bar).

"Oi, sweet cheeks!" He calls, but Y/N doesn't pay attention looking over at Yasmine and Anastasia with a raised eyebrow. "Sweet cheeks! I asked for your number."

Y/N replied by simply raising her hand proudly displaying her engagement and wedding rings to the drunk. It was only a small diamond (given Bucky worked on the docks before he was deployed), and the plain band she inherited from her great-grandmother.

"What's the matter with that 'un?" He hiccups. "He got you costume jewellery or somethin'?"

Y/N shook her head. "I'm going into the back for a moment," she tells Aidan.

Little did the drunk patron know, all those years ago, this was the date she was handed the telegraph - putting in such blunt words. Her James was missing, they presumed him to be dead. It breaks her heart that they never got to have a proper funeral.

"You alright, honey?" Elizabeth (another one of the waitresses) asked, she had been outside on her break. Elizabeth was the only one who knew her true age and about her James.

"It's the day I found out James was missing," Y/N said, before bursting into more tears.

Elizabeth wrapped Y/N up in a hug, everyone oblivious to the fact that Y/N's presumed dead husband was now running through the bar, flocked by Sam and Zemo, and into the alley behind the bar.

When Bucky was sure Zemo, Sam and Sharon were asleep, he slipped out of the safe house and into the night - determined to find out if the woman he saw in the bar was that of his (presumably? should be?) dead wife.

He eventually made his way to the front door of the bar, the bouncers had long since gone home. He could see lights on in the building and just about make out words being spoken thanks to the Super Soldier serum running through his veins.

He grasped the handle and gave it a push, the door hadn't been locked, as it gave beneath the slight push.

He could see three young women sitting on the bar, a man who was counting the money from the register and another man who was dancing.

The young woman sitting closest to the bar, had golden curls hanging around her head. "Mark, you didn't lock the door!"

The man dancing, Mark, looked over at Bucky, eyes widening when he saw the size of Bucky. "I say we just serve him, then lock the door behind him."

As the bartenders and waitress argued amongst themselves, Bucky's eyes never left the woman in the middle. It looked as if she had been crying. "Babydoll?"

The woman stopped giggling, tipping her head back to normal and looked at him, before dropping her glass as tears welled up in her eyes. "James?"

The curly-haired woman gasped, setting her glass down and giving Y/N a push off the bar.

Bucky held his arms out to catch her as her feet landed on the floor. He couldn't stop looking at her big eyes, he'd always loved her big expressive eyes. He always knew how she was feeling by just a look in her eyes.

"James? Is that you?" Her hand came out slowly, and shakily, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing in front of her.

"Hi, babydoll," Bucky smiled, tears starting to fall down his cheeks, a heavy sob held tightly in his chest at the moment in time. As soon as her fingers met his skin, Bucky let out a heavy sigh of relief, reaching over and pulling her into his arms. Y/N's arms dug themselves away from his chest and up around his neck before her hand soon started fiddling with his hair.

The couple stood there for a moment, finally finding their slice of peace. Some came barging into the bar, and the dark-haired woman who had been sitting on the other side of Y/N practically demanded Mark lock the door before the Hounds of Baskerville came in.

Y/N was so happy to finally have her James back in her arms, but there was a whirling sound she couldn't let go. "What's that noise?"

Bucky looked from his wife to his arm and back to his bride. "I'll explain everything to you later, but... I lost my arm, and I now have a prosthetic one," he tells her, letting go of her for a moment so he could take his glove off and show her the black and gold Vibranium one he had made.

"Ok, James. It's a good thing you gave me this," she reached beneath her top and pulled a ring out from beneath, hanging from a chain. "Before you were deployed."

Bucky smiled, cupping her face so he could kiss her. Bucky pulled away chuckling a little. "Babydoll, will you please put my ring back on?"

She reached behind her to unclasp the chain, and slid Bucky's band off, "if it doesn't fit we'll get it resized."

"I don't care what size it is, as long as you put my ring back where it belongs," Bucky almost growled, a piece of him falling back into place with the ring back on his finger.

The next morning - Sam, Zemo and Sharon came into the living room, seeing Bucky sleeping on the sofa (Sam was expecting this, after being told by Steve), however, there was a lump lying next to Bucky they didn't recognise.

Sam slowly makes his way over, gently easing down the thick blanket lying over Bucky and the lump.

Lying there, practically on top of the 'bionic staring machine' was a young woman.

"Did he somehow pick up a girl?" Sam whispered. Sam and Sharon were trying to be quiet - however, Zemo (who didn't care) started clattering around the kitchen, causing Bucky to wake up in a start, which then caused the young woman to look up with tired owl-like eyes.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

[mischiefmaker615]

Bloodline (Pt.2)

Part 1

Rating: R dark themes

Summary: unable to gain children from his wife, Loki seeks out a mortal who can do it instead.

She hated herself for it, for not feeling as angry as she should towards the man that was using her. She shouldn’t be able to even look at him, let alone ask him to stay with her.. but here he was beside her, sitting down on the bed as they both kept eye contact to themselves. She was pregnant, and she trusted him that it was the truth, you’d think magic would be just as accurate as a doctor visit right? These past weeks of their..  ‘’routine’’, she’s become numb to his cruelty and- dare she say it, used to it. the struggle was gone..

‘’…you must really love this place.. to even go beyond the extent for it..’’ she whispered and her gentle tone made him turn and look at her, his expression still unreadable but it was gentle at the same time.

‘’I’m sure you’d do anything to protect your home.. the people you care about.. -I’m not expecting you to understand.. I’m not saying all this is right.. but..’’ he trailed off, not trying to justify that what he did was right, but.. he had too. He looked away from her, guilty making itself known after all these weeks of pushing it down.

‘’I’m sure I would understand if I had family.. I was orphaned as a child- to this day I’m not sure exactly what happened, grew up in the orphanage and got kicked out officially when I became of age. Lived every day just working, sleeping just to wake up and do it all over again-.. I didn’t have a purpose..’’ she explained, looking down at her hands as her heart beat past, not sure why she was giving her whole life story when she really should be killing him.. but where did her hate go?

‘’..didn’t?’’ Loki asked, looking at her as she finally raised her eyes to look at him back and she gave a mild shrug.

‘’one could argue that I can finally feel like I’m useful.. I’ve lived every day on repeat, no one back there would miss me.’’

Loki looked at her as if she were strange, raising a brow as he studied her features. ‘’..you were chosen because you resembled a goddess.. how do you find yourself unseen?’’

She sighed and her hand instinctually began playing with a lock of her hair, trying to register how she should feel that he called her beautiful, her cheeks reddened all the same. ‘’..others have different definitions and expectations as what they see as beautiful.’’

Loki merely shook his head, his mind wondering off as she looked at him as if reading his mind.

‘’not all mortals are idiots though.’’

The choice of words actually made Loki chuckle, knowing she knew what he had been thinking as those mortals had seemed to have terrible taste if they didn’t find her in their standards of beauty. ‘’well, you are most certainly the first mortal I’ve seen in my life time that I would call beautiful.’’

The conversed for a little while longer, small talk having a small hint of awkwardness to the whole thing considering how their relationship had started, but the small teasing here and there made it a bit easier to talk to each other. They mostly got to know each other, no one daring to talk about the whole reason why she was here, but merely about their lives, likes and dislikes- childhood and hardships. Loki most certainly surprised himself on opening up a bit to her, and the “venting session” as she called it, made him feel like there was an unknown weight off of his shoulders, as if he finally had someone he could talk too.

A feeling came to his chest, not guilt anymore- although it was very much still in his stomach. He hadn’t felt it in such a long time, not since he had started finding interest in Sigyn. Was it.. fondness to this particular woman before him? he half listened to what she was saying and upon realizing he was indeed feelings he was developing, he quickly stood up- startling her.

He kept his voice gentle with an apologetic bow ‘’I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just- I must depart right now- but I shall return.. to deliver dinner.’’

Another meal brought to her like a prisoner, and the mere sentence made her features lower just slightly- which didn’t go unnoticed by Loki as he looked away from her. ‘’..i shall return..’’ he promised, as if a second reminder would make her feel better- why did he care?

She was to be bred.. nothing more.. who was he to reassure? To explain himself to her.. of gods.. he cared.. he was guilty, he was growing fond of her.. why? She was indeed beautiful, his lust was getting extremely difficult to hold back as he longed to touch her, to have her come undone.. to have a connection deeper.. but her spirit, her fire and getting to know more of her life.. kept him wanting more..

“norns..’’

He cussed as he went down the halls in a rush, as if getting farther away from her room would help think all this wasn’t happening. His whole plan was simple: gain a child and that was all. Why.. did he have to fall for the mortal.

Yet he did just what he said. Upon delivering her evening meal, she asked him to stay.. and he did. The small voice in his mind told him he shouldn’t get attached and just leave once everything was finished upon stepping through her door, but it was to late. He was attached. They began speaking more, even laughing and Loki staying longer than he knew he should.

Sigyn would question his whereabouts, why his attitude had changed to a lighter tone but he merely reassured her that he was just content that Asgard had been safe through this time and would simply find different places to read- as to not cause suspicion nor would he be able to find him. part if him felt guilty at the same time that he was also betraying her, that although there was no real love towards her as a wife, he was still cheating on her behind her back. The other part of him felt alright with it because having a child would mean Asgard was secure and.. he finally was putting his happiness first..

That mortal woman was the first joy he had in ages only because he had fallen for her. It pained him to leave her and his loins ached for her. Ever since he found out she was pregnant, he had not touched her. Nor had he had time for himself and his wife would no longer suit his interests. Yet he got what he wanted, the child was damn near close to being born now, whenever he began to get hard when he would check on her, he would cut the meeting short and leave. He would not touch her now that he knew he no longer needed to.

An Asgardian child grew faster than a mortals, and the “potion” he had her drink daily allowed her body to adjust. Yet the due date came faster than he anticipated and although she felt fine like she wouldn’t go into labor that day, his magic told him it ad already begun. Despite her being confused, she always took his word for things because this was his realm, and he knew better so she trusted it.

He was able to convince her to fall asleep, so there would be even less pain and so that she wouldn’t get attached to the child if she saw him or her. A healer would be accompanying him and to her little knowledge, he had placed a spell so that she would forget most and think the one who had given birth was his wife.

Upon waking up, his precious mortal felt like nothing had ever happened. even her groin and stomach felt as if it were yesterday. Yet Loki stayed with her anyway while she got out of her daze, and to her surprise- she took his hand.

‘’what.. what happened?’’

‘’you have given birth love, the healer is now caring for the baby.’’ He said gently, sitting beside her on the bed as she lay still and looked up at him with confusion.

‘’oh.. and once the baby is all cared for?’’ she asked with hesitation.

‘’then our healer will lose all memory of her assistance and I will merely bring the child to Sigyn.. she will be a good mother, I promise..’’ he said gently, trying to ignore the guilt that rose again and how awful the words sounded leaving his mouth while she looked away from him.

‘’you will be a good father.’’

Loki’s lips parted, wanting to speak but words found it hard to leave his mouth. Her words were spoken true, he could sense that- even when he knew he had hurt her and all that he had done. He didn’t know what to say, he just gazed at her with the sudden need to protect, the gather her in his arms, to hold her.

‘’is it a girl or a boy?’’ her sudden words brought him back and he took a breath with a gentle whisper.

‘’it’s a baby girl.’’

Loki wasn’t able to see the small smile that tugged her lips, nor her tears as she kept her back to him. he had a hesitant hand raised to want to turn her towards him, but he stopped. He knew she was hurting, and all of this was because of him. turning away, he stayed with her a little while longer in silence before he finally left, hearing the faint cries through the door as soon as he shut it.

Damn it. damn it all…

He had held back tears upon seeing the child be born, but he didn’t want to go see her without.. her. For the mother not being able to see her child.. he understood the logic of it, but knew it was hard on her as well. And to not even being able to comfort her through it all. Damn it all!

He knew what he had to do.

The same boots that pounded through the halls to get her that day long ago pounded down the same halls to get her now. Loki practically ripped the doors open, startling her as she quickly wiped her tears from where she sat in a panic and looked at him concerned.

‘’what’s wrong? is the baby- what happened?’’ his darling mortal gasped as she saw the bruise on his cheek. She hesitated to see a small smile on his face despite it. ‘’..did Sigyn-‘’

‘’there is no more of Sigyn.. I’m done.’’

‘’but.. but didn’t you say the-‘’

‘’fuck the bloodline-‘’ Loki claimed, cutting himself short by the uncommon language that left his mouth he usually didn’t say. It must have been from spending time with her that he picked up some mild habits. Regaining himself, he took a deep sigh as he looked at her with a forced gentle voice.

‘’I’m done- I’m done with all of it.. you have been taken, then taken advantage of.. impregnated, isolated and now the child in which belongs to ‘us’ isn’t even able to be with you- I am the king of Asgard and I must protect its people, but if this is the king I have become then I will gladly step away from the thrown if it means I am to feel like this for the rest of my life!’’ he practically shouted at himself, looking away shameful as he paced, only to be stared at with wide eyes at his words.

‘’Loki..’’

‘’I have fallen for you love.. I can no longer contain myself nor deny it.. there is nothing I can do to rewrite the wrongs I have done.. only to try to improve on what I do now. You will be returned to Midgard with the child and-‘’

‘’no!-‘’

Her words stopped him as he stared at her, her voice being the loudest she had ever let it as he stayed put, watching her get off the bed and stand before him, grasping the nightgown to her body.

‘’..she needs a father.. I can’t do it by myself out there.. to not know who you are.. its as if its best if you and Sigyn keep her to yourself so she can grow up with two p-‘’

‘’Y/N..’’

Y/N stopped, being called by her name for the first time as she shook where she stood, tears threatening to run down her cheeks as she bit her lip.

‘’the child will have a father.’’ He promised and kneeled down before her, his head down as he felt his own tears threaten to fall. ‘’I will do everything in my power to help you, to help you both, to be there, to support you.. to love her.. and to love you if only you’d allow me to.. I’m done here. I can’t deny my feelings for you any longer.. and if you are to reject me, then allow me to love her as a father..’’ he whispered and closed his eyes as he breathed.

The hand on his cheek made him open his eyes as he looked up to her gentle ones, tears falling down the cheeks of both as he leaned his face into her palm. ‘’we will have you Loki.. it will be okay..’’

Loki slowly placed a hand on her own, knowing there would be much to take place but he knew the truth was better than to live a lie of lies and guilt. Sigyn would be okay, and deep down he knew she knew they were over a long time ago. As king, laws will have to change. It wont be easy, but he’d find a way to make them possible, and right now she was looking more of a being with power than he ever did as he slowly stood up but she kept his hand in hers.

‘’..let me see her..’’ she whispered.

She will be a great mother..

‘’yes.. my queen..’’

Final ♥

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 20: only one bed

kard 1.5k words female reader insert Reader x Matthew Kim (BM) NSFW

🖤 warnings: inappropriate coworker relationships, yes i turned one of the all-time best tropes into a prompt be mad about it🖤

🎂 happy matthew day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

This all sounded way less ridiculous on paper.

Or, like, in an email.

When they were planning the room arrangements for this company trip, you'd thought it was no big deal to volunteer be placed in a mixed-gender room. There just wasn't the budget to put everyone separately, and not enough pre-planned pairs to make it work without mixing different branches together. It seemed like a simple courtesy to say that you'd be okay with someone from a different branch, and a different gender, if it came to all that.

But once you saw the final lineup, you knew you'd be in for it.

Not that you got a bad roommate, or anything. You've actually met him a few times before, and he's a cool guy. Very gentle, polite.

He's just also extremely hot.

You've never really registered exactly how hot, before. Over the three or four other conferences like this one, you've always been glued to your work bestie. But she transferred departments, and now here you are.

Here, at the open bar that the company set up in the hotel lounge, watching him chat with a group of people.

His suit jacket is long gone, his shirt unbuttoned by a few more inches than it was when he arrived this afternoon, showing a deep v of tanned, firm chest. His bleaches hair is starting to come out of its neatly-gelled part, strands falling into his face elegantly.

One of the women from the newest branch is wearing a little sash...it's her birthday, you assume, squinting over the rim of your glass at her. And it looks like he's in the process of buying her a drink for it.

If it was anyone else, you'd figure that they were trying to make a move, but Matthew Kim is just that nice. A little bit of a player, if memory serves, with the smooth talking and earnest extroversion, but a very sweet guy overall.

You lose track of your very hot roommate after a while.

Your boss finds you, and makes you participate in a very long toast to the success of the conference, and after that, Matthew is long gone.

It's not that birthday girl, because she's still here with her coworkers, but you assume (based on nothing, admittedly, nothing but looks) that maybe he's hunting somewhere else. He seems like he's the party type, anyway. Maybe he's going somewhere else for a second round. Who knows.

Conferences are supposed to be "fun," but you all do still have meetings in the morning. You've had about all the fun you're going to have, tonight.

You bid your coworkers a good night, and you retreat to your room.

You just want to get through this trip without anything embarrassing happening.

So, of course, you run into your very hot roommate at the elevator.

He's standing there, waiting, button already pressed, when you walk up, and he looks nothing but happy to see you.

"Oh, hey," he grins. "Goin' up?"

"I'm done for the night," you agree.

"Feel that. I wanna take a shower and crash."

You'd neglected to process, until this moment, that the two of you are sharing a shower, too.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted," you find yourself saying, anyway.

The elevator arrives with a ding, and the two of you are quiet on the ride up. Both playing with your phones, and while your calm is completely forced, his seems natural.

You go to the room in companionable silence.

But once the door is unlocked, and the two of you go in, there is one glaring problem.

"That don't look like two doubles," Matthew says.

He's right. The room that you'd been promised, a double room with two beds, instead has one luxurious queen. Your privacy and his, assured by the HR people arranging this trip, are all but gone.

The only thing your traitorous brain can think, though, is that this situation isn't half bad.

"I'll call the front desk and see wassup," Matthew says, going for the room phone.

He puts the call on speaker.

"I'm so sorry, but we're fully booked. Unless you're able to switch with other members of your booking party, there's really nothing we can offer aside from compensation after the stay..."

The concierge sounds properly apologetic in corporate, and you can't blame them for this. It is what it is.

"That's gonna be more trouble, isn't it?" Matthew asks you.

"Yeah."

"Then we'll jus' figure it out," he decides.

Figure it out.

Okay.

Figuring it out turns out to mean Matthew taking a shower, and then you taking a shower, and then both of you standing on your respective sides of the bed. The energy is indescribable.

"You sure this is okay?" he asks.

You wonder what kind of face you're making, that makes him think he has to ask that.

"As long as you're okay, too," you say.

"Can I just..."

You nod, and he peels back the duvet and makes himself comfortable. There's something kind of intimate about joining him under the covers right away, so as casually as you can, you lay on top, instead.

He doesn't comment on it. Gracefully, he just rolls over to one side and gets back on his phone until you get comfortable.

And after you've wriggled yourself into a comfy spot, he asks you, "Did you have a good time?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, it was nice," you say. "Did you do birthday shots with what's-her-name from Chula Vista branch?"

Matthew laughs. "Just like...one."

You're not jealous, you're really not, but there's a very particular feeling under your skin that you can't shake.

"Nice."

"You coulda joined it."

You shrug. "Don't know her. It'd be weird."

"Nah."

You venture out on a limb. "I'm assuming there's no partner in the mix who's gonna get mad about you, like, buying birthday shots? And sleeping here?"

"No girlfriend," he affirms.

"A hunk like you?"

He laughs again.

The two of you aren't looking at each other, which is good, because you're audaciously embarrassed that that horrible sentence came out of your mouth. Either sentence, honestly. What business of yours is it, if he has a partner?

"Not much time," he says.

"Could have tried to bag that birthday girl," you joke.

"I think she's married," he muses. "Wouldn't be cool."

"Yeah, true."

Matthew turns to peer over his shoulder at you. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm not married," you say.

"I figured. But like...nobody back home?"

You've still been staring at your phone, until now. You glance at him.

"No."

You guys have eaten meals together maybe three times. You've gotten drunk together at least that many times. Your total time in his company is definitely less than one calendar day.

You've shared a bed, now, for about four minutes.

So the path from that to tugging Matthew on top of you and kissing him senseless is a little foggy.

He lets you, though. He laughs, a little, and he rolls easily into you, pulling the covers with him. They form a frustrating little barrier between the two of you, but that doesn't matter yet. You've got your arms around his neck, his hand planted in the mattress beside your shoulder, holding himself up as he curls around you and meets you inch for inch.

"S'goin' on?" he asks, sly.

Honesty is the best policy, you decide. "Anyone ever tell you you're super hot?"

"Maybe once or twice."

His words are cocky, but his smile is small and pleased, the genuine and slightly bashful expression of a guy who isn't used to being complimented like that.

"You should hear it more often, holy shit," you say.

He laughs again, louder.

"Would it be out of pocket to say that I'm curious what's under those lil pajamas?" he asks you.

You'd packed some demure and cozy sleepwear for this trip, normal t-shirt and long pajama pants. It seemed practical at the time, but now all you can think about is the sheer number of square inches of skin that are being cut off from touching Matthew, in his muscle tee and basketball shorts.

"You can be curious," you say. "Just depends if you're gonna do something about it."

"Ooh. You're kinda fun."

"I try."

You go for the hem of your own shirt, before he can. But he catches your wrist gently.

"Can I?"

"Of course. But you gotta make it fair," you tell him.

He strips off his own shirt before going for yours, and you're so transfixed by the sudden sight of his shredded torso - abs, pecs, lats, other things that you don't know the name of, scattered tattoos in thick ink - that you barely blink as he gets the garment off and flings it away to the room at large.

Your bottoms, and his, are lost just as quickly.

"I bet," Matthew says suddenly, halfway down your torso to do a little exploring below the waist. "Yo, I bet that the hotel staff did this on purpose."

"Did what?"

He smacks the mattress with one hand. "The bed."

You snort. "We were set up. Damn."

"Worked out kinda good for us, though."

"I'd say so."

Matthew continues his descent, telling you very seriously, "I hope these walls are kinda soundproof."

Oh, jeez. He's implying- "Why?"

"Cuz I think my boss is in the next room, and I really don't wanna have to explain this tomorrow."

[laneynoir]

Can you do “the hesitation for any physical contact” with literally any LOTR/TH character? :D

It is 4:11 am and thia should NOT have taken this long.

My first attempt a a 4+1 fic.

4 times you dodge away, and one time you don't.

Èomer/You

Word count: 2803

1.

The first time he noticed was the Eve of your mother's wake.

As was tradition, members of the Royal family would attend the in the circumstance of a noble's death. You sit int the corner of the room, staring dazed at the covered body on the bed.

Èomer quietly makes his way over, though you don't raise your eyes you speak, the words suprising him.

"I didn't like her all that much."

He is jolted by your tone, the same as one might use when discussing an ill fitting horse shoe, or a dry season that creates such agitating dust in a mane.

You glance to him with an odd smile. "I suppose that is a dreadful thing to say, my prince. But really, she was always such a stickler for etequite and how a 'proper lady' should act that I think I'm owed it."

You take a gulp of your whiskey, the burning feeling not registering in your facial expression, a feat that causes a half smile to quirk at Èomer's mouth. "You are allowed honesty, I think, My lady."

You shake your head, "My mother's died, yet still she's pushing me. Lovely isn't it? I'll finally have to be the Lady of the court she allways wanted me to." You let out a small breath of laughter. "Wouldn't she be appalled if she saw me, tipsy and chatting with the prince as if i were a pig farmer haggling over a price..."

You sit up straight and stare at the bed again, so suddenly that Èomer startles. "Yet somehow I think I will miss her,she was all I had left." Another sip passes you lips -lips that Èomer really shouldn't be thinking about with such detale as he is- and you sigh. "They all leave."

Èomer fears for the faraway look in your eye, and seeks to comfort you. "I know I am not so great with words as prehaps my cousin, the crown prince is, but I do remeber the dispare I felt when I was told of my mother's death. And though our circumstances are not the same, and I would not dare assume to know your thoughts, I would have you know this,"

He places a hand comfortingly on your shoulder, but you jerk back with an almost terrified expression.

"Forgive me Lady Y/n, I meant not-"

You shake your head furiously. "No, no my prince. You offer me no insult." You give another halfhearted smile. "I just... I've never liked being touched."

His expression is doubtful, but he gives an nod of agreement regardless.

Before he can say aught else, a paige whispers that the king is looking for him and he departs. Hearing you mutter to yourself as he leaves.

"They always leave."

2.

The second came not for a while, indeed it was not until two years later.

On this day he watches as you are locked in a mock-fight with Èowyn, though with the ferocity of of the strikes it hardly has more fight than mock.

Still he can tell that you are lightening your blows, cautious of Èowyn's recent illnesse. Your opponent is disarmed, and you send her for a rest. Her fatigue must indeed have been great, Èomer realizes, for she departs without (much) hesitation.

The small crowd begins to disperce, befire you call to the remaining training Rohiram for another match.

None seam elated at the prospect, though one calls out a "I'll show you my sword, just name the time."

This of course gains a hearty laugh from his friends, and, to Èomer's shock, a smile from you. Though is does have a-

"I do belive it is more or a dagger, and would shatter dear Êliott."

-malicouse look. His thoughts finish, as the smirk on his face grows, whilst the red shade of the man increases.

Before the debate can escalate, Èomer steps forward. "I will spar with you, Lady Y/n."

The sharp nod is all he needs to begin shedding the outer wearof his cloth, leaving himself in a (rather thin) tunic. One of Êlott's friends gives an apriciative whistle, and Èomer hopes he isn't imagining the flustered manner, and aversion of eyes from yourself.

Taking the ready stance the two of you make eye contact, just before you begin weaving patterns through the air with your swords. You vaguely take note of the numbers being called around you, bets to be won or lost, all depending on the outcome of two people... A power play that has you grinning.

Èomer twists his swords arm, causing your grip to loosen slightly. The scowl you send him only causing a smile to grace his distractingly handsome- wait no.

No no no.

That is not the direction you thoughts need to go.

Although he is one of the most sought after man in Rohan, and the gosip around the pubs could fill three rowdy drinking songs.

A loud yell comes from the, now much larger, circle of people, and you jerk at the close proximity, giving Èomer the chance to semd you sword to the ground. On instinct, you reach for the weapon while it is still in the air, successfuly catching it, but sending yourself to the ground.

Imeadiatly Èomer offers you a hand up, and as there are far to many people watching to deny the prince, you accept; but jerk back as soon as you stand.

Offering Èomer a bow, you gather your gear and exit the courtyard, leaving a befuddled blond in your wake, staring after you with an expression later to be described with some rather unsavoury words.

3.

He watches from the corner of his eye, as he always does, as you take another swig of your drink at the bar.

A group of the Rohiram had decided to stick around the pub in the closest town during patrol, and as his sense of honour dictated, he stayed with them. All around the crowded room people were being spun around by their partners. 

Except for you, your rarely danced, and as far as Èomer has seen, never accepted such wanton attention as what the man leaning altogether to close to you is obviously offering.

Still Èomer waits a few minutes, knowing all to well from a preper veiw of a particular captain (the poor man never did have children...) how well you can handle the situation.

Yet he can tell that you are tired and wish bot to make a scene, so swiftly navigating the dance floor he arives at you side amd places a comforting, and slightly territorial, hand on your back.

You stiffen, before realizing who he is and his purpose. The moment you relax into his touch is one Èomer drinks up in the manner of a hard pressed horse after water, all the while glaring at the audacious man in front of him.

Said man's face travels through multiple expression before landing on a smirk. "Oh forgive me lord, I did not realize that this pretty lady had a man to look after her. If I may, and no offense meant, you might want to stick closer to your lass." He rakes another glance over you that unnerves you so that you push into Eomer's half embrace. "Though I've a cold bed that could use some warming if you'd care..."

"I do not share. Come, let us walk y/n." The ice in the tone of your prince shocks you, but still you nod and allow Èomer to lead to from the tavern, after turning a corner he releases you and steps to the distamce you usually keep him at.

The lack of his comfort sends a pang through your body, a pang that you shouldn't have. Upset by this your frown, yet say to him, "I can take care of myself. My Prince." The last bit is tagged on, almost separately.

The spice in your voice doesnt seem to bother him, for he just smiles as usual, a strange fondness in his eye. "I know, I do remember captain Hork."

You chuckle at the mention. "Yes, i supose I made rather a spectacle with that one. I usually try to be more dis-" having begun walking, you freez again, having not meant to add on the latter part of your sentance.

Èomer also freezes, his face dark he turns to you. "Usually? How often are you..." Suddenly his face pales. "In the name of- have you been-? Is that why you shy from touch constantly? Tell me who-"

Eye wide you shake your head. "No! No, my prince. It has never gotten so far as that."

He eyes you doubfully, worry so evident that it sends a pang of guilt through you. "I swear Èomer."

The sound of his name on your lips snaps him away. "You've never called my by my name before."

Your cheeks flush and you shift from one foot to the other. "I apologize,"

"No no," he is quick to interrupt. "I am relieved that you have done so."

His smile is contagious, so that it would take a much colder hearted woman that yourself not to mirror the expression.

You chat amicably while walking, and when you reach the outskirts of town Èomer pauses, taking in view of the stars, while you watch the wind softly lift his golden hair. He breaks the silence at last by saying, "Will you tell me why you do not wish to be touched?" His gaze still is locked on the horseshoe constellation, shining its good luck as always.

You are quiet before answering. "I don't think so."

He nods and meets your gaze. "I figured. Do you wish to return?"

You shake your head, "No the air here is nice, and the view is beautiful."

He nods in agreement. "The most lovely I've 'ere seen."

Neither of you look away from the other.

4.

It was suposed to be a regular patrol of the southern borders. Rumors of a small band of orcs had travled to the king, you, having spent far to much time in Edoras, voulentiered to assist.

You have been missinformed and woefully under prepaired for the ambush that awaites you.

The orces are all around you before anyone can react, much less run for the nearest village, which lies a good hours ride away.

The orcs are to close, and doing more harm thab can be returned by horseback. So, reluctantly, Èomer orders for the comapy to dismount. Continuing on foot, you find yourself back to back with Èomer, fighting savagely. You decapitate the large orc, and notice the scroll sticking out of his vest. You shilove it into your own as quickly as you can, and spin around to see an orc aiming its bow, at Èomer.

With a cry you leap in front of the projectile, feeling a pain in your stomach imeadiatly after.

Èyou stare down at the weapon, which has lodged itself in your person and focouse on not falling over.

You hear a strangled cry, later to be heard again on the Pelennor Fields, when Èomer, for that was who cried out, would find the supposed corpse of his sister.

In the thick battle though he cannot run to you, instead his eyes with a vengeful fire that Sauron can only dream about, and with berserk rage the rest of the orcs are soon demolished or running for their lives.

One man has died, and your wound is the worst of those left, so Èomer barke out orders the the others, putting four in charge of retrieving the horses, and three for the dead. All of this he says while om his knees next to you,(when had you laid down?) Assessing your injury.

He reaches to you, and your instincts jerk you away, causing the pain to double and your vision to go white.

"Y/n, please?" He sounds heartbroken, or maybe thats the pain talking, at any rate you reach for the scroll from your vest.

"Hey, I'm fine! T-" you wince. "Tell me what this is? It seems important."

Èomer is understandably Indecrulious at this request, but at your insistence enrolls it and scans the words. He stuffs it into a discarded travelling bag, one you recognize as your own, amd slings it over your shoulder. "Me. They were targeting me, and you decide to be the hero."

"They what!?" You sit up ignoring the pain, "How dare they-"

Èomer is at your side. "No, not them. How dare you take an arrow meant for me, how could you do this." The words are harsh, but the tear on his face hits you harder. "I care not uf you hate me more for this, the arrow is to far in to pull out safely. I am going to snap the extra off, badage your other woumds and take you to the town."

"Èomer, I-"

He jerks his head. "No, sorry but I cannot let you suffer further." Swiftly he takes hold of the shaft, and there is a cracking sound. Brief moments are all he takes for the bandaging, working quickly. Gently he lifts you up, before telling the 3rd in command to take charge.

After walking a while you uncleanch your teeth, and speak, only partly conscious.

"I don't hate you, I'm just... Scared."

+5.

The time after you injury is rushed, with the Kings mind over thrown, and the death of the crown prince. Closly followed by Èomer's banishment, you have no time to seek the prince out. Not mentioning that he seems to be avoiding you.

In fact, you do not manage to get close to him until the council following the battle of Pelennor Fields, and then that is a war council, still he does not meet your eyes.

To your room you march, hope resting only on two hobbits wandering evil lands where no one else dared to step, you run through strokes in your head, for no other reason but to stop thinking.

The quaking starts, and the enemy is running.

You wake in the halls of healing with the king of Gondor over you. When your eyes meet he nods sharply and moves on to the next bed.

A green tuniced woman clears you to leave, but when you ask her the whereabouts of Èomer she shaoes her head sadly. "Sorry ma'am, he the one what died in the battle."

She directs you out of the room, patting your soulder kindly after your broken thanks.

A deserted and half destroyed courtyard is where you find yourself, sinking into a bench you stare at the path until it blurs, oblivious to anuthing else.

Until you hear a voice call your name, a voice you know all to well. Neck nearly snapingvat the speed with which you look up, you lock eyes with Èomer. Secondslater you put a hand against his chest, sobing in relief when you find he is solid you grip the fabric and burry your head in it. "Dead. They said you wrre dead."

Èomer seems to snap out of his shock, slightly, "I'm here, I've not died." Hesitantly he wraps his arms around you, allowing you to go limp. You shift to the bench again furiously scrubing at yiur eyes. "Oh dear, I am sorry my Prince, i know your hatred of me-"

"What?" His voice is a growl, sounding just as furious as the day you were shot. "Who has led you to belive this? For no longer will they draw breath,"

You jerk you head back. "You- youve been avoiding me so steadfastly that I..."

"No, no y/n I never could. No matger what you could do, it is not in me to hate you. You said you were afraid, and I never wish for that even if that means leaving you."

You nearly falls over in shock. "Oh Valar, not you. I was never afraid of you and that is what scares me. I feel safe around you, and thats what scares me." You run a hand through your matted hair. "All of the walls I put up... You break them down. I never wanted to touch, to feel, or even be near someone. Or rather I didnt need it."

"Y/n..."

You look back to him and he reaches hesitantly out. You sigh shakelly. "All I want is you, and I dont have the willpower any longer to hold that inside, I'm far to selfish for that."

"Let me be selfish as well then."

He folds you in an embrace, and for the first time in your recollection, you dont dodge away.

[all-for-geek]

The Cal Who Kinda Like Musicals - Chapter 1: The Greatest Stories Ever Told...

Fandom: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals/Starkid/Hatchetfield

Summary: Cal Brady had moved to Hatchetfield not that long ago. They seemed to be doing well all things consider. Managed to find a steady job, made some friends. These were going nice. They should've known it wouldn't last. Granted, they didn't think it would take the form of musical zombies.

Word Count: 2,119

On the northwestern tip of Michigan, there is an island called Hatchetfield. It’s a rather big island, although you wouldn’t guess that if you stepped onto its shores and walked around. It’s one of those towns where everyone seems to know everyone. Where most families can trace their roots to the same plot of land for generations. It’s not often that newcomers go to the island, and many don’t stay for long. The island doesn’t take kindly to strangers.

On this island is a company called CCRP: a tech conglomerate that bought out the old gazette building about a decade ago. No one’s sure how the deal came about or who did it, but it brought steady jobs to the island and decent healthcare, so they didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about in Hatchetfield. The building was split into two sections: the labs where much of the tech was developed, and the administrative side who ran all the mundane day-to-days of office life. This is where our story begins.

Three employees sat at their desks. One, Charlotte, was filing various paperwork between outgoing phone calls. Another, Paul, was busy typing up some report that his boss asked for a week ago. The other one, Bill…well saying that he was working might have been a stretch. Half of his screen was filled with the numbers and calculations he was supposed to be running, but the other half was where his full attention was. Perhaps, that’s why when he looked down at the printer sitting next to him, there was nothing to find.

“Hey, Paul,” Bill called out, “I think I might have sent something to your printer.”

“Uh…,” Paul looked down. Sure enough, there were papers in the tray that certainly weren’t Paul’s. “Yep. Here.”

“Thanks,” Bill replied with a smile.

“I thought Cal fixed the printer problem?”

“I did.” A young individual, no older than 19, with blue hair stormed over as they heard their name, leaning on top of Paul’s computer. “But Davidson still won’t let me do the overhaul that the system needs. As long as the lazyass keeps dragging his feet, it’s gonna keep happening.”

Cal was one of the rare transplants to Hatchetfield. Having only graduated last spring, they had packed up and somehow gotten a job as CCRP’s head of IT department. Granted, they were the only member of the IT department, but the title still came with a fancy security badge.

“That’s not very polite, Cal,” Bill chided, “I’m sure Mr. Davidson has a lot on his plate.”

“Well, maybe he’d have less on it if he let me actually fix the fucking system. It’s not gonna last on duct tape and a prayer forever.”

“Who taught you to use such vulgar language?”

“From my proud Irish bloodline. If you think I’m bad, you’d faint if you had a conversation with my gran” Cal gave him a cocky grin.

“I swear, you spend too much time around Ted. He’s not a good influence on you.”

Cal rolled their eyes. Their snarky remark was cut off by Paul standing up and clapping his hands. “Well, I’m off to Beanie’s. Want anything Cal?”

“Not from there, no,” Cal chuckled. They walk away as Bill and Paul start talking about whatever show was at the Starlight. Cal spotted Charlotte sitting at her desk, clearly shaken about something. More importantly, they spotted the flask she was holding in her trembling hands.

“Hey Char,” Cal called as they walked over, “You doing alright?”

“Hm?” Charlotte’s gaze slowly pans over to Cal. It took her a moment to register that the teen was there. “Oh…yes. Everything is fine, Cal. Everything is just fine.”

Cal nodded slowly, assuming that Charlotte had been on the phone with her douchebag husband again. They weren’t touching that with a 10-foot pole, instead gesturing to the flask. “Mind if I have a drink?”

“Sure…” Charlotte hands the flask in Cal’s general direction. Right as they were about to grab it, someone yanked it out of Charlotte’s hand and downed whatever was left.

“Oh, you’re such a bastard, Ted,” Charlotte whines.

“You know it,” Ted smirks at Charlotte, giving her a wink before giving Cal a pointed look. “Don’t worry, I can make it up to you.”

Cal gagged, walking away before they had to hear anything more.

Later in the day, Cal spins around in an office chair, waiting for requests to come in. This is what most of their days looked like. Sitting around waiting for computers and servers to break, fixing them for a few minutes, and then going back to sitting and waiting. It’s no wonder that they ended back up where they always end up when they get bored: Ted’s office.

“Yo,” they greet, casually walking inside.

Ted quickly closes the tab that he had opened. “Cal, how many times do I have to tell you to fucking knock?”

“The same amount of times I’ve told you that looking at that shit on a work computer is a bad idea.”

He rolls his eyes. “What do you want, nerd?”

“I’m bored,” they announce, plopping down in the spare chair.

“So? Go bother Bill or something.” Ted waves them off, focusing back on his computer.

“Ugh. If I wanted to hear someone nag their kid and talk shit about their ex, I would just call my mom.”

“Well Paul, then. Or Charlotte. Buzz off. I’m busy.”

“I’m sure. With all that important ‘work’ you do in here.”

“If Davidson’s not gonna give me anything to do, who am I to stop him?”

“Lazyass.”

“Ouch, such an insult,” he deadpans, placing his hand on his chest in mock offense.

“I mean, I could be actually mean if you wanted.”

“Kid, you can’t say anything I haven’t heard before.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“It wasn’t. No. Stop that.”

Cal answers with a shit-eating grin. “Nah, annoying you is one of the best parts of my day. Ain’t planning on stopping.”

“You could consider being nice and polite and respecting your elders.” He responds jokingly through gritted teeth.

“You could consider not being a horny bastard. Don’t think I didn’t notice that move on Charlotte.”

“Right. And remind me, why were you over by Charlotte in the first place?” Ted gives them a knowing look. Was he deflecting? A little, sure, but they needed to talk about it either way.

Cal rolls their eyes. “It was one drink. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’ve told you to stay away from that shit.”

“I’ve got my shit handled,” Cal responds defensively. 

“Sure.”

They roll their eyes again. “Whatever.”

“You’re too young to be getting messed up in that shit, Cal. You still got time to break out of it.”

“Fine, Dad.”

Ted can’t help but chuckle. Before he can respond, Cal gets a notification on their work phone. 

“Ew. Work. Later.” Cal stands up, giving him a two-fingered salute on their way out the door.

Ted returns it. “Yeah. Later, ya little shit.”

Once Cal finishes fixing the server (for the third fucking time this week), it’s finally time to clock out. They pack up their work bag, slinging over their shoulder as they head for the door. They wave goodbye to Melissa on the way out.

“Have a safe night, Cal!” she calls out.

“Will do, Mel!” they shout back as they walk out the door.

Ted stands at his car, fiddling with his keys. Technically speaking, he wasn’t off for another couple hours, but it wasn’t like he ever did work anyway. No one would notice that he was gone. Even fewer would notice that this happened to be around the time that Charlotte got off.

“Need a ride?” Ted asked on instinct. He silently cursed himself. He had other places he wanted to be tonight.

“Nah, I’m meeting Pete over at Beanies.”

Ted gives them a knowing smirk. “Ooooooooh. Pete, huh?”

Cal’s cheeks flush red. “Shut up, asshole.” 

Ted rolls his eyes. “Never. Enjoy your date, nerd.”

“It’s not a date!”

“Just keep telling yourself that.”

Cal walks away, flipping Ted off with their back turned. They don’t see Ted doing the same, his signature assholish grin smeared across his face.

Cal found Pete where he always was if he wasn’t at the library: Beanies Coffee. The coffee was shit and the prices were shittier, but it made the customers feel better than going to a corporate chain like the Starbucks down the street.

The boy stood outside the cafe in his signature suspenders and bowtie, grumbling with his coffee in hand. When he saw Cal waving as they approached, his whole face shifted into a bright smile, waving back.

“Hey!” Cal said as they approached.

“Hey,” Pete echoed with a sigh. They two started walking in the general direction of Cal’s apartment.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, the baristas there always take their sweet ass time.”

“I will never understand why you go there.”

“They have good hot chocolate!”

“Riiiiiiiiiight. The only other person who goes there as religiously as you do is Paul, and at least he has the excuse of having a crush on one of the workers.”

“I definitely don’t have a crush on one of the workers.” The words were true, but they came out a little too rushed and made his face a little too red to be believable.

Cal eyes him teasingly even as something tugs down on them. “Sure.”

“I don’t!”

“So you just wait too damn long after paying too much for the chocolate you need for your blood sugar for fun? Give me a break man.”

“I’ve been going to Beanies ever since Ted let me walk around town on my own. It’s a staple of Hatchetfield culture and life.”

“You’re such a nerd.” Cal chuckles, only affection in their voice.

“Well, so are you,” Pete responds teasingly, nudging them.

“Touche.”

The two walk in comfortable silence around town. Their hands dangle dangerously close to each other’s. They take turns looking down at them, each wondering if they would dare take that risk.

“Uh, you doing anything tonight?” Cal asked, shoving their hands into their pockets.

“Yeah, Ted gave me his season tickets for the Starlight tonight. He’s not exactly the biggest fan of Mamma Mia I guess. Ruth and I are gonna go see it.”

“You’re willingly subjecting yourself to Mamma Mia?” Cal practically spats out the name. 

Pete shrugs. “Ruth likes it. And who knows, it might be fun.”

They roll their eyes jokingly. “If you make it out of that show, you deserve an award.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“I don’t know. Free hot chocolate for life or something.”

“Well shit, if I had known that it would be that easy…”

“I think you are underestimating the kind of snooze fest you’re getting into.”

“I think you’re being a little too harsh.”

“It’s a shit show!”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s the correct one.”

Pete chuckled. Up ahead, at the edge of the road was an old brick and mortar apartment complex. It was functional, but not much else outside of that. The edges of the Witchwood just on the other side of it were shrouded in shadow as the sun began to set. The two stopped at the doorway to say their goodbyes.

“We still on for stargazing this weekend?” Pete asked, taking the last sip of his hot chocolate.

“Hell yeah, dude. I can’t wait.”

“Cool.” He threw his Beanies cup into the nearby trash can. Cal allowed a soft smile to appear while his back was turned. “I’ll see you then, then.”

“See ya.” The two fistbumped as Cal headed up the stairs, and Pete left for the show of his life.

Cal opened the door to their cramped apartment, laying their work bag on the couch. They quickly changed out of their fucking work clothes before eyeing the drumset in the corner of the bedroom.

…Nah. As fun as it would be, the neighbors were probably home by now. They didn’t need another noise complaint. They settled for the next best thing: throwing themself on the couch and booting up Trombone Champ.

They played well into the night. Far later than they should have been considering they had to go to work the next day, but they just shrugged off the tiredness. They weren’t going to be sleeping anyway. Might as well do something fun.

It’s probably for the best that they weren’t in their room anyway. If they had been, they might have looked out their window facing the Witchwood and noticed a blue streak hurdling dangerously close to the ground. Best to give them one last night of normalcy.

[shield-agent78]

Educational Desire

Parring: Debbie (OC) x Steve Rogers, Debbie x Bucky Barnes, Debbie x Peter Parker

Rating: Explicit 

Word Count: 1833

Warnings: NSFW, professor/student relations, language, flirtation, alcohol use, light BDSM, foursomes, voyeurism, oral sex (female and male receiving), anal sex, fingering, vaginal sex

Summary: Debbie is a college professor working within the Avenger’s compound. Her classes are usually full of cadets needing to learn another language. However, when Peter, Steve and Bucky decide to take her class, their reasons are far from educational. Can Debbie let down her guard, allowing herself to find the man or men of her dreams? Will the guys make a play for their professor? 

Chapter 3 of 6

A/N: Special thanks to my wonderful beta readers and support system @sapientesgladio and @annaofthenorthernlights   All characters in this story are over 21.

Created For: @julybreakbingo / location alleyway @julybreakbingo / lace

@pparkerbingo / fingering N1  @ultimatechrisbingo / role play O1 @anyfandomgoesbingo / public sex G4

Debbie slaps her alarm off with her left hand. “It’s ok, it’s ok that was mine. Freak I’m going to be late.” She is up in a flash headed to her ensuite. “You, um, asked me to bring you here.” “I have aspirin. If you need a ride in it’s not a problem.”

Peter stands up stretching and checking out his surroundings. "Yeah, I need my ride. Why am I…, not gonna question anything. I'm Peter. Where are my clothes?”

Deb opens the bath door, exiting in a smart red and black short summer dress. “I’m Debbie but you can call me Deb. You kind of saved me last night from a creep at Joe's. Oh! Here are your clothes.” She hands the folded items to him. “Anyway…” Ooo and hello handsome. Did you know she likes you? By the way, you are single, right? Need help to sober up? Ask him.

Peter looks her up and down, checking her out properly with a half sober smile. "Fuck, you're that hot language teacher. Good news, the ride to work I need is not a detour. " He begins to get dressed. "I should get drunk and stay the night more often.”

She blushes red from the neck up. “Um yeah… thanks. You want some coffee? I mean, you're hot yourself and Avenger and you probably get that a lot. I better stop rambling now.” The inner goddess rolls her eyes as Debbie moves into the kitchen to fix coffee. 

"I do science work for them and fight some bad guys., I don't get that as much as the others, you know hiding behind the mask and such. Oh, and I keep track of contacts." He wanders into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on Deb.

“Then the women must be blind.” She offers one to him with cream and sugar. “Sounds like a very important job to me.” 

"It gives me time to learn things while I'm working too though, that's how I ended up in your ass I mean class."

Deb laughs nervously sipping her coffee “I’m sure you don’t want to really take my class. It’s just a foreign language, nothing special.”

"I have the homework in my glove department in my car." He finds his phone checking its location. While he does he can feel her eyes wander over his body checking him out. Pete places his phone back into his jean pocket. 

“They didn’t register you under Peter Parker…” Deb states nonchalantly while placing her mug into the sink. She mentally goes through the roster. “Wait — they registered you under James Dean and your friends under Humphrey Bogart and Tony Curtis.” 

Peter nods, "Yeah, agents, am I right? Gotta make sure no one knows who's who except who."

“True, for um security, you know, to keep you safe.” Her inner goddess facepalms. For protection, how about that? Are we 12? 

"Do you mind if I take a cold shower? I think I need one. Do I have time to?"

She checks her watch. “Ahum, as long as it’s a quick one, you’re good.” 

"Alright, one second. Which way to the shower?

“Oh! The last door on your left. Through the master. Towels and washcloths are beside the shower and there is soap and stuff…” Debbie blushes, rambling. “Of course you, um, know where to find me if you can’t find anything.” She gives him a shy smile.   He knows what a shower is and why aren’t you joining him NOW? While Peter is showering, Deb questions how not to make a fool of herself when he returns. Ok, keep calm. Make sense. Formulate a complete sentence and hey ask him out! 

He goes for a sobering ten-minute shower. Debbie’s heart races as Peter strolls into the living area in dark stonewashed jeans hanging low upon his waist. She can’t take her eyes off him. Her cheeks heat as she stares at the small water droplets slowly skidding down his body. Damn, this man was gorgeous! She bites her lip, watching the water droplets slip past sculpted pecs. towards a heavily carved v-line. Pete tosses his shirt onto the back of a bar stool, as he continues drying his face and hair with one hand he walks into her and she feels one hand brush against her ass. Deb freezes as Pete removes the towel slipping on his shirt. He bends down leaning close to her, clearing his throat some. Their lips only centimeters apart. "So, do you want me to drive, or do you?" His hazel eyes focus on hers. Kiss him and then fuc... Yep, he needs to be… oh my god…. Tell him to touch you all over. 

“I um can’t refuse a sweet offer to be driven to work by a fine guy so um yeah, can you drive,” she shudders.  He pats her ass, moving her out of the way to get his jacket. Debbie somehow moves to grab her bag and keys. Desire flows through her body as Peter ushers her out the apartment door, shutting it behind them. 

Deb follows him to his car, hanging on his every movement. He opens the passenger door for her. “Thanks.“ She smiles up at him sliding into the seat. Pete leans over, fastening the seat belt for her, his shoulders brush hers. 

The ride is quiet for a few minutes until they come to traffic. Sexual tension could be felt in the car even without spidey sense. “Do you enjoy it here in New York? I just moved here last year, from the south.” Deb tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

Pete flashes her a smile. “Yeah, the women are pretty, works crazy." He turns his head towards her. “Any chances of one of those kisses from last night?

“Yeah, keep talking and I think you just might get one.”

"Oh? What if I asked nicely?" She would say yes… 

“I would say yes,” it comes as a whisper. Thank you! Finally. “Thought you didn’t remember last night well.”

"I don't remember much of last night," he corrects her, tilting his head to the right, leaning his body in to meet hers.  He kisses her. It's a weak kiss, nothing like last night, but as soon as he moves up, there's a red light.  Peter holds her face, kissing her so deeply that he only stops because the car behind him honks. 

She is breathless by the time the kiss is over. “Wow—um, we need to do that again soon,” her face blushes red. At the next light, it’s her turn. Deb cups the side of his face kissing him deeply, leaving no doubt there is chemistry. Another driver speeds past, screaming about the two getting a room.

He's holding her thigh now as they drive. As soon as Peter sees a chance, he pulls over into an alley killing the car unbuckling. In a flash, Debbie’s seatbelt is unbuckled, and he is rolling her skirt up. 

“We um we um are going to be um late,” she stutters as her inner goddess gets popcorn to watch the porn flick now playing out in the car. 

He gives a slight chuckle. "I don't care," he kisses her, pulling her into his lap facing him. 

She immediately places her hands on his biceps. “Pe--ter,“  she moans softly as his large hand travels higher up her thigh. His touch makes it hard to think while her heart races.

He plays with her ass for a moment before getting his large hard cock out, resting it on her lace-clad pussy, while kissing her neck. "I'll make sure we aren't too late." His long fingers push the intrusive lace to the side. He runs his index finger over her folds pushing it into her pussy just for a moment. Deb whines needily. Peter smirks, removing his finger and placing it up to her lips. Her bubble gum tongue wraps around it humming in approval tasting her arousal on him. She lets go with a small pop. He looks at her as if she is the only woman in the world perfect enough to be in his arms. 

She raises up slightly so he can enter. Her eyes blown wide with desire. Pete gives her a small sexy wolf smile, moving the lace once more to the side as he makes her his. Breath is overrated because he has just taken hers. She kisses him, tasting his mouth. Moaning slightly as she does. Her hands run under his shirt, needing to feel his taut muscles and smooth skin.” Oh--- fuck — you feel so good.” She wants to feel more, has to feel more, for if she doesn’t, it is as if the world will stop around them. 

He breaks the kiss only to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it into the back seat. Deb pulls her dress off her shoulders, bunching it at her waist. “Mhm—Touch me — “she begs him “All over,” Peter smirks, running his calloused fingers from her thighs to her smooth stomach. His hands stop at her breasts, pinching the nipple of each, giving them ample attention they deserve. Soft wet tongue latches upon the left, swirling around the areola as Deb’s head is tossed back.   Her hips rock, pushing against her lover’s as fingers press into her hip. 

Pete brings the other hand to her throat, slowly kissing her, letting out little moans as she bounces in his lap, hiding anything above his breath.  Kisses become more heated as she whimpers into his mouth. Her hands run up his chest as she bounces, finally resting upon his muscular biceps for stability. Pete moves his hands from her throat to her ass, spanking it as they fuck. She's hot and he's trying to get lost in that. 

Her hands are all over his body as well, caressing it, pressing her fingers into his skin. He was hot and sexy…. Not including the best kisser. Deb moans out Peter’s name as they fuck. Praising him for how well he is touching her. There is not a place that’s off-limits to the two of them. Her lips are all over his neck and body, kissing and nipping.

Pete tries to pullout, but he doesn't want to be anywhere except deep inside her fucking her.  As if they had been lovers for months, or perhaps even years.  He kisses her softly as he melts under her, cumming, needing more of her. Her walls tighten around his cock, her breath hot on his skin. It takes several moments for both to come down from their orgasms. He tucks Deb’s head into his shoulder, stroking her hair with his right hand. 

“Damn that was..wow,” is all she can mutter. The inner goddess fans herself as she picks herself up off the floor where she had melted.  

Peter smirks, holding his lover close. "Yeah, it was… We got a class to get to, but I don't mind taking you home afterward."

[jomiddlemarch]

what I like to call making muffins of us

Grace couldn’t say that the man who appeared to be robbing the coffee-shop was easy on the eyes, because everything about him looked hard, his dark eyes, the angle of his jaw, his broad shoulders, and that ass in those worn jeans, but she had to admit he was hot as fuck.

“Hey, what d’you think you’re doing?” she called out from the table in the corner that was her regular spot, for all that a workaholic hospitalist clocking seventy-plus hours a week to pay off her student loan debt and help support her elderly parents could be said to have a regular spot for the purpose of drinking coffee; Grace made sure it was cost-effective by taking advantage of any special that was offered, including the pastries dropping to half-price after 3pm. As attempts to stop thieves went, her intervention wasn’t very impressive. She was, however, only supposed to be meeting Lauren before they went to the yoga class Lauren insisted was a good work-out and not creepily appropriative of Asian culture and yet Lauren appeared to be standing her up and Maria, the barista she knew best, didn’t work on Saturday mornings if she could possibly help it, which evidently she could, because she was nowhere in sight, unlike the undeniably gorgeous man who looked intent on ripping off Tess, the coffee-shop’s owner, who’d let her in and then told her she had to run a quick errand but would be back in twenty. Grace’s sense of ethics was balanced out by her sense of self-preservation. It would have been so much easier to have to perform CPR on the guy, but the universe didn’t seem inclined to help her out.

“S’okay,” the man said. He basically tossed the words over his shoulder, which felt pretty dismissive. That got Grace’s hackles up, as Lauren would say, reminding her of every senior fellow who’d brushed off her concerns about the labs on the old lady (and it was always an old lady) or the department chairs who couldn’t remember either one of her names and called her “you” as if it didn’t matter. Hackles up, Grace was somewhat less judicious about her personal safety.

“Like hell it is,” she said, raising her voice and standing up. She had her hand on her backpack, which wasn’t nearly as helpful as having it on her phone, which she could use to call the police. There was probably some mace in her bag but she’d be more likely to pull out the sunscreen and prevent him from getting basal cell carcinoma. “You’re trying to rip off the coffee-shop, you’re a thief—”

“I’m not a thief,” he said. At least he turned around and stopped moving towards the cash register. “I can’t be a thief—”

“You can tell that to the cops when you explain why you have all the petty cash in your wallet,” Grace said.

“I’m the owner,” he said, offering a smile that was half-smirk. Like he’d gotten one over on her and she’d just agree with him because he was so goddamn attractive and it would be far nicer for this to be an awkward encounter with a frisson (or sonic boom, but whatever) of sexual tension between them, rather than an interrupted robbery.

“You’re not the owner,” Grace said. “I know Tess, I’ve been coming here for over two years. I’ve never seen you before. Or heard of you.”

“Sorry, I’m the co-owner. The silent partner,” he said.

“That’s rich,” Grace scoffed.

“Not really,” he said. “Coffee-shop’s still restaurant industry. Staying in the black is a miracle.”

“I meant that you’re the silent partner owner,” Grace said.

“You planning a citizen’s arrest?” he said.

“What? Am I nine years old? No,” she said. Lauren could show up any time at all. This guy was hot but she wasn’t about to have a whole attracted-to-bad-boys thing happening. It frankly sounded exhausting.

“So, how’s it going to play out? I’m curious,” he said. He was now behind the counter, since her repartee hadn’t been very effective as a crime-deterrent, but he wasn’t ripping open the cash register or similarly rifling through the shelves looking for a cashbox. He looked comfortable there and she couldn’t deny that if he’d slung a dishtowel over his shoulder or wrapped an apron around his narrow hips, she’d have assumed he was subbing for Maria and hoped he could make a decent café au lait with properly scalded milk.

“I’ll see what Tess has to say, I guess,” Grace said. “If you try to flee—”

“If I try to flee?” he repeated and laughed. “C’mon, don’t rat me out to the feds—"

“Asshole,” she muttered. It was possible he wasn’t a thief but jackass was rising to the top of the differential.

“How ‘bout this? I’ll tell you some shit to put your mind at ease, then I can make you something fresh. It won’t be on the house, you won’t have to worry about ripping Tess off,” he said. “I don’t do matcha lattes though.”

“I don’t drink them,” she said.

“Smart,” he said. “So, Tess and me, well, it didn’t work out, but we’d already started planning this place. We kept it going and managed to salvage a friendship, mostly because I do any repairs for free, or get my brother Tommy to help out.”

“Nothing’s free,” Grace said.

“You’re right. I lose money on the labor, but I’m a GC, so I take it out of the people who want a six burner Viking Professional when they can’t fucking fry an egg,” he said.

“So, you’re Robin Hood?” Grace said skeptically.

“My name’s Joel. Joel Miller,” he said.

“You think I’m going to tell you my name now?” Grace said. “I’m not even totally convinced you’re not robbing the place.”

“You could lie, I’d never know the difference,” he replied.

“Grace,” she said. Let him wonder if it was the truth. She wasn’t going to offer up her last name.

“I named the shop,” he offered.

“You named this place Tesseract Coffee?” It was the reason she’d first walked in, the refreshing absence of any pun on beans or grind, the reference to A Wrinkle In Time, then finding out the owner’s name was Tess—the coffee was good and the pastries better than they had a right to be, but she would probably have hung around even if the coffee had been mediocre.

“I read. And I have kids. Two daughters. I read to them. Meg’s a favorite,” he said. “And Mrs. Whatsit.”

“Yeah?” If he was lying, he was running a fucking masterclass in deceit.

“Sarah’s not as into it, she’s been all about princesses since she turned five, and she likes music more these days. But Ellie, she’s read the whole series about six times,” he said and he couldn’t be feigning the fond affection in his voice, the way there was finally a softness about him, in his dark eyes. “She was Aunt Beast for Halloween, that costume was a bitch to make, thank God my neighbor Marlene helped me—”

“Their mom didn’t?” Grace asked. Evidently, she had decided to believe him. Evidently, she was now going to ask some questions that would clarify if he was available, like there was some scenario where this turned out to be their meet-cute in a rom-com. She hoped, more for Tess’s sake than her own, that she’d made the right call. She hadn’t managed to date successfully since she and Kian broke up when he got that fellowship in Chicago, so anything normal materializing out of this was improbable. Honestly, with her track record, they’d be more likely to end up in a zombie apocalypse dystopia, where the memory of freshly ground coffee beans and the busy gurgle of an espresso machine were nearly beyond her recall.

“Sarah’s mom moved to Miami after we split up. She has her for the summers. Ellie’s mom, it’s complicated, she died when Ellie was a baby and I found out after. We’d only dated a little while, I didn’t know she got pregnant,” Joel said.

“That’s a lot,” Grace said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I meant, to tell a stranger,” she said.

“But you’re not a stranger anymore, are you, Miz Grace?” he replied. He didn’t smile at her, but the expression in his eyes had altered, appreciative and teasing.

“Just Grace,” she said. If this went anywhere, if the look he was giving her delivered on even half of what it was promising, there’d be time enough to explain she was Dr. Grace, Dr. Grace Yang, and neither the Dr. nor the Yang was going anywhere.

“You met Joel, I see,” Tess said, walking in from the back, glancing over at him. He nodded. It didn’t seem like they were going to have much more of an exchange.

“She thought I was robbing you,” Joel said.

“Then I’m glad it was Grace and not Bill I let in early,” Tess said.

“Doc here would’ve had her work cut out for her, patching me up,” Joel said.

“I didn’t tell you—” Grace broke off.

“The clogs are a dead giveaway,” he said. “Plus your lanyard’s hanging out of your bag. I pay attention to detail.”

“You do now,” Tess said, just loud enough for them both to hear.

“Yeah, well, I screwed up a lot of stuff before I figured that out,” he said. “And I don’t just mean that kitchen reno on South Cedar. Or Ellie’s bangs.”

[ineedpeacenquiet]

SEP 4 2023

Okay, so in 2022, I went to see a psychiatrist following a bad episode after taking antidepressants. He did the assessment and towards the end, he asked me these questions. They seemed random at first, but I found myself agreeing with almost every statement he made. It felt like he could read my mind almost. I looked up towards him, to see him intensely typing on his laptop. He was attentive to detail and my sheepish, half-arsed replies, barely audible through my mumbles. At no point in this part of the assessment, did it register with me why he was asking me these questions, what they mean. He finished typing and looked up at me, causing me to instantly look back down at my feet and pick at the skin on my hands. He piped up, explaining that I showed traits of autism. The way I would rather talk about the train timetables around the county, where they were going, what trains they were and where they departed from. I didn’t show much interest in much else, nor did I state that I was surrounded by thousands of friends. The whole time, I did my utmost to avoid eye contact with the psychiatrist, and in case I did, I immediately diverted my eyes to my safe space - the floor, or occasionally the pictures on the walls - I remember those so vividly. The autumnal vibe of the large photo that was framed with a modern glass cover, hanging perfectly on the wall - not angled incorrectly in any way. He asked me if I had many interests, to which I kind of shrugged hopelessly. I talked about the trains some more and I casually slipped in that I like a particular video game, which could have led us both down a rabbit hole, where I’d turn the entire session into a rant about this game, but of course, the doctor had an agender and wanted me gone as quickly as possible, but he listened, as he did earlier when I had brought it up. He asked me some more questions, Do I prefer to be alone? Do I find it easy to hang out with large groups of people? Of course not! I can hardly stand myself, let alone anyone else… He wrapped up the session, confident in his verdict that I am autistic. He said that we’d have follow-up sessions regarding autism, but of course, my mental health was (not) important to him. I left the office with a new label, but no prescription.

About a month later, I had been prescribed quetiapine to help with my mood swings and whatnot. I was in Brighton with my best friend, Milly, when the shrink called. He asked me general questions, how I am, am I free to talk. Of course, I wasn’t really, but I wasn’t to pass up the opportunity to have my appointment. I wouldn’t have another for over a month if I didn’t answer the phone. The same as the first time we talked, he asked more questions. He asked if it was okay to ask me 10 questions without telling me what they were about. They were questions about things I like and things I don’t like. On a scale of severe to nothing at all, how much would you… could you… do you…? I can’t quite remember the questions, nor do I have the notes anymore. But I obviously answered truthfully - who am I to lie to a psychiatrist? He’s just trying to help me understand myself. Well, at the end of the questions, he again, surprised me with the autism thing. Over the few weeks between our sessions, I had heavily thought about me being autistic. I told some friends about this surprise diagnosis. Most of them were surprised, except one, Lily. She, a few months ago, asked me if I had autism or thought I did. The reason for this was because she was talking about something or rather, I was listening with only half an ear and watching the Thameslink Train (class 700) from Horsham station. I randomly pointed it out with great enthusiasm, whilst she was mid-sentance. Now, for most people, that would be considered rude, but I guess it never registered with me that what I was doing was not polite. She wasn’t angry, but instead went along with my excitement at seeing the train, then at some point after, asked me if I knew/thought that I might be autistic. Obviously, I denied it - at the time, I had no idea that could be the case. Truth be told, I had never really thought about it until she mentioned it, and then again when the doctor brought it up.

During that phone consultation, he confirmed again, that I have a lot of autistic traits. I shared my disdain for loud noises, eating noises, drinking noises, loud breathing, eye contact, not recognising sarcasm at all times, and not knowing whether I am being flirted with. Ever. He told me I should go to specialists to learn more about it, though I disagreed. I never really wanted the label, and though the evidence was there, I actively disagreed with the statement. It made me feel upset and self-conscious. I thought if I told anyone about it, they wouldn’t believe me, telling me that I don’t “look autistic”, or I’m not “autistic enough” to fulfil their perception of how autism looks, and how everyone with autism acts. However, there are obvious similarities that draw autistics into one category: that they have autism (obviously), and they have x,y,z symptoms and traits. Obviously ranging in severity and how much ability the individual has to cope in society, or to be independent. For me, I’ve found myself to be mostly independent for as long as I can remember, I have always liked to do things myself and my own way. I hated working with other people and I hated company. I hated interactions, I hated being touched. In fact, I remember from a young age, actively dodging my grandmother’s hugs, the way she’d try and touch my shoulders, and stroke my arm. I would do anything to avoid it.

Well, I didn’t think anyone would believe me, because I never really believed it myself. I was afraid to tell people because I felt like a fraud and I was afraid they would, too. One of the first people I did tell was Ray, a family friend. He was my granddad’s best friend. He always used to come to ours and fix or put together anything we’d ask. He was an awesome guy and he had 2 sons about my age. Jonathan and Robert. Jonathan was a year older, and Robert was the same age as me. I told Ray that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and I also begrudgingly told him I was also diagnosed with autism. That caused him to form a weak but proud smile. A smile that indicated that he was correct about something and was proud of it. That is because many years ago, I must have been around 10, he asked me directly if I was autistic, to which, I denied it because I hadn’t been told I was, nor did I know at the time, I was. Turns out my granddad told him I was ARTISTIC, not autistic. Apparently, Ray got “the wrong end of the stick”. I asked him about that and he said he didn’t mishear and genuinely thought I was autistic back then for some reason. He said he could see that I was autistic and he was surprised my mother never took me to see anyone about it. My behaviours were strange as a child. I was withdrawn, quiet, fussy. I would refuse to eat many foods, I hated change, and I couldn’t handle the loud bustling atmosphere of the county mall or the town centre. I would refuse to go up the escalators or the elevators. I always insisted on taking the lifts. I was lucky as a child, my mum would get me all manner of things to keep me entertained, and not that I ever insisted it wasn’t enough or I didn’t like it, I was just so attached to whatever toy or item I was obsessed with. I remember at one point it was a Lego toilet. Yes, a little plastic toilet. Then it was a baby doll - Baby Annabelle, which I renamed “Alex”. She went everywhere with me, as did that plastic toilet, even to school and in the bath, and in the car. I ended up losing that plastic toy, which caused me weeks of distress. I never lost Alex, though.

I never had many friends and I was often bullied or avoided by my peers. Their parents did not like me, nor did they like my family. I was awkward, but surprisingly dysfunctional and could be unruly. I wasn’t a very friendly child - I didn’t know how to be friendly, to be honest. Truth be told, it never actually occurred to me that I needed friends to “fit in” in society - I guess I never really cared about fitting in. Even then, I knew there was something different about me, but didn’t quite know what. I’ve always known that people find me weird and hard to get along with. When I do talk, I tend to talk a bit too long, I overshare, have no filter and say exactly what’s on my mind, not thinking about the consequences that my words may have. I find it easy to be brutally honest. But the thing that I am still learning to grasp is that when the person is leaning away, severing the metaphorical rope of conversation, they want to/ have to leave. I never know when someone isn’t interested in what I have to say. I can’t always read the tone in someone’s voice, making it nearly impossible to tell whether they’re being sarcastic or passive-aggressive.

After the second consultation with my psychiatrist, which further confirmed his suspicions, we had many more, which focused more on my actual mental health. I had many drops that year, leading to a massive crash period that lasted all summer. I had finished my last year of college and got a part-time job in a cafe. I had chosen to stop taking my medication as I believed it didn’t work. Around this time, I started to adopt the label and started to open up about it. I told more and more people about it, mostly strangers, never my family, though. A lot of the strangers saw it and made that quite obvious. Many of them pin-pointed the traits that they agreed I had, therefore making me autistic. Some didn’t quite understand it, causing them to ask me about it. I did some research about autism and bipolar together, to find quite a few people have both.

When I joined my new job that summer, I opened up to a colleague, Lucy, about my autism diagnosis. At first, I thought she’d be understanding and kind of look out for me as she seemed so accepting. I could not be any further from the truth. That entire summer, she was petty, rude, sarcastic, and passive-aggressive. She thought I wouldn’t notice because of the autism, but I did. I know I struggle with social cues and tones, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely stupid. At first, she was so sneaky with it, that I actually never noticed it, but eventually, she became more blatant about it. The whole thing was completely draining and I would dread coming into work every day. At one point, my boss, Paul gave me this massively oversized, wrinkly t-shirt to wear. It had the cafe’s logo in an attempt to form some semblance of a uniform. He demanded I wear it, to which I refused. I did not like the texture, the size, or the smell of the pathetic rag he presented me with. One of my colleagues, Andrea, a fierce and harsh-voiced Slovakian woman, protested in my defence, explaining to Paul that I wished not to wear it and I felt pathetic and uncomfortable wearing it. The thing was like a dress on me! The whole experience was like a fever dream - a memory that I wish I could forget. Paul eventually caved in and let me wear my own t-shirt. The truth is, as hideous as the thing was, I cannot stand, nor will I wear anything that has not been washed in the exact same detergent that my mum uses. I have grown accustomed to the familiar smell of the cheap one she buys from Tesco.

A few months later, I quit the job due to the bullying I faced from all my colleagues.

Now, that was all the context I needed to explain my predicament. I’m still medicated for my bipolar disorder. The issue is now, I was discharged from the clinic after my last two psychiatrists, new ones that decided I wasn’t bipolar, just autistic and there was nothing they could do to help. They took me off my medication and left me to it. That led me down a rabbit hole that was hard to escape, but I wish not to delve into what happened. Let’s just say, my GP put me back on my medication and discarded my last 2 psychiatrists’ decisions completely.

The issue is now, I’ve almost grown accustomed to believing I have autism. But I have a boyfriend now. His name is Daniel, and when we first met, we were both transparent with our issues. Turns out that he, too, has autism and was curious as to how one can have bipolar disorder and autism. Over the last few months, I ended up comparing myself to him and just about anyone else who has autism, which led me to believe I am not autistic, nor am I on the spectrum. I found myself in this place of denial again. I know autism in men and boys presents differently to how it does in women and girls, and how many girls go undiagnosed their whole lives. Well, at some point, a few months into our talking stage, I told Daniel I don’t believe I am autistic and I told him why, which led him to support and believe in me. I don’t actually know whether he believes I am or not. But what I know now is that I’ve fought for my life recently defending myself, saying I am not autistic because I’ve become the mass - the thing I was afraid of people thinking about me: I’m not “autistic enough” by whatever standards I’ve created in my mind. That doesn’t mean that the things that bothered me don’t anymore. The questions I answered, oblivious to the truth, suddenly don’t apply to me anymore. The triggers, the people who noticed, the people who helped me accept a label I didn’t want or expect; something that shaped who I am as a person and how I see the world. That didn’t matter to me anymore, nor did the effort of my wide-eyed psychiatrist. I had 6 doctors in total during my out-patient care at the clinic. All of these had one thing in common: the absolute certainty that I had autism. There were even specialists who believed it and could see it with their naked eyes. It didn’t take much for them to see it. Well, that didn’t matter to me anymore.

The reason I don’t believe I’m autistic? Well, part of me felt guilty for (unintentionally) getting this diagnosis, because I know I’m not as severe and more high-functioning than others, and I know how many people are getting diagnosed. It takes one single-minded buffoon to call it a trend, and anyone getting diagnosed, typically adult and adolescent women and non-binary people -the first people that tend to get bullied when it comes to literally anything. And I believed that I was taking part in a sick trend that belittled and mocked the autistic community because I got diagnosed. I was stupid when I met Daniel because I compared myself to him as he also has autism. Though we obviously have a lot in common, as we are compatible, but also have these traits and quirks. But I felt like a fraud in comparison to him as he was diagnosed when he was a little boy, whereas I was diagnosed at 19. I felt like I was mocking him by not being exactly the same as him - the fact that I also have a mental illness as well as autism. I forced myself to stop believing in my diagnosis - all the evidence and research done. I decided I was a fraud and liar and I felt immense guilt for even telling Daniel I was autistic. The issue is, now I’ve done this, I’ve forced myself to ignore my triggers, instead, suppressing them and letting myself go into meltdown mode. It’s caused me great insecurity and led me to feel overwhelmed and low the whole time.

I did tell Daniel about the problem, but I didn’t feel like I could explain myself well enough. I was afraid he’d hate me if I went back on myself - if I listened to myself. This was far from the truth, as he reassured me that if I did have it, he’d love me just the same and nothing would change his views of me.

It helped, but now I need to come to terms with it again.

[nekollx]

Blue Beat #urban fantasy

Chapter 1: Blue Beat

“And that’s how I became half fox, half machine, and all woman.”

The police chief sat in silence as he took a moment to get a long look at the nearly 12 feet tall cyborg cyan blue vixen standing before him in full, if a bit tight, police uniform.

“Okay joke’s over Tod, you can come out of hiding now.”

“Sir,” the giant said, concern in her voice, “I’m not joking, I’m stuck like this, possibly for the rest of my life, and thanks to the cybernetics that could be measured in hundreds of years!”

The Chief scoffed, “So your telling me you were playing with some prescient tech and got yourself all mangled up in it and had to be surgically grafted to if by a bunch of furies to survive because you pressed the wrong button?”

Tod scowled, ears folding back, lips curing up to show her fangs, “They prefer the term anthro sir, but yes.”

The chief waved a dismissive hand, “I really don’t care what a bunch of animal fucking degenerates prefer they be called.”

“We don’t fuck animals!” Tod snipped.

“We?” the chief rose a brow.

Tod blushed, “Like it or not I’m a ‘furry’ now, too.”

The chief looked dismissive still.

Tod sighed, eyes glowing, “Look I knew this would be hard to explain so had them take pictures and record the operation while I was sedated...haven't had the guts to watch it myself, but check your phone I just sent the files.”

The chief took out his phone still skeptical and started to scan through the folder of pictures that arrived, all color draining from his face before he hurled it away in horror, Tod caught it reflexively and handed it back. “O-Oh god…”

Tod nodded, she was too afraid to look at her own copies but had some ideas, considering her new body.

The chief tried to deny and deflect, “How does a furry even afford that kind of equipment, their now human, not legally, they can’t own property, they need an owner like any animal, who would finance all this?!”

Tod sighed, “Legally Anthros are 40% Human, with at least 3 of them they classify as 1 human and as a collective can own property, work, etc. Rex...the girl who saved me...apparently she was a cosmetic surgery in her past...human...life and makes a living converting other humans who can pay to anthros. Combine with the tech in the transformation belt, and the AIs she was able to...save...me.”

The chief looked Tod over again, “If that really is you Tod you know your fused with department property…” he paused to hold back bile, “And by the looks of things that’s more then 50% of you...legally Tod died, your a AI now.”

“I’m not dead!” Tod growled again, “I’m still mostly flesh and blood!”

“Fur and steel by those pic, like you said yourself, part fox, part machine, all woman. None of that sounds like the human male who used to be called Tod.”

“Sir!” Tod protested.

“Quiet!” the chief snapped, rubbing his temples, “You’ve really put me in a spot, now I have to file a death report, tampering with police property, you’re lucky that Tod died or those furies would be behind bars father then you can chase your tail. But with the victim dead of his own stupidity they get to live free.”

“Sir! I am Tod!”

“User Override: Police Chief Erik Summers, acknowledge and stand by.”

Suddenly Tod went rigid, standing at attention as a voice not his own, not his new female one, took over and spoke for him.

ERIK SUMMERS: ADMIN – ACKNOWLEDGED

The chief sighed, “Register unit name…” he paused giving Tod a final apologetic look, “Crystal Fox”

ERROR – THIS UNIT ALREADY HAS A NAM~

The chief sighed, Internally Tod was panicking, ‘You cant do this!’

the chief interrupted, “Overwrite, register the new name.”

ACKNOWLEDGED – UNIT NAME ‘CRYSTAL FOX’

A jolt ran through Tod Crystal’s mind, and he tried to figure out its meaning.

The chief sighed, “Let’s get this over with. Crystal Override as needed. Your home is this prescient vehicle bay, your female, and your primary user is me. Understood?”

Another jolt as the AI took over responses.

DATABASES UPDATED. ANY FURTHER COMMANDS?

The chief sighed, “No your dismissed, take the day off Crystal, go home. I have a lot of paper work to finish.”

“But, Sir,” Crystal protested, “I have a life…”

“Tod had a life, your property, and a headache, go home Crystal.”

Crystal growled and turned for the exit, “As you wish sir.”

It did not take Crystal Long to reach the vehicle bay, something nagging her at the back of her mind but this was off but with nothing better to do she found an open parking spot, shifted into her buggy form and plugged in for charging, letting her mind wander.

‘I should call Rex, let her know how things turned out. I still don’t fully understand this body. Like she said I’m fully female but I’m also half machine, can I get pregnant?’

Her mind wandering back to when she first came online, and how Rex was able to put on her estrus mode, putting her in ‘heat.’ She said that this was something that could be turned on and off instead of being seasonal like with organics and that she wouldn’t have to worry about periods...but if she could go into heat could she get pregnant?

ESTRUS MODE ♥ENGAGED♥

she purred, ‘Not that having a litter was unappealing.’ before she caught herself. ‘Crystal control yourself! Shenanigans like that got you into this mess.’

ESTRUS MODE DISENGAGED

Crystal sighed in relief and powered down, setting into hibernation mode.

[finelinevogue]

he’s so vogue

Description - you are the journalist for the new Harry Styles December Vogue Issue

A/N - how is everyone doing? hope you enjoy! if you have any requests please feel free to ask. love you all and have a lovely rest of the week!

warnings: swearing

[masterlist]

Being a journalist for Vogue was probably the biggest flex you could ever make.

After 3 years of studying English Literature at Surrey University, you never thought, only a year after, you'd be working as an apprentice at Vogue UK. If it weren't for your Aunty, who worked in the fashion design section at Vogue HQ, then you'd no doubt still be a broke-ass, single, lonely student. Ok, lonely you still were but your job was so full-on that you didn't have time for a relationship.

Two years into your apprenticeship you were promoted to an official member of the team, and then another two years later you got promoted to team leader in your department of journalism, and editing; The Media - or as you like to call it - "The Celeb Goss". You were beyond happy with your job and found such passion in every article your wrote. Whether it be about a new celebrity romance or the collapse of one, you found a way to story-tell in such a meditated way that everyone loved your pieces.

That's why the Harry Styles had requested you to be the one to interview him.

Of course you'd written about A-list celebrities in the past, producing articles on pregnancy rumours, or engagements, or breakups, but you'd never met them before authoring an article. You'd met plenty of D-list celebrities who thought they were mega famous, but if you mentioned their names people would turn around and ask "who?".

This is why interviewing Harry Styles was a massive thing for you.

Not very often did you get to do work out in the field, especially in these covid infested days, but nevertheless it was your favourite part of the job. Getting to meet the people you were writing about was completely refreshing, allowing you to obtain a clearer outlook on which direction to take on your journal piece.

You were asked to go to Stonehenge, where the photoshoot was being filmed, as your office of interview. Even though you'd lived in the UK all your life, you'd never actually been to Stonehenge. It wasn't really on your bucket-list, but it was a pleasure to get to see it all the same.

Being the prepared interviewer you were, you'd prepared an array of questions that you were set on asking Harry. You'd never met him before, but after much googling and youtubing of him prior to meeting him today you would already be confident in saying he's the most brilliant man to ever exist. You were really nervous that you were going to screw this interview up and make a terrible mess in front of Harry Styles.

"Lisa! What if I accidentally say something I shouldn't?" You ran your stressed hands through your hair.

This whole morning had been frantic. It had started off by you waking up late, no thanks to Lisa, your best-friend and co-worker, pressing snooze on the alarm. You wanted to look professional today so you'd put on your best shirt - only to spill coffee down it ten minutes later. So now, you smelt of coffee and were wearing what was left in your wardrobe - and it wasn't much. The only things left clean were a pair of pink corduroy flares and some, pastel coloured, graphic t-shirt to go with it.    

"You won't. Stop being so negative." Lisa rolled her eyes, probably fed up with the amount of winging she'd heard from you this morning - and you'd only been awake an hour.

"My outfit is hardly professional either." You huffed, pouring the rest of your, second, coffee down the drain.

"Well I think you look gorgeous." Lisa stated, whilst putting her breakfast bar wrapper in the bin.

You and Lisa were back and forth about you stressing, and such, for about half an hour before you had to leave. You had a great panic about losing your glasses too. You could see without them up close, but for long distance viewing and reading you were practically blind. You were taking Lisa's car, since she didn't think you were emotionally stable enough to drive. Lisa was the creative director on the set, and thank goodness she was so you could at least ramble to someone.

After a two hour drive up from London, you arrived at Stonehenge and it was freezing. Although the sun was out, it did nothing to keep your body heated. The journey up had been nice because you sat in your nicely heated car, chatting away with Lisa and blasting some Harry Styles out of the speaker. You'd made it through the first album, and the second one up to Canyon Moon before reaching your destination.

Upon arriving you could just about, without glasses, make out about 15 other cars, arranged at the bottom of a hill. There was an array of Audis and BMWs, a few Range Rovers, which you placed your bets on one was Harrys, and a green, vintage, Jaguar which was most likely belonging to the fashion editor or something. There was also a modern barn, perched at the foot of the hill, which was where Harry would be getting changed in to his various different outfits.

It took you a moment to register that Lisa had parked and was already clambering out of the car, making you look a little idiotic still blankly staring at the beautiful scenes in front, and around, of you.

But it was still bloody freezing.

You jogged a little to the boot and whipped out your white cardigan. Originally you'd thought that this would've been enough to keep you warm, but now you were starting to think otherwise.

The atmosphere here was amazing. People were rushing around left, right and centre loading, and unloading, various pieces of equipment and clothes. You caught sight of brightly coloured fabrics being carried to and from various places. There were the camera crew, and presumably director, all chatting amongst themselves. The smell of the very fresh air was so lush that you'd forgotten what it smelt like - especially after years in London.

You grabbed your bag from the boot, which had your notes, recording kit and laptop stuffed inside, before locking the car and following Lisa in to the barn.

It was lovely and warm inside - a completely different climate to than the outside. It was as if it was Bali inside and Antarctica outside. Better Bali than Antarctica though.

"Ok. Let's put our stuff down over here and then go find people we need to meet and such." Lisa instructed, you still too in awe of the place to fully comprehend what was going on.

You followed Lisa and you two ended up dropping off your stuff next to some other bags. You took a liking to the purse next to your stuff. Next to your bag, it made yours seem ancient - like it was worth nothing more than a penny. It was luscious and a beautiful baby blue colour. You softly ran your hands over it, finding satisfaction in how smooth and subtle it was.

"Hope you're not planning on stealing that, love." A manly voice appeared from behind you. You whipped around to see who's bag you'd been messing with, and it was just your luck that it was to be Harry Styles'. Of all the people's it could've been it had to be his. 

Perfect.

He looked dashing. He was in black flares and his iconic 'But daddy i love him', t-shirt, along with a huge green anorak. His hair was prettily clipped back with a pink clip, presumably placed there to gave his curls greater volume. In his hand he had a pink toothbrush and you guessed he'd come back over to put it away in his bag - only to find you caressing it instead.

"Oh - no, no. Not at all. I - uh - I just thought it was beautiful." You stammered over your words, choosing them carefully to try and make you look less like an active criminal.

"Mhm." Harry nodded whilst looking you up and down, most likely judging why a peasant like you, in comparison to him, was touching his expensive property. "Well, I love your flares darlin'." Harry looked down at your trousers, his compliment making you blush a little.

"Thank you. That wasn't professional, and neither is my outfit, I know, and I apologise." You added, because you knew that if your boss knew you turned up today the way you did she would give you a right bollocking - and potentially even fire you.

"Never apologise for flares. You look amazing." Gemma perked up, making you feel more self conscious surrounded by all these other beautiful women. Gemma was in a slouchy, knitted, jumper and basic jeans - no doubt all from shops beyond your budget - and yet she looked like a model fit for the runway for Vogue.

"Okay, sorry." You apologised again, to which you, creepily, got the exact same, stern, look from the Styles siblings at the same time.

"My stylist, Harry, introduced me to big pants. He offered whether I wanted to try a pair of flares, and I was like, 'Flares? That's fucking crazy'!" Harry laughed as he told his story, earning a laugh out of you too. "Now they're my favourite item of clothing. Have a whole wardrobe dedicated to them."

"I wish he was joking." Gemma laughed at her brother and his flare obsession.

"Well you do look handsome in them, so I understand why." Your words rolls off your tongue before you could even comprehend what you were saying. Only after you finished your sentence did you completely intake what you'd just said.

"Good start." Lisa giggled to you, before turning to walk over to the coffee station. It was a help-yourself coffee bar and you knew that you were going to bed at least five cups to get over the last five minutes alone. You'd probably drain the station before letting anyone else have any.

"Oh god." You awkwardly mumbled, not daring to see how weirdly Harry would be looking at you, before walking off outside.

You had spent less than 10 minutes here and yet you'd never felt like a bigger clown. Joining the circus had never been so easy.

The outside wind hit you like a powerful leaf blower, and your hair blew around like crazy - most likely compiling into a birds nest on the top of your head.

Today was supposed to be the start of something great. Your hopes were set on a promotion from your written masterpiece, whilst enjoying the company of one of the most handsome, most lovely, most talented men of this century. Those hopes seemed a little too distant now. They seemed to mock you, as if to laugh at how you ever thought you were going to be any more successful. You'd completely, in more ways than one, made a fool of yourself in front of your interviewee, you were so underdressed, you were caught fondling his Gucci purse and you were still bloody cold.

It all felt too unprofessional for a job where professional was practically the driving force of the company.

You leaned against the barn, taking a deep breath to try and calm yourself. You were a master in over-thinking, but unfortunately that wasn't something you could add to your resumé. You let your eyes close and the other senses come alive for a few moments. The sounds of distant sheep and the smell of the cold wind were just two of the senses that allowed you to take a step back for a minute, and breathe.

"Thank you." A voice interrupted you from your attempt of quick meditation. You looked to your left and noticed Harry standing there, still in the same outfit as before.

"I'm sorry?" You asked confused, taking a step away from the barn to considerately pay more attention to him.

"Thank you - for saying I look handsome in flares." He repeated, smirking when he added the second part.

"Oh." Was all you could respond, feeling too embarrassed to take the conversation any further. "I should—" You pointed back to the barn, using it as an excuse to leave before yet screwed up anymore.

"Lisa told me you're the interviewer." Harry added, and it only occurred to you that you'd never actually introduced yourself. "So it's lovely to finally meet you Y/N." He stuck out his hand for your to shake, which you did willingly. His hands were a lot softer than you'd expected.

"Ho... You know my name?" You asked surprised.

"Of course. I also know you're the best writer in Vogue right now." He flattered you, which made you blush. You had a feeling he'd make you do that a lot today.

"Sure." You rolled your eyes as you spoke sarcastically.

"Well I chose you for a reason, didn't I?" He rhetorically asked.

"I mean.. I, well.. I don't know?" You stumbled over your words, making yourself look like a larger fool than you did already. Today was just turning out to be exactly what you didn't want it to be. "Sorry."

"Stop apologising. You do it too often." He told you, nearly making you apologise again but he gave you a jokingly stern look, as if he knew what you were going to say, and so you decided otherwise.

"Harry!" You both turned to see there was a man waving towards you both, but specifically to Harry. "Come get changed!" The same man shouted. Harry lifted his thumbs up, as if to signal he'd be there shortly.

Harry turned back to you and noticed you shiver a little.

"I'll start the interview after I come back from the dressing rooms, yeah?" Harry asked, taking off his, khaki green, trench-coat in the process. He handed it to you before you could oblige against it.

"Wait what?" You confusedly looked down at the coat and back up to Harry.

"Gives me a piece of mind knowing my interviewer isn't going to die of hypothermia before actually interviewing me." He smiled, obviously attempting to crack a joke and you have to admit you did laugh.

"Thank you." You say, before he runs off to where he's being called to.

                                                            ••••

You'd been sat inside for a little while, waiting for Harry to come back. It gave you time to perfect your questions though.

Thinking up questions to ask Harry had been a challenging task, but one that you'd been fully invested in. You loved creating questions to ask him that were going to get to understand him on a deeper level. He was a very private man, and you completely respected that. If you crossed any boundaries, with the questions you'd ask, you would write them out of the interview. You liked to think you hadn't thought up a question that would make him feel uncomfortable though.

Pissing off Harry would be on another level of shame.

"Coat kept you warm?" Harrys voice disengaged you from your notebook.

"Hm?" You asked then replayed what he'd just asked in your mind. "Oh, yes. Thank you very much." You stood up, from where you'd been perched on the floor, picking up your nearly finished green tea as you did so.

Only when you stood up did it come to your realisation that Harry was now in costume. He was dressed in luxury. Each item looked like it cost more than your rent, and that was saddening. He looked rich and luxurious. To be quite honest, you were finding it rather difficult to take your eyes off him.

"You think the outfit is Vogue enough?" Harry asked, striking a few poses, which made you laugh. It was refreshing to see him act so relaxed and carefree, rather than a stuck-up-prick you knew some celebrities to be.

"Completely. I love it!" You exclaimed, appreciating the twirl he did for you.

He was wearing a kilt-like skirt and he looked beyond beautiful in it. Fuck toxic masculinity. Fuck being a manly man - like what does that even mean? Harry was embracing gender fluidity and experimenting the ways in which there was no definitive line between men and women's clothes anymore, and you thought it was marvellous. Revolutionary, for times as politically and socially troubled as these.

You started removing the coat in attempt to give it back to him, but he refrained you from doing so by holding on to your forearm.

"Keep it. I thought we could go outside to start the interview, so you'll be needing that." Harry told you, and you agreed - however reluctantly that was. You couldn't really complain though, because the coat did kept you warm and, what's better, it smelt divine - just like you'd imagine Harry to smell.

"Okay. Thank you. Do you want to go now?" You asked hesitantly, not knowing whether he was busy for someone else right now.

"Whenever you're ready, love." He answered, making you feel more relaxed. He was going at your pace and was making you feel settled - he was even more of a gentleman than people described him to be.

The two of you had walked around the backside of the barn in silence, enjoying the comfort of each other's presence. Well, at least you were. It was a blessing no one was back here. It was just you, Harry and the scenery that surrounded Stonehenge.

You approached a bench and you plopped yourself down on one end, whilst Harry sat on the other. He respected the fact that there was a pandemic going on, and didn't want to make you uncomfortable in any way. You still had your mask on, so Harry had taken that as you were very conscious about the virus - which he admired.

You pulled out your glasses, from the depths of one of the coat pockets, and placed them on your face, probably making yourself look even geekier than you already felt. Today was just one of those days you wished you had good eyes...

You opened your spent notebook, musty pages practically falling apart, and turned to the section of questions you needed for that interview. You were so nervous already and you hadn't even asked anything yet, all because of the previous interactions with Harry today. Your shaky hands shuffled through the pages and you cursed under your breath when you struggled to find what you needed.

"Shoot. Come on." You mumbled quietly under your breath, hoping it would make this terrible situation end faster. You mustn't have been as quiet as you thought though.

"Y/N." Harry's name broke through your clouded mind of self-disappointment.

You looked up at him to see him softly smiling at you, blowing all worries away from you away with the wind. "Yes?" You timidly asked, pushing your wind-swept hair out of glasses - where it'd gotten caught.

"You’re alright, love. You don't have to be professional around me, alright? We're just two strangers having a conversation, to get to know each other, okay?" If his words didn't calm you enough, the soothing sound of his husky voice certainly did.

"But that would mean you asking me stuff too?" You replied, confused at his implications of the phrasing 'getting to know each other'.

"Mhm." Harry nodded his head.

"Oh I don't know Mr Styles, i'm not a very interesting person." You answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, pushing your glasses back up the bridge of your nose from where they'd fallen.

"I refuse to believe that." Harry chuckled, making a quick smile appear on your face. "And please call me Harry. Just Harry." He begged, obviously finding it weird you calling him by his professional title. All you wanted, ever, was for your interviewee's to feel comfortable and safe, so if Harry wanted you to call him Harry then so be it.

"Ok, Harry," you sarcastically said, earning a shake of the head on his behalf, "you can ask me a few questions throughout the day." You told him, but you knew he'd struggle to find even two questions when he realises how bland you are.

"Does that mean you only get to ask me a few as well?" Harry smirked, already knowing the answer to that question. Unlike Harry, you had to write an article about today when you got home and so he knew that you'd have to dig as much dirt as possible from him.

"No, sorry. I don't particularly want to lose my job." You paused to look down at your notes, squinting a little as you did to see better. "Okay. Tell me your experience with corona virus."

"Sorry I didn't quite catch that, love." Harry apologised, leaning in slightly to see if he could hear you a second time around.

"Sorry." You looked down to fiddle with your fingers - a habit you'd undertaken when you're embarrassed. "Um..," you cleared your throat, "would you mind if I took off my mask?"

Your timid voice sent tingle down Harrys spine. He didn't think anyone could ever be this sweet. "Not at all, ‘course you can." He replied, again, wanting to make you feel as comfortable as possible.

You hesitantly took off your face mask, feeling like you were in some dramatic movie where they face revealed someone. You kind of liked having the mask on, because, for one, it kept you warm, and for two, you were a little self conscious with how you looked compared to all the other women here today. You shoved the mask in your pocket, with trembling fingers, before looking back down to your notes.

"Woah." You heard Harrys voice being mumbled under the wind. You eyes shot up to his and you noticed him staring right back at you.

"W-what? Is my acne playing up? I knew I should've—" You self-consciously run your hands over the areas you know you got acne. The masks really didn't help when it came to skin care.

"Hey, stop. No. You just... You look beautiful." Harry complimented you, and a roaring blush arose on to your cheeks. You'd never been called beautiful before, and so you were taking the compliment like such a 13-year old.

"Oh, uh, thank you." You awkwardly answered, not really having any other words come to mind in that moment. Harry chuckled under his breath, still keeping eyes on you for some reason.

"Would you mind repeating your last question, I didn't quite catch it?" Harry asked politely.

"Sure. Um, tell me how you've experienced corona virus." You repeated for him, gripping ahold of your pen to start copying what he says and pressing start on your recording device in case you needed it later.

"Well, it's been tedious that's for sure. However, I just want people to be safe and for life to return back to normal, so therefore i've been very MIA for a lot of the time. Keeping to myself mostly. I only went out for hikes or bike rides. All my meetings were online, so it's been very lonely." Harry kept eye contact with your figure the entire time, and if it weren't for you concentrating on writing what he was saying then you'd probably melt away under his gaze.

For such soft eyes he sure was intimidating.

"I presume the loneliness sent you crazy at times." You laughed, because you sure felt that way through lockdown. Curse being single.

"You have no idea." Harry laughed along with you, making you, slowly, feel more at ease.

"Actually, you'd be surprised." You looked at him unsure, before returning down to your notebook.

"Okay then, first question from me," Harrys words made your head shoot up, "How can someone as amazing as yourself be lonely?" He asked and you made a mental tally of how many questions he'd asked.

"Could ask you the very same question, Harry." You slyly replied, avoiding the question by answering with another question. It was a tactic you'd learnt, throughout your years of journalism, when you wanted to dismiss something .

"That's cheating." Harry pointed at you and raised his eyebrows, but you couldn't take your eyes off the big, cheeky, smile perched on his face. You shrugged you're shoulders in defence and returned to your questions. "But you did just call me amazing, so I think i'll let it slide this one time." You blushed, again, when you understood what he meant.

He was amazing though - that was the truth.

"You were in L.A. for the majority of quarantine, am I right to say?" You already knew the answer but your manager had just wanted confirmation.

"Yeah, but L.A. feels like holiday, whereas London feels like home." He answered, which you appreciated. He hasn't got lost in the way that Hollywood could let people. He'd stayed grounded.

"So what did you entertain yourself with during quarantine?" You asked curiously, slightly side-tracking from your pre-written questions - just because you were intrigued (nosey).

"Not much, not to be boring. I ate a lot of bread. I worked out pretty much every day. I wrote quite a bit actually." He used his fingers to pinch his bottom lip, something you'd noticed he did in interviews.

"Does that mean a new album on the way?" Your inner fangirl was screaming at the thought of HS3.

"Can neither confirm nor deny." Harry smirked to himself, like the cheeky bugger he is.

"That's a yes then." You joked, pretending to write it down in your notes.

"You're impossible, you." Harry laughed and shook his head. It made you feel all funny the way you could make him smile like that. You were the source of his happiness for just that moment, and that was enough to make you feel happy for a lifetime - not that he felt the same.

"Next question," you stated, moving swiftly on because you knew you had limited time, "How's your experience with Vogue been so far?"

"Wonderful. Everyone has been so welcoming and that makes it so much easier for me to have fun. It's daunting going at things alone, but i'm getting slowly used to it now." Harry sniffled a little, probably due to the freezing cold weather here.

"Must be strange, not having four best friends around you, all the time, anymore." You stated rather than asked him, sure that he was missing his bandmates. I mean, you were - so he definitely would be.

"Brothers." Harry replied, making you look up at him confused.

"I'm sorry?" You asked, giving him your full attention.

"You said four best friends. Well, actually they're my brothers." His words actually caused a rift in your heart. You could feel it being pulled apart and torn in to two. If you wrote this in to the magazine the fans would have a worldwide passing-away-party.

"Harry." You said softly, slightly tearing up at his words. "God, I swear i'm not normally this emotional." You chest your throat and try to establish your dignity - however there wasn't that much left anymore.

"Oh shut up." Harry looked away obviously trying to hide the fact that he was tearing up too. You laughed at him but didn't draw any more attention to it than you guessed he would've wanted.

"They mean a lot to you then?" You asked, hopefully not treading on any unwanted territories.

"Much more than a lot, yeah." Harry nodded his head, turning it back to face you. He could tell this conversation was now off-the-record because of your closed notebook, your undivided attention towards him and the fact you’d turned off the recording device. He liked being able to look at you, rather than the top of your head. He swore you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

"You still see them often?" 

"Not as often as i'd like. Niall did come around the other week to drop off some old guitars he didn't want anymore, and then we ended up playing around with some music for a bit." He admitted, which stitched your heart back together.

"So does that mean a Narry collab?" You teased, biting your bottom lip in anticipation.

"Narry? You so are a directioner." He laughed along with you.

"And you just avoided my question, therefore there is a song out there written only by you and Niall." You concluded, which shut him up.

This conversation was going a lot better than expected. Certainly a lot better than earlier. You will be permanently scarred by the way you spoke to him and handled his belongings. It was going to haunt you forever - and yet he'd forget about it by tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn't, which is why you felt the need to apologise.

"Harry?" You asked, clearly indicating this was still a conversation away from the interview.

"Yes Y/N?" He watched you intently, listening to your every word.

"I, um, just wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier. I was just really nervous to meet you, and to be honest still am. I didn't mean to touch your stuff without your consent and I certainly didn't mean to make you uncomfortable with any of my comments. So, i'm sorry. I can only imagine the awful, yet true, things you must think of me." You rambled really quickly, that you were uncertain whether Harry even caught one word of what you'd says.

"Do you know why I asked for you to interview me Y/N?" Harry asked, which wasn't the first thing you expected him to say after your apology.

"No. I...well Lisa told me it was because I can write well or something." You suggested, not wanting to sound egotistical.

"I mean you do write perfectly, but no." You were intrigued now. "I asked for you because I, and this is not for your magazine, have a secret - but not-so-secret - crush on you." This time it was Harrys turn to blush.

"Harry... you don't have to say that to—"

"I'm not saying it for anything. I sincerely think you are the most delightful, most prettiest, most fucking sweetest person i've ever met." Harry exclaimed, which you were taken aback by. Never, ever, did you think that Harry Styles would proclaim his likeness towards you. Ever.

"Harry don't mess with me, please." You shyly spoke, tilting your head down in disbelief that the Harry Styles was smitten about you.

He shuffled along the bench, stopping a little way from you but close enough to reach out for you. Your heartbeat increased when you noticed his hand move closer towards you. It didn't stop till he reached your face. He took his time, courteously, pushing your hair behind your ear before removing you of your glasses. He held the right-eye frame and slowly pulled the glasses off your face.

Once he'd successfully taken them off he folded them up and placed them alongside your closed notebook.

"Can see those pretty eyes now." He whispered quietly, but loud enough for you to hear.

"Don't lie. They're so dull." You mumbled, lifting your head up slightly. His face was still away from you.

"Not to me they're not." He retaliated, looking deep into your eyes as you did his. "I hate this corona virus."

"Why?" His words were so out of the blue sometimes, it gave you whiplash.

"Because I can't be as near to you as I want to be." Harry told you. And yeah, you hated corona too. It was getting a little laborious now.

"Smooth, Styles." You chuckled. You wondered how many new and weird pick-up lines could be made from covid. 

"I know." He winked, which honestly would have made you throw up if it were any other man on the planet. Somehow, though, Harry just made it seem attractive - along with every other thing that man ever did. "After this, would you like to come back to my house for a cuppa tea?" He asked sweetly, like a five year old asking whether you wanted to play together.

"Okay. Lisa was my ride though." You said more to yourself than anything else, debating on how you'd even get to Harrys. Uber? Taxi? Lisa? Walk?

"I'll drive us, it's fine. I have to drop Gem off, but i'd be more than happy to chauffeur you." Harry kindly offered, to which you were internally screaming about. You were literally, and metaphorically, having a field-day with all this Harry content and interview.

"Are you sure? I don't want to be a burden." You question politely, not wanting to overstep any boundaries - especially in these covid infested times.

"Of course. I wouldn't have offered otherwise." He protested, waving his hand at if to say it was no bother. You were already trying to work out, in your head, how much petrol money you were going to owe him.

"Then i'd be honoured to have a brew with you Harry." You giggled at how cringe you were being, even if this was just your normal self speaking.

"Great." Harry genuinely smiled, teeth and all. "My shoot should take a couple of hours, but feel free to continue to write and journal. I'm looking forward to reading this particular article." He winked at you before standing up.

"Wonder why?" You sarcastically asked, knowing full-well it was due to his exposure of his own feelings towards you. Even though you'd never says anything back you were quite in agreement on how you felt about him, like he did you. He would be a narcissist to say he knew you liked him the same, out loud, but he knew. And you knew that he knew.

"Wonder why indeed." He gave you one last smile before he'd disappeared for the rest of the afternoon, leaving you to digest and relive the past half an hour or so.

Being Harry Styles' crush was probably the biggest flex you could ever make.

                                                          ••••

After Harry had finished up his shoot he was quick to come find you again.

You'd watched parts of his shoot and he looked magnificent. There wasn't a good enough word to describe how amazing he looked. Harry, his stylist, was probably the best stylist out there. His fashion choices were unmatched and you wanted him to be yours. You were not rich enough nor fashionable enough, ironic for working in a a fashion company, to hire a stylist, but you would if you could.

You were so proud to see what he was achieving now as the person that he was. Harry was just being Harry, without the devilish control of shitty managements or ridiculous amounts of PR stunts. Harry was more free than ever, and it definitely showed just how much he was enjoying it.

You were certain that this Vogue magazine would break the internet - his fans were good at doing that. This could be a turning point for many people, with their outdated and ignorant views. There was no room for people with racist or homophobic or transphobic or xenophobic - and the list does go on - views anymore.

You were waiting by the front door of the barn, to catch Harry as he walked past. You caught sight of him in a white robe, presumably to get changed back into his everyday clothes. He looked really pretty in the robe - very domestic actually.

Today had been a good day.

Harry asked you to send over the more specific Vogue questions to him via email, so he could devote more time in to answering them in a lot more depth. You thought he meant you'd be sending them to some PA in his team, but you were shocked to understand he'd given you his personal email.

People were walking back to their cars and packing away the filming kit. You saw Lisa and the director talking to one another, no doubt discussing some in-work gossip.

"You ready?" Harrys voice reminded you that you'd been waiting for him. You looked to see he was back in the same clothes as this morning, only this time without his coat.

"Here?" You offered, having him over the coat once again but he declined.

"Looks better on you anyways." He winked at you, before walking through the car park and to his car. You were very surprised when you found out Harry was the one to own the green Jaguar. You assumed all celebrities drove the Range Rover, but no. The vintage car added to Harrys immaculate vibe and just made him that little bit more hot.

Harry properly introduced you to Gemma, who was equally as lovely as Harry. They were both amazing people and they were crazily alike. From the way they looked, down to the way they phrased their words, they were mistakingly twins. Gemma explained how Anne, their mum, didn't know they were doing this photoshoot and that it was going to be a surprise, which you thought was so cute.

Gemma spilt a lot of gossip on Harry, to which he got very embarrassed over. You learnt that Harrys first word was Cat. You learnt that Harry is godfather to multiple children, which you found heartwarming. You learnt Harry used to be a baker - which was something he elaborated on for a good half an hour. Harry was just a fountain of memories and Gemma was the one sharing them all with you.

The drive back to London was relaxed. You sat in the back, listening to Harry and Gemma pointlessly argue whilst an Arctic Monkeys album played in the background. You forgot that people like Harry drove, and listened to music, just like other regular people. You often misplaced celebrities in society, thinking they had everything done for them but in reality that (often) wasn't the case - at least not for Harry.

Gemma was dropped off quickly before Harry drove to his. It was no surprise that the Styles siblings didn't live too far away from each other. Harrys house was beautiful. Bigger than anything you could ever dream of buying. It was a palace compared to your cupboard-sized house. You were unbelievably jealous. He gave you the tour of the house, showing you where the toilets were, and even his panic room if necessary.

You migrated to the kitchen for a bit, talking about anything and everything. Getting to know the minuscule pieces of information that no-one else was trusted with, made you feel special. Harry made you feel special - even if he weren't meaning to.

Every moment held a spark. Every touch set off a firework. Every laugh was an electric burst. He made you feel so alive.

"We can go to the living room after this has boiled." Harry said, pointing towards the streaming kettle. He wanted to show off his fancy tea collection he had, and let you have a try if you wanted to. Harry was boring and chose the basic green tea, but, after much deliberation, you chose the cranberry green tea. It intrigued you and it sounded delicious.

"Why the extensive tea collection?" Not even you, a certified caffeine addict, had this much tea in your house. Coffee was a different story and one in which you didn't want to talk about.

"They help me with my meditation." He took the teabags and placed them in his glass mugs. They had a delicate Gucci stamp on them, and you just imagined that they probably worth the same amount as your daily salary.

"You meditate?" You were slightly surprised that he did.

"I try to yeah." Harry nodded, focusing on pouring in the boiling water into the mugs. "I've got very tight hamstrings and so it helps if I meditate twice a day."

Harry finished making the tea, in the light-filled kitchen, before showing you around to the open-lounge area. Everything was modern and chic. It was exactly how you imagined it, but better. The open, red-brick, wall was a beautiful feature and one that you were a whore for! It reminded you of New York and the memories you'd made there one summer.

The sofa was a beautiful velvet, green, sofa. It was soft and gentle, a lot like Harry when you thought about it. The whole house was an architectural masterpiece and you'd be lying if you said you weren't jealous. You sat on one end and Harry went to go and sit on the other end.

"I don't bite you know?" You joked, self-consciously wondering whether he didn't want to be sat near you.

"I know, I just don't want to step on any of your covid boundaries - which is perfectly fine by the way." He added, apprehensively taking the spot next to you.

"No, not at all." You ushered him to sit next to you, as you took a sip from your steaming hot cup of fruity tea. "If I smell though, do tell me!"

"Yeah, you smell bloody awful!" Harry sarcastically remarked, but laughing afterwards to assure you he was joking. The atmosphere went quiet for a minute, only the sounds of passing cars and deep breaths being heard.

"Y/N can I ask you something?" Harry turned the tone of the conversation. It sounded like he wanted to be more serious than you two were being beforehand.

"Anything." You encouraged him to continue. You placed the cup of tea down on the table, deciding it was too hot to drink right now, and gave him your full attention.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Harry questioned. You didn't think you'd be having a conversation this intense - especially if you had different opinions - on your first day of knowing each other, but here you were.

"I believe you can love someone at first sight. I don't believe you can be in love with someone at first sight. Why?" You were curious as to how his brain had journeyed to this particular topic. You'd never really had this conversation with anyone before, mainly because you were unaware of the true power, and meaning, of love.

"It uh... It doesn't matter." Harry shook his head and you could tell by his body language that he was shutting you out. Maybe you'd made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry I didn't mean to—"

"No, no. Please don't apologise. It's just - I like you a lot more than you may think." Harry shyly told you, which made you all soft inside. He was being vulnerable and that was something you admired in a partner. You didn't just need love, affection and trust in a relationship. No. You needed vulnerability and heartbreak too, and Harry was revealing that part of him to you.

"I like you a lot more than you think too." You repeated, not because you felt bad for him but because you truly did like him a whole lot. Love was a weird yet wonderful thing, and if you were to hazard a guess you'd say you loved Harry. 

You couldn't wait to be in love with him.

"Does that mean I get to crown you my girlfriend?" Harry excitedly asked. Harry happy was something that should be made a constant, and you were more than happy to be in control of that.

"At least take me out first." You bargained, wishing for nothing more than to go on a date with Harry. Where you'd go, you had no idea. Everything was closed right now and there was still the chance of becoming sick with corona, but no doubt Harry would think of something not only clever, but special.

Of course you'd love to be Harrys girlfriend. However, you wanted one more, official, opportunity to really get to know him - unprofessionally. You wanted to make sure that you knew, and he knew, that you wanted to be with him because he was the charming Harry you've come to love, not because he was Harry Styles.

"So you're allowing me to take you on a date?" Harry smirked like a little child, your heart fluttering at how excited he was to be able to treat you to dinner.

"Yes, Harry. Yes I am." You answered sweetly, offering him the cutest smile you could.

You can't believe what a turn of events today has been. You've gone from nearly writing yourself on Harrys enemy list to writing yourself on to his 'people he's dated' list. Who knows what the future would offer you. At the start of the day you had wished this whole day to end and for the ground to just swallow you up, now you never wanted it to end. It was too perfect to be true and yet it was.

Harry was the most wonderful human to exist and you were beyond surprised to be the one to catch his attention. You didn't understand why you were so special, but it was nice to feel like this for a change. It was nice to feel wanted.

                                                             ••••

A few months later and you were officially Harrys girlfriend.

It had been such a crazy few months. Harry religiously took you out on dates every week. Whether it be to grab a hotdog at a local diner, a coffee from a quaint cafe, a walk in Hyde Park or a late-night drive around London - which normally ended up with you falling asleep before you could make it back to yours. On sleepless jet-lagged nights he'll still drive through London's quiet streets, seeing neighborhoods in a new way, just as an excuse to spend time with you.

Harry often stayed over at yours. Even though you looked like you lived in a shoebox compared to Harry, he liked it. He liked the subtly and normality of it all. He wanted your life to remain as normal as possible and, apart from the occasional paparazzi incident, it did. You never had anything to complain about. Of course the online bullying created emotional wounds, at the start of your relationship, but it was nothing that Harry couldn't repair with a bit of love.

Lisa has nominated herself to be maid-of-honour when the day comes - if the day comes. Harry has already pinky sworn that you are it for him. The one, as some may say. You were utterly flattered, but you certainly unsure of what the future help for you both.

You loved Harry, you do love Harry and you will forever always love Harry.

It was ridiculous to think that all this stemmed from you working at Vogue. From you studying English Literature in a city away from London. From you dedicating you extra hours gaining work experience and money to be able get in and afford university. So many moments in life have you stopped and said 'i wish i hadn't have done that', but now you were convinced that they were the best things to have happened to you - because they lead you, all, to Harry.

And, being Harry Styles girlfriend was probably the biggest flex you could ever make.

[noctumbra]

𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍

summary ─ “i’m so glad that we came across to each other,” bucky said. “it really felt nice to catch up with you, to talk to you.”

pairing ─ fuckboy!teacher!bucky barnes x reader

warnings ─ fluff, seeing each other after yeeeears later, coffee shop conversations, catching up, EPILOGUE

a/n ─ i said i wasn’t sure about writing this but i couldn’t stop myself because i want this soft and sweet closure for them without tears lol. thank you for all the love you’ve given me throughout this trilogy series. i’m really thankful. also i’m sorry for making y’all cry a lot djhfdjhf. this is the epilogue. hope you like it. please leave a comment if you do! thank you! i love you all <3

previous part ─ series masterlist

  TEN YEARS LATER

You exhaled a sigh of relief as you threw yourself into your favorite coffee shop, finally getting the chance to escape from the scorching heat of the sun. Stepping away from the door, you closed your eyes for a second. The cool breeze of the air conditioning was hitting your face so nicely, you felt like you could cry.

Shivering lightly, you opened your eyes and walked towards the short line in front of the register. You deserved a grande coffee after the very busy day you had. Your eyes were hurting slightly because you’ve been looking at the computer screen for hours now.

“Thank fuck the weekend is here,” you murmured to yourself as you fished your wallet out. You heard the guy in front of you humming in an approving way, and you froze for a second. “I should have whispered,” you said, and the guy chuckled this time. Grimacing to yourself, you decided to shut up.

As you waited for your turn, you started to watch people around you. Everyone was either tired-looking or way-too-jittery-looking because of all the caffeine and sweets. Most of them had come here with a friend, you realized and frowned lightly. Inhaling the freshly brewed coffee smell deeply, you moved your eyes to the guy in front of you.

He was tall. He had dark brown, mid-length hair, it was a bit longer than mid-length, though, you noted. He had whites peppered in it, and it looked good. He had a navy colored suit on him. The suit jacket was hugging his broad shoulders very nicely, and the suit pants he had on was complimenting his thick thighs. You hummed silently to yourself. You moved two steps forward, eyes still on the guy, as the people on the register was done with their order. It was the guy’s turn.

“Hello,” he murmured, and you felt a lick of familiarity. “Can I get a black coffee, grande?” You frowned. The guy’s voice was familiar. You watched him grabbing a small protein bar. “And this.” The boy at the register nodded as he punched in the order, and the guy in front of you pulled his wallet to pay.

You saw the hand tattoo. Your eyes widened.

“Name?” The boy asked. The guy looked up briefly.

“James.” You watched his hand as he pulled out some money and gave them to the boy. He was wearing the rings from─

“Bucky?” You asked, surprise audible in your voice. Bucky startled, his shoulders went stiff and he turned around. His baby blue eyes bored into yours as they widened with surprised.

“Y/N?” He breathed. “Oh my God.” You let out a chuckle.

“There you go,” the boy said, handing out the extra money. Bucky cursed lightly as he took the money and stepped aside. Just as he opened his mouth, his name was called. You saw him clenching his jaw. Your smile widened. “What can I get you?” You blinked, returning to the real world.

“Cappuccino, grande. Non-lactose milk, please. No foam,” you said your order and handed out the money. The boy nodded. “Y/N,” you gave him your name without him asking for it. The boy worked quick; he told your order and gave your cup to the barista and handed some of your money back. You bid him good day before you walked towards where Bucky was still standing.

Goddamn, you thought. He looked good.

The whites in his hair were also in his stubble, covering his chin slightly. He looked grown, albeit a bit older, and the crinkles around his eyes made him look more handsome than he normally was.

“Holy crap, Y/N,” Bucky said, his eyes moving up and down on your body. “I can’t believe you still look as gorgeous as before.” You chuckled, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks after literal years. “Not that I expected you to look bad, by the way,” he said, rolling his eyes. You smiled. You grabbed your coffee when barista called out for you and turned to Bucky.

“Wanna recharge together in one of those tables?” You asked, pointing at the coffees. Bucky chuckled and nodded.

“Of course!” He said. “I would love to.”  

Both of you walked towards an empty table near the café windows. After you settled, you looked at him. He looked happy, you realized. He didn’t look haunted or sad anymore. He looked healthy and happy if not a little tired.

“You look great,” you said softly. “You don’t look so… sad anymore.” Bucky smiled. Taking a sip from his coffee, he nodded lightly.

“I’m… good,” he decided to say. “I swore not to lie to you again and I’m not gonna start that now,” he chuckled. “I wasn’t so good after our last talk, but time helped.” Bucky shrugged, his fingers were playing with his coffee cup. “I had time to focus on myself, and then my job. It kept me busy but also gave me some time to heal. So, I’m good.”

You smiled fondly at him. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” you murmured. “You deserve to be good, Bucky. I’m glad you’re now. I just hope you’ll be better soon.” You watched him blush, your smile widened and turned soft.

Bucky shook himself and straightened up on his seat. “Tell me what you’ve been up to,” he said, excitement shining in his eyes. “I haven’t seen you for ten years. Are you a cat mom or dog mom or a real one?” You let out a surprised laugh.

“Bold of you to assume I want to be a mother, Buchanan,” you deadpanned. Bucky grinned toothily. “…I have a cat,” then you added. Bucky chuckled.

“Knew it,” he said, snapping his fingers. You rolled your eyes. “’s fine. I have an asshole for myself waiting me at home.” He rolled his eyes like you. “I swear he hates me and wants to kill me, but he doesn’t because I feed him.” You laughed, almost snorting out your cappuccino. Bucky grimaced at himself and then chuckled.

“Murderous cats,” you muttered. “I had an encounter with them once or twice.” You nodded seriously. “She tried to trip me and scared me to the death, so.” Bucky giggled. “She’s the cutest, though.” Bucky smiled. He knew that feeling all too well. You sighed.

“How’s teaching? I see that you kept your tattoos, but goodbye piercings?” You asked, eyebrows high on your forehead. Bucky grunted. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“Apparently, me having piercings might provoke the students to get the same look? They told that I cover my tattoos with my clothing but can’t hide my piercings, so they had to go. ‘s bullshit.”

“…It is,” you agreed because it was. “Your hand and neck tattoos are visible, and they were troubled with your piercings? Yup, bullshit.” He grunted again and sipped his coffee.

“Love the students, though,” he added without you asking. “They’re dumb sometimes and goofy almost all the time, but I love them.” He smiled. You could see that he really did love his students. He was great with children ─shocking, yes─ and seeing him being happy with his work was making you happy.

“I’m glad to hear that. You were weirdly good with kids,” you said, looking at him over your coffee. Bucky narrowed his eyes. “It was cute, don’t get me wrong. I just didn’t expect from someone who looked the way you did back in college and be good with kids. I was shocked when I learned that you were going to be a teacher.” Bucky snorted.

“I love teaching,” he defended himself with a faux-offended face. You grinned. “I enjoy telling them things that make them go ‘wow’ and love seeing them use what I taught.” He shrugged. “How is editing?”

“Ughhhh,” you groaned. “Don’t get me started.” He looked at you, eyes wide and half-grin visible on his face.

“Oh, okay,” he said and then giggled. “I feel like you have a lot of feelings bottled up in there.” He pointed your head, and you grunted like he did a couple minutes ago.

“People who don’t even know punctuation are sending me their works, and they are brave enough to tell me that they wanted it published.” Grunting even more, you sipped your coffee. “It’s a pain to read all the cringy, too fast moving works and editing. It feels like I’m re-writing their whole work.” Bucky frowned slightly, tilting his head to his side.

“Why do you work there, then?” He asked. “You could go back to school and do something extra? Or become a professor there?” You eyed him.

“I’ve been thinking about that for some time, now, to be honest,” you admitted. It wasn’t a lie; you were thinking about going back to school and maybe spend a couple years there and start teaching. “Been looking up my options. I’m still not quite sure, but the idea is there.”

“Well,” Bucky said, draining his coffee. “Let me know. I might be able to help in some way, maybe.” You smiled.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmured. He sent you a cheeky wink. “Tell me more!” You exclaimed. “You told me you’re a cat dad, what else?”

“I’m an uncle,” he said and then wiggled on his seat because it still made him giddy. “I have like two nieces now, my sisters like to procreate.” You chuckled. “Oh, do you know Sam Wilson?” You frowned.

“From Psychology Department?” He nodded. “Yeah, I saw him a couple times.” Putting your cup aside, you leaned forward. “What about him?”

“He got married to Natasha, the Russian Literature girl? The one that we both found scarily hot?” Giggling, you nodded. He grinned. “Well, they’re married now, and have a daughter.”

“No shit,” you said.

“Yes shit,” Bucky kept grinning. “Steve’s gonna get married in two months. Someone called Sharon Carter─”

“Wait, is her aunt Peggy Carter?” Bucky frowned, but nodded. “Holy shit, I work at Carter Publishing. She’s my boss.” Bucky laughed.

“Okay, nice coincidence,” he murmured.

“Damn,” you whispered, making him laugh again. “Give me more gossip, please. I’m obviously hiding under a rock.” Smiling, Bucky leaned forward on the table, too.

“Alright, hear me out.”

─

You talked about everything and anything for hours.

Bucky talked about his job, about his students and his plans for future which included going back to school and becoming a professor or something, so that he could teach at a university. He also said that he was going to miss his ‘high school dumbasses’, but he wanted to become better at what he was doing. He also talked about his siblings, he had three sisters, and his parents a little. He showed you a couple pictures of his cat, a very pretty white cat named Alpine, and his parent’s dogs, two German Shepherds.

“They’re so handsome,” you exclaimed when you saw them. Bucky chuckled.

“They are,” he agreed. “They’re also old.”

“Bleh,” you blurted, making him laugh. You felt a satisfying, warm bubble building up in your chest as you bit your lip and watched him laugh. Your feelings for him were still there, still present. You never stopped loving him, and you knew you were always going to love him. He was the one for you, but your story wasn’t meant to be end together. You knew and accepted that now.

You told him about your life, your job and future plans, too. You talked about your doubts about going back to school, and Bucky somehow helped you soothe them. He encouraged you, told you that you were going to be amazing and it wasn’t late for you to go back to school. You thanked him as you moved onto talk about your cat. You showed him a picture like he did to you.

“You have a Siamese!” He cried out. “Damn, he is handsome.” You chuckled.

“He is, but he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever known,” you grumbled. Bucky giggled.

“Hey, cats are cats. They meant to be assholes,” he said.

“Hear, hear.” Both of you chuckled.

The silence fell between you was a happy and content one. You talked about things, made each other laugh and smile, and both of you saw that how much the other had grown. It was nice. Seeing him was nice.

“I know I apologized before, but I want to apologize again,” Bucky murmured softly after a while of silence. “I’m sorry for making you cry and for hurting you. You didn’t deserve any of the shit I put you through. I was an asshole, I know and see that now,” he added. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.” You smiled. Reaching out, you held his warm and large hand. The sense of familiarity consumed you.

“I have forgiven you years ago, James,” you murmured as softly as he did. He squeezed your hand. “Things happened, but both of us were still children.” Your smile became a little sad. “Obviously, we weren’t meant to be. I wish we were, though. I wish we were meant to be, but we are not. It’s okay. You’ve apologized before and owned up your mistakes. Thank you. I forgive you.” Bucky’s hold in your hand tightened just a bit more. You squeezed it right back. “I forgive you. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

Bucky took a deep breath. You could see that he felt lighter. His guilt must have been eating him alive, you realized, and your heart gave a painful thud at the thought.

“You have no idea how good it feels to hear that,” he said, slightly breathless. You just held his hand tighter and smiled wider. “I wish we were meant to be, too, Y/N. I─” He paused briefly. “I still love you. I have never stopped loving you, and I probably will never stop loving you. No one was you, and I doubt that someone will ever be you. I know now that we’ve grown out of each other. We might still love, yes, but…”

“It’s not enough anymore because even though we still love each other, that train took off,” you finished. He nodded. “So much has happened, and it changed us. Yes, Bucky, I get it. I still love you, too, and will always love you, but it’s not enough now.” He nodded again. Both of you sighed, feeling lighter and happier out of a sudden.

“I’m so glad that we came across to each other,” Bucky said. “It really felt nice to catch up with you, to talk to you.”

“Me too,” you agreed immediately. “I─” You held his other hand. “I’ve missed you, Bucky. It was very nice talking to you.” You looked at each other for a couple minutes before pulling back. You ignored how cold and empty your hands felt after he pulled his back. Standing up quietly, you grabbed your things. You walked out of the café together.

“I would like to see you sometimes,” Bucky said. “As friends. I would love to be your friend, Y/N.” You agreed. You didn’t want to deny him anymore. You wanted him in your life.

“I would love that,” you murmured and gave him your number. Bucky added you in his contacts and sent you a text.

“I will see you later, then,” Bucky murmured. It felt so good to say that, he realized. After saying goodbye to you many times, it felt amazing to say that he’d see you later. You smiled fondly.

“I will see you later,” you murmured back. Bucky gave you a nod and a large smile. Both of you bid good night to each other and walked opposite directions on the sidewalk.

This time, it wasn’t a goodbye.

This time, it was a promise to see the other again.

It was a nice, blossoming friendship.

─

[phykios]

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

1)

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12). 

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog. 

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation. 

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.” 

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut. 

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other. 

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets. 

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…” 

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.” 

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up. 

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…” 

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements. 

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.” 

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.” 

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun. 

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.” 

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.” 

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?” 

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.” 

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper. 

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise. 

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release. 

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene. 

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says. 

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…” 

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea. 

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?” 

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--” 

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much. 

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.” 

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit. 

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles. 

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door. 

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

3)

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom. 

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street. 

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing. 

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things. 

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question. 

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?” 

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand. 

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile. 

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice. 

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared. 

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear. 

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him. 

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend? 

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice. 

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?” 

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps. 

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly. 

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…” 

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?” 

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock. 

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before. 

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his. 

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could. 

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.” 

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.  

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today. 

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor. 

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit. 

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision. 

4) 

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…” 

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.” 

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him. 

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together. 

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together. 

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all. 

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time. 

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him? 

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes. 

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust. 

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner. 

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. 

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks. 

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar. 

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books. 

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra. 

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself. 

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look. 

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?” 

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness. 

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch! 

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?” 

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes. 

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

5)

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?” 

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes. 

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask? 

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.” 

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.” 

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.” 

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head. 

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21. 

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music? 

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly. 

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill. 

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it. 

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…” 

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

+1

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake. 

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window. 

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos. 

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks. 

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her. 

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers. 

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit. 

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him. 

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin. 

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Stronger Together

"Dreamer!"

Lena's alarm sears across Nia's senses. She registers the danger at the corner of her eye-- a Brevakk ripping off his sleeves to expose the keratinized spurs protruding from his arms. One sweep of his arm and she'll be dead, skewered in a spray of thick quills sharp enough to penetrate her suit and lacerate any organ they could reach. But she's locked in battle with a K'hund attacking from the front, so all she can do is brace for the inevitable impact.

Suddenly, Nia's view of the Brevakk is eclipsed by the shadow of Lena's back.

"NO!"

The force of the thorns' impact knocks Lena fron her feet, slamming into Nia and causing them both to go down with a cry. Lena's gauntlet fires once, stunning the Brevakk with a glancing blow. Nia throws her own arm out towards her opponent in a desperate bid to gain some ground. The blast of dream energy sends him flying, and when Nia doesn't notice that he doesn't rise again. Her attention is locked on Lena, and the half dozen quills that have found a home in her chest.

"Lena, Lena, oh my god." Nia's hands shake as she climbs out from under Lena and kneels beside her on the pavement. "No, no, no..."

Lena's eyes are glassy and dazed. She looks down at the horns, reaching drunkenly towards them only for Nia to pull her hands away.

"Why did you do that?"

Nia's suit wouldn't have helped much, but it was better than Lena's blouse-- a silly silken thing now ripped and torn, digging into the edges of the wounds around the quills. Lena had no protection beside her gauntlet, and still she had jumped between them.

"N-nia..." Lena's voice crackles in her throat. She coughs, and blood spatters across her chin, staining her berry-red lips a color far more sinister.

Nia's heart lurches with panic. Her head whips up in search of Kara, but Supergirl isn't here. She's on the other side of the city with J'onn, fighting further unrest there. Her eyes lock on another figure, black leather instead of blue.

"ALEX!!"

Nia's shriek cuts through the din, and Sentinel's head whips towards her. In an instant, the pistol in her hand shifts into a warhammer, and Alex slams it down on her opponent, all thoughts of mitigating casualties forgotten. She skids to her knees beside Nia, nearly elbowing her out of the way to crouch over Lena.

"Lena? Jesus... Lena! Can you hear me? Look at me, look at me--"

Lena's eyes track to Alex, and Nia chokes on a sob when she sees the fear in them. But Alex only calms.

"Good, you're okay," Alex tells her, stroking Lena's hair once with a gentle hand. "You're going to be okay."

With her free hand, Alex fumbles for the watch on Lena's wrist, flipping open its face and silently pressing the symbol embossed there. She doesn't take her eyes off Lena for a moment, and when the signal is active Alex slides her palm into Lena's, which curls tightly around hers.

"H-hurts--"

Lena's breath begins to quicken, and the corners of her eyes pinch with the onset of pain. The shock is quickly wearing off, leaving nothing to dull the pain. Alex nods, giving Lena's hand a squeeze.

"I know, but it's going to be okay," she promises. "We're going to get you somewhere safe--"

Supergirl touches down at the moment, pavement cracking beneath the force of her panic. "Lena!!"

Kara kneels opposite her sister, taking in the damage with wide eyes. She grips Lena's free hand tightly, even as she looks to Alex for instructions.

"Hospital," Alex says simply, urgency clipping her tone. "Now."

Kara nods, and gently maneuvers Lena into her arms. Lena cries out, the sound sharp in Nia's ears. When Nia blinks, tears dampen the fabric of her mask.

"I'm sorry," Kara murmurs, pressing her nose to the side of Lena's head. "I'm sorry."

"K-kar--" Lena gasps for breath, coughing up more blood. Her back now visible, Nia sees that one of the thorns has penetrated so deeply that it tents the back of Lena's shirt.

"It's okay," Kara echoes the well-meaning lie of her sister. "I've got you."

In a burst of wind, Kara takes off, and Nia sits dazed in her wake. It's long moments before she registers Alex's insistent hands tugging her up.

"It was supposed to be me," Nia intones, flat with shock. "She--"

"I know," Alex cuts her off, not unkindly. She tugs Nia to her feet then shoves her into a run. "But we need to go. Now!"

Together, they make their retreat, leaving the alley and the unconscious aliens behind just as the distant wail of approaching sirens cuts through the air.

---

Nia wastes no time in stripping off her costume and changing back into her civvies. But before she can reach the exit, Alex cuts her off. "You can't go to the hospital."

Surprise jolts through Nia, before its quickly replaced with anger. "Are you insane?"

"Nia--"

"I can't just wait here-- she-- those barbs were meant for me, Alex! She's hurt because of me. I can't not be there!"

"Kara just called."

Time seems to freeze. Nia feels ice pool in her veins as a lump climbs to her throat and lodges there. "No..."

Alex rushes to reassure her. "No! That's not-- no, Lena's still in surgery. But-- the police are there."

Nia's relief that Lena is alive cuts short with confusion. "What? Why?"

"They're there to take Lena into custody."

"They can't do that!"

"She's aided and abetted known vigilantes," Alex explains. "With everything that's been happening lately--"

"It's not right!"

"Lena will be fine. Truly. Kara is going to CatCo to get Andrea to make the arrest as public as possible. Between that and the Luthor reputation, my guess is that they'll question her about our identities and then let her go."

"That's-- that's--" Nia struggles to find words through her growing rage. The helplessness of the past few months, the rising anti-alien sentiments, the crackdown on Supergirl on her friends... it all comes to a head, and Nia can barely breathe.

Alex reaches for Nia's hand. "If you go now, you'll only risk exposing yourself. Lena wouldn't want that."

Nia sucks in a breath, but it comes in a sob. The next thing she knows, Alex's arms are around her and she's crying into her shoulder, huge lurching sobs that feel like the world is quaking around her.

"It's okay," Alex promises.

"It's my fault," Nia gasps. "It's all my fault..."

"Lena's going to be okay."

---

Nia may not be able to go to the hospital, but she can't stay in the Tower either. In the end she goes to CatCo, ready to throw her weight behind Kara's pitch to fry the police in the press. Luckily, Andrea doesn't need the convincing.

"I want both of you on this," their boss delivers with a coolness sharpened to a razors edge by the glint of rage in her eyes. "William too. I want you to dig up anything you can find about the arresting officers. Any whisper of corruption within the NCPD that you might have been sitting on, now is your time to air it. CatCo won't stand for this."

Nia and Kara both nod solemnly before retreating to their desks. But instead of diverting to her own desk, Kara follows Nia to hers.

"How are you holding up?"

The gentle question threatens a resurgence of tears. Nia looks away, only for her eyes to catch on the photo of her and Lena on her desk, taken at one of their sister nights the year before. Nia can't remember the last time they've hung out, just the two of them.

Blinking furiously, Nia flips the picture down and opens up her laptop. "Fine."

"It's okay to not be fine..."

"Do you want to know if I'm angry that my friend is alone in the hospital because of me? Fine! I'm angry!"

Kara's features soften. "Nia..."

"It's my fault she's there in the first place!" Nia hisses. The lump returns to her throat, and her eyes burn with unshed tears. "She just, just... she just jumped between us! I should've--"

"Hey." Kara calms her with a hand on her shoulder. Nia sucks in a breath, then another, trying to steady herself. Finally, Kara's features pinch into a bemused smile. "You know Lena... There's no line she won't cross, for the people she cares about."

Instead of comforting her, Kara's words only makes Nia grit her teeth. She turns back to the computer. They better be willing to do the same for her.

"Let's get to work."

----

The first article runs the following morning, skewering the police department for rampant anti-alien abuses while highlighting Lena's charity and outreach. While it's not quite enough to banish the police presence from the hospital, it does get a single visitor in to see Lena. Nia expects Kara to take it, but to her surprise Kara simply nods her towards the door.

"Go," Kara says softly. "Give her our love."

Nia doesn't stop to ask twice. She's ushered into Lena's hospital room by a kindly looking nurse, glaring at the officer posted outside the door on her way in. The second her eyes land on Lena, rage swells in her chest at the side of the handcuffs tethering Lena to the bed.

"Is that really necessary?" she demands, balling her hands into fists. "Where is she going to go?"

"Nia..." Lena's soft voice from the bed interrupts her before she can gather much steam. "It's okay."

Nia huffs, eyeing the way the officer slowly moves his hand from his sidearm when Nia turns back to the room. But then all she can see is Lena, hair limp and torso bulky with bandages under her hospital gown.

"It's not okay," Nia says, sitting in the chair thats been placed next to Lena's bed.

"It's just a misunderstanding," Lena insists, her gaze sliding towards the door. The door itself remains open, denying them any sense of privacy. But Lena doesn't seem to mind when her gaze returns to Nia. "You okay?"

Nia chokes on her own tongue. "Am I--? Lena, you're in the hospital..."

"And I'm okay." Lifting her cuffed wrist, Lena silently reaches for Nia's hand, which Nia offers without hesitation. "Promise."

All of a sudden, the tears come back, pressing against her eyelids as she squeezes her eyes shut. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry--"

"It's okay," Lena assures her. "I'm okay."

"You shouldn't have--"

"Been there in the alley? When that guy tried to mug me?" Lena asks pointedly. Clearly, she's already established her cover story. "You're right, I should have known better." She pitches her voice loud enough to carry to the door. "I'm just lucky Sentinel and Dreamer were there to help me."

They wait a moment to listen for a response, but when none comes, they devolve into a fit of giggles.

"Ow," Lena grimaces with a cough. "No laughing for a while."

Nia tightens her grip on Lena's hand. "I... Lena, I'm so sorry--"

"I'd do it again," Lena returns, softly this time. Her words are for Nia alone. "That's what friends do."

---

Alex turns out to be right. As soon as Lena is well enough to leave the hospital, she's taken to the precinct for interrogation, but between CatCo's articles stirring up enough local support that a crowd forms around the precinct to protest the arrest, and the kind of lawyers a Luthor can acquire even after abandoning the family legacy, Lena is released without charge in a matter of hours.

Nia stays at the Tower hoping to see her, but Lena doesn't come.

"She's guessed she's probably being watched," Alex tells her. "She'll being laying low for a while til the heat dies down. All the better, honestly. It'll give her time to heal."

Nia swallows thickly. "Where is she?"

"Home. Kara's with her, but I'm sure she'd love to see you."

Nia approaches Lena's condo without much of a plan. She's armed with snacks and movies, but she knows that having Kara there won't give Nia the time with Lena she needs. She misses Lena, all more the more since she realized how long it had been since they'd just been... friends. More than allies, more than teammates, just... friends.

It feels like Maeve all over again.

But she swallows her nerves and takes the elevator up. Kara opens the door just as Nia lifts her hand to knock.

"Hey," Kara says quietly. She steps aside to let Nia in, and though she can hear the tv from the next room, they linger in the foyer.

"Is everything okay?" Kara asks.

Nia nods. "Yeah. Um. I just--"

She doesn't have an explanation either. Nia stares at her feet, until Kara breaks the silence.

"Look, I have a favor to ask..."

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind staying with Lena for a few hours?"

When Nia looks up, she finds Kara scrubbing the back of her head with one hand, looking sheepish.

"Yeah," she continues, "I've been kind of... hovering? And I think it's getting on her nerves a little. So I figured I could get some stuff done at CatCo--"

"Yes," Nia blurts. "Yes, of course. I'll stay."

Kara grins. "Thanks. She's in the living room now, if you want to..."

"Right. Yeah, I've got this. Go."

Kara thanks her with another smile that makes her whole face shine. "Call if you need anything."

She slips out the door with a wink, and locks it behind her. Nia walks to the living room on wooden legs, and finds Lena laying on the couch against a pile of pillows, propping her up to take the pressure off her wounds.

She looks up when Nia enters, and though her eyes are tired, her features crease into a smile. "Hey..."

"Hey."

Lena struggles to sit up, prompting Nia to close the distance swiftly. "No, no, no, stay comfy."

Relenting with a sigh, Lena groans. "Not like I have much choice these days."

"It'll get better."

Silence follows. Nia stands awkwardly, hands gripping her bag of candy tightly until Lena regards it with curiosity.

"What's all this?"

Nia starts. "Oh. Uhm... I thought-- well, I was wondering..." She trails off, shoulders slumping. "It's been a while since we've had sister's night."

When Lena doesn't answer, Nia risks a glance up to find Lena blinking in astonishment, before her features soften to warmth. She smiles.

"Well, there's no time like the present."

Lena lifts her arms, making playful grabby motions with her hands.

"What'd you bring me?"

----

Hours later, Kara returns home to find Nia seated on the couch with Lena's legs across her lap. It's as close to cuddling as Lena can get, with her injuries, and the way Nia's hands are spread over Lena's shins tells Kara that the contacr was very much needed.

Lena sleeps peacefully, the tv low in the background. Nia looks up at Kara from the shadows, the light reflecting in the tear tracks painted on her cheeks. Without a word, Kara slips in next to Nia, working her way under Lena's ankles to wrap one arm around the younger girl's shoulders.

Nia hugs her back, shaking quietly with the effort to keep her crying silent.

"It's okay," Kara whispers. Nia nods against her. So long as they were all together, they could get through anything.

"We're going to be okay."

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 2 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Reader has to deal with the aftermath of Dynamight exploding through her window and trying to bleed out on her floor. 

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language. 

A/N: Here’s chapter two, hope you enjoy! ~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

AO3 Link: Here 

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here 

Chaos. You intellectually knew the word, in several languages in fact, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the reality of it. 

Information assaulted your senses in a deluge. The gust of cold air whistling through the broken window, raking icy fingers down your exposed arms. The bright flare of flames, even behind your clenched eyelids. The dissonant, haunting wails of several car alarms, each one just a second out of sync with the next, barely audible over the loud ringing in your ears. The taste of ash, gritty on your tongue as you sucked in heaving, panting breaths. The sharp smell of smoke and something… sweeter. Like caramelizing sugar. 

The sweet scent, incongruous with every other heinous detail, seemed to snap you fully back into your body, and your eyes flew open with a gasp. 

You were curled up in a tight ball below your now broken window, and you gaped at your ruined apartment. The lights were out, so the only illumination you had to see by were the flames behind you on the street, but it was enough. 

It looked like a tornado had torn through your home. The remnants of your window and wall—broken bits of glass, wood, and plaster—covered everything in sight in a fine layer of white dust. Your sewing desk/kitchen table was in splinters, and even with the dancing shadows, you had the distant thought that the dress you’d just finished mending was most definitely ruined. 

Then someone shouted outside on the street, and you felt it like a sledgehammer to the skull. 

Oh, god. The villain. The heroes. 

You scrambled up onto your knees, hissing when shards of glass tore through your sweatpants and bit into your skin. You’d worry about that later. For now, you focused on getting to your feet… 

And not falling out of the gaping hole in your apartment wall. 

You stumbled back a few steps from the edge, stabilizing yourself on one of your kitchen chairs that seemed to have survived the blast. The smoke was thicker now that you were off the floor, and you coughed and squinted against the hot, irritating air. 

The street in front of you was a warzone. 

The windows in the building across from you were all blown out, the empty frames like black gaping voids. The building housed a café/tea shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamato, and you felt a small modicum of relief at the knowledge that they didn’t live above the shop like you did with yours. They lived in a neighborhood not too far away, and they wouldn’t be happy when they came to open in the morning, but at least they were safe. 

Safe… 

“Mr. Takeyoshi!” you gasped as you remembered your neighbor. He’d been standing on the street and nearly attacked by the villain, but a blond hero had pushed the middle-aged man out of the way. 

Your eyes scoured the street as you leaned forward as much as you dared, and just as your heart was beginning to clench, you spotted him. Mr. Takeyoshi was sitting on the curb across the street and about four storefronts down, hunched over with his head in his hands. Two heroes stood above him and seemed to be tending to him, and all three of the men looked whole for the most part. 

“God.” You exhaled shakily, your heart still stuttering in your chest, and then movement in your peripherals caught your attention. 

One hero seemed to possess a water quirk, and she was quickly working to spray down the numerous small fires still flickering up and down the road. As you watched her work, you realized the street wasn’t as badly demolished as you first assumed. It was still pretty wrecked—all of the asphalt was cracked and even just missing in some places—but aside from broken windows, the rest of the shops seemed mostly intact. The worst of the damage was centered just in front of your apartment, and as your gaze flickered over the large crater in front of you, you saw another two heroes dragging a third body out of the pit. 

The villain. 

The hero with the water quirk paused in spraying down the smoking remains of a car and turned to shout something at the other heroes. You couldn’t hear what she said over the persistent ringing in your hears, and you frowned as you focused your own quirk toward your ears. 

In your hopped-up-on-adrenaline state, you didn’t even notice the energy dip, and a moment later, your hearing returned with a loud pop. Thankfully, all of the car alarms seemed to have been cut, so you could hear the heroes pretty well.

“—still alive,” a tall hero in a red and purple suit said. You didn’t recognize him. “He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it.” 

“Great,” the water quirk hero sighed. “Let him be the cops’ problem now.” 

As if on cue, you could hear a siren start up in the distant, slowly moving closer. 

The threat was over. The villain was neutralized, the fires put out, and the authorities were on the way. 

So… why did you feel so on edge, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop? 

“—fuckin’ Dynamight,” one of the heroes suddenly spat and drew you out of your thoughts. 

You frowned in confusion as the words registered. Dynamight… why did that sound familiar? 

Then your eyes widened as you remembered the blond hero, literally exploding onto the scene. His face—snarling and illuminated by the white-hot flare of his quirk—flashed in your mind’s eye, and you dropped your gaze back down to the street below. 

Dynamight, Japan’s Number Two Hero. You couldn’t believe he had been the one to turn up and save you. 

Well, not you specifically. Your neighborhood. 

You’d seen the ash-blond on television before. Usually, the media just liked to harp on his crude language or brash attitude, but you’d seen this one story of how he had saved every single person from a collapsed building. A teary blonde gushing about Dynamight rescuing her had gone briefly viral, but the clip that stuck with you was when a reporter asked the pro hero why he decided to go into the unstable building without any reinforcements. 

The blond had scowled into the camera, sweat and dirt still streaked across his pale face, his scarlet eyes flashing from beneath his black mask. 

“What was I supposed to do?” he scoffed. “Leave them in there and sit with my thumbs up my ass while the fire department takes their sweet fuckin’ time? Don’t ask me stupid questions.” 

Of course, the media had another field day with that response, but… something about it struck you as incredibly genuine. Yeah, the pro hero could have phrased it better, but the core of what he was saying was he couldn’t sit back when people were in trouble, no matter the risks. 

You had thought that very brave. 

And now you’d witnessed his bravery first hand. You weren’t confident—or really self-centered enough—to go down and thank him for what he’d done, but you thought you would just be satisfied with seeing him from afar now that things weren’t so dire. 

But, the longer you looked, the more the pit grew in your stomach. 

You couldn’t see the blond hero anywhere. He wasn’t with Mr. Takeyoshi, still hunched over on the curb. He wasn’t with the two heroes who were trying to establish a perimeter and keep out the arriving crowd of spectators. And he wasn’t with the other heroes standing watch over the unconscious villain laid out on the sidewalk. 

The rest of the heroes seemed to be arriving at the same conclusions as you. You could hear Dynamight’s name being thrown about, and then the heroes were splitting up, taking different sides of the street, peeking into broken windows. 

You wrung your hands as you watched them search from your apartment. No one had noticed you standing there yet, and you were just contemplating going downstairs to try and help in some way when a noise caught your attention. 

In the grand scheme of things, the noise wasn’t very loud, especially given the shouting on the street and the loud sirens now that the police were arriving on scene. 

But since you lived alone, someone coughing in your apartment, someone who wasn’t you, was cause for a little alarm. 

You inhaled sharply as you glanced back over your shoulder, every atom of your being standing at attention. The apartment behind you was a study in contrasts, dark shadows and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside. Your eyes fell on the empty spot where your couch used to be located, and then your gaze followed the drag marks that had been carved into your wood floor. 

The couch was half embedded in the wall beside your front door, with one of the armrests denting into the plaster and the other pointing toward your gaping window/wall. The sofa’s legs had been broken, so it slumped to the floor at an angle, and some kind of stuffing spilled out of several rips in the cushions. 

But your eyes were glued to the leg sticking out over the armrest and the arm thrown over the back of the couch, which was blocking the rest of the… person from view. 

Oh, fuck. That was a person. 

Your legs reacted before your brain could even process what you should do, but you were at least cognizant enough to pick your way over the worst of the debris. Your thin, rubber-soled slippers would protect you from the small pieces of glass and rubble, but you really didn’t want to step on a nail if you could help it. 

Since your apartment was so small, and there weren’t any full pieces of furniture in the way anymore, you crossed the distance in a handful of strides, but you jerked to a stop when you reached the back of the couch. 

Your lungs seized up so suddenly they hurt. The smell of caramelized sugar was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and you actually had to grip the back of the sofa for support, your hand right next to Dynamight’s leg. 

Because it was Dynamight half-strewn across your broken couch. Even when you first saw the leg, you hadn’t imagined it could be… 

But there he was. And he looked surprisingly… human. 

His face was lax with unconsciousness, lacking the perpetual scowl or snarl he wore in pictures or on TV. His hair, which looked paler and somehow softer in person, was tinged red along his brow line, where a cut was still trickling sluggishly. He wore a non-descript black hoodie over dark jeans and darker combat boots, but a glint of color and light around his midsection caught your eye. 

You frowned and leaned down without thinking, your fingers reaching out to brush… something wet. 

“Oh, shit,” you breathed when you lifted your hand to your face and saw, even in the darkness, that the pads of your fingers were red and glistening. 

He was bleeding. 

You moved a step closer, but then your foot lost purchase, sliding, and when you glanced down, you saw your once white slippers were dark, more wetness seeping in around your toes. 

Oh, god. He was bleeding a lot. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You fumbled for the phone in your pants pocket as you scurried around the opposite end of the couch and dropped to the ground. Glass bit into your knees again, this time deeper, a sharp, brilliant pain, but you ignored it as you tried to turn your phone’s flashlight on. The touch-screen wouldn’t register your finger at first, your blood-slicked skin skimming across the glass, and you could feel a scream building in your throat just before the light flashed on. 

If you thought things were bad in the dark, being able to see made it a thousand times worse. 

Blood had already pooled around Dynamight, dark and glinting like an oil spill. The sleeve on his left arm had been burned off, and the skin below was pink and raw. It smelled like cooked meat, and the curry you ate what felt like a lifetime ago churned hotly in your gut. 

But the burn wasn’t even the worst of it. 

A wooden stake, about as wide as three of your fingers, protruded out of the pro hero’s gut by several inches. You thought part of it might have looked like your window frame, but the thought came and went when you noticed the tip of the wooden splinter was dyed red, which meant it must have come through his body. 

That had to be where all this blood came from. Was still coming from. God, there was so much of it. 

Your eyes shot to the gaping hole in your wall, your voice rising in your throat as you prepared to scream for help, but a sudden gasp nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

You whipped back around to find wide, hazy red eyes trained on your face, and the hero’s mouth gaped open as he dragged in a ragged breath. 

“Wh—hnng!” he groaned as his body seized, his right hand coming up to clutch at his stomach. 

“Don’t!” Your phone clattered to the floor, throwing light, as you lunged forward, and you caught his hand before he could jar the piece of wood lodged inside him. “D-Don’t move, a-and try not to speak.” 

The hero panted as he cracked open his eyes and looked at you. Or maybe through you. His gaze wasn’t very focused, and blood from the cut on his brow was still dripping into his right eye. 

But the scarlet color of his irises was still striking, even in the dimness of your apartment. 

“You’ve… been hurt,” you said as you met his eyes as best you could. You weren’t a doctor or an EMT, but you knew the best way to keep people calm in emergency situations was to let them know what’s happened and reassure them. “There’s a piece of wood inside you, so you can’t move or you might hurt yourself worse. But y-you’ll be okay. I’ll go get—” 

“Villain,” Dynamight suddenly spat out, cutting you off and spattering you with a fine mist of blood. 

“What?” His voice was rough and guttural, so it took your brain a moment to translate the slurred Japanese. Did he think you were another villain? 

The blond hero winced and groaned again, and it wasn’t until he squeezed down on your hand that you realized you were still holding his. His palm was rough and calloused against yours—and warm, so inexplicably warm—but then he dug his nails into your skin, and you gasped. 

“Vil… lain?” he rasped again, and you realized it was a question. 

“Oh! The villain’s been arrested. You… you beat him.” 

Dynamight scowled at you, brow knitting in confusion, and he grunted what sounded like a questioning noise at you. 

Then he shifted his head, and you saw the dark stain of blood coming out of his ear. 

He must have ruptured his eardrums in the explosion. 

You didn’t want to shout and damage his hearing even more, so you squeezed his hand back and smiled in what you hoped was reassurance. 

“You won,” you mouthed as clearly as you could. “You won, Dynamight.” 

His narrowed eyes widened a little bit with recognition, and you could have sworn the beginnings of a smirk twitched across his lips before his eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The tension fled his body as he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, and your heart lurched up into your throat. 

“Dynamight?” you asked, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you with his ears the way they were. “Dynamight?” 

You squeezed his fingers, shaking him a little, but his face remained slack. 

Dropping his hand, you reached up to flatten one of yours across his chest, the other going up to feel at the underside of his neck. A moment ticked by, two, but you found his pulse, weak and thready beneath your fingertips. His breathing was shallow beneath your other hand, and the knees of your pants were warm and soaked with his blood. 

“F-Fuck,” you breathed shakily as you sat back for a moment, your hands limp in your lap. 

He was dying. Dynamight… was dying. This was too much blood, and even if you called out to the heroes right now, and they got here in seconds, it was still ten minutes to the nearest hospital. 

He didn’t have ten minutes. You didn’t think he had five. 

You stared down at the pro hero’s blood-streaked face for half a beat before you made a decision. 

Then you were moving. Consequences be damned. 

Your hands went to the hem of his hoodie, and you flinched as you pulled it away from his belly with a wet sound. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you also didn’t think he was feeling much of anything now, so you worked the hoodie up and over the stake as best you could before you shoved the fabric the rest of the way up his chest. 

The flashing lights from outside played across the dips and valleys of Dynamight’s abs, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the wooden stake. It jutted out between the hero’s belly button and his right hip bone, and every splinter was coated in tacky, crimson blood. More of the viscous liquid bubbled up around the torn skin at the stake’s base, and it trickled across his pale, alabaster abdomen like spilled paint. 

You bit your lip as you considered your next move, but then Dynamight’s breath hitched with a wet sound, and you knew you didn’t have time for doubts. 

“Okay, steady,” you muttered to yourself as you knelt over the hero’s prone body. Your knees burned, glass digging deeper into the skin by the second, but you shoved away your own pain as you reached out and wrapped both hands around the stake. Splinters tore into your palms, and your heart hammered out a staccato rhythm beneath your sternum. 

Then panic started to creep up your spine like a million little spider legs. What if removing the stake only made him worse, killed him faster? What if you killed Japan’s Number Two Hero? 

Just as you were about to let go of the stake, Dynamight hacked out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling out of his dry, cracked lips, and you felt the warm spray of it against your collarbone and arms. 

The sound rattled something deep inside you, and before you could second guess yourself again, you tightened your grip on the stake and tugged it up and out in one single motion. 

Dynamight wheezed once more, but you were already dropping the stake, hands slapping down against his abdomen. Warm blood pulsed through your fingers like pliable clay, and bile rose in the back of your throat before you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and called upon your quirk. 

An instant later, agony like you’ve never experienced slammed into you, ripping a gasp from your lungs. It felt like someone had stuck a white-hot poker through your gut, ignited your insides, and twisted. The pain was so intense, your ears started ringing again, and when you cracked open your eyes, your vision quickly began to tunnel until the only thing you could see was the bare outline of your hands, lined with green, against the hero’s stomach. You gritted your teeth as unconsciousness threatened to pull you under, and you groaned as you shoved as much energy as you could spare into the dying hero. 

As your quirk flooded into the blond’s body, you received vague impressions of his injuries healing. It was hard to describe, but it was kind of like you could see flashes of the tissue in your mind as it was stitched back together. First, the jagged hole on his back sealed over, and then your power wormed its way through the hero’s insides, patching up nicked arteries and punctured organs. The pain was still intense, so intense that your already limited vision was blurred by tears, but once you reached the top layers of his abs, you ripped your hands away with a gasp. 

You fell back on your ass, more glass and debris digging into your cheeks and the palms of your hands, and you sucked in ragged breaths as you tried to keep from passing out. The hero swam unsteadily before you, both from the tears in your eyes and because the entire apartment was swaying. Saliva pooled in your mouth as nausea clamped down on your stomach, but you focused on the burning in your palms to center yourself. Then you started counting deep breaths, and when you got to thirty, the darkness had receded from the corners of your vision, and the apartment more or less steadied out around you. 

You still felt like shit warmed over, like you’d been run over by a car and then dragged for several miles, but the bone-deep exhaustion could be cured with a good night’s sleep. The rest of the nicks and cuts on your body still burned like a million paper cuts, too, but your quirk was down to embers and was of no more use to you. 

But was it worth it? 

The two feet of distance between you and Dynamight felt like a canyon that stretched for miles, but somehow you found one last burst of strength to drag yourself forward a few inches. Then you held your breath and leaned over the hero’s abdomen, wiping away most of the pooling blood with the hem of his hoodie. 

There was still a significant gash carved into his skin, but when you shakily picked up your discarded phone from the floor and directed the light at him, you saw the wound was much shallower, maybe a few centimeters deep. The first few layers of skin were flayed back, but the muscles beneath were intact and healthy looking. A small trickle of blood continued to drip into the valley of the hero’s abs, but instead of a broken fire hydrant, it was just a leaky faucet. 

You dragged your tired eyes up Dynamight’s body, and you very quickly realized his breathing was deeper and not as wet sounding. Just to be doubly sure, you reached out and tentatively wrapped your fingers around his left wrist, only absently noticing that the once raw, flayed skin had been partially healed from third degree burns to first. 

You had poured more energy into him than you meant to, but it was hard to regret anything when you felt his pulse against your fingertips, strong, steady, and sure. 

“Oh, thank you,” you choked out as you closed your eyes, tears stinging in the corners. You didn’t know who you were thanking. You didn’t know if you believed in a “god” in the colloquial sense, but you felt as if the universe had given you a gift just now, and you could be nothing but grateful for it. 

You sighed as you slumped a little, and it was like weights were strapped to your eyelids as you struggled to open them and keep them open. You might have actually gone under, succumb to the exhaustion… 

If you didn’t catch sight of two crimson eyes staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as a zap of adrenaline shocked you upright, and your phone clattered to the ground once again. 

Dynamight squinted, irises still a little glassy, but unlike last time, his gaze was very much focused on you. 

And the weight of it, the intensity, pinned you to the floor. 

“Y-You’re awake.” The words tripped off your tongue, chased out by the panic running circles in your brain. Damn it, you hadn’t even had time to come up with a plausible backstory for the pool of blood he was lying in. 

The blond hero’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at you for an immeasurably long moment, and then you remembered with a start that he hadn’t been able to hear you before. This could work in your favor, though. You opened your mouth, ready to pantomime an elaborate story, but his voice—deep and rough, like crunching gravel or an expensive engine turning over—cut you off at the knees. 

“And you have eyes,” he said in clipped Japanese, a note of snide derision in his tone. 

You blinked in shock—at his attitude, the steadiness of his voice, and the fact he could hear you just fine all the sudden—but he just barreled onward like he had barreled through your window. 

“What happened?” he asked. No, demanded. “Who are you?” 

“I—” 

“And where’s that fuckin’ villain?” he cut you off as his split upper lip curled into a snarl, and his red eyes jumped to the gaping window over your shoulder. 

You frowned at him, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are you going to let me answer?” 

A part of your brain was screaming at you, distantly: Are you giving Japan’s Number Two Hero attitude after he saved your life?!  You normally weren’t like this. Every inch the people pleaser, you were usually deferential to the point of your own detriment. 

But you were still so tired, every inch of you aching, blood still dripping and slick along your exposed skin, and he was the one who decided to be rude first. 

Plus, you saved his life, too, thankyouverymuch. 

Dynamight actually seemed surprised by your response because his gaze stopped its frantic search of your darkened apartment and settled on you. Those scarlet eyes raked over you quickly, a flick from head to toe, before they met your own. 

A beat of silence passed between you, and then his face pulled into a sharp frown. 

“Well?” he grunted. “Are you actually going to answer me?” 

The nerve of this man. Maybe the media had been right. 

“What happened was you decided to practically drop a bomb outside on the street, and then you crashed straight through my window and destroyed my apartment,” you said in a short, clipped tone. “But don’t worry. My couch managed to break your fall, so you’re mostly in one piece. Oh, and you beat the villain, the other heroes are outside handing him off to authorities. Satisfied with my answers?” 

You sucked in a deep breath after your little tirade, the blood roaring in your ears. Absently, you patted yourself on the back for the impromptu white lie you’d fed him. The couch did in fact break his fall… and shoved a stake through his gut, but he didn’t need to know that. Fortunately, you had dropped said impaling object behind you in your haste to keep some blood in his body, and you shifted a little now to insure it was blocked from his view. You had healed his life-threatening injury—and his hearing, apparently, though you hadn’t intended that—but he was still covered in scrapes, cuts, and minor burns along his left arm. It was a… plausible amount of wounds, so hopefully your little quirk indiscretion would go unnoticed. 

Dynamight was still staring at you in silence, and you began to fidget, on the edge of saying you were going to go flag down another hero, when he finally spoke up again. 

“No, I’m not satisfied. You didn’t answer all my damn questions. Who the hell are you?” 

A flush of heat infused your cheeks—part anger, part embarrassment for being put on the spot again and being the subject of his intense glare—and you averted your eyes as you mumbled out your name. 

“Hah?” he practically shouted as he leaned forward, bringing with him that bewildering scent of burned sugar, but he suddenly stopped with a wince that he quickly turned into a scowl. “Speak up, I hate when people mutter. Just like goddamn Deku.” 

The last sentence wasn’t directed at you, but you found his mention of Japan’s Number One Hero intriguing. 

You sighed and repeated your name for him, a little louder this time, and he grunted in what seemed like acknowledgment before he started to struggle upright again in the ruins of your couch. 

“Don’t move too fast, you’ll start bleeding again,” you chided and scooted closer to stop him from aggravating the injury on his abdomen. You’d healed the worst of it, but it was still an open wound, and he was bound to be sore as hell after smashing through a window/wall. 

“M’ fine,” he grumbled as he settled into a slightly more seated position. Then he looked down and noticed his hoodie was still partially rucked up around his arm pits, and his red eyes shot back to you. He studied you for a long moment, but his face was unreadable. “Undressing me while I was unconscious? You’re not one of those damn obsessed fangirls, are ya?” 

Your cheeks flared red-hot, but you scowled at the ash-blond hero. “N-No! I—You were bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too b-bad. But, uh, the gash isn’t that deep.” 

It was a little harder to make more articulate, detailed lies, especially when his blood was still drying on your hands and you could remember the exact feel of his pulse slowing beneath your fingertips. 

Dynamight narrowed his scarlet eyes at you, and you knew you weren’t being convincing. Panic started to claw up the back of your throat again. His burning gaze was charring away at your weaknesses, your resolve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, confessing. You’d saved his life after all. That wasn’t a bad thing. 

Then you remembered all the articles you’d looked up one anxiety-filled night, soon after moving here. All the stories about people using their quirks and causing damage. Of people with healing quirks trying to help and only doing more harm. The fines, the charges, and in rare cases, imprisonment. 

You didn’t think you’d be locked up, but you couldn’t afford any fines now, and as an immigrant, any mark on your record could get you immediately deported. 

Your mouth dried up. You couldn’t be deported, sent back to your parents as a failure again. What’s more, you had people who relied on you here, like Mrs. Kojima. You weren’t a hero, not important by any means, but… you had just found something to give your life a little purpose. A little stability. 

No, you couldn’t be discovered. You just couldn’t. 

Your newfound resolve stiffened your spine a little, but when you lifted your chin and met those piercing crimson eyes again, your courage—along with your tongue—shriveled inside you. 

Fuck, how were you going to lie your way out of this? 

Unfortunately, Dynamight didn’t give you any more time to get your story straight. 

“Your hands are all fucked up.” 

You startled at his rough voice, instinctively flipping your hands palm-side down and tucking them between your legs. Then, when your brain caught up to your body, you cursed yourself. 

Could you be any more obvious, any more guilty? 

“I, uh, i-it’s nothing,” you stammered, clearing your throat before you continued. “I cut myself on the broken glass from the window, but it’s not serious. Nothing a few bandaids won’t fix, anyway. Maybe some gauze and antiseptic, but definitely not a hospital visit or anything.” 

You knew you were babbling but somehow couldn’t stop it, your anxiety just seizing control of your tongue, and you clenched your torn-up hands into fists until the stinging pain centered you a little bit. 

Once again, Dynamight studied you in silence, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Did you nick your damn wrist, too?” he finally asked as his neutral mask twisted into his signature scowl. “Looks like a lot of blood. Don’t be an idiot and bleed out on me. I don’t wanna deal with the fuckin’ paperwork.” 

Well, maybe not that carefully. 

“I-I’m not bleeding out,” you protested with a frown. “I’m fine.” 

“Let me see.” 

You blinked. “Excuse me? 

The hero stuck out his right hand, palm up, his scowl only deepening. “Let me see your hands.” 

Fuck. A drop of icy cold fear slid down your spine. Your hands were indeed “fucked up” like the blond said, but the cuts were all shallow and minor. They would in no way explain how you were coated in blood up past your wrists. None of your injuries would account for that. 

And none of his current ones would, either. 

“I—” You opened and closed your mouth several times like a gasping fish, and Dynamight’s eyes narrowed on you with what you were sure was suspicion. 

And then, like a gift from the heavens, a small but bright beam of light suddenly flooded your apartment from over your shoulder. 

“Dynamight?” a male voice shouted. 

The blond hero clenched his eyes shut and turned away from the light, and you. “I’m here! Turn that damn light out.” 

Said light cut out an instant later, and you seized the opportunity that had just been presented to you. 

Quick as a whip, you leaned over and snatched a large swath of dark fabric that you’d seen in the brief moment of illumination, and you reeled it into your lap quickly. The fabric had been a personal project of yours, a gown you’d started on a whim, but that didn’t matter now. Dynamight was still rubbing at his eyes, grumbling about being blinded, so you kicked half of the unfinished garment under and around the base of the ruined couch, effectively covering up the large pool of blood that had congealed under the splintered furniture. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the bloody stake, and shoved it between the folds of fabric. 

There. Now, most of the evidence was hidden. 

And not a moment too soon, because in the next breath you heard the crunch of glass as the unnamed hero stepped into the apartment behind you. 

“Hello?” 

“We’re over here,” you called back, struggling to your feet so the hero could see you over the back of the couch. 

The hero was silhouetted against your ruined window and the flashing police lights outside, so you couldn’t see much of his face, but you could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a red and purple suit you didn’t recognize. 

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the hero asked in very formal Japanese. 

You opened your mouth to reply, but Dynamight cut you off. It seemed to be a habit of his. 

“We’re fine,” he grunted, and you turned to see the blond shoving himself to his feet. A gasp caught in your throat, and you made a half-aborted motion to stop him, but his red eyes snapped up and glared at you, freezing you in your tracks. “Aren’t we?” 

It took a moment for you to realize the last question was directed at you, and when Dynamight’s lip curled up into a sneer as he accusingly dropped his gaze to your hands, you realized none of your lies had convinced him after all. 

“Y-Yes.” The word stumbled out of your mouth without your permission, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes off the blond as you felt your world falling in around you for the second time tonight. “We’re fine.” 

The hero behind you said something, but it was lost in the static suddenly filling your head. 

He knows. He knows. Dynamight knows. 

The words cycled through your brain again and again, a broken record. What would he do? Would he tell the other hero? Or take you down to the authorities himself? And what then? Would they arrest you? Give you a few days to pack up and say your goodbyes before your deportation? 

Just as you were beginning to spiral, movement caught your attention, and you watched as if from a distance as Dynamight suddenly stepped past you, the scent of burnt sugar stinging your nose as he went. He was talking, and the low rumble of his voice vibrated through your body since he was so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, but he seemed to be talking to the other hero. 

Was he confessing your secret already? 

You couldn’t seem to turn around, your slippered feet rooted to your debris strewn floor. Even in the dark, you could see the black stain of Dynamight’s blood on your ruined couch cushions, and without thinking, you leaned down, picked up another torn and dirty piece of fabric, and threw it over the stain, blocking it from view. 

You didn’t know why you did that. It didn’t matter now. Dynamight knew, and— 

“Ma’am?” A hand touched your elbow, and you jumped, whirling around. “Whoa, careful there.” 

It was the tall hero in the red and purple suit. He was wearing a partial mask over his eyes, so only the lower half of his face was visible, framed by two pieces of dark hair. He smiled at you, a pleasant, reassuring gesture, but you could only gape at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked you again, a frown replacing his smile. His eyes started to look you over, but you shoved your hands into the pockets of your sweats before he could see them. 

It doesn’t matter, you idiot, your brain screamed, but your body was still going through the motions of keeping your secret, twisting your hands in your pockets, trying to rub out the blood. 

“I’m fine,” you said again and then realized repeating the same trite phrase probably wasn’t convincing. So, you smiled at the hero, or at least you thought you did. Your face felt strangely stiff and numb, but you flashed your teeth and crinkled your eyes just the same. “Really. I’m just a little… shaken up is all. I have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The apartment took the worst of the damage, obviously.” 

You laughed, a hint of hysteria in your voice, as you gestured to the gaping hole in your wall behind the hero, hoping to get him away from your blood-soaked couch. And, blessedly, he did turn, so you took a few steps past him until you were both facing the broken window. 

Then you noticed Dynamight was standing near the hole, very cautiously leaning against the last remaining, exposed stud in the wall, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. His body was facing out into the street, but his eyes were still locked on you, the red of them only intensified by the police lights still flashing on the street. 

His eyes seemed to say, I know what you did, and all the saliva dried up in your mouth. 

“Well, as bad as the damage is to your home, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured, ma’am,” the hero at your side suddenly said, and you jolted when you realized he was responding to your inane babble from what already felt like hours ago. 

“O-Oh, yes.” You smiled again, just as forced and twice as shaky. “I was… very lucky. A-And thank you! For doing your part to s-stop that villain before he hurt anyone or caused even more damage.” 

“Yes, well, there was still more damage than I would have preferred,” the hero replied, and you didn’t miss the dirty look he shot Dynamight, who just deepened his scowl because he was still looking at you. “But let’s get you down to the street. The paramedics will look you over, and the authorities will want to take a statement. But don’t worry, they’ll also put you up in a hotel for the night since you obviously can’t stay here.” 

He threw the last part of the sentence at Dynamight like a dagger, and the blond finally tore his eyes off you to glare at the other hero. 

You waited for the explosive hero to… well, explode, but he only stared down the tall man beside you before he rolled his eyes, glanced at you one last time, and then jumped out the hole in your wall. 

“No—” you gasped, stumbling forward like you could stop him, but an instant later, you heard a mini-boom out on the street, followed by Dynamight barking orders at someone. 

Oh, yeah. You remembered how the blond had burst through the air while fighting the villain and realized he didn’t just ruin all your hard, illegal healing work by face-planting onto the concrete. 

You sighed and suddenly swayed, like the blond leaving had finally cut all of your tense strings. The adrenaline was fading at last, exhaustion leeching through your veins in its place, and you listed into the hero beside you. 

“Ma’am?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to find your balance. “I think… the shock is wearing off. Just… tired.” 

“Would it be alright if I carried you down to the street?” 

You wanted to protest, say you could take the stairs down to your shop, but your tongue felt sluggish in your mouth, and all you managed was a vaguely affirmative sounding hum. 

“Okay, hold on.” 

You felt one hand wrap around your shoulders while the other scooped you up around the knees, and usually, you would protest, insecure about your weight, but the hero settled you against his chest with ease. The instant you were off your feet, every muscle in your body went limp, and you were too tired to even be embarrassed when your head flopped against the hero’s collarbone. 

You had the vague thought that he didn’t smell like warm sugar, followed by a flash of disappointment, but then the hero was moving, jumping, and you were falling through the air. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the luxury of passing out. 

Once you hit the street, it was all sirens and shouting, flashing lights and flashes of people, so many people. 

True to his word, the hero in the red and purple suit carried you over to an ambulance and two waiting paramedics. The American in you panicked, instinctively trying to refuse care because your shop and home were just destroyed, you didn’t have money for an ambulance ride, too. 

But as the medics peppered you with rapid fire Japanese questions, you were reminded of where you were, and the bright flashlight shining into your eyes sure woke you up a little. 

The next half an hour was a blur. The paramedics tended to the wounds on your palms, knees, and, embarrassingly, ass, but all of the cuts were shallow, and none of them even required stitches. You knew they wouldn’t require stitches anyway, because once you rested up, your quirk would heal you, but you kept your mouth shut and let the medics wrap you in gauze and bandages. You seemed to have rubbed away enough of the blood on your hands that they weren’t suspicious, but it brought you no relief. 

While they worked, you watched the heroes and police out of your peripherals. They were still working to seal off the scene and tend to your neighbors, who were gathered further down the block behind some yellow tape. It didn’t look like anyone else had been injured beside you, and for that you were grateful. 

But your stomach was still in knots. 

More than once, you heard Dynamight’s brash voice bark over the sirens and other voices, and as the paramedics were finishing up the bandages on your hands, a head of ash-blond hair jutted out over the police car closest to you. Unable to stop yourself, your eyes zeroed in on that distinctive hair color, and you saw the explosive hero was speaking—well, yelling—at two police officers. 

Your mouth felt suddenly dry despite the multiple cups of water the medics had fed to you. What was Dynamight saying? 

As if he could hear your thoughts, red eyes snapped to the side and locked onto yours, and the breath hitched in your chest. That crimson gaze held you trapped, unable to look away, so when the two officers he’d been speaking to suddenly stepped into your field of vision, you gasped. 

“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” one of the officers said. He was a middle-aged man, balding, with a serious face and a no-nonsense expression. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.” 

You swallowed, your throat clicking, and your heart stuttered into a breakneck pace beneath your sternum. 

“O-Of course,” you replied, only stumbling a little over your Japanese. You smiled at the officers, but the expression felt stilted, and fear seized you by the throat and squeezed until your breaths were shallow and grating in your ears. 

“Thank you.” The balding officer nodded. “My name is Detective Nakahara. I’ve been told you witnessed and were injured in tonight’s attack.” 

You thought the injury part was obvious, given your myriad of bandages and the fact you were sitting in the back of an ambulance, but you nodded to confirm anyway since your voice had abandoned you. 

This was it. He was going to ask you the damning question, and you were going to tell the truth. Lying to a hero in the heat of the moment had been one thing, but lying to a police officer during an official statement was another thing entirely. It would take one database search for them to confirm your quirk and Dynamight’s story, and then you really would be in trouble. Maybe imprisoned instead of deported. You cursed yourself for not knowing more about the laws that were going to quickly ruin your life. 

But… then Nakahara started asking you about the villain and what you saw, and you stuttered out an answer to the best of your ability. You thought this might have been a disarming tactic, to lull you into a false sense of security, but when you got to the part of the story where Dynamight burst through your window, the officer sighed. 

“I take it that’s your apartment there?” Detective Nakahara asked as he gestured to the gaping hole. 

“Y-Yes.” You nodded. “And I own the shop below.” 

Which you now realized looked no better than your apartment. The windows were all blown out, black scorch marks along the door frame, and you didn’t want to even think about the shape of the interior. 

“What kind of shop is it?” he followed up, but he sounded more curious than interrogatory. 

“Clothing alterations,” you said. “M-My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited the shop about a year ago, after they passed.” 

“My condolences,” Nakahara murmured with a small dip of his head, and he seemed genuine. “For your grandparents, and your home and business.” 

You blinked in surprise at the turn in conversation. “O-Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.” 

“Do you have anywhere to go for the night, or were you on the way to the hospital?” he asked as he looked you over. 

“No,” you said quickly and then blushed. “I-I mean, my injuries aren’t serious enough for a hospital visit. Just some cuts and scrapes.” 

“Alright.” Nakahara nodded. “Is there any family we can call for you? Or take you to?” 

“N-No,” you repeated, a little more timidly this time. “My parents… don’t live around here, and I don’t really have any other family.” 

“Any friends?” he asked with a furrowed brow. 

Your face was red-hot now, and you dropped your eyes to your lap, fiddling with your bandaged fingers. What were you going to say? That you were an introvert, and the only “friends” you had were the old ladies who frequented your shop? 

“None that I would want to bother in the middle of the night,” you muttered before you suddenly remembered something. “But, um, one of the heroes said you could maybe take me to a hotel?” 

“Of course, we can take you right now, and we’ll also pay for the night,” the detective said. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started to protest as you snapped your head up, but the officer held up a hand. 

“The city has funds to aid those displaced by villain attacks,” he explained. “The next forty-eight hours are guaranteed, so if I were you, I would use the opportunity to rest.” 

Detective Nakahara glanced down at your bandages, and you bit your lips as you nodded. 

“Okay, thank you for your help then, sir.” It was all you could think to say. 

“You’re welcome.” Nakahara nodded back at you and then reached out to help you out of the ambulance. “If you’ll come this way, we can have an officer collect some things from your apartment, and then we’ll head to the hotel and get you settled.” 

The finality in his tone and the idea of a hotel drew you up short. What… was happening? You had thought the detective was going to interrogate you about your quirk, not… chauffeur you to a nice hotel. 

The practical part of your brain was screaming for you to let it go, but the words were high-diving off your tongue before you could stop them. 

“I-Is that all?” 

Detective Nakahara paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is what all?” 

“I—” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “You didn’t have any more questions for me?” 

“No,” the detective said simply. “We have your statement, and it matches the others we’ve obtained.” Here, he frowned and seemed to study you for a moment. “Did you have any other questions for me?” 

“I… was just wondering what the next steps are for my apartment and shop,” you blurted out the first thing you could think of. “Will the… city pay for repairs? Do I have to fill out some forms?” 

It was an honest question, a real one you had, but your mind was still reeling. He wasn’t going to ask about your quirk? Had… Had Dynamight not said anything? 

Nakahara sighed but held a hand out for you to take, and you absently let him help you down from the ambulance. Then he slowly began walking toward one of the police cars, and you had no choice but to follow since you were still holding onto his arm for balance. 

“Unfortunately,” the detective started, “the city will not be able to repair your home or business.” 

“Why?” you asked with a frown. “I thought you said there were funds.” 

“There are,” he said, and when you looked up at him, you noticed his lips were pursed into a thin line. “And, if the villain himself had thrown debris through your window, then the city would compensate you. But, in this situation, Dynamight caused the damaged.” 

The detective practically spat the blond hero’s name, and your surprise must have shown on your face because Nakahara quickly cleared his throat and schooled his expression. 

“Because of this, his agency will be responsible for repairs, so you will have to contact them,” the officer finished. 

Contact them? You had to contact Dynamight’s agency, which meant… fuck. You felt the blood drain from your face, and your expression must have shown your dismay because Nakahara patted your hand that was still looped through his arm 

“But you can worry about that tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get your things and get you to the hotel so you can rest.” 

You nodded blankly and let the detective lead you to the open backseat of a police car. Nakahara called another officer over, and the woman asked you questions about where things were in your apartment. You answered numbly, listing out different clothing items and how to get to your bedroom. Then she was gone, and Nakahara stepped away to do something else, so you were suddenly left all alone. 

Unbidden, you looked up and searched for that pair of scarlet eyes, that head of ash-blond hair, but the explosive hero was suddenly nowhere to be found. 

The crime scene continued to bustle around you, but all the while, two thoughts circled each other in your head, like binary stars stuck in each other’s orbit: 

Dynamight didn’t reveal my secret. 

But I’m going to have to face him again.

[gallifrey1sburning]

Hi 👋 a prompt you can take or leave: Draco is very unsure whether he is being flirted with or this is an extension of their office rivalry that he doesn't understand (or the reverse!) Ty!

@skeptiquex and @ihavesomeideawhatimdoinghere, I read both of your prompts back to back, and they worked really well together, so I squished them into one. I hope you enjoy! Thank you both for sending me things, and thanks to @mxmaneater for the fast beta ❤️

—

The Tally

“One more for me!” Harry crowed, scratching a new tally mark next to his name on the chalkboard behind Draco’s head. “Better luck next time, Malfoy.” The board had a partner behind Harry’s desk, and the tallies recorded on one would reflect on the other, but Harry took great joy in invading Draco’s space and rubbing his victories in his face at every opportunity. Not that Draco was any better. It was part of the fun.

“Please, that one hardly counted,” Draco objected reflexively. “You only caught him because you tripped, for Merlin’s sake. Hardly an impressive arrest.” 

Harry shrugged and grinned, perching on the edge of Draco’s desk. “An arrest is an arrest.”

“Whatever,” Draco grumped. He and Harry had been playing this game for over a year now, and the margin was always extremely close. Harry was just barely ahead, at the moment, but Draco would catch up to him soon. He and Parvati had a potions ring bust coming up that Harry and Weasley weren’t involved in. Once that was done, he’d have overtaken him, and the smug expression currently gracing his colleague’s face would disappear along with his lead.

“So, any big weekend plans?” Harry asked, ignoring Draco’s pout.

Draco dropped the expression when it failed to produce the desired reaction. “Nothing too exciting. Yourself?”

“I’ve got tickets for the Puddlemere game on Saturday, actually. Ron was supposed to come, but something came up, so I’m trying to find someone else who might want to go. It would be a shame for the ticket to go to waste.” Harry was biting his lip and looking hopeful, and for just a moment, Draco thought— but no. If he’d wanted to ask, he would have asked, he told himself firmly. 

Taking care to keep his expression light, Draco pondered for a moment before saying. “I think McCutcheon is a Puddlemere fan. Maybe try him?”

“Oh, right.” Draco almost thought that Harry looked disappointed for a moment, but on second glance, his expression was clear and friendly. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll see if he’s free. Have a great weekend, Draco. Parvati.” He knocked his knuckles against the desktop twice before straightening and walking off, hands in pockets. Draco watched him go, sighing as he rounded the corner. It really was a pleasure watching him walk away.

He was brought back to reality by his partner smacking him in the back of the head with a stack of paperwork. “Ow! What the fuck, Patil?”  

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed, looking even more exasperated with him than usual. “Every time he’s over here, you spend the rest of the day mooning, and he finally asks you out, and you say NO?!” 

“I do not moon!” He did moon, and he knew it, but he wasn’t about to say so. He still had his pride. “And he didn’t ask me out, either.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“He didn’t! He just said he had an available ticket! He very clearly had an opening to invite me, if he wanted to, and he very clearly didn’t.” There had been a number of moments like this, in recent months, and Parvati kept insisting that Harry was flirting with Draco. For his part, Draco kept insisting that she mind her own business, because she obviously could not read Harry Potter at all if she thought he was interested in Draco.

“You are an absolute moron.” Parvati shook her head in disbelief, but let it drop.

— 

They made the bust on Tuesday. Monday had been a rush of preparations and contingency planning and final logistics, and the stakeout had lasted all day, but in the end, it had been worth it—they’d brought in six players in one sweep and were confident that at least one of them would give up the rest in exchange for sentencing leniency. Draco had dropped into bed exhausted but elated.

He was still riding high when he sauntered into Harry and Weasley’s office on Wednesday. He leaned ostentatiously over Harry’s desk, stretching almost directly over his perpetually-tousled head to grab a piece of chalk and carefully add six perfectly straight tally marks to his own side of the board, giving him the lead by three. 

“And that’s how you do it,” he gloated as he straightened, smirking smugly down at Harry. “Suck it, Potter.”

Across the office, he heard Weasley groan and mumble something that sounded suspiciously like ‘he wishes’ under his breath. Harry looked a bit pink, but still smirked right back up at Draco, so it was probably just the heat. “Played that one close to the chest, didn’t you? But don’t worry, I’ve got something in the pipeline. I’ll be back on top before you know it.”

In Draco’s peripheral vision, he saw Weasley bang his head against his desk. “I’m getting tea,” he announced, stalking out of the office. Draco raised an eyebrow at Potter, who shrugged. 

Now that he was here, Draco didn’t quite want to leave yet, so he searched for something else to talk about. “How was the game?” he finally asked.

“Huh? Oh, the Quidditch game. Yeah, I didn’t end up going, actually.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, not making eye contact. “Wasn’t really in the mood.” 

Draco wrinkled his brow, not really sure what to make of that, but then Harry asked a question about the potions bust, and Draco forgot about it, instead focusing on a dramatic retelling of his glorious victory.

— 

Harry’s next arrest came after a particularly brutal double homicide. It was all anyone was talking about when he arrived that morning, but, despite Draco’s expectations (and perhaps anticipation), Harry didn’t appear at his desk to brag about it. He was feeling a bit anxious by the time he finally saw him passing by his door in the late afternoon, and the feeling only grew when he did. Harry had bags under his eyes, and his usually confident posture was slumped. He didn’t look as though he had slept. He also didn’t look like he was going to stop.

“Hey,” Draco said, rising from his desk to catch him before he passed by completely. “Haven’t seen you today.” Are you okay?, he didn’t say, but he thought it was probably audible in his tone anyway.

“Oh. Hey, Draco.” Harry looked up at him, seeming a little lost. He looked hollow behind his eyes, and Draco could feel his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Yeah, I’ve been…” he trailed off and glanced past Draco, into his office, to where the chalkboard hung prominently on the back wall. He seemed to curl even further in on himself. “I don’t want to count this one, okay?” he said, finally. “It doesn’t really feel like a victory.”

“Yeah, of course,” Draco said immediately, and he suddenly felt completely helpless. “Can I—” he hesitated, and then put a tentative hand on Harry’s slumped shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

He was half sure that Harry would pull away from his touch, but he didn’t. If anything, he seemed almost to relax into it. “I’m okay,” he said, and it wasn’t convincing, but Draco didn’t want to push it. “Thanks, though.” He reached up and gripped Draco’s hand where it lay on his shoulder, so briefly that his hand was gone before Draco could even fully register it, and then stepped back, continuing on his way.

Draco stood and stared at the chalkboard for a while when he got back to his desk. Then, he picked up his eraser and carefully removed one tally from his own side.

— 

Their next bust, they were on together. A small Neo-Death Eater group that the department had been keeping an eye on, but who hadn’t done much of anything until now, had suddenly decided to make a grand statement by threatening a large-scale attack on Diagon Alley if their (entirely insane) demands weren’t met. Needless to say, the Ministry was not interested in negotiation, and the whole Auror force had been called out en masse. 

Somehow, Harry and Weasley had ended up working in tandem with Draco and Parvati, and now Harry and Draco were back to back in a dead-end alley, dueling a pair that seemed to be the last desperate stragglers, while Parvati watched the street, ready to block anyone who might try to interfere, and Weasley stood to the side, clutching his ribs and sweating but still managing to hold a fairly steady shield charm. There was an unconscious, Incarcerous-ed body on the ground near him; his Stunner’s aim had been true, but the assailant had gotten off one last hex before it hit. He wasn’t in imminent danger—Draco had been hit by the same spell before, and it was extremely painful but didn’t cause any lasting damage once reversed—and although that would be easy enough to do, they didn’t have a wand to spare at the moment.

Harry and Draco worked together like they’d been born to it, and if their respective partnerships hadn’t been working so well for so long, Draco might have considered it a waste that they weren’t paired together. Spells flew around them like fireworks, and they cast and dodged and shielded and attacked without speaking, without pause, until, suddenly, it was over. 

“Ron!” Harry cried as soon as his wand dropped, but Parvati was already by his side, countering the spell, and Ron’s body relaxed almost immediately.

“I’m fine, mate. Great work.” 

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief and then turned to Draco, chest still heaving with exertion. Draco couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face even as he tried to catch his breath. He could feel sweat tracking down his face, his neck, his back, and he was streaked with dirt and—he suspected—blood; but they had won, and no one had died, and he was almost high on the rush of it. “I’m not sure who those count for,” he said, half laughing. “It happened too fast. Did you catch who took them down?”

Harry was grinning now, too, the buzzing energy of their win almost visibly coursing through him. He beamed at Draco, and he looked so fucking beautiful, even though he was just as dirty and dishevled as Draco was, that Draco couldn’t help but glance, just for a second, at those lips that he’d surreptitiously observed for so long as they stretched wide with joy. When he snapped his eyes back up, however, it was clear that Harry had seen, because the smile had morphed into something that Draco couldn’t put a name to, and his eyes were searching Draco’s for something. And then— 

“Fuck it,” he heard Harry say, and then there were hands on either side of his head and he was being—quite thoroughly—kissed, right there in the alley. He melted into it immediately, pulling Harry closer to himself almost instinctively. There was an iron tang of blood as their tongues met, and Draco wasn’t sure whose it was, but he didn’t particularly care. He didn’t care about much of anything, right now, besides Harry’s hands, and Harry’s lips, and the press of Harry’s chest and hips against his own, and whether Harry might want to reenact this moment later but somewhere with a bed and a lot less clothes.

“I TOLD YOU!” Parvati yelled triumphantly in the background.

“Fucking finally.” Ron sounded both amused and exasperated.

Draco ignored them in favor of sliding his hands into Harry’s birdsnest of hair, pulling lightly and making him groan into the kiss. He supposed this one counted as a win for both of them.

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