#did anyone else just doodle eyes in their note margins sometimes

[hellenhighwater]

I've realized that I got caught up in everything and sort of forgot to eat, so I've got some pop tube cinnamon rolls in the oven, because I am unsupervised. So, while I wait, a ten minute pastel scribble!

[roronoacherries]

“IT’S FORCED CONFORMING; THAT’S WHAT’S KILLING THE KIDS.” | EDDIE MUNSON

1.765 words

CONTENT: Eddie Munson might be the school freak, but you can never seem to hold back the smile that tugs at your lips when you see him stepping on his soapbox (the lunchtables) from across the cafeteria; fluff; fem!reader; no plot rlly just lots of feelings for my boi.

NOTES: got eddie munson brainrot from this gifset by @his-name-is-ed and i was left with no choice but to write this. might write a part two.

Eddie Munson had been a senior for nearly as long as you’d been in high school. Of the first things you learned about survival at Hawkins High was to pay little mind to the social reject. It’s what everyone did. It’s what anyone with any sense was expected to do. He was strange; that was the general consensus on Eddie Munson and you’d accepted it as the truth. You ignored him like everyone else did. Until you didn’t. 

It wasn’t until he was held back a second time, making him a senior of the Class of ‘86 like you, that you started to take notice of him. It started with quiet laughs at his remarks in class. Then, you started finding yourself contemplating certain things he said, replaying his words in your head long after he’d uttered them. They were things that made sense, but you’d never bothered to think about before. You didn’t think anyone had bothered to think about them before. At least not anyone in Hawkins. 

You figured Eddie wasn’t a weirdo, per se — just different. 

Still, you couldn’t be caught dead giving Munson the Freak the light of day, so you went on ignoring him as best you could. Until you realized that that was harder than it’d once been because the more you listened to him — the more you watched him — the more you realized everyone else was wrong. 

Eddie Munson wasn’t a freak. He was outspoken in a way that made people uneasy — that’s all. 

You still avoided showing interest in anything he had to say, avoided acknowledging his existence, but your eyes often wandered to him. And when he talked, you couldn’t help but listen. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but smile, too.

“What is his problem?” 

These words pull you out of your thoughts, and while the rest of your friends turn their heads in Eddie’s direction, you pretend you haven’t been looking that way all along, trying to play it off like you could care less what he’s up to. 

“Don’t know,” your friend turns to look at you as she speaks, a teasing smile tugging at her lips, “but whatever it is, Y/N seems to be into it. She hasn’t stopped staring at him. It’s like she’s eating him for lunch instead of those tater tots.”

At this, your friends are all turn to stare at you. “I am not into Eddie Munson,” you jump to defend yourself, poking at the food in front of you, “and I’m not… staring.” You talk fast, trying not to think too hard about the sudden attention on you.  “ — and he doesn’t have a ‘problem’ either. I have a few classes with him and he’s really not as bad as everyone makes him seem.” 

The table goes quiet and for a moment you think you’ve said too much, until your friend speaks up beside you, her eyes still on Eddie Munson. “You know, he’s kinda cute? In his own, weird, kind of way.”

To your surprise, your friends mumble in agreement. “I think I see what you mean,” you respond. You try to sound like you’re making the realization along with her; like you haven’t been dwelling on the thought for weeks. 

Against your better judgment, you glance back to where Eddie sits once more and his eyes meet yours. He gives you a sweet smile and you turn away. 

.

As much as you try to push Eddie Munson out of your mind, he’s hard to forget and harder to ignore. It feels like whenever he’s around, you can’t focus on anything else. As hard as you try to redirect your attention to anywhere else (your teacher, for instance), your eyes always wander to where he sits, bouncing his leg while he doodles in the margins of his textbook. 

Eddie always leaves you with something to wonder about when he’s not around, too. 

If you’re not left thinking about something he said, you’re wondering how he can have such a devilishly innocent grin. How is it that his smile says “I’m up to no good” and “I wouldn’t hurt a fly” at the same time? 

You wonder if the twinkle in his eyes adds to the mischief or the innocence in his smile, or if it’s a little bit of both. You wonder why he likes his hair so long; whether the chains on the sleeve of his leather jacket were there when he bought it or if it’s an addition of his own; what each of his tattoos means to him; whether he has any more you haven’t seen…

You wonder whether he remembers your name and what he thinks of you, if anything. You think about little ways to get his attention — like dropping your pencil in front of him in hopes that he’ll pick it up for you, frowning when Jason Carver does instead — and wonder why you care at all. 

You don’t want to admit it’s a crush — you can’t have a crush on Eddie Munson, of all people — but how else do you explain the beat your heart skips when he smiles and the time you waste coming up with a hundred and one excuses to talk to him? Not that you ever do. 

-

At the end of everyday, you walk past Eddie in the parking lot, racking your brain for anything to say to him. Usually, the most you can muster is a shy smile as you rush past him, ears blushing red when he smiles back. 

It isn’t until you see him walking alongside Mike Wheeler that you come up with a solid excuse to walk up to him. 

You don’t waste a second, knowing that if you stop to think about it you’ll wimp out and lose your chance. So, feigning confidence and ignoring the loud beating of your heart in your chest, you march towards them. “Hi, boys! Sorry to interrupt.” 

“No apologies necessary, milady,” Eddie says, smiling as he bows his head to you. As endearing as it is, you turn to Mike in an attempt to appear indifferent, but the blush that flushes your cheeks and the smile you fail to hide give you away. You could swear you see Eddie smirk at you out of the corner of your eye, but you’re not bold enough to look. 

“I just wanted to ask if you could return this to Nancy for me.” You dig through your bag for a book you borrowed from Nancy Wheeler weeks ago, handing it to Mike. He mumbles a quick, “Yeah, no problem,” as he eyes Eddie — who has yet to take his eyes off of you — in confusion. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on you and you questionwhether walking over without a plan was your brightest idea. 

“Thanks, Wheeler.” You glance at Eddie for only a second before turning back to Mike, afraid you’ll lose your composure if you meet his big brown eyes. “Cool shirts by the way.” 

You turn to go, though not before you work up the courage to give Eddie a small smile; your eyes linger on him for what you worry is a moment too long. 

There are a dozen thoughts running through your head as you start to walk away. You worry that you might’ve interrupted an important conversation, that you might have annoyed Eddie more than he let on. You wonder whether anything you said sounded stupid or silly. You question if you should have said more to Eddie, if he might think you were ignoring him because you see him the same way everyone else does, or if he’s noticed the way you look at him and knows how you feel about him. 

You don't take more than a few steps forward when you trip over your own feet and fall. 

“I’m O.K.” You rush to stand up, but Eddie is already behind you, holding your arm as he helps you up. 

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie points out, frowning as he looks down at your knee. 

“It’s only a scratch,” you reassure him, but he doesn’t look convinced. “I’m fine, I promise.” Eddie smiles, joyfully bemused by your insistence. Looking into his eyes, you realize you’ve definitely lost your composure now. 

“Well, fine or not, let me give you a ride home, will you? Wouldn’t want you limping home in this heat.” 

You can only manage a quiet, “‘Kay,” your voice lost in throat. It felt silly, how small you felt under Eddie’s gaze but you couldn’t help it.

“A ride in what? Your bicycle?” You notice Eddie’s ears turn red at Mike’s words and you hold back a giggle. “And what heat…you’re wearing a jacket!” 

“Shut it, Wheeler, who asked you?” Eddie says without looking at Mike. He avoids your eyes too for a second. When he finally turns to you again there’s a sheepish grin on his face and you can’t keep yourself from giggling anymore. 

You ride home on the back of Eddie’s bike and for once you’re not worrying that someone will see you being friendly to Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. You’re too nervous (and giddy) to worry about anything other than making sure you don’t fall over. 

There’s a comfortable silence the whole way home, save for Eddie humming here and there. It’s as if you’re childhood friends rather than classmates who’ve rarely spoken to one another — and you’re grateful for it because it makes it easier to act on your impulses. Before stepping off the pegs of his bike, you lean forward and press a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “Thanks, Munson.” 

You make a run for the front door before he can respond. Not that he would have been able to say anything at all; you left him too dumbfounded to speak, his heart racing in his chest. See, Eddie Munson knew you were pretty. Anyone with eyes could surely attest to that. The smiles you sent his way when you crossed paths never failed to make his day and, shit, he looked forward to them most days. He knew that, despite not knowing you too well, he liked being near you. He knew he liked the sound of your voice and it thrilled him to hear you laugh at his commentary in class.

Eddie Munson was blissfully unaware that any of that suggested he had a crush until that little kiss on the cheek hit him with the realization, but by then it wasn’t a simple crush anymore.

That simple kiss left Eddie whipped, head over heels for you.

-

reblog if you want a part two? | more eddie munson brainrot <3

[harfanfare]

How to win a heart of Jamil Viper?

1.   Don’t be a typical hero(ine).

Contrary to the popular romance trope, tripping over the air to land on a certain cool-looking boy, and dropping all carried things, wouldn’t make Jamil fall for you. Instead, just falling because of you and sharply crashing with a floor would make him rather cautious around you and keeping a distance whether he has anything in his hands.

Believe him or not, he doesn’t need another ditsy and erratic person around him—like a certain leader from a certain dorm, who happens to create a mess anytime, anywhere.

So, let someone else be the protagonist of the story.

In that situation, you may be a side character that gets its way through obstacles and classic borders of story scheme and is much more interesting than the main persona.

That’s how you get his attention.

‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

2.   Be a help.

Oh, a person that would help him with his chores means to him much more than gold. Sometimes.

“Can I help you anyhow?” you asked when Jamil was going to the kitchen after a daily training with the rest of the dorm. He lifted his eyebrow, waiting for further explanation. “I mean with cleaning or something.”

Jamil glanced at you, not sure about your intentions.

Who would like to do something to help without having something in return? With only your will? No, it doesn’t work well in the same sentence.

But some help would be great. So, he just needs to keep sure that he won’t fall into any trap for letting you help, yes?

“Sure,” he said casually, not letting his face nor voice reveal any of his thoughts he run into. “[Name], right? Could you bring and clean the dishes from longue?”

And you helped. You really helped him a lot, staying over two hours till everything was shimmering with cleanliness and your abrupt desire to clean something and be more useful, burned out.

“Thank you for your help,” Jamil said, after correcting the last cushion in the Scarabia’s longue. You flashed him a smile. “But why, if I can ask, did you offer it in the first place?”

He got a quick response in form of a shrug.

“I... don’t really know,” you admitted, glancing at him. “...But you don’t complain, no?”

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

3.   Be his dish taster.

“The way to a one's heart is through his stomach.”

“Try it,” Jamil handed you a spoon filled with some kind of stew. You consentaneously your opened mouth and drank all content of the spoon. Your mouth filled with many flavours and you couldn’t be sure if you ever ate that good combination in your life. “How was that?”

“Excellent as always.”

You said it all sincerely and maybe would have asked for seconds, if not the fact that Jamil already turned his back to you and got back to pots. He took another spoon and tried the dish himself, clicked his tongue and added more salt.

Once again, he turned to you and handed you a spoon.

“And how was that now?”

“Excellent as always,” you chuckled as he frowned at you.

“Don’t you think that you should add more words to your dictionary? You say the same thing on every dish,” once he said that you finished drying the last plate and preparing silverware for today’s fiesta.

“Don’t you think that I won’t be able to eat anything at the party when I will eat enough of your cooking now to write a poem about each of your culinary masterpieces?” Jamil chuckled slightly at your words.

“So, you don’t want any more?” he teased, but inside he was really flushed. Praises or cajolery, it all makes his heart skip a beat.

Finally, there was someone who appreciated all work he’s done.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

4.   Distract Kalim from him.

“You really shouldn’t go there,” you said, your voice as serious as you could keep it. “I mean, what if there is a monster who wants to kidnap you?”

Kalim cocked his head a little, considering your words. After a while, he nodded, fully convinced by your argument.

“You’re right,” he said. “I will warn others about this..!”

Kalim turned on his heel and spotted some people returning from morning classes. He ran to them, greeting them and walking with them as he tried to introduce the situation.

Still not believing Kalim fall for your words, you were standing alone in the centre of the corridor, a bit dumbstruck to discover the excuse Jamil came up with work.

“...Are you sure, you don’t want to tell him that some student’s from other dorm are here?” you asked as if saying to yourself your thoughts aloud.

But there was someone, someone who was hiding behind a big potted palm. He only gave you thumbs up as a preventative measure if there was still a chance that Kalim didn’t just dash through the halls to talk with some dorm students.

Jamil only looked at you and mouthed “No. Party. Today.” and quietly shifted to the corner, where the wall hid him and he could finally get up.

Mission accomplished.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

5.   Get rid of bugs for him.

“[Name],” Jamil called out to you, bursting through the door to your room. He looked very pale and panic was staying still in his eyes. “Would you be so kind to... deal with an intruder?”

You frowned a little before biting back a sigh. At first, you were concerned. Even Kalim getting in a serious mess didn’t make him react that seriously. But then you remembered that there was one thing that could make Jamil call you out of nowhere, acting like in an emergency. Emergency only in eyes of few.

Bugs.

Jamil never admitted to you that he is scared of them, but every time you brought up the topis, he snapped his fingers at it, saying that insects just aren’t his favourite kind of animal.

“Hmm~ Maybe after I finish this chapter,” you said, conspicuously turning a page of the book you were reading and with all your will trying not to smile nor to look at the wincing expression Jamil was wearing.

“[Name],” he said, his voice shaking with anger or frustration. “Go there right now or I will make sure you won’t get today’s dinner.”

...No dinner?

“Yes, mum,” you said putting the textbook aside and getting up from the comfortable couch.

Of all people, Jamil is probably the only one—well, maybe also Trey—that could make those words sound dangerous. Like, no dinner made by the best chef in Scarabia? It would be pure agony.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

6.   Have competitions.

“Aren’t you a little too good in this game?” you asked, regretfully placing pieces of the game back to the initial places.

He gave you a smile that slowly turned into a smirk, as you groaned at the next round you have lost. You flopped on the big pillow, all your will to play destroyed, as you sank between really cosy material.

“I told you I won’t give you a head start,” Jamil said, his steady voice mixed with amusement. “You even told me that you don’t want me to go easy on you before the game started.”

“Too bad,” you clicked your tongue at his response. “I was sure that after watching you play with Kalim, I remembered your tactics.”

You’ve watched at least eight rounds of Jamil and Kalim playing this game, and when it was coming to end, you were almost sure you understood and remembered the technique he was using in certain situations.

But, to your disappointment, it looked like he – even without using any of his tricky cards in his sleeve – was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, because, after three moves, you knew that probably all three were wrong when the opponent was Jamil.

“You gained nothing by it. Of course, I lost to him or... there would be a trouble,” he exclaimed. “You are different.”

“Oh, thank you. I can lose but he can’t, huh?” you frowned at him as he almost choked on the surprise he felt by hearing your response.

“...Yeah, that’s it. Just it.”

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

7.   Have study sessions together.

“One class had a test before us,” you said scrolling through your class chat group. “They said that there wasn’t any question about these dates.”

Jamil scribbled down years of the most important magic wars, from time to time looking at you who were listing some test exercises and feeling somehow unmotivated to even properly open a history book.

Your notebook was lying in front of you, today’s lesson topic on the top of the page and many detailed doodles on its margin.

Once again... what was the unit you are having an exam about?

“It doesn’t mean, we won’t get a question about that,” Jamil tried to convince you, sliding textbook your way. “Now, read that aloud, while I prepare notes.”

You blinked twice as if woken up from daydreaming. Were you daydreaming?

“Are you sure..? I mean, all I will do is reading. Wouldn’t you rather want us to read it silently and then share our notes after this?”

“Don’t think about it much. I really like your voice,” he said it so thoughtlessly you weren’t sure if said it as an unarguable fact or just his smooth talker abilities were showing off, “and gave me your notes for the last exam so we’re even. And you won’t do any good notes when you’re sulking over this exam like that.”

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

8.   Remind him to take breaks.

“You won’t get out of here,” you exclaimed spreading your arms as shielding a door from him. “Not a chance.”

Jamil stood a feet next to you, grimace stretching on his lips as he knew what’s coming up.

“I have to go, [Name].”

He tried to get through you, lightly removing you of his way. He wasn’t a fan of using force on anyone, and he was a hater of using force on you.

Much more than a speakable argument, you were pushing each other closer or further from the door, having a staring contest and reciting all the things he had done in the past two days; except for his daily duties and with the upcoming birthday party of few students of Scarabia who happen to have a celebration in the same day, the number of tasks he was given was overwhelming.

“Stop it!” you protested, trying to push him back. “I am seriously worried about you! Please... take a break.”

Every time he was coming closer to the exit, you stepped back, blocking his way, bumping into him and having to try again.

“You know I have a lot of work to do,” he said, finally stepping back and giving you a break from trying to separate him from the door. “I can’t just give up all my duties, even if I would love a break.”

“I can do it for you,” you quickly offered. “But please, now, go to sleep and don’t you dare touch anything related to school or cleaning.”

...What a weird request.

When was the last time anyone told him to take a break?

He doesn’t remember.

But now, he can say it was recently, all thanks to you.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

9.   Promise.

It was really hard for him once all his hard work to keep a high position within the dorm students suddenly dropped after his overblot accident.

“[Name]...”

However, the thing he regretted the most was hurting you. Taking the whole dorm under his unique magic spell, the hypnosis also affected you, making you another servant of his. Even you weren’t the one he ordered a lot, you felt betrayed that even the friendship you two developed didn’t stop him from overblotting.

And if he knew that you would avoid him like fire after the accident, he would probably hesitate a lot.

His throat tightened as he saw you one day in the corridor, looking somehow lonely and tired. He dashed to you, beseeching you to talk to him.

“Sorry for asking, but, Jamil, you don’t hate me, right?” you asked with a pain in your voice. You couldn’t even look at his face, feeling the incomprehensible weight in your gaze. “I mean... Do you only act in front of me friendly? ...Like... with Kalim..?”

“No, no, no,” he protested quickly, making it almost sound like a plea. He gently grabbed your hands, praying that you won’t harshly jerk them back because of him. “I don’t hate you. I really like you. I mean every word I said to you.”

The feeling of release struck you like thunder, you took a big breath, your eyes watering. You slowly reached for his touch, finally ending in a hug.

Jamil ran his fingers through your hair, smelling a familiar, reassuring scent of yours. After a while, he whispered a question.

“So... could you please not avoid me anymore? I know it will be hard to bring up the same relationship we had, but... could you give me a second chance?”

“Okay. But under one condition,” you said, slightly backing off from him. Before he could wonder about the term you would require from him, you finished your thought. “You must be honest with me. I... don’t know what will I do if it all turned to be a play...”

“I will,” he replied, putting his whole heart in these two words. “I will always be honest with you. And won’t ever use my unique magic on you.”

You looked up at him, a small smile starting to rise and heart-throbbing more wilder with his words. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

10.            Make him confess.

“What are you doing this weekend?”

Jamil appeared in front of you, almost like popping out of nowhere, as you were done with today’s lessons and slowly heading to your dorm. He caught up with you, changing his pace to match yours.

“I have no plans. I will be probably sleeping or something,” you answered honestly, shrugging and reminding yourself that you should finally hang out with some people from your class to make sure your social life isn’t all over dead.

You were walking in quietly before Jamil broke silence and spoke up again.

“Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked his voice only giving a hint of nervousness—it was nothing compared to the stress he felt inside. It was just a “yes or no” question, he knew that he will meet in future many amazing people like you and shouldn’t be stressed, but having someone so dear to him being asked for a meeting where he will try to finally out find his feeling... it is stressful.

“Hehe~ what, are you asking me on the date?” you teased, but much more than mocking, you were hoping for an answer. For the honest answer, he promised you.

“...And what if I am?” he asked, his voice a bit hushed, but steady.

You felt how heat was coming all the way up to your cheeks, although you tried your best not to let anything more, as if a blush wasn’t obvious enough, know how excited and spellbound you are.

“Then, your wish is my command.”

[rwprincess]

Happy to Help (Artist!Reader x Fred Benson)- Requested

Anon request: Heya! Would it be okay if you could do a Fred x GN reader where the reader is kinda socially anxious and introverted but loves art and Fred  has a crush on them and one day notices them drawing something and he really wants to tell them that their art is amazing and that he is also learning to draw too but he's also introverted and nervous in social situations, but he gathers the courage to do so and they end up together?  Ty!

Masterlist Word Count:  2.1K

Synopsis: Fred notices an adorable artist across the cafeteria and decides to strike up a conversation about his art that they may or may not have inspired.

Fred surveyed you from across the cafeteria. Always doodling and sketching away, whether in the margins of a notebook or an actual artist’s pad, it didn't really matter. He was fascinated by the way your wrist flicked strokes across the page, creating something from nothing and translating the fantastical from inside your head onto the page, forging a reality only you could ascertain. Not that he was actively looking at you constantly…no, he just ‘noticed,’ at least that’s what he told himself. Another observation due to his reporter instincts, of course. He always wanted to ask you to draw something for The Weekly Streak or to ask you anything, really. He’d love to talk to you, but couldn’t gather the courage to do so. Which was why he resigned himself to watching you from afar, noting the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration or your tongue would seek purchase in your mouth, either curving your cheek out from the inside or poking out in concentration, just the shiny pink tip of it sliding across your lips, which were distracting enough on their own. 

No, he never really spoke to you and you didn’t seek him out either. In fact, he didn’t think he saw you pursue the company of anyone before. It was just you and your art, a realm all your own. This is actually what inspired him to take up the hobby for himself. He wanted to be able to communicate with you: to meet you on your turf, so to speak. He watched as you rigorously erased something, oversized sweater sleeves shimmying along in a dance in conjunction. The way you were swallowed up in the fabric and yet seemed so comfortable was, dare he say (or rather think it?), cute. Just like everything else about you, which is why he always gave pause to speak with you. Any time he came remotely close, he panicked and ran the opposite direction. His palms would get sweaty and his heart would start racing and it felt like some sort of life-or-death situation and he suddenly couldn’t face you.

He was positive you’d be kind, that wasn’t the problem. You were reserved and gentle as far as he could tell. But, the thought of having to fill the void, to keep going and ask ‘what’s next?’ terrified him. Little did he know that’s how you felt all the time. Every interaction for you led to a spiraling internal conversation of what-ifs and worries how to proceed and how you were being perceived. Fred’s assessment was right: you didn’t talk to other people, really. It was by choice in the sense that you felt safest when avoiding contact, even if it was benign. However, it wasn’t really by choice when you reflected on how lonely you felt and how you wished that sometimes you could make a connection with another person. That you could have conversations beyond the ones in your imagination, and with perhaps your classmates rather than the drawings that littered all of your paper-bound surfaces. You looked up from your current work, eyes burning from concentration and seeking a break. You scanned the lunchroom, trying to see artistic beauty beyond the mundane. The way groups laughed and bonded with one another, for example. Then your eyes met a pair peering back at you. They widened in suspense behind their lenses and quickly darted away from your glance. You felt the heat rush through you. Perhaps it was a prickle from the general anxiety of interacting with someone else, even from afar and by accident. But the smile that tugged at your lips as you looked back down made you sense that there was another layer to it.

Another day, alone at lunch. A simple sketch made its way across your notebook, flowing from your fingers without much thought. Your mind has been somewhere else, lately. Since you’d caught his gaze the other day, you’d begun to notice him around more and more. Your eyes even sought him daily in the cafeteria, hoping that you would catch his eye again. Which was silly. What would you even do if you did? Look away again? You just knew it would be hurried and embarrassed and not coquettish at all, the way you fantasized it might be. It was funny to think that you wanted to be alluring, as if you wanted to attract attention. You wouldn’t even know where to begin with a conversation. However, you thought back to that boy with his head propped up in his hand, palm against his cheek. It gave you a rush to think that he was purposefully looking at you and not just zoning out. But he seemed to notice your eyes on him immediately and looked away, which made you feel like possibly--- you didn’t get to finish the thought. You sensed someone behind you and froze, your fingers tightening around the pencil threaded between them as they ceased all movement.

“That’s really…really neat what you’re drawing there.” The voice sounded as unsure and as flustered as you felt and you glanced up. It was him. Your cheeks immediately took on a blushed tint and your brain checked out, leaving you at a loss for words. Your eyes went wide, giving you a full-on deer-in-the-headlights quality. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” He said quickly, taking in your startled and humbled expression.

“No. That’s okay. Um, thank you.” One-to-two word sentences seemed to be all you could manage at the moment. Luckily for you, he seemed to accept this and went on with his piece of the conversation.

“I’ve started drawing recently, but definitely am not near that quality.” He chuckled nervously, and the thought that he wanted to be at your quality made the pink on your cheeks reach your ears and darken.

“It just takes practice, really. The more you do it, the better you’ll get.” The words left your lips effortlessly, almost like a rehearsed response. It was true, though, and you definitely wanted him to feel better about himself…and to stay talking to you. He was much more adorable up close, and his voice was oddly soothing.

“I’m uh…Fred. Benson.” He introduced himself, and you did likewise. He acted as though he didn’t already know your name and was pleased to make your acquaintance. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it--” he started, after a moment of awkward silence after your pleasantries. He started to turn his body away and yours acted on instinct, words bubbling up through your chest and blurting out your mouth.

“No! Stay!” Were you shouting? You felt like you were shouting, so you dragged a shaky inhale into your lungs and tried again. “I mean, it’s no bother really. I’m not sitting with anyone, so if you wanted to join me…” you left the implication up in the air, giving him the decision. However, no part of his brain consciously decided to sit with you. Rather, he was immediately hooking his long, thin legs over the bench on the table and plopping down beside you without a second thought. “Um…tell me about your art. What do you like to draw? You-you don’t have to show me or anything. I get how it can be personal and really scary to show someone else.”

“Oh! Uh, sure!” He suddenly sounded surprised that the topic of your conversation would be art, even though that’s where he started. “No, it’s not too personal, per se. Just…promise not to laugh? I could use some pointers, though.” This was going better than he had ever pictured it; he was communicating with you in the way he had hoped. He started rifling through his bag and produced a standard-sized sketchbook.

“Scout’s honor,” you swore not to be too harsh on his works. You knew what critique could do to a person. “Looks like you’ve already got the right tools,” you praised and he smiled in return. Another beautiful thing amongst the mundane. A ray of sunshine pouring out into the dull, gray cafeteria. Something warm and wholesome that hit you straight in the heart. He flipped through a couple of pages before landing on something he found acceptable.

“Here,” he handed it over sheepishly. While his interaction seemed normal to you, he was hiding the buzzing nervousness inside his body. Not only was he talking to you, but he was opening himself up to judgment. 

“This is really good, starting out!” You said softly, amazed. “I started more with like, stick figures and that sort of thing. You’ve got great foundations here. Have you learned much about shading?” You finally looked up at him, and when your eyes met his, your confidence faltered. You’d been lost in the paper for a moment, in your element, but now that blue gaze and that sweetly round face were trained on your features, waiting for your words. It was overwhelming. He also took a moment to respond, which made your stomach dip in queasiness. You didn’t think you’d offended him already, but maybe he regretted showing something to a total stranger.

“No, no I haven’t,” he breathed back. The sudden intimacy of the conversation struck you and you felt goosebumps nip at your skin. You looked back down at his drawing, hoping to tune out what he looked like and focus on giving advice.

“I think that that would really bump it up to the next level. May I? I don’t want to ruin your art.” You gestured to the piece and began digging through your tools to find the blunt rolled up paper pen you used for blending and shading.

“No, not at all. I doubt you could ruin it.” He laughed it off, trying to hide his insecurity.

“I wouldn’t say that. Like I said, it’s actually pretty good.” You started to move the blending tool across the page, focusing in on it and avoiding his glances. He watched your steady movements, trying his best to learn something, but he was really only admiring the way you twisted the pen in your fingers, imagining his fingers filling that space instead. “See, it just adds some depth. You have to think about where your light source would be coming from, and that’s a whole other deal in keeping it consistent, but--” you lifted the blender up and turned the book back to him so he could see the adjustment. “Here, you should give it a go.” You held out the paper blender to him, and he took it hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he replied, unsure.

“Yeah, no problem. Actually,” you rustled through your items once more and produced a new one, “take this one. I have plenty and you need the right tools.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” he started handing back the used blender, and you reached out for it, fingers brushing against his. You both felt the jolt at the conjunction of touch, but neither of you admitted it or drew attention to it.

“I insist.” You mumbled quietly, turning to stuff your old blender in your bag so that he wouldn’t see the uncomfortable expression on your face. With your eyes averted, you missed the flustered blush that made its way across his nose, highlighting the few freckles there. He cleared his throat of nervousness and you let out a loose breath before turning back to him. “So, in my guess, the light was coming from here, so you would have lighter shading here, but darker here.” You tapped the paper gently in the spots you referred to, still unable to look up at him. He absentmindedly tried out the tool and let it glide across the paper, adding graphite to the areas you suggested. 

You conversed quietly, answering any of his questions that cropped up, still fumbling with your words and avoiding letting on that you were feeling the effects of his presence. However, this was the easiest conversation you’d ever had. You were lucky he approached you on a subject you knew, but he still instilled you with nervousness, despite him being incredibly kind. When the bell rang, you hastily stuffed your belongings into your bag, but found that he was waiting for you after doing the same. “Hey, Y/N. Well, if you’re not sitting with anyone tomorrow, either, do you mind if I come by? I promise I’ll work on my shading technique.” He gave you a shy smile that completely melted you on the spot.

“Of course, Fred. Happy to help.” 

[cupidsintern]

shot thru the heart, pt 3

pt 1 //pt 2

-

Steve staves off actually caving and asking Billy for the notes for as long as he possibly can. Which is like, four days.

He actually needs those notes, for real, because he hasn’t been able to write a single fucking thing except the day’s date on his paper since…. Since Billy started sitting behind him at the beginning of the semester. It’s just been distracting, okay? That’s all.

That’s all.

And if Steve thinks about this anymore his head is going to literally explode so-

“Hey, Hargrove.” Steve catches up to Billy just as they are both leaving class. And he spaces out for a millisecond thinking how every time he thinks about blonde-curls-blue-eyes he thinks Billy, but what he says is ‘Hargrove.’

Billy slows, looks over his shoulder a little like he’s letting Steve know he’s allowed to continue, but he doesn't stop walking. He’s a faster walker than Steve, even though Steve’s legs are longer. Too long- he feels like a fucking. One of those. Desert-deer things. Antelope? No, a gazelle- it’s a gazelle.

“I, uh,” Steve realizes he’s never actually walked anywhere with Billy before, and has never entertained the possibility, but he started talking, so he may as well keep going. “If you’re still cool with it, borrowing your notes would be like, really helpful.” Why does he sound so stilted?

“Sure.” Billy seems so impartial to the whole thing, but Steve grins, a little relieved.

“Great! Uh, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Billy nudges past him.

Now Steve’s standing alone on the sidelines of the main hall. And he feels warm all over again.

Steve is sitting at his desk the next day when a small stack of notes gets dropped in front of him- the paper snaps a little against the desk’s wood top.

Steve turns around in time to catch Billy sliding into the seat behind him.

“Hey,” Steve smiles, tries to think of something else to say like ‘thanks again’ when Billy goes,

“That's everything I have from this unit. Don’t write on them cause I want them back.”

“Okay,” Steve thinks Billy seems like he's trying to compensate for something. “Thanks again.”

Billy shrugs. But he does smile a bit. One of his nothing-matters-I'm-cool smiles.

“Maybe we could study together sometime-” Steve says before thinking about it at all, so it comes out way lower than he means it to so he has to clear his throat and go “If you want.”

Steve panics for a split second, something trying to flip over in his chest and he worries Billy’s gonna think he was asking something else, is gonna get him all wrong- but-

“If I didn't know better I’d say you were asking me to hangout, Harrington.” Billy laughs just a little. A little huff, sharp off his tongue.

Steve looks away, then looks back to Billy. “I mean, sure, yeah.”

Steve can swear Billy lights up for a second, smiles a little brighter, sits up more- but then, no. Billy only looks nonchalant again. “Hm. Maybe.” Then he looks back at his own notebook. And Steve takes that as a signal that the conversation is Now Over.

He turns back to his desk. Billy’s notes are still there.

It's days before the test, and Steve is sure that Billy's notes would be super helpful if he was actually reading them for clarity and understanding or whatever, but instead he’s discovered something entirely different, scribbled in the margins of almost every page; commentary. Billy writes literal commentary, more scrawly and casual than the rest of his legible nites.

Shit like; “Incorrect date in lecture but who’s gonna notice that certainly not the guy whos supposed to be fucking teaching us this no sir” and “just saw a bird out the window” and “Five minutes in and you have no idea what’s going on huh?”

That last one seems a little sweeter than the two before it, though. Like Billy’s talking to someone, other than himself.

Steve loves looking at those notes.

Loves the slopes and slants of the writing. Loves the commentary. Loves the little doodles Billy does in the margins. A knife with a spiraly handle. A skull that’s actually pretty good, could make a good tattoo maybe. Roses- lots of them. All different sizes. And a little heart with an arrow shot through it. Steve didn’t know Billy likes to draw. He’s not half bad. Steve smiles to himself a little. Runs his hand over one of the roses absently, wonders if they’re Billy's favorite because they’re Steves favorite, because they’re the classic-

Steve should probably be learning a lot more than he was though.

Steve actually studies for a few days. Like two, but still. He looks at Billy's notes multiple times. Actually invests time and energy into learning shit. So, you know, good for him. Good for him, managing to get good enough with Billy to actually reap the benefits of almost-friendship, because honestly maybe they could be friends, right? Maybe.

Hopefully.

Steve kind of likes sitting near Billy now, kind of likes the banter they have going, likes how Billy never makes him feel dumb, even if he calls him dumb…

But he still leaves class right as the bell rings, quick as a whip crack. Steve can barely even get in a ‘goodbye.’

He’s only a little disappointed, but it’s not like he has any reason to care-

He looks down.

Billy’s notebook. On the ground in the desk aisle.

It must have fallen out of Billy’s backpack on his brisk way out.

Steve scoops it up, shoves it in his backpack, and is out the door without so much as a second thought.

The second thoughts kick in when Steve gets home. When he tosses his backpack on his bed and paces around like that's gonna do anything before walking back over and pulling Billy’s notebook out and just, Holding it. Looking at it. Feeling overcome with.. Something.

He should open it. No, he shouldn’t, it’s not his.

But he wants to.

Billy ripped out pages to give him notes, clearly there’s stuff in here for Billy’s eyes only.

Steve can’t help himself.

He opens it.

And honestly, it’s pretty standard stuff. Old notes. More commentary that Steve relishes with every new word. A doodle of Bugs Bunny holding a joint that’s actually pretty good.

And a half-ripped page in the back that reads:

“Literally so beautiful it’s impossible not to-

But I don’t think you’re a dumbass-

I promise. Which is dumb, bec-

but I can’t help myself. I-

wish you knew how -

wonder if I’m i-

smells good-

Stupid-”

It’s a love letter. Steve’s dumb, but he’s not stupid. No doubt in his mind- this is a love letter.

Steve sits there. Reading the broken up sentences, over and over.

Billy wrote a love letter. Unmistakably his handwriting. Pieces of beautiful ideas about someone Billy is clearly crazy about-

And Steve’s heat sinks. Sinks all the way down from its high-falutin place in his throat, pushing at the back of his tongue down, down, into the darkest pit of his stomach. Immediately he knows-

That warm feeling from before? The all consuming too-hot cinnamon and grease feeling from before was not jealousy.

This is jealousy.

The idea that Billy cares about someone enough to write them a letter in his perfect pretty collected handwriting makes Steve sick with envy. He just sort of figured he was the only person relevant enough to take up Billy's brainspace. Not like anyone else thinks about Steve in any way anymore…

Steve drops the notebook back on his bed like it burned him. He sits on the edge of his bed, tilts his head up to the ceiling, closes his eyes.

Fuck. Fuck please dear god why now.

Steve wished this was the first time this had happened. The first time he'd stumbled his way into thinking about a guy like that.

But it wasn't. God he didn't want to have to think about this. He tries never to think about this shit. It wasn't like it happened all the time, wasn't like he couldn't just wait for it to go away like he had before.

But it did mean he had to stop talking to Billy right the fuck now.

No more copying his notes. No more maybe-hanging out. No more fucking banter in class. Steve needed to crush this… fluke. Before it became anything worse.

But if he was so resolved to not think about Billy like that, then why couldn’t he just get rid of the torn letter?

-

part 4 coming sooon! the thrilling conclusion !!!

[bloom-bloom-pow]

enhypen as college students

heeseung: that cute, mysterious boy who sits in the front

so wbk he would be an english major if he wasn’t in enha

like imagine him reading in the library with glasses 😳

his dainty hands lightly flipping through an old book😩😩

gOD him wearing a beret and a light blue striped button down

am i getting carried away? yes😟

anyways he’s never late to classes and offers you pens when you forget yours

nobody knows much about him besides that he’s so mysterious

jay: the one who dresses up for every. single. class.

bro there was this one dude who wore nice clothes to every 7am class😭

and i was here wearing sweatpants and a hoodie like ??? anyways

one day he’s running late and so he wears a beanie and a hoodie

everyone freaks out like bro ?? is there a test ??😠

he still wears collared shirts in his dorm like ..okay

pretty hot tho ngl everyone’s like wow do i want to date or be him ??🤔🤔

jake: the one who makes people laugh on the daily

whenever he gets a question right he’ll smile and go “YEAHH LETS GOOO” 🤪

really funny tbh and makes lil comic strips and shows them to you

likes seeing other people smile so he’ll say some real dumb stuff

he writes in yellow highlighter just to get on someone’s nerves😐

everyone wants him in his group bc he’ll do work AND be funny

please he would be such a heartthrob get me a jake pls 😤

sunghoon: the one who always seems to have iced coffee

like no matter what he has a nice bag and an iced coffee

i bet he drinks like dark coffee JUST to look cool😭

he’s secretly like someone get me some cream and sugar before i die

anyways he has his own clique so he doesn’t talk too much to anyone oops

you only heard him talk once and that’s when his coffee machine broke😮

one time someone gave him the wrong order and he was feeling 😒 all day

sunoo: that snarky commenter in the back of the class

whenever the prof says smth,, weird he would look at you with those eyes👀😏

he’s been asked to sit away from you because of the chaos he brings

borderline mean comments and he makes everyone hold in their laugh

“cool story bro…” or “wait what did you say? i filtered you out omg..”🙄

god and his perfect lil smile would be like HELLO U CANT HURT ME😁

everyone thinks he’s cool when he stands up to professors

jungwon: the one with pretty highlighters like bro what ⁉️⁉️

he looks cool with his black backpack until you see stationery and pens

he’s first embarrassed when you bring it up but changes once you gush over it

writes in calligraphy all the time on the margins of his notes wow 😫😫

everybody thinks he’s so talented and so he writes their names too

pretty soon his notebook is covered in streaks of orange and blue and green 🥺

doesn’t let anybody touch his expensive pens or else he’ll give a mean look 😕

ni-ki: the one who gets sidetracked in class.. a lil too often

he would doodle ugly babies and ugly flowers in the back of his notebook 😔😔

pretends to be listening but daydreams a little too quickly

a LOT of “wait i didn’t get the last sentence” and “what are we doing?”😢😩

tries really hard sometimes but then gets tired of trying yeah same dw

he looks like a deer in headlights when giving presentations

he'll jus stand there like "hi.. here's my... presentation thingy" 😳

one time he got called on and he ran out of class because he was like no❤️

[crash-cinematic-universe]

tiger lilies, self destructing, and richard siken

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary: to peter maximoff, love is an anomaly that scares him more than anything else. however, you might be able to help him overcome his fear.

warnings: language! but that’s about it. kind of cheesy at some points but yknow what im not lactose intolerant

notes: this is the monsterous fic thats been kicking my ass this past week (6.2k words babey!!!) i was originally going to add ~~steamy~~ section to this one but i decided against it to make it readable for those who don’t wanna see that kind of stuff. if you want me to separately publish that then just lmk!!  (if any of yall wanna talk about richard siken to me then please do, his work is so good)

taglist: @stranger-names ,  @gooseyhouse , @parkersdarling​ 

1. 

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- no pun intended. His speed is a blessing, but also a bitter curse. He moves at the speed of sound, bouncing off the walls and tearing up the roads; he moves impossibly fast, and no one ever tries to catch up with him. People get tired of Peter rather quickly, not bothering to get attached to him when they know they can’t keep up. 

That’s why it’s so jarringly startling when you decide to stick around. When faced with the grand decision of throwing in the towel and leaving Peter behind or sticking around and trying your best, you chose the latter. It was surprising, to say the least. Peter waited patiently for the distance between the two of you to start growing; he waited for the void you once filled to open up again. However, the void never emptied, and the distance never grew. 

To anyone else, this would be a wonderful experience. Knowing that you wouldn’t be left behind or forgotten about would be comforting to anyone else in Peter’s position. However, this did the exact opposite for Peter. He wasn’t comforted or relaxed, on the contrary, he was always on edge. The future was cruel, and the mystery of it all felt like torture. 

To quote the great Richard Silken, “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Peter lived and breathed by this ideology, that everyone he loves would have to leave eventually, whether it be by their own volition or not. It was obvious that you didn’t plan on abandoning ship anytime soon, so Peter decided he’d take matters into his own hands. If you weren’t going to be the first one to walk away, then he’d be the one to run away from you. He soon came to learn that loneliness was at its most bitter when you’ve come to taste the sweetness of love. 

Love was a strange, complicated beast that Peter Maximoff had never dealt with before. If he were to be completely honest, love scared him. It scared him more than dying scared him. To Peter, death was an escape. Death was the end of a tiring journey, it was safe and simple and easy. Love was the opposite, it was the mouth of a dragon and the edge of a blade. It was the beginning to something so fragile and powerful, something that could end in flames. 

Peter realized he loved you on a summer afternoon. The sun was shining and you were in the shade. He sat down next to you, and within minutes Kurt and Ororo appeared at your side. They seemed so put together, so sure and strong. Peter felt out of place-- he felt as if he were standing outside of a cabin looking in through the window at your wonderful friendships. He watched with his nose pressed against the glass as you walked across the room and opened the cabin door to let him in. 

Peter realized he was in love with you in the middle of the night. A thunderstorm raged outside the mansion walls and raindrops kept time as Peter walked down the hallway. You were sitting on the floor of the common room next to a dying fire, a book clenched tightly in your hands. For a moment, he just stood against a wall and watched you. As creepy as he felt, a part of him believed he’d ruin your night by making himself known. He was okay with being a fly on the wall if it meant he’d get to see you. Peter wondered if there was a world where he had the pleasure of knowing you, without you having the burden of knowing him. 

Still, you saw him. And you knew him. And you waved him over with a smile. He felt the urge to run, to leave you here alone with yourself, but he stayed put. Then, one step at a time, he moved forward. He got closer and closer before he found himself standing at your feet. 

“You’re welcome to stay,” you told him. He believed it. Peter sat down next to you, letting his shoulder brush against yours.

“What’re you reading?” He asked. Peter already knew what you were reading, he read the cover of the book the moment he sat down, but he still wanted to hear it from you.

“Crush by Richard Siken,”

“Oh. What’s it about?” Peter already knew what it was about. He’d read it at least fifty times.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I’d much rather just read it to you and let you decide for yourself,” Peter’s stupid little heart lurched, and he almost cried at the thought. He held it together, though. 

“That would be nice,” He said softly. 

“Sorry about all the writing in the margins, I can’t help myself sometimes.” Peter scanned the sides of the pages, marveling at your notes. Some of them were reactions, littered with exclamation points and question marks and bold letters. Some of them were underlined phrases and little doodles-- most notably a little drawing of a chameleon on a tiger lily. He loved them.

“It’s okay. Literature is meant to be marked up-- what’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?”

“That’s a good point,” You grinned. Then, the reading began, and you allowed Peter to rest his head on your shoulder as you read to him. Even though he’d heard the poems a billion times by now, they sounded brand new coming from you. He listened closely. You were arriving at his favorite part, “You are Jeff” section 24. 

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you...” You read on, not noticing the way Peter’s eyes had shifted from the book you were holding to your face. Peter’s mind wanders, and he curses himself for missing the lines you were reading “... You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.” 

Peter felt like he was going to cry. You kept reading and he kept looking. It was getting late, and Peter was getting tired. Your voice had softened and slowed, and the fire that was burning in the fireplace had all but died. Peter was the one that fell asleep first, and you followed closely after. Both of you had lingering smiles on your faces. 

2. 

Intimacy is an odd thing, isn’t it? Thinking critically, intimacy is just vulnerability with more layers. It’s the closeness between people, it’s allowing yourself to connect with someone you care about. It’s stripping yourself down to muscle and bone and hoping the other person doesn’t let you bleed out. It’s a level of trust that is more than closing your eyes and falling backwards; it’s closing your eyes and letting them push you over the edge into the unknown, and trusting them enough to know you’ll be okay when you hit the ground.

It didn’t take long for Peter to realize that he had trouble with being intimate with other people. Too many times had trusted someone to push him over the edge, only to realize he’d be shattered when he hits the ground. After that, he decided intimacy was overrated. It’s not like anyone was going to have that kind of relationship with him, anyway. 

Of course, then you came along and uprooted his entire worldview, like you had with everything else. He found himself thinking about you at every waking moment, which inevitably led to him… thinking about you at every waking moment, if you catch my drift. Sure, intimacy involves more than just physical intimacy, but Peter knows he can’t ignore the feeling that rises in his stomach whenever he’s around you. For the first year or so of your relationship, Peter became very familiar with the feeling of an ice-cold shower. 

What Peter didn’t take into consideration was you. For some reason, Peter struggled to understand the fact that you were just as attracted to him as he was attracted to you. It was no secret that Peter was insecure, but he never really realized how much his insecurity affected his relationships. If he couldn’t love himself, how could anyone else? Peter is the only one who gets to see his persona in its truest form, and every time he has to avert his eyes. It’s safe to say his physical appearance has been the cause of very many painful-- and occasionally tear-filled-- sleepless nights. 

He told you this. He told you everything. He told you about Erik, he told you about his childhood, he told you about everything he loved and hated and feared and yearned for. That ordeal alone was scary enough, knowing that at any moment you could decide you didn’t want to deal with him anymore, but as always, you stuck around. You told him everything. You told him about your family and your struggles. You told him about everything you loved and hated and feared and yearned for, and not once did Peter even think that he wanted to walk away. This is the kind of intimacy that, over the years, Peter had struggled with less and less.

Still, it was the sexual aspect of intimacy that freaked him out. It was a beast he’d never dealt with, a feat he’d never faced. That being said, as every day went by Peter became more and more… frustrated. He didn’t know how to approach the subject, so he'd just let the subject approach him and wing it. 

And as he sat on his bed watching as you twirled around to Tears for Fears “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”, Peter realized he didn’t have much to worry about. 

“Dance with me, dollface,” you laughed, reaching out for him. You looked like someone straight out of a movie, the lim blue light coming from Peter’s arcade machines illuminating a halo above your head. You put Molly Ringwald and Emilio Estevez to shame. Peter took your hand, grinning like an idiot as you twirled him around. 

There he was, dancing in his mother’s basement with his favorite person in the entire world. He wasn’t a great dancer, and neither were you, but that didn’t matter. Peter was dreading this visit-- he hated the idea of being back in the basement that made him feel like a failure. But you assured him that you’d be there with him, and that getting to see his family would make it all worth it. His family isn’t what made it worth it, though. 

“Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd came next, slower and a bit more somber, but still danceable. Your arms shifted to around his neck, pulling him closer than he already was. Somehow, you ended up with your back against the wall as the song came to a close. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“I love you,” Peter spoke softly. This was a small victory-- he’d been so scared of the mere idea of loving someone. You were the only one who got to hear his love confessions. They were for you, and for you only.

“I love you too,” Peter would never, ever get tired of hearing that. Knowing that you love him is enough to keep him going for a hundred years. And he knows the odds, he knows that love is rocky and painful as much as it is beautiful. He knows that love can feel sweet in the beginning and go sour overtime. He knows that first, second, third relationships don’t always work out. But he thinks this is going to work out. And Peter doesn’t think this will ever go sour. Maybe that’s his blissful ignorance talking, maybe he’s jinxing it, but at this moment, he doesn’t care. Right now he is at his happiest, at his most content. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” You asked softly, pecking Peter on the cheek. He could feel the warmth radiating off of you, and Peter grinned. In an instant the tv across the room began playing the opening credits to the first movie that popped into his head. 

“The Breakfast Club?” You questioned. Peter shrugged.

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for a good coming-of-age kind of movie,”

You sat against the headboard of Peter’s bed, allowing Peter to settle beside you. Your head rested on his shoulder, and he was quick to grab your hand. Peter loved the closeness. Over the past year, he’d come to realize he was a very affectionate person. Previously, Peter hadn’t known soft, physical love; the only time anyone would ever touch him would be as punishment or defense, not love. Love. Peter had gotten more comfortable with the idea of love, because when he thinks of love he thinks of you.

3. 

Every good story has a villain. A villain that you love to hate, or hate to love. A villain you can sympathize with, a villain you can’t excuse, a villain that the mere mention of makes you sick to your stomach. An unexpected villain. An obvious villain. A villain that’s just trying his goddamn best. Sometimes the villain is defeated, sometimes the villain changes their evil ways. Sometimes the villain dies and the crowd cheers. 

Peter Maximoff never thought he’d be the villain of his own story. He tried his hardest to be a good person, but there was always that side of him that made him afraid. He was like an explosive; whenever someone got too close, he’d detonate and destroy everything around him. It was a self-defense tactic, albeit counterproductive. 

It killed you to see him that way. He told you about the relationships he’d lost to himself. He told you about the abandonment and the loneliness. It broke your heart. He tried to distract himself, drowning himself in work so he’d never have the opportunity to ruin what he had with you. Peter Maximoff was a walnut tree; every time he planted his roots and began to grow, he’d kill anything that grew too close. However, the constant working started to wear Peter down.

It started with the late nights. He’d collapse next to you at four AM, knocking out the minute his head hit the pillow. Still, he’d be awake before you were, already scrambling around trying to complete various tasks. He was like a machine that was running from it’s problems. The late nights turned to all-nighters, and the few hours Peter managed to salvage set aside for sleep had shrunk to a few minutes at a time. He didn’t eat anything with even a hint of nutritional value. At this rate, he was going to work himself to death. 

The worst part? Peter knew what he was doing. He wasn’t stupid. He just needed to shut up the little voice in his head that urged him to act out. The entirety of his childhood, Peter destroyed what he created. The need to be isolated, the feeling that he deserves to be alone spread throughout his body like a cancer. He locked himself away in the basement, trying desperately to stay out of everyone’s way so they wouldn’t shut him out. People tried to coerce him out of his cave, to pull him out of the bottomless pit he threw himself into. Peter saw them as the sirens trying to lure him into the ocean of loneliness, and he wasn’t going to fall for it. In his eyes, anyone who tried to help him were the villains of his amazing, heroic tale. Fortunately for him, one by one, they started to give up on helping him. They thought he was a lost cause; a fucking loser who was destined to wallow in his own self-pity until he died. At first, this was a triumph. He defeated them, he outwitted the sphinx and slayed the dragon. But a part of him hated himself for becoming the worst-case scenario that every parent feared their child would grow up to be. 

He pulled himself out of his pit and back onto his feet, all by himself. It was hell on Earth, but he did it. That cancerous feeling of uselessness retracted back into itself, now residing in the place next to Peter’s heart. However, that horrifying fear of becoming a burden began to grow again, this time when Peter was in his mid-20s. He began to overcompensate, and that led him to where he was; always on the brink of collapse, running on nothing but coffee and twenty minutes of sleep. In return, Peter got to have friends. In his mind, that was fair. In your mind? Not even close.

You managed to catch him in his bedroom as he was in the midst of simultaneously scribbling in a notebook and reading an open novel. Peter Maximoff would always be the most beautiful person in the world in your eyes, but at that moment, he looked like hell. Your plan seemed foolproof, but then again, you weren’t sure what you were walking into. Lately, Peter didn’t seem like himself. Probably because of the lack of sleep. 

“Peter?” He looked up at you, eyes half-lidded. “I got you something.”

“You did?” A sleepy smile was all he could muster, but that was google enough for you.  

“I did. It’s to mark exactly three years since I first met you,” you sat down on his bed, placing the small wrapped book right next to you. Peter glanced at the calendar on the wall-- oh god, you were right. It’s been three years to the day and he forgot. He deserves the title of “World’s Worst Boyfriend”. Scott will probably be upset that he’s losing his title.

 “What’re you up to?”

“Finishing up some old work I’ve been putting off,” he punctuated his sentence with a yawn. “Some of my old work and some of Hank’s, too.” “Why are you doing Hank’s work?”

“He seemed stressed about something, thought I might help clear his head,” The sentiment is sweet, you’ll give him that.

“Alright, well, can we talk for a minute?” Alarm bells went off in Peter’s brain. There has never, in the history of the universe, been a good conversation that started with ‘can we talk for a minute?’ or any of it’s cruel variants. 

“Actually, I’m kind of busy right now, can this wait?” It was obvious that the answer to that was no, but still, he felt the need to ask. 

“Not really, no. It’s important.” Peter saw the next few seconds playing out in his head. The inevitable had come to fruition; you realized that you could do better, and now you were cutting him loose. He couldn’t blame you, not really, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to rip him to shreds. He realized that whatever you brought for him was most likely a parting gift. How sweet.

“Oh. Alright.” 

“Well, I’m going to give it to you straight,” you sighed. “I’m worried about you, Peter.”

Oh. He’s heard this speech before, he knows the spiel. He can vaguely recall a guidance counselor telling him the exact same thing before Peter decided to call him a slew of expletives. The tar pit in his chest began to grow.

“I’m fine.” This was a lie. The first lie in a long chain of lies that Peter was about to tell to you, his favorite person in the world. He loved you, but in that moment his vision clouded over. You weren’t the person he loved and cherished anymore, no, you were just another faceless blur that provided a temporary escape. 

“Really? I feel like you’re pushing everyone away, you’re pushing me away.” Peter was becoming more and more irritated by the second.

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m not pushing you away. 

“Don’t lie to me,” your voice is firm and unwavering. “You don’t sleep, you almost never eat-- I don’t think I’ve seen you stand still for more than three minutes once in the past month--”

“That’s just how I am,” Peter huffs. He wanted this conversation to be over. “That’s not your problem.”

“Your wellbeing is my problem, Peter, that’s the whole point of being friends with someone. Even more so now, because you’re my partner and I care about you--” 

“Then stop,” Peter rolled his eyes. He's more irritable than normal-- most likely because he hasn’t slept in days. He could almost feel the venomous arms of isolation creeping around him. It’s a sick pattern, he knows; every time someone gets close to him, he feels the need to self-destruct before they lose interest. Even now, even after all this time, Peter’s still powerless against the poison in his veins. 

“What?” You’re losing your reserve and your stature. He can tell. You’re slouching and picking at the cuticles on your thumb. It’s almost as if he’s been shoved into the back seat, and is now being forced to watch as a stranger takes the wheel and crashes the car. So much frustration, so much hurt, and it’s all coming out right now, onto you. Peter already regrets this entire interaction, but still, he manages to spit acid. 

“Stop caring. Just leave, I know you want to. I know every night, you lie awake and think about all the different ways you can leave me in the dust. Not that it would matter to me.” This is another lie. Your eyes flash with hurt, but you stay put. You know he’s just being an asshole because he’s exhausted and too stubborn to admit that you’re right. He’s egging you on intentionally, trying to get you to snap and walk away. 

 “Peter, god, I love you but sometimes you can be so...”

“So what? C’mon, be honest with me,” He huffed. 

“Frustrating,” You surrendered. The poise you once held was gone. “I know it isn’t your fault-- I know you’ve trusted so many people so deeply and been betrayed or sold out and I know you’ve loved so many times and been thrown to the curb without a second thought. But I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I’m here for you, and that I love you. I’ve tried everything, and it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. I want to make this work, but I need you to work with me.” It’s evident in your voice that you’re desperate. You’re just hoping you’ll get through to him, somehow. “I need you to want it as bad as I do-- hell, I need you to want it at all.” Here it comes--

“You ever think, maybe, I just don’t want you to be that person for me? I’ve spent my life being independent, my entire existence so far has been built around the fact that I’m going to end up alone. People come and people go-- people like you and Charles-- and they tell me they care. They tell me that they love me and that they're here for me. And then they get tired of me and they leave. I wish that you would just leave me the fuck alone and let me live in solitude,” There it was. The lie to end all lies. The words tasted awful coming out of his mouth, and the whole ordeal left his mouth tasting very… sour. Peter had to look away, he couldn’t look at the expression on your face.

“Fine. If that’s what you want.” Your eyes never met his, but you paused before you exited the room. “I know you’re probably just… I don’t know, going through something, but you’re being an asshole. Don’t talk to me until you’ve sorted your shit out. Enjoy your solitude.” You left the room impossibly fast, your fists clenched so tightly Peter feared that your nails would break the skin on your palms. He struggled to keep it together-- why the fuck did he do that? 

Peter collapsed onto his bed, and it’s only then that he realized you left behind the gift you got him. A part of him thought he should return it to you, but the other part of him urged for it to be opened. He tore the wrapping paper off before he realized what he was doing. The hardcover book the wrapping paper concealed was handbound, the cover littered with your beautifully familiar handwriting. In big, bold letters The Best of Poetry in the Humble Opinion of Y/n L/n was scrawled at the top. 

Peter vividly remembers a late night you spent talking to him. You told him about your favorite poems, outlining each and every little detail you loved about them. Some of them he’d read already, some of them he hadn’t, but all of them sounded like artwork coming from you. He opened the front cover, and you’d written something else on the inside. 

“In the words of the wonderful Peter Maximoff, ‘What’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?’. This is me, sharing the love.” 

Carefully, Peter opened to a random page in the book. He saw the notes in the margins and the doodles and the exclamation points and before he knew it Peter was on the verge of tears. He was barely containing himself, and then he read a specific annotation you made. 

He had opened to the first page of “The Worm King’s Lullaby”, one of your all-time favorites. A specific line was underlined, one that Peter was all too familiar with: “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Beside it, you wrote:

“As much of a genius Mr. Siken is, I have to disagree with this. If you love someone enough, you’ll never leave them and they’ll never leave you. Even if they die, even if things don’t work out, you’ll always have a little part of them to carry with you. Carry this part of me with you, Peter. Not that I plan on leaving anytime soon.” 

That was it. The floodgates broke. Everything that Peter had held back came pouring out-- the past 10 minutes finally caught up with him, and they hit him like a bus. He sat in the corner of his bedroom, his knees pulled up to his chest so tightly he thought his legs would snap. Peter wanted to rip all his hair out or punch a hole in the wall or hold his head underwater until he was nothing but an obituary and a headstone. His chest burned and the pit of despair inside his chest had overtaken his system, and he hated himself with a burning passion. Why did he do that? Why did he do that? Why the fuck did he do that?

Peter Maximoff had his breakdown in solitude, revealing in the fact that he was, undeniably, the villain of his own life.

4.

As it turns out, ‘getting his shit together’ is much harder than Peter originally anticipated. He's trying, he really is, but it's hard. Especially without you there. Peter knows that he fucked up, and he knows that he needs to work for your forgiveness. And don’t worry, he’s going to work for it. 

It had only been a week, but the entire mansion could tell that something was off. Life just wasn’t the same without the randomized gusts of wind that would knock people off their feet; no one had been seriously injured or had something stolen from them. The whirlwind that was mansion life, while still chaotic, lost it’s fun. 

Charles tried to keep things running smoothly, but he was an old man and didn’t exactly understand you and Peter. People would knock on your door every now and then, but you didn’t answer. You were much too busy analyzing exactly how much of a bitch you were being-- realistically, the answer is 0%, but you didn’t see it that way. No, from your perspective, you saw Peter having a mental breakdown and you ditched him. Pretty shitty move.

What you didn’t realize was that Peter was doing the exact same thing, however, the blame falls mostly on his shoulders, and boy does he know it. He’s been scripting his grand apology, trying desperately to find the right words to express exactly how sorry he is. Peter was never very good with words-- it’s always too hard to know if you’re going to say the wrong thing and mess everything up. Although, it’s hard to see how the scenario could get any worse.

He made the executive decision to start with “I’m sorry”-- a solid start to any apology. Sure, he could stop there, but Peter realized that he’d probably need more to win back his partner. So, he managed to scribble down a few more lines on a tiny notecard he was supposed to use for studying. Oh, what a wondrous redemption arc this would be; Peter gets into a fight with his wonderful partner and ruins their relationship and then struggles to come up with a coherent apology. 

“I’m sorry about what I said, that was shitty. I shouldn’t have said that.” Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration. God, he was going to die alone, wasn’t he? Maybe this is the cruel punishment the world is dealing to him, the universe is deciding that Peter’s redemption arc would be better if it, well, didn’t exist. Even so, he isn’t planning on giving up or giving in just yet. 

He scrapped what he had so far and started at the beginning once again. His 9th grade english teacher would tell him to write about what he knows, and though he doesn’t know much, he’s an expert when it comes to himself. Peter knows how he feels about you, he knows how sorry he is, and he knows that he really, really, really wants you to know that he didn’t mean a word he said about not wanting you. Peter knows about love, at least a little bit, and he realizes he’ll need more than just words.  

His mind drifts to that night, years ago, in front of the fireplace. He vividly remembers a tiger lily and a chameleon scribbled in the margins of your book. Realistically, Peter couldn’t get his hands on a chameleon, but a tiger lily was a different story. In high school, Peter took a botany course because he thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t, it was boring as all hell, but it seems like his slacking paid off. He knew tiger lilies were indigenous to Asia, but they’d become quite common along New England-area roadways. 

Peter grabbed his jacket and took off, tearing through the roads like his life depended on it. In less than 10 minutes, Peter found himself in the middle of New Hampshire drenched in rain. In hindsight, he probably should’ve checked the weather before leaving. Nevertheless, he takes off into the small wooded area that laid passed the road’s end. Dozens of mushrooms dotted the muddy ground and mossy rocks clouded his peripheral vision. The rain begins to lighten as he spots a bright orange tiger lily peeking through the remains of a tree stump. He sprints over to it.

The tiger lily is bloomed and beautiful and Peter can’t tear his eyes away from the wide array of speckles and splotches and color. It’s pristine, but some of the petals are torn or wilting. The roots stretch into the stump below it, and Peter leans closer. The stump is old and worn, fungi and bugs eat away at the base next to a large hole where a family of worms reside. The stump is ugly, sure, but it’s useful. It helps keep the bugs fed and keeps the worms warm. There’s a metaphor here somewhere, but Peter is too distracted to find it. 

He gently picks the flower and spins on his heel, taking off once again. The rain makes it harder to run, but it’ll take a lot more than water to stop Peter. By the time Peter gets back to Xavier’s the flower is a little crushed, but it’s still somewhat pristine. 

He has the flower, he has the apology, and now all he needs is courage. Thankfully, that courage comes quickly as he instinctively knocks on your bedroom door. He probably should’ve stopped to collect himself, but he was riding a wave of adrenaline that wouldn’t come back. 

“Go away, Jean,” You called from inside. You sounded tired, and it made Peter sad. 

“It’s-- uh-- it’s not Jean,” Peter can hear your hesitant footsteps approaching the door, and suddenly the courage he managed to build up drained. His hands are shaking by the time you open the door. You look up at him, and Peter looks back at you, and suddenly everything is much harder to do. He looks down at his feet. 

“Hi.” Your voice is hoarse, but clear. 

“Hi.” Peter’s voice is uneven and quiet. You stand there in silence for a minute before Peter pipes up again.

“So, uh, you’re probably still mad at me and I get that, but I just want you to hear me out. I-If that’s okay,” You nod slowly, and Peter takes a deep breath. He thinks about the written apology that sat in his coat pocket, and he makes the last-minute decision to forget about it. He’ll speak from the heart, or, whatever people in rom-coms do. 

“I’m sorry. It was really shitty of me to get angry at you because you were worried about me-- although, I guess shitty is an understatement. Everything that I said about, yknow, not wanting you or Charles or anyone else around anymore wasn’t true. I need you guys, and I love you guys and it was unfair of me to push you away. Solitude really sucks. I guess I’m just not very good at navigating relationships,” He exhales, and his chest shudders. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore, I just thought I should make it clear how I feel.” It’s only then that he remembers about the tiger lily in his hand. “Oh, and this is for you.”

“A tiger lily?” you smiled softly. “These are my favorite-- how did you know?”

“I’m just observant, I guess. You usually draw them when you’re bored, I figured you’d like to see one in person,” You gently took the tiger lily in your hand. The silence that hung in the air was deafening, and Peter realized that was probably a bad sign. His chest drops just a bit, and he takes a small step backwards.

“I guess I should probably leave you alone--” Peter can’t get very far, because you immediately jump forward and wrap your arms around him. Eyes wide and heart pounding, you can feel Peter’s arms lock around your waist. 

“Thank you,” You whispered. “Please don’t go.” Peter was smiling so hard his cheeks ached, and a horrible weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The close-contact was refreshing; he didn’t realize how much he missed it until that moment. He was pretty sure he would never, ever let you go. Not again.

5.

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- that is, until you came along. You proved to him that he deserved physical affection, that his mutation and his personality and weirdo quirks didn’t make him lesser or unlovable. Peter Maximoff deserved love, and you were the one who never failed to love him. 

You sat on a wooden chair in front of the fireplace, reading to the group of children sitting at your feet. The emotional lines of “Snow and Dirty Rain” fell from your lips, and with every turning syllable the small group would listen just a little bit closer. Peter did, too, desperately trying to hear every single word you said. Class was almost over, and once the students were dismissed you’d probably stop reading.

“I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is,” Your eyes tore away from the page to look at the kids at your feet. They fell upon Peter, and a smile erupted on your face. 

Peter vaguely recalls the twisted idea of love that he held as a teenager. He thought love was a dragon to be defeated, a battle that could be won or lost. It’s clear now that love is the opposite-- it isn’t a fight or a battle or a thing to be conquered. It’s more like a flower; it needs to be cherished and cared for in order to grow. Sometimes the flower wilts and dies, and that’s natural, but sometimes the flower lasts for a lifetime. 

Love wasn’t a dragon or a knight, it didn’t have a hero or a villain; it was much more like a tiger lily and a tree stump.

[bluefirewrites]

i gotta Juke AU story

————

this is inspired by this one filipino movie i watched “para sa hopeless romantic” but julie and luke go to the same uni and julie writes a random line of lyrics on a schools desk and luke writes the next lines when he’s in his class. the next day julie sees someone finished her lyrics and they end up having a finished song throughout the week. they obviously end up falling in love with each other’s words but one day the desks in that classroom were thrown out so julie and luke try and find the desk and run into each other only for Luke to find out it’s Julie, his crush since the beginning of school, and Julie finds out it’s Luke, they boy who she’s been eyeing ever since she’s first seen him. honestly this is all over the place. this is just another random college au. tehe

I DID NOT KNOW THIS WAS FROM A FILIPINO MOVIE!

I have much more pride in my culture now you have no idea haha! But no really,  Filipino movies can be the cheesiest, silliest, most cliche things I’ve ever seen. And I mean that endearingly. 

So it makes total sense that this super cute trope that I see popping up in different fandoms came from a Filipino movie. 

I think I’ve seen an iteration of this on AO3 and it was super cute! (But I think it was more like leaving a piece of paper on a desk). 

But yes, yes , YES. 

Juke is the perfect ship for this. 

Hmm... I think it would be an interesting take, because my mind went to Luke first, if it was Julie who would start it- yes I agree with you. 

It is canon that Luke helped Julie finish the song that she had been working on with her mom (’Stand Tall’), so might as well run with it. 

Maybe during her quiet year, where she didn’t sing or play piano, she often found herself doodling a lot. She kinda threw herself into drawing. It was her creative outlet that brought her comfort during these rough times. 

She’d have trouble paying attention in class sometimes, and so she would end up doodling. 

Now, I used to have a history class that frowned upon doodling in notebooks. The notebooks would be graded, and if there is a non-history, non-relevant doodle in the margins or anything- you get points docked off. 

So Julie, like me, tried remedying this by doodling on post it notes to avoid getting in trouble. 

But one day, Julie forgets or runs out of post it notes, and she’s only got her history notebook and textbook with her. And since she has no qualms marking up her jeans and shoes, she thought she’d be discrete and doodle on the desks.

Not like anyone would have a problem with that anyway. These desks are old af and scratched up and had doodles on them already. 

She would start drawing her usual stuff- funky creatures, bubble letter-ed profanities, etc. 

But then she starts thinking about her mom, she starts doodling dahlias and even a rose in one corner. Memories start flooding back and she starts absentmindedly writing down a lyric of a song they never finished, just bits of pieces figured out: 

‘Don’t blink...no, I don’t want to miss it’ 

She didn’t think to erase it. Just grabbed her stuff and went to her next class. 

The following day however, she pulls out her post-notes (after getting more) and is about to doodle when she sees a new scribble on the corner of the desk where she wrote her lyrics. 

Squinting, she realizes those are words (geez, the penmanship sucks). But she was able to make it out: 

‘One thing, and it's back to the beginning’

It’s written right under her line. And she reads them together- 

Wow. This sounds... pretty good. 

She quickly jots this mysterious new addition to the song in her post-notes, but not before giving writing another shot and provide another line. Curious, if she would get another response. 

She does. 

And it’s perfect. 

It’s been a year, a year since she felt the urge to write, to think about music- but, when all the lyrics fall into place, Julie is suddenly inspired to continue. 

She spends the entire class thinking about how to reply, how to keep the momentum of this song going. 

When she gets it, she writes it down underneath the new line. And waits. 

And like clockwork, next day she sits down and there’s a new addition. 

First verse done- Julie couldn’t believe it. 

Smiling, she records it all and had to erase everything from before to make more room. 

‘Thanks’ she writes ‘Keep going?’ 

The reply the next day has her grinning from ear to ear: 

‘I’m game :)’

And that’s how it goes: Another day, Another killer line. 

Julie would rush from her next class, confusing Flynn who did not think she would be so excited going to history, smile on her face, anticipating another message from this mystery writing partner. 

Sometimes, she gets too caught up in her head, eagerly thinking up new lines that she often doesn’t watch where she’s going. One time, she pretty much embarrassed herself while bumping into the cute Luke Patterson in her rush to History. 

(She practically fell on him and he tried to talk to her after, but she jumped out of his arms before whatever awkward conversation that was bound to happen if she stayed). 

Julie and her pen pal would keep working on the song, even came up with a system to let each other know if they’ve finished a verse. 

And sometimes it’s not just lyrics. Julie draws her normal doodles next to her lines, and she’s delighted to find even more ridiculous ones waiting for her when she gets back. 

There was one time when she’s had to stifle a laugh because a crude caricature of their History teacher in their corner, yelling out the next lyric: 

‘I'm goin’ out of my mind!’

(Glad to know someone else shares the same sentiments about their strict history teacher.)

They finish her mom’s song and Julie’s glad... grateful even. But she couldn’t help but feel disappointed... assuming it’s over. 

But come Monday the following weekend, her pen pal decided to leave another line- 

‘Running from the past... Tripping on the now’ 

and a new comment: 

‘My turn now?’

A new song, and Julie grins, already coming up with ideas... 

She loves writing again, especially music. Sparked by this exchange, she eases herself back into listening to music again, looking for inspiration to use for the song she and her mysterious partner are working on. 

And writing with this person... is really something else. 

But Julie’s favorite part of the whole experience really is the comments written on the upper corner. Stuff like: 

‘This part is killer!’

‘Mindreader, much? :P’

‘Wrecking ball at it again. So talented :)’

and her favorite:

‘You make me a better writer...’

She ducks down so no one can see her blush as she writes back: 

‘I think we make each other better...’ 

Flynn one day tells her straight up she’s got a crush on her pen pal, to which Julie denies because how could she have a crush on someone she doesn’t even know. 

But as she thinks about it.. she feels like she does. Or at least know enough to establish this sort of connection that feels like they’re in each other’s heads, know how the other person thinks, inspiring the other. 

It was... special. 

Flynn suggests that she needs to figure out who is leaving these notes. But it’s hard seeing as though Julie has the class in an earlier period, a bunch of other classes are held in the same room after she leaves. 

(Flynn tries a sting operation, but ends up getting caught ditching class before she could solve the mystery). 

Julie’s worried though. As much as she wants to figure out who this great pen pal is, she wonders if they would be disappointed to find out they’ve been writing her. And not someone as cool and as pretty as Carrie Wilson or her friend Kayla. It’s hard to live up to those expectations. 

In the end, she wants to know. At least so she could maybe thank them in person, for helping bring music back into her life and for making history class the highlight of her day. 

She decides this right before they break for Thanksgiving. She writes down: 

‘I wanna meet you. Can we talk?’ 

And she’s on pins and needles the entire break, just wondering what her pen pal would say back. ‘Yes’, ‘no?’. 

But what she finds when she comes back from break is so much worse than the fear of rejection. 

They got new desks. 

Their school finally got their shit together and replaced their old, worn down desks. 

‘No, no, no, no, no’. 

That means she’ll never know what her penpal end up replying... 

She runs out of class and finds Flynn, panicked, she tells her what happened. And Flynn does some digging, and she’s able to find out where the janitors dumped the old desks. 

Julie totally underestimates just how desperate she is in finding out the identity of her pen pal because she finds herself sneaking back to school at night with Flynn, seeking out the lot behind school where the dumpsters were piled high with the old desks. 

Flynn, the ride or die she is, armed with a flashlight, starts taking out the desks along with Julie, and there are... a lot of desks. 

They go at it for an hour, and the situation starts to look hopeless, especially when Flynn discovers a whole new set of dumpsters with desks that they haven’t even checked yet. 

They’re about to throw in the towel- 

But then they hear voices. 

Quickly, they hide behind a dumpster right when three guys, with flashlights, come onto the scene. 

“Dude, I can’t believe we’re here at this hour-” 

“Oh my god. There’s like a boatload of stuff here-” 

“Guys. Can you not? And please help me? It’s gotta be here somewhere”. 

They sound... familiar. They were definitely not the custodians. 

Risking it, Julie leaves her hiding spot- 

“Luke?” 

Luke Patterson jumps and whips around to face her, “Julie?” 

Behind him are his bandmates, Alex and Reggie. Everyone looks at each other confused. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

“I...uh, I’m-” Julie stammers, “Well-” 

Flynn cuts in, “She’s looking for something,” 

Luke nods, “Really? So are we.” 

Alex scoffs, “Nope. Just you, dude. But we’re helping.” 

“Maybe we can help you too?” Reggie offers, “What are you looking for?” 

Julie sighs, “... a desk?” 

“Well... you came to the right place...” Luke laughs, shining his flashlight on the dumpsters, “Funny enough that’s what we’re looking for too.” 

“One in particular?” 

Then the guy gets all clammed up, “Uh... yeah. I think... I might have... left something... in it. Something important.” 

“How about we all look together?” suggests Flynn, “Help each other out?” 

And so they exchange the descriptions on the desk, with Julie leaving out the glaring obvious detail of the note. 

They’re surprised to find out that they’re looking for the same kind of desk. The ones they used in a particular building at school, the same one her history class is in. 

So they break off and search. And she ends up in the same dumpster as Luke. 

“So what’s in your desk?” he ends up asking. 

“Huh?” 

“You know... that’s so important that you’re here on a Friday night, digging through a dumpster,” 

“Right... uh,” Julie scrambles for an answer, “There’s something on- I mean, in the desk... that really helped me. I was going through a hard time. Lost my mom last year-” 

Luke stops his search, “Oh, I’m so sorry-” 

“It’s okay. I just...” she sighs, finding another desk that looks like hers but not quite, “I just want to find it...” 

“I get it. Hopefully we can find your desk.” 

“Hopefully we’ll find yours too,” 

After another 20 minutes searching, Julie finds it. At the very bottom of the dumpster. Luke’s face lights up once she brings it out. 

“Oh my god, you found it!” He exclaims, hands gripping the edge to take it off her hands. 

She tugs it back, “Yeah... I found it... my desk,” 

“Your desk? But this is my-” he breaks off, eyes widening, “Wait. Are you...?” 

“Am I what?” 

Luke drops the desk, clears his throat, and starts reciting: 

‘I believe... I believe that we're just one dream...’

Julie gasps, then continues: 

“Away from who we're meant to be...”

Then together: “That we're standing on the edge of...”

“...great.” Luke finishes, in awe, “You! You’re ‘Lyric Girl’!”

“You’re my pen pal?” Julie says in disbelief. 

Luke Patterson has been her pen pal this entire time? The cutie with the cutoffs? It makes total sense. He’s in a rock band and the songs she’s heard from them have amazing lyrics. 

Wait... she has been lowkey crushing on Luke Patterson through his words... 

“Wow, it’s you! Luke... wow...” she honestly has no words. They used to come easy to her when she talks to him via the desk, but now, after finding out that the local heartthrob is her writing partner, she’s super nervous. 

“Look... if you’re disappointed that it’s me... I get it. I’ll give you an out, and you won’t ever have to talk to me again-” 

“Julie-” 

“-like this is weird- this is weird right? But I mean what we had was nice and all-” 

“Julie, can you-?” 

“-we don’t ever have to talk about this if you don’t-” 

“Julie!” He reaches for her hands and intertwines their fingers, shutting her up. 

“Yeah...?” 

He takes a deep breath before saying: “Why would I ever be disappointed that it’s you? I’ve... got like a mad crush on you since freshman year...” 

Julie choked, “Wait, what?” 

“Voice of an angel and wicked beauty to boot? How could I not?” he smiles, “And... finding out that you’re my mystery muse is just... you don’t know how happy that makes me.” 

His smile drops and he’s all the sudden bashful, “Wait... are you disappointed that it’s me?” 

She shakes her head, “No, no! That’s not why! It’s just... you’re this rockstar in the making! I didn’t think- I didn’t think you’d ever pay attention to me.” 

“I do... I do pay attention,” he looks down at their desk, “Well... maybe not enough attention, otherwise we would have met sooner.” 

She laughs, “Totally,” 

They stand there for a while, grinning at each other like idiots. 

“So...” Julie decides to jump the gun, “Do you... maybe wanna grab something to eat?” 

Luke raises an eyebrow, “Are you asking me out, Julie?” 

She blushes, “Maybe,” 

“Interesting,” 

“So what’s your answer?” 

He leans in, “Might wanna look down,” he whispers. 

She does, right on their desk and finally reads the reply she’s spent weeks thinking about. 

‘Tell me where and when...

I’ll be there...’

Needless to say, but that from that day on- they don’t need to use their desk to talk anymore... 

[xfandomwritingsx]

Hold Your Breath – Chapter Five: Helping Hands - Draco Malfoy

-gif source unknown-

Description: After decisions put you on opposite side of the war, returning to Hogwarts to finish your education proves to be challenging. Maybe closure isn’t the only thing you need from Draco.

Approx. Word Count:

A/N: Well…hello. Yes I’m still alive and working on this story. I had a hell of a time writing this chapter for no reason at all. Hopefully now that I’ve bitten the bullet and gotten it out of the way, I can get everything flowing more smoothly again.

Story Masterpost

December 1998

You arrive to Potions just a little before everyone else. The air around Hogwarts is brisk and chilled, just how you’ve grown accustom to enjoying, so you’d woken earlier than usual to take a walk around the grounds before your first class.

You take a seat at a middle table on the far side of the room. You’ve started to avoid the back rows as it feels too much like hiding but you don’t like being front and center in lessons, so you’ve found a comfort in middle and off to the side. Unpacking your bag, you take a look at the lesson board that Slughorn is still currently prepping.

The room slowly fills with more students, a slight bustle of movement and conversation coming with it. You keep your focus on the board, already pulling out a quill to jot down notes and pulling out your lesson book to flip to the correct page.

When the chair next to you is pulled from the table, you assume without looking up that someone is taking it to make a seat at another table. It’s not until there’s a body in the chair and the person is shuffling through their bag that you realize someone actually chose to sit beside you. Your confusion at this only rises when you turn your head to see the person is Draco. He doesn’t look at you or acknowledge you in any way, but you still feel a little pull in your chest as you watch him.

Then you cast your eyes around the classroom. There are still plenty of open seats which clearly means he’s purposefully chosen to sit next to you. Your heart beats a little faster and you find that pull in your chest to be a slight fear. Is anyone watching you? Do they notice him sitting here? Do they think you’re friends again?

You give a small shake to your head and face front again. What does it matter if anyone thinks you’re friends? Besides, you’re clearly not friends when there’s no greetings exchanged, right? You’re not friends.

Draco remains silent and unbothered by you when the lesson begins. Slughorn’s lecture at least takes your focus off of him and the rest of the students as you concentrate. It doesn’t take long for you to immerse yourself in the lesson and nearly forget about Draco’s presence entirely.

You’re jotting down notes, shifting your glance between your parchment and the blackboard. It’s nearly twenty minutes into the lecture when you notice words appearing on the margins of your page that you haven’t written.

Notice he said three sprigs and the book says two? Trust the book.

You recognize the handwriting immediately and you can’t help the way your head snaps to look at Draco who is still ignoring you entirely. He’s stoic enough that you second guess yourself. Maybe you’re imagining things? Curious and apprehensive, you look back to your notes. The extra bit of advice is still there, permanently inked into the parchment. You run your finger over it briefly and you’re sure it’s his.

It’s been over a year, but you still recognize it easily. Written notes had always been how you two had chosen to communicate when you were friends. You used to have books filled with notes exchanged between the two of you. Everything from jokes to flirtations to helpful tips for classes. You’re lost in thoughts and memories when more words start to fill in beneath the pads of your fingers.

Focus. He writes. No wonder you’re dreadful with potions. You’re not sure if it’s meant playfully or as a sharp jab. You used to be able to literally read his tone, but now you’re unsure and out of sync with him. It gives you a sinking feeling somewhere in your belly.

This time when you look at him from the corner of your eye, he looks back at you. He gives you a pointed look, baffled by your eyes on him. With a sharp, but subtle tilt of his head and raise of his brow, he indicates to you to face forward and listen to Slughorn’s droning. You straighten your back, clear your throat quietly, and refocus on the lesson.

Draco continues to help you throughout the lesson. He does it mostly silently through notes and small gestures, rarely actually speaking to you. The lack of spoken words makes it feel secretive, though you don’t truly believe you are meant to be hiding your interactions. It also makes it feel more personal. Understanding his directions and critiques without the use of words only serves to remind you how connected you still are with him.

He does things as small as raise an eyebrow or tap his finger onto the table and you understand exactly what he’s telling you. As he gives a stir to his cauldron, you wonder if anyone else can read him like you do. It’s not like he doesn’t have friends. You have to assume someone has picked up on his habits and behaviors.

You don’t like the way your stomach curls at the thought.

The feeling tightens and turns to a pleasurable heat as his knee knocks seemingly casually into yours beneath the table. It’s not subtle or soft and judging by the way he ignores the contact, you assume it’s an accident. But then you notice his knee barely moves away. It drifts just enough to no longer be touching you, but you can feel the edges of your pants brush against each other and it’s enough to leave you wondering if he did anything by accident.

The lesson ends just as quickly as it started, your mind having constantly run off on its own. With a swish of his wand, both his and your cauldrons are emptied as everyone around you starts to gather their things. You look once more to Draco and find him still avoiding your eyes, instead shuffling around his bag. You stand to leave, ready to go back to your room and study and try to forget about anything Draco Malfoy related.

Before you can even sweep your bag onto your shoulder, there’s a pale hand sliding a star chart across the table towards you. Surprised, you raise an eyebrow at Draco. He taps his fingers on the chart.

“I need this back by tomorrow,” he says. “Will you have enough time?” It’s not the most polite way to ask you to review his work and you have to bite your tongue to refrain from snapping back at him with a smart remark. He releases the chart and waits for your reply.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco,” is all you give him before rolling the chart up and putting it gently in your bag. You turn away to leave before he can say anything more, but you could swear there’s a slight upwards tilt in his lips.

~~~

The common room is dark and empty by the time you finish your work and pull Draco’s star chart from your bag. You had completed your assignments slower than usual, finding yourself purposefully waiting for everyone to disperse before you took it out. You choose not to examine the reasons that may be for. Maybe some other time. But not now.

His chart is almost accurate, an improvement from the last time you saw him draw one. Every time he used to bring one to you, it was always wrong. Stars were in the completely wrong quadrants. Sometimes he even had stars from the wrong hemisphere depicted. You wonder if without your aid in the subject, he’s actually started researching and learning. Either that or he found someone else to copy off of. Either is possible, you suppose.

As you mark some corrections with a colored quill, you admire his work. Draco may have been dreadful with accuracy, but his charts were always so elegant and that, you notice, hasn’t changed. His lines are graceful and effortless, varying in thickness from pressure on his quill as he no doubt flicked his wrist without thought or care. Your fingers trace the dried ink and a smile tilts at your mouth.

His natural artistry is not something too many people know about Draco. What he would call the equivalent of children’s stick figures, you’d call works of art. He used to doodle little images on his work, on your notes, even on your hand once or twice and you were always mesmerized by them.  

Your fingers drift down from the dark quill strokes to a small blank corner of the parchment. The little white space of nothing gives you a little pang of nostalgia. You used to conceal little messages to each other, often on homework, that the other could reveal whenever they wanted. Occasionally, Draco would draw you a small image in the corner of the paper and while you always knew they were your favorite to reveal, you hadn’t realized how much you missed them until just now. Just another thing to add to your list of emotions when it comes to him.

You sigh and refocus on correcting his work, but when you’ve finished and his chart is filled with little bits of your handwriting to explain what you’d done, your eyes fall back to the still empty corner of the page. You look over your shoulder briefly, making sure no one is in the room and then before giving yourself time to think about you, you’re writing a small message in that corner.

The moment your quill lifts away from making the period at the end of your sentence, you feel a surge of regret. You should remove it. Use a quick charm and act like it never happened. Or you could conceal it. After all, what’s the harm in doing so? He would never see it because he’d never reveal it.

But what if he did? What if he pulls it out when he’s alone, much like you are now, and casts the same revealing charm he used to and sees your little message? The brief thought slips into a daydream. If he were to even think of using the revealing charm, it would mean he thought there was a chance you’d write something, that he was hoping for it, looking for it. You can see his little, hidden smile in your mind and the way his fingertips would dance over your writing much like yours had his chart.

The draw of the possibility is too appealing in the middle of the night. You silently talk yourself into it, calling it a risk-free decision. Either he wants you to do it or he’ll never see it. You slip your wand out of the robes you’re still wearing and whisper the incantation as you press the tip to your written words. There’s a rush in your blood and a flutter in your chest as you watch the ink slowly disappear on the parchment.

When there’s no trace of the words anymore, you feel a mix of emotions; anxiety, release, anticipation. You’re committed now though. Before you can change your mind, you roll up his star chart and put it back in your bag and prepare to go to bed with the echo of your words floating through your mind.

I miss you.

---

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[belpheroo]

home again home again

Pairing: Mammon x MC Rating: T Summary: A follow-up to the last day. MC Adjusts to life back in the human realm, but Devildom just can’t stay away.

As Lucifer had promised, when she returned home, no time had passed. It was as if that year, that time she spent in Devildom, belonged wholly to a time and a place outside of the realm of her human reality.

He had warned her some memories might soften, fading around the edges until she would start to question whether they had happened… but given her celestial heritage, perhaps she would have a different experience. She was no magic user like Solomon, but Lilith’s blood was magic in itself and that blood was in her veins, no matter how small.

She left her bags packed on her floor, venturing out her bedroom door and into the hallway. It was twilight, just like when she left, warm amber sunlight shining just barely over the edges of the window frames.

A clock ticked. Her cat mrrowed curiously from their sleeping spot. Her college texts laid on the small kitchen table, notebooks and pens scattered where she had left them.

Quietly, deliberately, she moved through her small kitchenette, putting on her electric kettle and taking down a familiar mug and a familiar bag of tea. She ripped open the package, set the bag in the mug and waited.

And waited.

And waited for it to feel real.

---

A week went by and then another. Her morning classes came and went. She found herself falling behind her friends, not even listening to their chatter as she focused out on the people passing by on their street and across it.

“Who are you looking for?”

One of them had asked, smiling and cheeky.

“You have a date?”

There was no shock of white among the crowd, no familiar voice.

“... no, I’m just… people watching.”

By the time she got home and set down to study she noted all the doodles in her margins were of tiny lesser demons, with their top-hats and little horns.

She sighed, dropping her pencil in defeat and picking up her phone to check Devilgram. In front of her eyes, the screen displayed one sentence in a grey box:

Out of Service Zone

Mammon had said it would work, that it would still connect… but it seemed he was wrong. Instead, she navigated to her saved chats, flicking through lines of conversations and messages going back the course of the year. It was easy to get lost, to read and to laugh and think of those past conversations and of her boys, somewhere in a realm between worlds.

She knew it wasn’t a good idea to get too caught up, not when there was work still to be done. With a heart, no less heavy, she moved to set the device face down on her desk when she noted the screen had illuminated, the pale blue-green color showing against the table surface.

She held her breath as she turned it over.

Signal Found Reestablishing Connection…

…

…

Connection Reestablished

The access was slow, nothing had changed on the screen, no new notifications or chats. She waited, eager to see the little pink birds that would soon dot her screen. She wondered how they all had been doing, whether they missed her and how things were.

She had expected a few notifications, maybe even none. It had only been a week now. Instead, she opened the message center to a proverbial flood of little bird notifications. It was enough to make her laugh, the joy in her chest bursting forward as she opened the main chat group “House of Lamentation”. There were all the same questions she had for them- how are you? What have you been doing? Do you miss us?

Before responding though, her eyes caught to one of those messages with a little gold eye icon. The messages she was not supposed to be included on but for whatever reason her settings gave her access. She hadn’t seen this title before… the chat subject line simply her name followed by Absence Support Group

She clicked it.

Asmodeus: As discussed! This chat is for the support of all of us who miss our dearly departed exchange student.

Asmodeus: This is a judgement free zone <3

Satan: When you say it like that it sounds like she’s dead… couldn’t we all just text her when we miss her?

Asmodeus: Judgement. Free. Zone. ~<3

Levi: Unless your name is Stupid Mammon.

Mammon: HEY

Mammon: NO

Levi: sTuPiD mAmMoN

Belphie: Great. Another chat for me to mute. Zzz

Beel: Has anyone else texted her? I texted her. It isn’t open.

Asmodeus: Hmm? Yes, she hasn’t opened my pics either.

Mammon: PICS?

Asmodeus: Oh yes <3

Mammon: THE HELL KINDA PICS YOU SENDIN’ MY GIRL, ASSMO?

Asmodeus: Judgement Free Zone <3 <3 <3

Mammon has been muted for One minute.

Levi: You have GOT to show me how to do that!!!

Beel: I text her when I am thinking of her.

Beel: Yesterday, I got up for a snack. I stopped at her room and knocked to see if she wanted any.

Beel:  I had forgotten.

Mammon’s muted minute had been up even, judging by the time stamps, but there was still a prolonged pause before someone else responded.

Satan: I remembered I lent her a book. The Corpus Hermetica. She left it in my room sometime before she left… her bookmark was still in it.

Beel: Are you using it?

Satan: I-- yes.

Belphie: I took a nap in her old bed the other day. The sheets don’t smell like her anymore.

Levi: … I’ve been playing her really crappy low leveled character in Memoirs of the Samurai-Ninja, Warriors of Dynasty 6. So she doesn’t get even MORE behind in events.

Mammon: Oi, back up. Belphie, you did WHAT now?!

Mammon has been muted for Two minutes.

Asmodeus: No judgment zone!!

And it went on like that. Day after day. One of them would post a thought or a feeling or a moment that struck them, that reminded them of her. It shocked her a bit when the dots of something typing began to appear, then disappear, then appear and… then disappear. And this carried on for a long time before finally a new message appeared.

Mammon: So. I’m totally NOT super completely upset but the other day I was doing some a m a z i n g modeling work and the camera lady asked me where my “human friend” was.

Mammon: Threw even me, THE Mammon, off his game.

Asmodeus: Because they called her your “friend” instead of your “girlfriend”? <3

Mammon: No!

Mammon: But she is. 😈

Belphie: What if she gets a human boyfriend?

Mammon: EH?! No way! No human boy can compare to ME.

Satan: Well, you are here. She is there. Do you really expect her to wait for you?

Mammon: …

Belphie: Maybe she’d wait for one of us. But Mammon?

Mammon: H-hey! What happened to the judgment free zone?!

Satan: Would explain why she hasn’t called.

Belphie: Or texted.

Mammon: …

She felt her heart sink. She didn’t have a human boyfriend! She’d just had absolutely no SIGNAL since she had gotten back to the human realm! Panicking, she hurried to the phone section of the D.D.D and pulled Mammon’s contact up.

Hurriedly she pressed the dial, listening to the faint tone as it rang.

And rang.

And rang.

The connection was in and out again, sometimes the ring distorted with feedback. The call dropped and quickly she re-dialed again.

“C’mon… c’mon! Mammon! Pick up!”

Click.

The ringing stopped. The timer flickered on. Call Ongoing 00:03.

“Mammon?! Are you there? Can you hear me?”

There was a voice, but it was choppy and undecipherable.

“My D.D.D. isn’t working right! I can’t understand you, but if you can understand me I-- I wanted to call and say-- um. I wanted to say--!”

The line was quiet.

“I miss you all so much! S-so… please convince Lucifer to let me visit! Or come visit me!”

The phone made a sound, a strangled static burst. The battery flickered even though it had been nearly full just moments ago.

“The connection is draining my stupid phone! Ugh, I’m sorry! Tell everyone I said hello and I miss them!” she paused, words stuck on her tongue as she tried to get them out, “And Mammon… I miss you most! And I love--”

The phone made a ding sound as the battery finally and truly died. She dove to her bag, digging out the charger and desperately trying to plug it in. The first time in weeks she managed to get a call in and the human realm to Devildom signal was that bad?!

“Stupid phone. Stupid stupid stupid…”

There was a faint smell, like sulphur or burning wood. She made a face, looking over the device for any sign of damage and finding none at all. That was odd… but still she could smell an ever growing scent like something had caught fire.

Standing up, she turned half towards the hall and abruptly dropped her phone in sheer shock, the device clattering loudly.

Mammon was breathing heavily, steam coming off his body in waves. He was in his devil-form, all horns and wings.

“Wh...what… was that… last bit?” he panted, leaning against the hallway wall, “I didn’t… hear all of it!”

“You came all the way here just to finish a phone call?” she said teasingly, knowing full well what it was he really came for.

“Please! A… transport like that… is ah- nothing! To the Great Mammon!” he was still out of breath, but catching it quickly, “Now. What did you say?”

There was nothing suave in his question, nothing concealed or charming. There was something more desperate in his eyes, something needy. Her lips curled into a fond smile as she found the words came so much easier the second time.

“Mammon, I love you.”

“... of course ya do.” Mammon said, crossing the space between her both until she was snuggly in his arms. He was warm, warmer than usual after his trip, but that smell would HAVE to go.

“You need a bath.”

“Tch… then give me one.” he grumbled in reply.

Who would possibly say no?

[the--highlanders]

Marginalia

Zoe and the Doctor debate the usefulness of writing in books.

on ao3.

Exactly why the Doctor could not order his books logically, Zoe would never understand. She had pointed out the issues to him many times – the arrangement followed none of the systems she had ever heard of, and she had found crocheting books on the chemistry shelves far too often for them to simply be misplaced. Always different ones, too. Like someone was moving them around regularly. Maybe the Doctor was an avid crocheter, and she had just not caught him at it yet. But whatever the reason, he had never managed to give her a good answer. Just hmph-ed and shuffled around awkwardly to turn his shoulder towards her and murmured something about knowing his own library, thank you very much. She could have borne the whole thing more easily if he had just had a reason, but instead she was left to grind her teeth every time she walked through the place.

Still, at least it gave her something to think about as she wandered past shelf after shelf. How she would rearrange them, if given the chance. Knowing the TARDIS, though, she would probably leave at the end of a hard day’s work and return the next morning to find everything back where it had started.

“There you are,” she exclaimed when she caught sight of the Doctor’s feet propped up on the arm of a sofa. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’m exactly where I always sit,” the Doctor mumbled around the pen held between his teeth. Sighing, Zoe put her hands on her hips. These little clearings amongst the shelves all looked the same, that was for sure, with rows of overstuffed sofas and fancy little coffee tables whose swirling decorations were pitted with chips. But even if she tried her hardest to follow the same route, she never seemed to find them in the same place twice. At this point, she was convinced that there was only one of them, really, and the TARDIS delighted in moving it around just to confuse her. Today they were nestled in between baking and witchcraft. Last time they had been right in the middle of astronomy.

Only as she settled herself into the sofa opposite the Doctor did she realise that he was pausing occasionally to make notes. Datapads were a bit beyond the Doctor, as she knew through bitter experience, so she was hardly surprised to find that he was not using one. But today he was not even using a notebook of his own, or on a loose sheet of paper, as he sometimes did. The concept of allowing writing implements into a library – well, she had not yet been able to bring herself to do it, the principles from the Wheel hammered too deeply into her, and if she caught the Doctor at it she tended to regard him with more than a little disdain. This, though… this was far worse.

He was writing in the books.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” she said, as evenly as she could manage.

“Mm?” He twirled the pen around, drawing a little spiral in the middle of the dog-eared triangle creased into the page’s corner, too absorbed in his work to see the pained expression that she was sure must be showing on her face.

“Writing in the books,” she explained. “It’s not good for them.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The Doctor paused, at last looking up to her, but he left the tip of the pen resting against the page. It was a funny thing – ratty and old-fashioned, much like the Doctor himself, with a pointed silver end. Eighteen-hundreds, if she had to guess, or something very like it. Ink was leaking from its tip to pool on the paper, and she could not tear her eyes away from the growing black mark. “Writing in books can be a very useful thing. All sorts of information has been preserved that way, through time. Entire languages, even.”

“Really.” Despite herself, she peered more closely at the Doctor’s little scribblings. There were no words, she realised. Just endless circles, running up and down the margins. Some of them interlocked with smaller circles, some of them were full of more lines in every direction. Even worse, if he had just been doodling rather than writing anything meaningful. But there was a sort of an order to them, if she really squinted. Something more akin to characters that stood for whole words than letters that simply stood for sounds, if she had to guess – only vastly more complicated. Perhaps each large circle was a whole sentence, or even a whole paragraph. Or something else entirely, something which English did not have a word for. She had seen the Doctor write in many languages with many different alphabets, but she had never seen anything like this.

If it was a language, though – surely the TARDIS should be translating it. And yet no matter how hard she stared at the circles, they refused to resolve themselves into words she could understand.

The Doctor had buried himself in his work again, but he flicked the page over, like he had seen her staring. This next page was blank, and he did not immediately pick his pen back up from the sofa cushions. “You know,” he carried on, “on your Earth – the writings of scholars in the margins of their books becomes utterly invaluable hundreds of years later. People build their careers around studying them. A little time capsule – something like the TARDIS, if you will, insignificant on the outside but so much bigger on the inside. A window onto the past for people in the future. Writing in books is terribly important.” He paused, lifting the pen and flicking it over to rub the end of it back and forth against his lower lip. Ink dripped out from the nib as he did so, flicking over the pages and onto the fabric of the sofa. “Not that I’m writing anything that would be particularly helpful to someone else. Or in a language that will be forgotten.” Another pause. This time, he worried the edge of his lip between his teeth, his expression turning a little more somber. “But one never knows.”

Glancing around the library, Zoe let her eyes trail up to the very tops of the shelves. They towered over her – a little over four metres, if her estimates were right, as they usually were. It was a colossal space, but somehow the Doctor managed to fill it, to make it seem cozy and cramped and comforting just through his presence. “Nobody else would end up with all these books anyway, would they?” She had not meant for it to sound quite so much like a plea for reassurance. “I mean – it’s hardly as if you’ll pass them onto anyone.” Even if Jamie had not told her about the Doctor’s impossible trick of changing his face, she was sure she could never have imagined him dying. It was the agelessness of him, she supposed. He had been here before her, and he would be here long after she was gone. “You’ll just – carry on.”

“Mm.” The Doctor flipped another page idly. This fresh leaf was not blank, but filled with other scribbles – in different inks, some in what she might have called a different hand, if the writing had been in any alphabet she recognised. The circles were smaller, their embellishments more cramped, though they were slightly less lopsided. Pausing over the first of these, the Doctor leaned in closer, his pen dipping in towards the paper. “Goodness me,” he murmured, “what was he thinking? No, no, that won’t do at all.” And then he was off, scrawling away. The very sound of it made Zoe wince – and she winced harder when he whisked the pen off the page with a flourish, skittering ink into some of the book’s real text. “Yes,” he said at last, though she was not sure whether he was talking to her or the old writing. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

“So if you’re not going to leave them to anybody,” she pressed on, “then whatever you write in them won’t be important, will it? There’ll be nobody to read it but you.”

The Doctor had set his tongue between his teeth, his eyes widened a little in concentration as he pressed fresh circles into the page with all the annoyance he usually directed towards recalcitrant bureaucrats and stubborn scientists. “My dear Zoe,” he forced out from between gritted teeth, “that is exactly who I am leaving these notes for.” He gestured down at a column of circles written in slightly-faded blue ink. “He has left notes for me – and sooner or later, there’ll be him, and I’m leaving notes for him.” Glancing up at her, he cocked his head to one side in an oddly birdlike motion. “Do you see?”

“Him?” Zoe echoed.

“Me.”

“Oh.” There were times, with the Doctor, when you had to know when to simply leave something be. This was one of those times, if Zoe had ever seen one. “But that doesn’t mean you have to write in the book.”

“Zoe,” he said, more firmly than she had expected. “These are my books, are they not?”

“Well, yes -”

“Then -” He peeked over the top of the book, throwing her a twinkle-eyed smile like a schoolchild who knew he was clever enough to give a teacher the run-around, and cheeky enough to do it. Not that Zoe had any experience with such things. “It won’t matter if I write in them, will it?”

“Oh -” She threw her hands in the air, standing up from the sofa. “Oh, I suppose not. But I object,” she added, waving her finger at him and fixing him with her best schoolteacher glare. If he wanted to play the delinquent schoolboy – well, two could play at that game. “I don’t think you should do it.”

“Noted.” He turned back to his book, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Something I wanted?” In truth, she had quite forgotten why she had come in here at all. The library could be like that, sucking you in and making you forget exactly why you had arrived, or if you needed to go out again. Just quietly whispering away in the back of your mind. Why would you leave? It’s warm, and comfortable, and there’s all the books you could ever wish for. Like it wanted you to stay. “Oh!” she exclaimed at last. “I heard a funny noise coming from the console. Jamie swears he’s heard it before and that it doesn’t mean anything, but I wasn’t so sure -”

“Oh, I’m just running a few tests.” The Doctor waved one hand at her idly, quietening her and beckoning her over in one fluid motion. “Jamie’s quite right. Nothing to worry about.” Closing her mouth, Zoe wandered around the coffee table to perch herself on the edge of the sofa. The Doctor heaved himself upright to make room for her until he was sitting cross-legged, the book cradled in his lap. “Now come and tell me what you think of this – it’s rather interesting...”

[seungminotes]

Necessary | Kim Seungmin

Warnings: 1.7k highschool au

A/N: I consider this to be the best thing I have ever written. I love Kim Seungmin, thank you.

Kim Seungmin was the last person you expected to be taking a lower level math class. Him being one of, if not the smartest student in your year, the only word you could possibly use to describe him was big brain. Yet there he was being seated next to your mathematically-disabled self, bright and early on a Monday morning, in a remedial math class.

Somehow you felt out of place now, as if you’d taken the wrong class, maybe there was some sort of even lower remedial math class where you actually belonged.

Seungmin had that effect on people. Though he wasn’t one to properly notice it. He made others feel inferior, but wasn’t one to take notice. He didn’t care about those around him anyway. A true tsundere, you often hear others call him. But you couldn’t tell if he was cold or just plain arrogant.

The way he sat next to you, with his perfect posture and head held high, and the way he didn’t even bid you a morning greeting, left quite a bad taste in your mouth.

How does one sit so properly and mannerly, yet doesn’t have the manners to acknowledge another’s existence?

Whatever, you decided, this wasn’t going to bother you, or get in the way of you getting better at math. This class wasn’t exactly the place you were used to either, but last year for whatever reason the numbers in your head jumbled around and you couldn’t pass a test to save your life. Now you were here, and you were determined to ace every test this year.

As if he had read your mind, Seungmin turned to you.

“You’re bad with numbers,” he said, no emotions displayed in his voice.

“Why else would I be here?”

He didn’t answer you, he just turned back towards the board, opening his notes and laying his head down on them.

You scoffed, there was no way you were going to fail a test in this class, your pride was going to make sure of it.

-

As time went on, you noticed Seungmin was not exactly happy about being in a lower math class that was obviously much too easy for him. You really wondered why he was here in the first place.

He never took notes, paid any attention, or even turned in the homework. You’d assume these bad habits were what landed him in this class in the first place.

The workload wasn’t even that bad, would it kill him to spare thirty minutes of his day to solve a few problems?

Despite this lazy lifestyle, Seungmin never received anything below a 100 on any test. Now that you envied.

Because even though you had made a promise to yourself and so far had kept it very well, you struggled to keep it that way. Studying until the wee hours of the night to make sure you could understand the subject with no problems at all, you lost sleep and just a bit of your sanity every time an exam was coming up.

This time was no different, only the restlessness was quite unbearable as you tried to stay awake in class. Your teacher’s droning voice did nothing to help and eventually your head slumped a little heavier on your arm, you had fallen asleep.

-

Falling asleep in this class was always a nightmare for you. Missing the information you desperately needed to make by in the course, you couldn’t understand how some students didn’t take notes, how did all the information possibly stay in their head.

When you had woken up, your teacher was just wiping down the board full of equations from the period. You looked down at your blank page of notes, regret and anxiety soon sinking in.

You could easily ask a friend for notes, it wasn’t that of a big deal to be honest. But taking in your own made sure you had everything, you couldn’t think of anyone who made sure to do the same.

The bell rang and it was time to go to your next class and you hurried to get your stuff packed up in time. As the boy next to you got up, you noticed he wasn’t sitting in his usual lecture position, head down and eyes closed. Today he had sat straight for whatever reason, and as he stood he pushed a stack of papers onto your side of the desk.

You hadn’t noticed at first, still wondering about his sitting position, but once he walked out of class, you looked down onto your table and inspected the overturned pages.

Considering you were most likely to be late soon, you just shoved the papers into your notebook and ran out of class.

-

It wasn’t until when you got home that you remembered the odd papers Seungmin had slid you after class and got your notebook out to examine them.

Turning them over you realized the boy you had once considered lazy and arrogant, took such detailed notes on today’s lesson that you could consider it a textbook guide.

His neat handwriting sprawled the paper elegantly and the pink highlighted titles accentuated the already sophisticated aesthetics of his notes. This was the type of organization you’d see on a study blog you only wished to emulate. On the margins he’d put a star next to things considered more complicated, and a happy face at the end of a concept, there were even slightly adorable doodles of a puppy’s face at the corner of one of the pages.

Seungmin never took notes. It was common knowledge. You’d never even seen the boy’s handwriting. Were these even his?

Deciding not to question further, you silently thanked the lord for such a gift. You’d have to thank Seungmin too, you thought.

That night you placed Seungmin’s aesthetic notes in a protective plastic and placed them in your binder. You studied them extensively and even rewrote them. He worded things much better than your teacher ever could. Everything was so simple. That night you could sleep peacefully.

-

Unbeknownst to you, Seungmin had taken a liking to you and your rather determined nature, something he wished he had when it came to studies, yet didn’t exactly need. Seeing you work so hard for a measly math class seemed pointless to him at first, but when he realized it was quite important to you, enough for you to lose sleep over, he discovered how much of a strong trait it was in you. It low-key made his heart squirm when he walked in to you reviewing notes before a test, or when you had set up your colored pens and highlighters in front of you before a lecture, or when you raised your hand when you genuinely didn’t understand something. Seungmin was deeply infatuated with you, but simply chose to ignore that. Seungmin never wasted his time on things he thought unnecessary. Yet that night he laid in bed, wondering for hours if you were awake and if you were, if you may have been looking at his words.

-

The next morning you woke up refreshed from a good night’s sleep and ready for school.

In class you placed the extra hot bun and a pink carton of strawberry milk on your seatmate’s desk as a small thank you, you had to repay him somehow. No matter what you had previously thought of him, he had in a way saved you.

You don’t think you had ever seen Seungmin smile. It was a slight and shy smile, but a smile nonetheless when he saw the cute little snack awaiting him on his side of the table. He knew it must have been you and it tugged his heartstrings quite hard, no one had ever really done this for him.

Still he didn’t look at you as he sat down, and he most likely wasn’t going to. You had to make the first move.

“Thank you,” you turned to him, holding out your hand in hopes of a friendly handshake.

Seungmin didn’t respond, though he did turn to face you wide-eyed with a straw stick in his mouth. His hand gently held the carton of strawberry milk and he didn’t make a move to reciprocate your friendly greeting.

You slowly pull your hand away.

“You can have them back, I don’t need them anymore,” you reach towards your binder to pull out the protected notes, but Seungmin finally does move, stopping your hand.

You eye him blankly, confused at his actions. He looks at you nervously before looking down.

“You can keep them,” his voice is firm yet soft and gentle.

Kim Seungmin is not cold or arrogant, you decide, he’s adorable.

You simply nod, absolutely dumbstruck by his change in nature.

Class starts and ends and though you promptly take your notes, you are considerably distracted by the actions of the quiet boy beside you. Today he placed his head down as usual, but his eyes were not closed, instead they traveled around the room, ever so often landing on you and halting.

As you and your classmates begin to put away their materials before the bell, you notice Seungmin softly spring up.

He takes out a pad of unused sticky notes from his bag and quickly scribbles his phone number and a puppy doodle on the pastel pink paper, hurriedly handing it your way as the bell rings.

Once again you look at the boy, eyes blank of emotion, only now his shy smile returns for a second time and he confidently reaches for your hand to put the sticky note in it himself.

“I think you’ll like these numbers more,” he slyly flirts.

“That was horrible,” you laugh at his rather unexpected words, making him flush a pleasant shade of pink.

Seungmin had never been one to flirt, heck he never even really spoke to girls, but he was definitely willing to make an exception. Because Seungmin never wasted his time on things he deemed unnecessary, but now it seemed that you were necessary in his eyes.

“Call me sometime?” His voice was smaller, much more reserved than his confidence outburst from before.

“My pleasure.” You beamed up at him.

And with that smile Seungmin could now guarantee that you were absolutely necessary.

[slashhinginghasher]

You, 87 years ago: (I seriously have an entire childhood planned out for Jesse based on nothing but that 2-second flashback in L2R2, but that’s a beast for a different post.) Us, checking watch: Is it time for this post yet??

How To Raise A Serial Killer

Paul Cromeans was a mean son of a bitch. Anyone in town would attest to that. He was drunk more often than he was sober and liked to talk with his fists. Rumor had it he’d beaten his wife to death and hidden her body in the swamp. Other folks said that was stupid, that she’d just gotten tired of being a punching bag and high-tailed it out of there. Whatever the truth was, she’d vanished seemingly overnight, leaving Paul behind with their infant son. When little Jesse was old enough to ask about his mother, Paul - who would never accept the consequences of his actions - told the boy that she’d been a gold-digging whore who ran off with a richer man.

He blamed the specter of his wife for all the woes in his life. When the windows leaked during hurricane season, it was because she had never taken good care of the house. When it became clear that Jesse would never talk, it was because she smoked and drank while she was pregnant. When he turned his fists on his son, it was because she had left him a lonely and desolate man instead of supporting him the way a wife should.

***

Paul worked nights cleaning the county funeral home. The pay wasn’t much: it was enough for Paul’s drinks and his smokes and to keep the bank away from their doorstep, but not enough for childcare. When Jesse grew out of his infant cuteness and the neighborhood ladies would no longer watch him for free, Paul started bringing him to work with him. He’d sit the boy on a chair in the foyer with strict instructions not to move, and shake him awake hours later when it was time to go home.

Jesse listened, at first. The funeral home was scary in the dark, the proprietor looked old and mean, and there were probably ghosts. He’d huddle in whatever chair his father plunked him down in, refusing to even let his feet touch the floor. But as time passed, he got older, braver, and more bored, and started to explore the shadowy depths of the building. One night, venturing deeper than he’d dared before, he’d stumbled upon the proprietor working over one of the deceased. It was a young woman, grey-skinned and nude on the metal table. Jesse froze in the doorway.

It was the first dead human he’d seen, and the first naked woman. He was eight years old.

He must have made some sort of noise, because the proprietor looked up from his work and beckoned Jesse inside. The boy obeyed, more afraid of angering the old man than he was of the corpse.

“Go on, then,” the proprietor ordered in his smoker’s rasp. “Touch her.” Jesse didn’t move. The proprietor scoffed at the boy’s hesitation and grabbed his hand, forcing him to touch the dead woman’s foot. Jesse cringed, half-expecting the body to move, but it remained as cold and still as the dead animals he sometimes found on the side of the road.

“See?” the proprietor said. “Ain’t nothing to be afraid of. She’s just meat.”

Shortly after that, Paul started leaving Jesse home alone when he went to work. Jesse didn’t think it had anything to do with the body, but he was too scared to ask.

***

School was hard. Not because Jesse was stupid - he wasn’t - but because he was smart and no one else knew it. His classmates pushed him around and called him names because his clothes were shabby and his daddy had punched Mark’s daddy at the bar last weekend and he physically couldn’t tell them to stop. Teachers ignored him because he couldn’t talk. When he did well on tests, they accused him of cheating, so he stopped trying. He still listened to their lessons, because they were interesting, but he sat in the back of the classroom and doodled skulls and broken stick figures in the margins of his worksheets.

His only friend was the old, kindly school librarian who let him eat lunch among the shelves. She had managed to dig up a book about sign language, and sat with him patiently as he signed the alphabet over and over with clumsy fingers. But she died of a heart attack when Jesse was ten, and her replacement wasn’t anywhere as sympathetic, and he was forced to return to the cruel company of his peers. He stole the sign language book from the library out of spite and practiced signing in the dirty mirror at home.

***

Jesse’s relationship with his father was rocky. Paul was often too drunk to read the notes Jesse wrote, and he refused to waste his time learning how to wave his hands around like a “fuckin’ fairy.” This communicative gap made even the most basic interactions more difficult than they should have been.

Their only common ground was hunting, where Jesse proved to be a natural. When Paul was in a rare good mood, he’d brag to the other men at the bar about how his boy could sneak close enough to a deer to slap it on the rump if he had half a mind to. And if Jesse seemed to prefer gutting the carcasses over shooting, well. Every man should know how to butcher his own kill.

***

Jesse had his first major growth spurt when he was fourteen, and entered high school a lanky, gangling giant of a boy. The physical bullying stopped, his sheer size enough to deter most people, but the name-calling grew worse, more targeted. The teachers saw his size and his silence and assumed he was some kind of idiot. He started walking with a hunch, wishing he could shrink down and disappear into the crowd.

High school was also where Jesse first noticed Lindsey Forrester. She had hair like corn silk, a smile like a movie star’s, and the bluest eyes you ever did see. Compared to the dead woman from the funeral home and the crinkled pictures in Paul’s Playboys, Lindsey was like a ray of sunshine. Jesse was pretty sure that even if he could talk, he’d never be able to form a sentence around her. Even though he was pushing 6’4”, she made him feel three inches tall. She didn’t make fun of him, but she didn’t talk to him, either. She was the only one whose attention he would have welcomed, and she didn’t even notice him.

So it was something of a shock when she asked him out in 11th grade. He said yes, naturally, and was even able to make her laugh through the awkwardness after she asked for his phone number out of habit. (It was the only time his muteness ever came in handy; he would’ve been mortified to admit his house didn’t have a phone.) He skipped class on Friday to scrub his father’s dirty old car to spotlessness, and stole Paul’s only nice shirt from the closet after he passed out drunk.

Jesse waited outside the diner for three hours before he accepted that Lindsey wasn’t going to show up. Come Monday, everyone was sneaking glances at him and snickering behind their hands. On Tuesday, Lindsey announced that she and Mark were dating.

He started to understand why his father spoke so harshly about his mother.

***

Paul’s liver gave up the ghost the summer after Jesse graduated high school, dragging the rest of Paul along with it. The coroner didn’t even bother with an autopsy; everyone knew Paul Cromeans would drink himself to death one day. No one expected Jesse to mourn, and he didn’t. He chose the cheapest burial option, turned the ramshackle house over to the bank, and left town with nothing but his hunting knife and his father’s beat up car.

It was fortunate they hadn’t run a toxicology panel on Paul.

***

Jesse returned to town only once, the year he turned 21.

No one knew where he’d gotten the money from. Rumor had it he was running drugs for the cartel in Miami. Other folks said that was stupid, that he’d just gotten lucky or maybe found a job with one of the new tech companies that were popping up everywhere. Whatever the method, Jesse Cromeans rolled into town with a new car, new tattoos, and a pair of designer sunglasses, and bought his childhood home back from the bank. Cash.

He’d filled out, too, his muscles drawing admiring looks from the girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day at school. Including Lindsey Forrester.

“I never got to tell you how sorry I was about your dad,” she murmured as she straddled him in the backseat. “You left town so fast, I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” She and Mark were set to be married the following spring. Her engagement ring was currently somewhere under Jesse’s passenger seat.

“I was such an idiot for standing you up in high school,” she sighed as they shared a cigarette afterwards. “It was a bet, but I totally would’ve shown up if I’d known this was how things would turn out.”

“How much did you win?” Jesse asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It was just a stupid dare between stupid kids.”

“Now that’s a damn shame.”

“Why?” Lindsey giggled, trying and failing to blow a smoke ring.

“Because that means you died for nothing.”

***

The last thing Jesse did was burn his old house to the ground. He didn’t add Lindsey to the growing collection in his glove box. She wasn’t worth the tape.

[skye-maxwell]

Mostly You

Persona 4 | Souyo | Third year, pre-relationship | Rated F for Fluff

Happy birthday, @livefreeordie13! You are my friend, and I like you a lot! \o/

For prompt #6: “I think about you all the time.”

---

It was Yosuke’s turn to call him today, so Souji sat on the floor of his bedroom, patiently folding paper cranes while he waited. 

They had spoken to each other on the phone nearly every day since Souji had left Inaba, and Souji was grateful that Yosuke always seemed eager to hear from him. Even if it was just a quick call after school on his way to Junes, or while he was drifting off to sleep after a long day—Yosuke made time for Souji, and that meant the world to him.

The ringtone Souji had specifically assigned to Yosuke started playing, and Souji smiled, like he always did. It was a song Yosuke had shared with him to cheer him up when things had been at their worst, and now Souji knew every word and every note of the track. 

“Hey, Yosuke,” Souji greeted warmly, putting his phone on speaker and setting it on his desk so he could keep folding. 

“Hey, Partner!” Yosuke said happily, and Souji smiled again. He would never get tired of that enthusiasm. “What are you up to?” 

“Cranes.”

“Haha, again? Are you trying to set a world record for ‘most paper cranes folded’ or something?” 

“No, but now that you say that, it sounds pretty good. I think that’ll be my goal now.” 

Instead of dismissing the joke like Souji expected him to, Yosuke said, “Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you. I believe in you, Partner!” 

“Thank you,” Souji said dumbly, becoming flustered for a moment before he could think of a better reply. “If I do break the record, you’ll be the first one I invite to the party.”

“The party?” 

“Yeah, to celebrate my success.” 

“Oh man, a party thrown by you? I can see it now. It’s gonna be a total rager,” Yosuke laughed.   

“Of course. It’ll be the most enraged of ragers.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” 

“Honestly, it would probably just end up being you and me sitting in a room drinking something like, not even alcoholic, and we would try to clink our glasses together and probably spill lemonade everywhere—”

“When did it turn into lemonade?”

“—and then you’d be all ‘Congrats, Partner,’ and yeah, that would probably be it.” 

Souji expected Yosuke to laugh at the image he had created, or to call it lame and throw out ideas for an actual rager… 

“I mean, as long as I’m there with you, I’m down for whatever.” 

Souji dropped his paper crane. 

Why? Souji mentally asked Yosuke, picking his crane back up off the floor. Why must you say such cute things?

Not about to say anything remotely like that out loud, Souji asked, “So what are you doing right now?”

Not seeming to notice the abrupt change of subject, Yosuke answered, “I’m doing homework! Kind of.” 

“Are you just doodling in the margins?” 

“Not just the margins, Partner—the whole paper! Because, you know, there’s no notes on the page…” 

Souji sighed. “Do I need to hang up so you can get your homework done?”

“No! No no no! Please don’t hang up! I’ll actually do it later, I promise!”

“Calm down, I’m not actually gonna hang up on you.” 

“Okay, good.”

“That does remind me, though… Lately I’ve been daydreaming in class a lot. Sometimes I’ll just completely space out, and by the time I space back in, I realize I haven’t been paying attention for an entire lecture.” 

“For real? Did my bad habits rub off on you?”

“Why do you sound like that? What are you doing now?”

“Finished drawing. Balancing a pencil on my nose. Crap! I dropped it. Anyways, you’re supposed to be the good student between the two of us, man! We can’t both be slacking off!” 

“Sorry, Yosuke.”

Before Souji could say anything else, Yosuke suddenly asked, “What do you think about?” 

“Hm?”

“When you’re daydreaming all that time—what are you thinking about?”

“Well… I think about last year a lot, and how I wish I was still there with everyone, and I think about recipes I want to make, and movies I want to see, and what I want to do after high school, and… you. Mostly you, actually,” Souji accidentally admitted. 

“Me? What about me?” 

Now that Souji had let the cat peek its head out of the bag, he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to keep the rest of it in the bag for much longer. 

“I think about all the crazy and terrible and amazing times we had together last year, and how I wish was still there with you. I think about recipes I want to make for you to try, and the faces you’ll make when you’re eating them. I think about movies I want to see, whether or not you would like them, the discussions we would have after we watched them together… I think about how badly I want to do whatever it takes to have more of you in my life after I finish this stupid third year… Yeah, all the time. I think about you all the time.”

“Partner, that’s… um, unexpected. I’m sure someone like you has better things to think about than me.”

Souji shook his head. “No. I don’t. Not more important than you, no.” 

“You’re exaggerating, right? To make me feel good?” 

“I’m not. Does it make you feel good?”

“Well, yeah, sure it does. Being on someone’s mind makes me feel special, y’know? Especially your mind.”

“You seem surprised, Yosuke. You really don’t have any idea how important you are to me, do you?” 

“I guess not? I don't know, it’s just… hard to believe. Do you know why I always make sure we talk to each other like this? I mean, obviously I don’t want you to be lonely, and I want to make sure you’re doing okay, but also like, I just don’t want you to forget me.”

Souji scoffed, immediately covering his mouth afterwards because he definitely hadn’t meant to do that, even if what Yosuke had said was completely ludicrous. 

Forget you? With the amount of running around you do in my mind, how on earth could I possibly forget you? 

Souji quickly tried to find a way to convey that sentiment to Yosuke in a less creepy way. 

“The only way I could ever forget you is if I had a major head injury, like blunt force trauma, and I forgot everything… or, if I, you know, died.” 

“Partner! Don’t say shit like that!” 

“My problem isn’t forgetting you; my problem is remembering you too much. Seriously, it’s constant. But actually, yeah, no, I don’t want to think of you any less, not really…”

“Heh, is this what it feels like to be flattered? You’re really something else, Partner. Oh hey, I’ve gotta go; my mom’s calling me for dinner.”

“Okay,” Souji sighed, feeling like he had sort of just poured his heart out (in a subtle yet super vulnerable and embarrassing way?), and yet the conversation had not come anywhere close to a satisfying resolution. “Tell her I said hi.” 

“Will do! She’ll be thrilled, haha. She’s actually trying out one of the recipes you left her, so I’ll let you know how it goes. Don’t worry though; it’s definitely not gonna be as good as when you make it.” 

Souji rediscovered his smile, happy that Yosuke would be thinking about him after he hung up—comparing his mother’s cooking against Souji’s own while he ate, remembering the times Souji had made the dish for him, coming up with an evaluation to share with Souji after the meal was done… 

“Your loyalty is appreciated.” 

“All right, Partner, thanks for talking to me.”

“Yosuke? I’m sorry if anything I said was too weird.” 

“All you ever say is weird stuff, man. I’m used to it.” 

“Pfft, okay, bye.” 

“Talk to you later!” 

Yosuke hung up, and Souji finished off the crane he was working on, setting the red paper bird on his desk in a row with several other red cranes. He took a photo and sent it off to Yosuke with the caption: “It’s like your shirt.” 

Satisfied with that, Souji stood up so he could go make his own dinner, but a text from Yosuke stopped him in his tracks. 

Instead of a reply about his picture, he opened up an unexpected picture from Yosuke. 

It was of his notebook, the one he had been doodling in at the beginning of their conversation. 

The first thing that caught his eye was a big-headed (chibi?) doodle of himself (the distinct bowl cut was a dead giveaway) in the middle of the page, holding his sword and wearing his TV World glasses. He also appeared to be on fire? Or maybe that was a representation of Persona power? 

Whatever it was, it was adorable.

Souji’s gaze flitted across the full page, his breaths growing more shallow as he took it all in: Izanagi and Jiraiya doing cool(?) action poses next to each other, a bento box that looked very much like the ones Souji used to prepare for Yosuke every day, a half-melted snowman wearing Souji’s grey scarf and Nanako’s Loveline hat, a Mega Beef Bowl from Aiya’s and stick figure versions of all their friends drowning in it… 

It took Souji a minute to realize it, but every single doodle across the page was somehow related to himself, and the memories he and Yosuke shared together. 

In the bottom corner of the page, one doodle was squeezed in that must have been the last one Yosuke drew. It was the two of them standing side-by-side in front of a house (but it didn’t look like any house that Souji recognized?) with their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were wearing big happy faces, and one of Yosuke’s arms was in the air, as if he was waving. 

The circular sun with squiggly rays coming out of it was in the sky above them, smiling and wearing sunglasses, ironically. There was a thing in front of the house that Souji didn’t recognize at first until he saw the bike next to it; it was a half-pipe. 

Then Souji squinted at another part of the doodle and zoomed in on the image, not quite believing his eyes.

In the front window of the house, there was a cat peeking through, big and fluffy just like Souji liked. 

Was that supposed to be… their house? 

“No way,” Souji whispered to himself.

Then he scrolled down to the caption and completely lost his breath. 

“I think of you too.” 

And with that, Souji’s fate was sealed—he was going to be thinking about Yosuke—his Partner who he was in love with (who thought about him too!)—nonstop for the rest of his life. 

[flower-boy]

How To Train an Idiot

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

CollegeAU!Hide Nagachika x Reader (Majority Fluff)

***Contains cussing, sprinkles of sexual innuendos, language, and/or themes–and overall idiocy (from author and characters alike.)

Short Chapters/One Shots

A few days later, Hide decides to tutor you somewhere else other than his dorm for a change of atmosphere. You two sit in a booth at the Anteiku coffee shop, exchanging some key terminology for the ‘World Wars’ section of the test. While he goes on about important dates in the wartime history, you seem to be more preoccupied with drawing doodles in the margin of your textbook. Quite carelessly, you gently etch an endless array of flowers onto the paper as he rambles on. In your defense, you both had been there for some hours now, so it was not surprising in the slightest that your brain had finally decided to short circuit. A fraction of the time had even been spent introducing you to Hide's best friend, Kaneki.

The dynamic between Hide and Kaneki intrigued you immensely; they were two opposite sides of the same coin, so different in personality and looks, and yet their auras blended so well. Hide sure did attract a wide array of people in his life, but that was to be expected with the extensiveness of his personality. And, although you hadn't even known him for that long, it's something that you can admit is admirable. Kaneki, however, seemed to make Hide smile in a way you had not yet witnessed previously. It was nice to see him more relaxed in this setting.

Staring down at the way your fingers flex while shading a petal intently, your mind begins to plunge deeper and you start to muse more about that aforementioned smile that you’ve been seeing so much of lately— especially the cheesy grins he uses when you actually get answers correct. Then, you find yourself smiling at the secondary thought of his teasing laugh and pout when you get things wrong too. You couldn’t decide whether you enjoyed getting things right or wrong more…

Suddenly, you feel someone’s clammy fingers pinch your cheek gently.

“Ouch!”

“Hey, space cadet, are you even listening to me?” Hide complains. You nod blindly and clear your throat.

“Of course I was!”

The immediate deadpan of his face is enough to make you internally cringe at your carelessness.

He crosses his arms, “Oh really? Then what did I just say?”

“Something about… history and… Japan? Really interesting stuff,” you nod semi-confidently. He slumps onto the table in a heap of aggravation at your bullshitted response.

“I..." he sighs, "Your cup of coffee could've told me a smarter lie in half the words.”

“You can’t say I was wrong…” you tell him matter-of-factly as you fold your arms against your chest. He picks himself up and waits for you to process his insult to it's fullest potential before he responds, of course. “The fuck, wait a minute, are you implying that I'm stupid?!”

Hide let’s out a playful, abrupt laugh.

“I'm not saying I think you're stupid.” His lips smirk while reshuffling the index cards, “I just think sometimes your mouth and your brain go through more divorces than reality show housewives.”

“I hope you know that once this session is over, we’re gonna fight, right outside in the parking lot,” you tell him plainly.

--

You follow behind Hide through the shelves of the library as he pulls out random books every few minutes and puts them back after glancing at them intently. All the while he continues with his usual routine when you two come there, quizzing you throughout the process.

“The Edo period began when?”

“1603.”

He smiles to himself proudly, “And what did the Edo period deal with, in short?”

You’re silent and wince as you think of something to say, “Um, something involving Edo.”

Hide stops dead in his tracks and gives you the stalest glare you’ve ever seen him possess. You retaliate with a pout.

“We literally just went over this, _____.”

“I forgot already!”

“So remember! Jog your memory. Where is Edo even located?”

“Tokyo, duh. That’s where the ancient samurais fought the most, easy peasy.”

“Okay, sooo who was appointed as Shogun? And what happened to Osaka Castle during the Edo period that affected the samurais?”

You try to remember but you just can’t, and it frustrates you more than he knows. You know you know it, but the information never comes at the times you need it to. One would think that since he's encountered it enough times he'd have developed a solid poker face, but Hide still has to keep himself from laughing at the way your face naturally contorts when you’re frustrated and deep in thought. Eventually, you give up on the answer and narrow your eyes at the boy.

“You know what? Why don’t you build yourself a nerdy little dweeb time machine and go ask them yourself, okay?”

“If you're gonna be a smartass, first you gotta be smart. Otherwise, you're just an ass, you know…” he informs you with a sneer tugging at his lips. You give him the finger.

“Fuck you.”

“Name a time and a place, loser. As long as it’s not in Edo,” he snickers teasingly.

“Nah, at my place,” you retort with a broad smile, “While you’re at it when you come over why don't you slip into something more comfortable— like a coma.”

There’s a long pause of silence between you both before you two burst out in laughter at each other, attracting some well deserve stares for disturbing the silence in the area. Who cared? You shove him playfully and, just like that, you two are back to quizzing. Hide makes a brief mental note that he actually really likes how feisty you get when you’re angry and frustrated. He figures he’ll probably regret that later on, but for now he kindly thanks the samurais.

--

A couple of weeks later, the two of you are back at Anteiku going over the assigned reading the professor gave in class the week prior. After some thought, Hide had been taking you here a lot lately. And although a fair excuse would be that his best friend worked here and he could see him more, there was something strange about the way Hide had been acting lately in general. Whenever you asked to come over for tutoring, he was very insistent that you did not come over to his dorm anymore, let alone the boys’ dormitory at all. It only bothered you slightly, but still, the thought stuck with you in the back of your mind. Asking him what was up wouldn’t hurt, right? Maybe you were intrigued by something pointless.

“Hey, Hide,” you utter into your shared silence.

“What’s up?”

You hesitate briefly and continue to watch his dark brown eyes scan his textbook before finally saying what’s on your mind.

“We’ve been going to your dorm to study less and less lately…”

“For a doofus, you’re quite observant,” he says sarcastically, taking a brief sip of his tea. However, his eyes don’t move from his book.

“Is there any particular reason why?”

He doesn't miss a beat with his reply, “Nope. Why would there be?”

“I don’t know,” you narrow your eyes at him curiously, “You were so hellbent at me coming over there all the time before, and now we only study at the library or this coffee shop. And you tell me not to even meet you at the dormitory…”

“You’re right,” he sighs while flipping a page a bit dramatically, “Obviously I’m hiding my new uber mushy romance mangas from you. How tragic you find out this way.”

Curiously enough, scrutinizing him even harder from across the table revealed his now stiffening body language. Although you knew he was joking, you now could also see he was actually caught off guard by your questions. In the most basic sense, he was definitely a little tenser than before and still unable to make eye contact; Hide was typically really good at hiding his emotions nonetheless. You hum when you come to your conclusion.

“You’re not telling me something."

His hand freezes mid flip this time.

“____...”

“Hide.”

“____!”

“Hide!”

He groans and cracks under the pressure of your intent gaze.

“Okay fine, honestly… I just don’t want Terada bothering you anymore while you're over. That's all.”

Your brows rise, “Bothering me?”

“You know… like flirting with you… amongst other things. I’m sure you don’t like being hit on or called a babe every few minutes when you’re trying to study, yeah?” When you remain silent for longer than acceptable in his mind, simply to gauge his reaction, and he finally glances up at you from his book, “Dude, please don’t tell me you actually like that…”

“What if I do?” You counter, just for the fun of it.

“You come over to study with me, not to enjoy his ogling!” He complains with a dull frown lingering on his face. Your eyes grow wide in surprise at how worked up he actually is over this, but then you giggle with realization.

“Oh my God, is Mr. Hideyoshi getting a bit jealous?”

“I am not jealous! It’s not like we’re dating or anything-” he grumbles uncomfortably, “As your tutor, I just don’t appreciate him distracting you while we’re trying to prepare you.”

“I don’t pay any mind to Terada or his useless thirst,” you reassure him. You can practically see the feeling of relief wash over him in its entirety and it takes everything in you to stifle a bubble of laughter, “But we don’t have to go back to studying at your dorm. I like the open atmosphere here.”

“Good, cuz we weren’t gonna go back anyways,” he huffs. You roll your eyes and reach across the table, grabbing his cup and taking a brief sip. Hide snatches it from you and mutters something to himself grumpily about how people keep messing with stuff that's his. You decide to disregard that ambiguous remark...

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” you tell him and smirk, “I promise I won’t give my attention to anyone else but you, especially while we’re studying. Okay, babe?”

The pink dusting his cheeks is enough to tell you he understands you loud and clear, and you simply go back to reading your textbook with a faint smile gracing your face.

[cadday]

Collateral Damage-Chapter 2

Waking up is already novel in itself these days. But waking up to someone by his bedside is jarring. Aeleus is reading something but he can tell that it’s more something to hold on to and he’s not really paying it much attention, why he can tell that he can’t recall. If the other has noticed him awake he is making a decent play at pretending he hasn’t. Braig’s head still throbs a little bit but not as much. He lays there a while just staring at the ceiling when not glancing at Aeleus out of the corner of his eye.

“Master Ansem believes that the loss of your eye has something to do with those things that have been showing up as of late...Even seems to disagree.”

Braig turned to fully look at Aeleus.

“It seems Even is under the impression that your injuries have more to do with the strange elderly fellow who was around. Some people in town said they saw you speaking to him not long before we found you…” 

Braig turns his head away with a frown. Old man he spoke to, when did he speak to an old man...Raising his hand to his eye he shuddered. 

His head was starting to hurt again but he remembered fighting...someone. Was it an old man? That didn’t sound right in his mind.  His heart was screaming the old man was dangerous though so he made a note to avoid suspicious old men.

He shook his head no in a response to Aeleus’ concerns and the red head man frowned.

“Braig we need to know who attacked you.” He shook his head again and met Aeleus’ concerned frown and willed him to understand.

“You...don’t know who attacked you.” He nodded and Aeleus looked even more concerned so he turned away again. He was getting tired of the sad looks, he supposed he hadn’t given anyone anything to be happy about.

“Alright...I...I need to go speak to Master Ansem. He wanted to know who did this, I don’t think he will be thrilled that you don’t even know. He was very upset when we got you back to the castle.” Braig didn’t look at him, just tried to stare a hole into the ceiling. 

“I can send someone else to come sit with you while I’m gone if you want...Either way promise to stay in bed, Even had a stroke when he came to check your vitals and you were gone, which normally would be humorous if it wasn’t for the fact that…” It’s quiet for a beat and Braig looks over when he realizes Aeleus is waiting for something. It takes him a bit to realize he should respond somehow and settles for nodding when he opens his mouth and can’t seem to even croak out a sound. 

Aeleus takes it for what it is and kind of half smiles at him in what he assumes is an attempt to put him at ease. He can’t bring himself to smile back. 

Aeleus is gone for maybe a few minutes before his door opens again. He isn’t sure who he expected but it’s not Ienzo. He doesn’t know why. The kid is holding a book as well. It’s familiar but he doesn’t know why and Braig carefully sits up as the kid shuffles closer. 

“Aeleus said you needed company.” Braig stares at Ienzo and the kid stares back just as awkwardly. In his mind, or heart which is which he’s not sure, he feels a strange sense of familiarity. He looks down at the book and he knows that it’s a story about a planet made of treasure and pirates. He knows because he used to read it out loud when Ienzo first came to the castle. His chest hurts suddenly and before he realizes it he’s scooting over in his bed to let Ienzo up with him. Ienzo starts at the beginning and reads out loud when he realizes Braig just isn’t able too. Ienzo reads until he falls asleep next to him and Braig pulls the covers over the boy before flipping through the book by himself. Theirs drawings in the margins, because this book used to be his and he had no respect for his own things, his heart/mind supplies, doodles of pirate ships and treasure. Some pages just have mindless scribbles and shapes in margins. One page he has colored in all the holes in the letters. He flips through this book, a strange piece of himself he’d forgotten till he gets to the inside front cover. Written in his shitty handwriting is: ‘Property of Captain Braig’ then in a neat block hand writing under it is : ‘and Captain Ienzo’. He snorts something like a laugh but ends up feeling like he is going to cry again and chokes back inevitable tears because well Ienzo’s right there and the kid doesn’t need to deal with his crap. He shuts the book and carefully puts on the table next to the bed already holding his water cup. 

He sits for quite some time watching Ienzo nap and counting the beeps on the monitor. That's really the only noise in the room. Sometimes he checks the kids pulse if his breathing gets too steady and he tries not to dwell on why he is so sure the kids heartbeat is going to vanish at any moment. Even strolls in at some point and takes one look at them and rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know why he’s resting here and you're wide awake watching him but at least your in bed this time. If you are awake we can try a pain killer orally today instead of what I’ve had to give you. I’m concerned that it’s having adverse effects on your sleep.” Braig manages a slow nod in response and Even just looks at him expectantly like he’s waiting for something. When nothing else happens he frowns and turns to the machines. 

“I believe your loss of voice is temporary, you didn’t receive any injuries to your throat so it must be a mental thing. Nonetheless if you would like I can get something to help you attempt to communicate. Though knowing your hand writing it may make communication worse.” Even looks at him again as an expectant expression and Braig kind of smile grimaces in a ‘I acknowledge your joke’ way or at least that’s his intention. Even just looks kind of frustrated. Like this whole conversation, being so one sided, has him wrong footed and grasping at straws. 

“We’ll have to test your depth perception at some point too which means when you are back on your feet you will be restricted to light duty till we can be sure you aren’t going to accidentally shoot a civilian.” Braig just nods again and Even is starting to look mildly panicked by either his silence or maybe his general acquiescence. 

“I’ll send Aeleus with dinner for you and Ienzo since he has decided that this is how he is spending his day,” Even sighs and gives him a look that he supposes is meant to be reprimanding in nature. “You're an absolutely terrible influence on him you know.” Braig looks down at Ienzo because it was hard to look at Even right now. He doesn’t look up again till the door clicks shut. 

It occurs to him he probably hasn’t eaten in quite some time, technically he has not taken part in actually eating in years, but his body currently still probably hasn’t eaten in close to a day now and he’s not sure if he’s actually hungry. 

Aeleus does show up with food for all three of them and Braig pokes at Ienzo’s face till he startles awake. He doesn’t look happy about it but Aeleus snorts a laugh and Braig chokes out a half wheezing cough that’s the best he’s gotten to do for a laugh so far. 

Dinner for him is mostly liquid. He would make a comment about how he’s not dying but he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel like he was. Braig can’t really remember stuff right but he doesn’t think the last time he got his face half blasted off that it was this hard to recover from. He’s pretty sure whatever he did that had him waking up here is the cause but he can’t put that into words literally and anyway even if he could he couldn’t explain to everyone much of anything anyway. He hates how lost that makes him feel. 

He eats all of his dinner, drinks it, and listens to Aeleus and Ienzo try to hold a barely passable conversation. Even comes back after and he listens to him mother hen at Ienzo for a bit and then unfortunately his attention turned to Braig as he set about explaining his new pills before watching him intently to make sure he took them. Braig actually rolls his eyes when Even says something about him making sure he takes them on time and Braig makes a face at him when he turns around. Ienzo sees and looks, well thrilled oddly and Aeleus looks relieved which is weird. He decides not to dwell on it. 

“The pills should make you feel less dizzy as well, tomorrow we can see about you getting up and actually walking about, no guard duty though. Not until..” Even glances at Aeleus, “Until later. But for now if you're too bored and would like to complain, rest assured I can always find something low impact for you to help with.” Braig sticks his tongue out like a petulant child. Even doesn’t do much but huff but he looks weirdly pleased for just a second before returning to the beeping machines. 

Eventually evening creeps up and out into night and slowly they all leave his room. Even is the last to go. He keeps fussing with monitors and rambling to himself but Braig doesn’t really care. He’s frowning at the shadows outside his window. Finally when it seems he’s run out of things to fuss with Even follows his gaze out the window and into the abrasive darkness.  

“Braig you…” Even pauses before adopting a very unconvincing stern expression. “You should get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turns the light out as he leaves and Braig tries to breathe his way through the panic settling in under his skin. He tells himself it’s not weakness when he leaps out of bed and half runs and falls to turn the light back on. On the floor next to the switch he ends up holding his hand to his chest as if he could hold the contents inside, keep them from escaping. He eventually makes his way back to bed and tries to convince himself that the darkness behind his eyelids isn’t as terrifying as his heart seems to think it is.