#is my throat just feeling better on its own and the candy is a coincidence. what in the goddamn.

[absolutepokemontrash]

MC’s Half Demon and They Look Awfully Familiar Lessons 10-12

Masterlist

Time for a Freaky Friday situation, an Isekai situation, and a fun family trip! And what’s a fun family trip without helping your uncle who is trapped in an attic and trying to raise a cat with your half-brother/uncle/whatever whose in your father’s body? Dear Grandfather God… get MC some help-

Let’s pick up where we left off last time with MC and Belphie >:)

“No need to be nervous, I won’t bite.” Belphie tapped his knuckles against the door he was leaning on to emphasize his point. “And I can’t on account of the magic door.”

“Why…” MC began before straightening their posture and clearing their throat. “What are you doing up here? I was told you were in the human world.”

“As you can see,” Belphie sighed. “I’m not. I’ve been stuck in the attic since before you got here.”

“But why?”

“Lucifer.”

MC narrowed their eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He locked me up here, rude, right?” Belphie’s carefree tone heavily contrasted how tense his shoulders were as he leaned oh-too casually on the doorframe. “To cut right to the chase, I need your help.”

“My… help..?”

“Yep. I need you to get me out of here.” Upon seeing MC’s scandalized expression, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down, I’ll explain.”

Belphie began his explanation. “So, Lucifer and I got into a little brotherly spat that got blown out of proportion, it was really all a misunderstanding. I want to be able to have a civil conversation with Lucifer that isn’t marred by my… prison.”

“Mammon told me that you opposed the exchange program, and that’s why you got sent to the human world.” MC said quietly. Ugh, they almost cursed themselves out then and there for all the muttering they were doing. They weren’t some guilty child!

Belphie had a look on his face that MC had seen on the five other brothers. The look that always preceded one of the brothers calling Mammon a scumbag, a moron, an idiot, or something equally nasty. The look quickly disappeared as Belphie gave MC a halfhearted shrug.

“I was, yes. But I couldn’t care less about that now.” Belphie waved his hand in the air like he was waving off the whole issue. “It was my bad, really. I was being unreasonable, and I got pissed.”

“What exactly do you need me to do to get you out of there?” MC asked, clenching and unclenching their fist to get the tension out.

“I need you to undo the spell holding the door shut. If you were anyone else, I’d be asking you to make pacts with my brothers in order to override Lucifer’s spell and open the door,” Belphie’s eyes flashed again. “But you… you can just use some of your magic, can’t you? I assume Lucifer passed some of his power down to you?”

MC stiffened and took a step back from the door. “How did you-”

“MC, I’ve lived with Lucifer for over five thousand years, I know his magical signature as well as I know my own, and yours is too damn close to his to be a wild coincidence. And,” Belphie gestured at MC. “You look and act like a mini him. It’s cute, honestly.”

MC frowned, cute?! MC wasn’t cute! But that was a… decent explanation..?

“So,” Belphie took a step back from the door. “Put your hand on the door, and try to open it. You might feel some magical resistance but if your magic is similar enough to Lucifer’s you might be able to open it without any difficulty at all.”

MC reached out, then hesitated. “How do I know you aren’t lying to me?”

“MC, you’re my brother’s kid. I don’t want this dumb fight between me and Lucifer to break my family apart. Besides, it’ll be nice to have you as a part of the family too. I don’t want to sully that by being stuck up here.”

Part of the family? MC’s eyes practically sparkled. A real part of their new family… they looked up at Belphegor and nodded.

“Okay, here I go…” MC tentatively placed their hand on the door.

It began to burn at an intensity that nearly made MC scream and collapse on the spot. Their hand was glued to the door as the door’s spell seemed to crawl its way up their arm. MC countered with the biggest burst of their own magic they could possibly muster.

The blast of bright blue that slammed into the door made it creak back and forth slightly, but the spell held its ground.

MC snatched their hand back and stared expectantly at the door. They swayed on their feet slightly as they looked up at Belphegor, who tapped the door. When blue sparks met his hand, he frowned.

“It didn’t… it didn’t work… I’m…” MC paused before they apologized, they didn’t have to. They tried their best, didn’t they? They just needed to get a better hold of their magic. “I’ll get stronger, I’ll get better at magic and then I’ll come back and open the door.”

Belphie sighed in relief and smiled at MC. “Thank you, MC. You’re really helping me out here, you’re sweet.” Belphie then crouched ever so slightly to get to MC’s level, and smirked conspiratorially. “You know, all powerful demons need snacks to recharge their magic, right? Mammon has a massive stash of candy that he thinks is secret hidden in one of the potted plants in the planetarium. You didn’t hear this from me though.”

They gave Belphegor a small smile. “I’ll get you out soon, okay?”

“I trust that you will.”

———

Disgusting.

That was the one thought that permeated through Belphegor’s mind when he first saw MC.

The thought remained throughout the entire first encounter, and the feeling of roiling nausea only grew when MC’s attempt to break Lucifer’s spell failed spectacularly. Belphie tried as best as he could to follow MC’s retreating form down the attic hallway, but his vision was limited.

A half demon. Truly Lucifer had fallen from whatever grace he still had left from a time where his youngest brother actually respected him.

A half human child. Did Lucifer truly have no self respect? A proud high ranking demon, the second strongest in the entire Devildom, in fact, had a half human child.

How monumentally stupid.

Belphegor was no stranger to half-demons, he had been alive far too long to have never come across one. A few hundred years ago they were much more common, running around the human world wreaking havoc and scurrying around the Devildom like scared mice. The duality always made Belphie smile. They may have been beings of pure terror in the human world, but their demon half could never compare to real demons in the Devildom.

Asmodeus held the unofficial record for most half demon children, obviously. As much as Belphegor absolutely detested humans, he couldn’t exactly fault his older brother. Asmo was the Avatar of Lust after all, and the Avatar of Sloth of all people couldn’t judge him for indulging in his sin every once and a while.

Hell, even Satan and Mammon occasionally had children pop up in the human world. The difference, the thing that made all the difference was that they never brought their… spawn home. They never brought their half-human little monsters into his home.

What gave Lucifer the right to do so? The right to bring that into Belphegor’s home? One of the beings responsible for the death of their sister. His sister. Did he not care about that at all?!

Belphegor collapsed onto the bed in the attic, ruffling his hair and shutting his eyes.

The brat couldn’t even break the door.

The thought almost caused Belphegor to laugh. The little brat couldn’t even break the door.

He cracked up, muffling his laughter with his hand. The child was Lucifer’s and they couldn’t even fully break the door. My my, how the mighty have fallen. It had taken over three months for Belphegor to even get close to being able to get into that little brat’s head to call them up to him, and they couldn’t even break the door?

Belphie’s borderline hysterical laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation stopped abruptly as he looked around the room. Something-

Someone was glaring at him.

His eyes instinctively darted to the door, the most logical conclusion was that the brat had snitched and Lucifer was at the door. But the hallway was empty. The feeling of being watched made him shudder, then stiffen. He tilted his head and sat in silence. No sound, just the familiar smell of…

The Celestial Realm.

Belphie dragged a hand down his face and growled, lying back down and clamping his eyes shut. He needed to sleep.

So, that was the first problem MC had to face that month, the second was the fact that Satan snuck a cat into the house and he and MC were co-parenting it in secret. The third problem was Satan was still acting like a massive dickwad. All this fighting wasn’t good for baby Detective Toe Beans!

After receiving the “Lucifer got so mad he gave birth” talk from the other brothers, MC could have had their own rage-baby then and there.

I have never regretted typing a sentence more, but anyway, MC was on a warpath to find Satan.

‘Calm down,’ MC thought to themselves as they walked down the hallway of the HOL. ‘Don’t overreact, maybe this is all some big misunderstanding.’

The demon they were hoping to find was walking down the hallway in the opposite direction. Satan gave MC a half nod and barely acknowledged them.

“Hi Satan!” MC chirped, trying to sound as friendly as possible. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

After being so coldly snubbed, MC stood in the hallway completely motionless, until of course the little voice crawled its way up their spine and nestled in the base of their skull.

‘Who does he think he is?’

MC squared their shoulders and started after Satan, resolute in their totally non-suicidal goal of chastising him for his behaviour.

“Satan!” MC threw his door open and crossed their arms, the room was a complete mess of books and loose papers as usual, the Avatar of Wrath himself was sitting on his bed with his nose in a book. “We need to talk.”

“Do we now?” Satan drawled, not looking up from his book. That stupid encyclopedia must’ve been the most interesting thing in the god damn universe for Satan not to look up and see MC seething with a kind of pure rage only preteens we’re capable of. “Walking into people’s rooms without knocking is rude, you know. Let’s talk about that.”

“Honestly can you not be a smartass for a few seconds and just fucking look at me?!”

The sudden cursing got Satan to raise an eyebrow and look up. “What do you want, MC?”

“I want to know what the hell your problem with me is.” MC said, attempting to keep their voice as level and calm as possible. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you since I got here, and you’ve been nothing but a massive jerk!”

“Did you ever stop to think that I just don’t like you?”

“For what reason? What did I do?!”

“You look exactly like him!” Satan finally snapped. “Another Lucifer prancing around the house like they run the place!”

“So to you I’m just another Lucifer..?” MC asked, then let out a humourless laugh. “Are you… are you fucking kidding me right now? You’re pegging me as another Lucifer? You?”

Satan bristled, his eyes began to flash green, MC’s own eyes had begun to show a slight blue tint. “What are you implying?”

“I’m ‘implying’ that you, Satan, the one who was born of Lucifer’s wrath, calling me a copy of Lucifer is literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.” MC snarled, almost every fibre of their mind was screaming to transform and teach Satan a lesson, but they held back. “You hate Lucifer, anyone with two brain cells can see that, but you don’t see how stupid you’re being?!”

In an instant Satan yanked MC up by the front of their shirt and let out a low growl. “Do you want to repeat that, half-breed?”

“You’re being an idiot.” MC’s bratty, teasing tone couldn’t fully hide the boiling anger that was just beneath the surface. “You think you have the right to demand that people see you as different from Lucifer, yet you don’t grant me the same courtesy.”

With that, Satan’s demon form was out and less than a second later so was MC’s. The half-demon’s foot shot out and hit Satan right in the knee, the Avatar of Wrath staggered backwards slightly which allowed MC to back away until they felt their back hit a pile of books.

The two stared at each other for a few seconds, daring the other to make a move, when the door to Satan’s room slammed open. There stood enemy number one, Lucifer.

“What the hell are both of you doing?” Lucifer hissed, his eyes flicking between Satan and MC.

“STAY OUT OF THIS!”

With Satan and MC’s combined shout, books began to shoot off the shelves and off the tops of piles. The books whizzed around the room, crashing into things and making the room even more of a mess.

“Both of you calm down!” Lucifer growled, both Satan and MC turned to shout at him again.

“JUST SHUT UP!”

Quick as lightning, a book shot towards MC, time seemed to slow as the spine of the book brushed past their nose as they stumbled out of its way. MC was out of the book’s path, but now it was speeding directly towards Lucifer.

Satan, most likely desiring to protect his book from Lucifer-germs, dove forward to grab the book while Lucifer prepared to catch it with an outstretched hand. The moment the two touched the book a blinding flash of light engulfed the entire room, leaving everything completely still.

Huh, well that happened. Argument paused, gather everyone.

Satan and Lucifer switched bodies… coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool-

Wait why are they staying in MC’s room?!

Lucifer (in Satan’s body) pulled the “you live under my roof you follow my rules” card, and MC got to work ordering a tent on Akuzon. Their tent, their rules.

“Satan! We have a bit of a problem with you agreeing to stay in my room with Lucifer!” “And what’s that problem, MC?” “Uh, I don’t know, THE DETECTIVE.”

Satan completely forgot that they were hiding a cat from Lucifer. Whoops!

When Lucifer stomped out of MC’s room later that day holding the cat the two knew they were screwed.

MC and Satan had to compromise their dignity and beg Lucifer to not take away their poor kitty. Lucifer just grumbled that he’d deal with this when he got back into his own body.

Body switching shenanigans were abound, Mammon and Satan were working together to make Lucifer look as ridiculous as possible without breaking any of the ground rules everyone laid out.

This all culminated in getting Mammon hung from the ceiling.

That night, MC tried to ignore Satan and Lucifer’s sleep talking, but it was a fruitless endeavour.

The only good part of that arrangement was the fact that Bean refused to snuggle up to Satan while he was in Lucifer’s body, and Lucifer didn’t want the cat near him while in Satan’s body, so MC got all the snuggle time with their favourite kitty.

While Bean’s intense purring was adorable, it wasn’t loud enough to drown out Lucifer and Satan’s rampant sleep talking.

“Fuck you Lucifer…” Satan in Lucifer’s body mumbled. “Gonna fuckin rip your head off…”

“Diavolo you can’t just get me another dog…” Lucifer in Satan’s body grumbled before letting out a snore.

MC rolled their eyes and looked at their cat. “Can you believe this shit, Bean?” They whispered.

Bean responded by pawing at MC’s face. What a big baby with such cute widdle eyes omigoodness what a baby baby-

Having enough of that tomfoolery, MC gently placed Bean down on their bed, and tiptoed out. They ended up doubling back to their room and grabbing one of their books.

Sneaking up to the attic a second time was much easier than the first attempt. It had been a week since their first encounter with Belphie and MC thought that he might want an update.

“So yeah… that’s what’s happening right now.”

Belphie appeared to be suppressing a laugh as he nodded and cleared his throat. “Mm… that’s… very unfortunate.”

“It’s not that funny.”

MC and Belphie stared at each other for a few seconds, before both of them broke out into a fit of giggles.

“Okay,” MC relented. “It’s kind of funny…”

“So, any updates on the plan?” Belphie asked, MC responded with a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, almost everyone has welcomed me in with pretty open arms, so I don’t think they’d question it if I asked them to come up here and get you out.”

“Almost everyone?” Belphie tilted his head as he leaned on the wall next to the door.

“Yeah… um…” MC quickly looked away and pursed their lips. “Satan… you know?”

“Ah,” Belphie’s usual lazy smile reappeared. “Satan’s going to be a tough one to win over. You know why, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucifer told you?”

“No actually,” MC mumbled. “Mammon, Beel, Levi, and Asmo did.”

Belphie’s eyes flashed for a brief moment, like MC had just offered him a present, but it was so quick MC barely took notice.

“I’m guessing he must be keeping a lot of stuff from you, huh?”

MC crossed their arms and shrugged. “Kinda… I guess. He kept you being in the attic a secret, he’s keeping the reason the Grimoire is in the Underground Tomb a secret…” MC frowned as all the strange little secrets began to come to light. Their father’s practically fanatical loyalty to Diavolo, the reason for the Celestial War, the reason no one talked about Lilith…

“Hm,” Belphie sighed. “It sucks that Lucifer doesn’t really tell you anything.”

“Mhm…” MC looked down at their feet, until they remembered the other reason they went up to visit the attic. “Oh! I brought you something!”

They held out the book to Belphie, carefully sliding it between the gaps in the door. “It’s a manga Levi recommended to me, I read it and it’s awesome! I thought you might be bored up here, so I brought it up for you to read.”

When Belphie took the book he stared at it like it was a completely foreign object, then his features melted into a smile. “Thank you, MC.”

“Right!” MC smiled proudly. “I’ll work on my magic, and on my relationship with Satan, then I’ll bust you out of here!”

Belphie chuckled and gave a thumbs up. “Good luck, kiddo. I believe in you.”

The seeds of discord were planted and the local attic cowboy was being one hell of a gardener. I need to stop typing take my phone away from me.

When MC left the attic, the first thing they heard was Mammon crying in the stairwell. It seemed that even the HOL’s ghosts were annoyed with all his whining.

“MC… help meeeeee…” “You’re hanging there for a reason, Mammon. I’m not going to disturb your punishment.” “MCCCCCCCCC!”

Don’t worry, MC did some sick maneuvers and cut Mammon down! Hooray!

“You now owe me a life debt.” “Wait what-” “We’re fixing my and Lucifer’s relationship with Satan.” “…kid if you smoked the weed in my room just tell me, I won’t be mad.”

No dear uncle Mammon, MC was not high on the devil’s lettuce, they were high on the power of family!

Time to fire up Doji Magi!

Obviously MC wasn’t the protagonist, everyone was trying to woo this random generic anime character (tm)

It wasn’t going good for anyone other than Levi. MC wasn’t even allowed to properly participate because Lucifer didn’t approve of his child getting involved in this degenerate anime stuff.

Too late Luci-goosey, your kid was a weeb long before they came to the Devildom

Of course, come graduation day, things got much more fun.

“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” MC screamed with delight as they swung a folding chair at an oncoming monster.

Mammon was having decidedly less fun as he dealt with his share of the monsters that had suddenly spawned into the game. “MC what the hell are ya talkin’ about?! This is crazy!”

“Can both of you shut up?” Lucifer said as he calmly snapped a monster’s neck. “Get to the roof, all of you.”

“This was very well foreshadowed I’m very impressed.” Satan said, Levi nodded enthusiastically.

“I know! All those hidden lore bits were so fun to find.”

“Wait, lore?” Mammon asked, he turned to MC. “What’d we miss while we were in fake detention?”

As the group continued to make their way up the steps to the roof, downing monsters left and right, MC turned to Satan and laughed. “You’re absolutely drenched right now.”

Satan smirked and flicked some of the monster goop onto MC. “You don’t look any better.”

“Ew!” MC stuck out their tongue and leaned to the left, looking behind Satan. “There’s a monster behind you by the way.”

“Ah,” Satan turned and punched the monster so hard in the forehead that its skull caved in. “Thank you, MC.”

The rooftop was filled with significantly less monsters than the rest of the school, and it uh… oh… hm… gamer instincts were tingling.

“Hey, this is a lot of negative space…” Levi picked a medpack up off the floor. “And an odd collection of healing items…”

“Where’d all the enemies go..?” Mammon asked tentatively.

“Better question,” MC piped up. “Where’s the music?”

Right after those words left MC’s lips, the door to the rooftop burst open, revealing a very familiar three headed doggo that MC and Lucifer so adored. It was Cerberus! Who looked positively murderous!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Mammon shrieked and hid behind Levi.

“Oh… that’s what all the dog imagery meant.” Satan said. “I thought it was odd that all the books in this school’s library had something to do with dogs.”

“Yeah! Aw, it all makes sense now!” Levi exclaimed.

“Cerberus,” Lucifer stepped forward and crossed his arms. “Sit.”

Cerberus, did not in fact, sit. He instead growled like a monster truck, and the acidic looking drool that was falling from his gaping jaws was an indicator that the giant pupper was quite hungry.

“Uh… bad dog?” MC offered. With that, Cerberus charged forward.

Mammon, Levi, and MC dodged to the left while Lucifer and Satan dove to the right.

“Shit! How are we supposed to fight Cerberus!?” Levi squeaked.

“Maybe we can- SATAN WATCH OUT!”

Cerberus had decided to ignore Lucifer and rush straight towards the fourth born, whose weapon of choice had just decided to break, and MC had a sneaking suspicion that Satan wouldn’t be able to punch all three of Cerberus’ heads at once.

“CERBERUS!” Lucifer shouted, causing everyone to freeze in place. “YOU LAY A HAND ON MY BROTHER AND I WILL [Hello, this is the narrator, Lucifer has asked that I censor what he said because he doesn’t want this to end up reflecting badly on Diavolo].”

It was thirty seconds into the very vulgar threat before Levi thought it would be a good idea to cover MC’s ears. Game-Cerberus whimpered and sat down, much to the utter amazement of everyone.

“Wow, I can curse in Latin now!” MC chirped.

“MC, you will forget what you heard.” Lucifer sighed.

“Of course, father!” MC said sweetly, they then leaned over to Levi. “Noooooot.”

Yay, the fam’s out of the game! L!MC and Satan both agreed that Cerberus would never in a thousand years listen to either of them and they should just depend on Lucifer to deal with their homicidal pupper.

Good news, in the days after the game, glasses related thefts went down 100%! Also, pranks relating to Lucifer’s coffee being turned into vinegar went down 83%!

Satan was chilling out :D… but Lucifer still had a speech to give and he was not about to trust the guy who filled the house with cats once.

It was time for a visit to the human world to go find a witch!

“Come on! I wanna see the horsies!” Mammon whined, hanging off of Lucifer in Satan’s body like a petulant little kid. The actual kid rolled their eyes and snorted.

“Let’s be honest with ourselves, Mammon.” Lucifer said. “You want to see the horses so you can find the one you’re going to bet all our money on.”

“Of course I wanna see the horse I’m gonna bet on!So can we gooooooo?!”

Satan in Lucifer’s body finished off the last of his gelato and scoffed. “No, we’re not going to bet the house on the ponies, Mammon. We’re going to spend it on-”

The high pitched shriek that left MC caused everyone to whirl in their direction as the half demon jumped up and down and frantically pointed at a sign. They were clearly trying to sputter out some kind of explanation of what had them so excited, but no one could understand a word.

“MC, calm down-”

“It’s the musical!”

“What-”

“I’ve watched so many analysis videos on this! Father! Father! The music in this is supposed to be insane! I wanna see! I wanna see! You gotta let me see!” Every single word was punctuated by MC jumping up and down to the point that Lucifer was actually concerned their wings might pop out and they’d take flight.

Right in the middle of one of their jumps, Satan caught them and held them up in front of Lucifer. “Oh dearest brother of mine, your poor spawn wants to see the show- hang on it’s this one?” Satan did a double take at the sign for the show. “Now I actually want to see this.”

Lucifer finally shoved Mammon off of him and got a good look at the sign, at least two out of the three people he was travelling with had taste. “Yes, we can watch the show.”

“Yay!” MC clapped their hands, then noticed their feet weren’t touching the floor and turned to look at Satan. “Uh, Satan, you know you can put me down, right?”

“No, I don’t think I’m going to do that,” Satan said as the group began their walk towards the theatre. “It’s fun having you up as a half-human meat shield.”

“Hey!”

A distinct interest of MC’s had been discovered by the rest of the group that day when they started rambling and explaining the intricacies of musical theatre and opera to a very confused Mammon. Lucifer and Satan exchanged amused glances as MC continued to rapidly explain increasingly more confusing parts of music.

“So that’s the main difference between recitative and an aria,”

“Uh huh…”

“So technically Hugh Jackman is wrong in his explanation that Val Jean’s soliloquy in the movie adaptation of Les Miserables is recitative because it’s more of an aria because Val Jean is basically screaming about his emotions.”

“Hugh Jackman? Wolverine?”

“Yeah, Wolverine. Anyway back to leitmotifs-”

MC’s animated explanation continued all the way until the four were sat down in their seats and the show began. Mammon, of course, started fully weeping whenever anything sad happened. It was intermission when Lucifer and Satan finally had enough of it.

“Mammon…” Satan rubbed his temples and glared at the sobbing second born. “I swear, if you don’t stop crying, I’m going to strangle you…”

“Do it like the Phantom of the Opera.” MC offered.

“What?” Satan asked.

“Lasso noose.”

Mammon loudly blew his nose and shoved popcorn a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Musical theatre is so fuckin’ weird…”

MC 🤝(being a musical theatre nerd) 🤝 Lucifer

So after the play, they hopped on the train and MC and Mammon stuck their heads out the window to baa at some nearby sheep. The sheep responded, Mammon and MC can speak sheep confirmed.

Of course, Mammon went off and got involved in the murder of the very witch they were trying to find.

“Only one version of events is ever true!” Satan proclaimed to the three unfortunate bastards that were also involved with the crime.

Lucifer looked from the dead body that was covered in a tablecloth, to MC. He made an awkward attempt to cover their eyes, but even he seemed confused by the action.

“Father, it’s fine.” MC lightly moved their father’s hand away and pulled something out of their brand new bag. “Satan, here!”

MC held up a Sherlock Holmes cap. “It’ll make you look more like a detective.”

“Thank you, MC.” Satan put the cap on and turned back to the crime scene in front of him. “I’m going to solve the shit out of this.”

Hearing those words come out of Lucifer’s mouth even knowing that it was Satan saying them made Mammon forget he was being accused of murder and laugh like a maniac. This did not help MC and Satan’s “Mammon’s not crazy” case.

MC and Levi had spent a week playing Danganronpa nonstop, MC was ready for this!

After clearing Mammon’s name, the ghost of the witch showed up and told the gang to solve her murder and she’d undo the body switch curse.

“The killer is, YOU!” MC and Satan pointed at the culprit with flourish.

“You have no proof!”

“I’m afraid we do in fact have proof.” Satan smirked triumphantly. “The other two suspects were too far away or standing up,”

“And the knife entered the body at a downward angle,” MC continued. “The only person close enough to stab the victim like that is you.”

“So suspect number 3,” The two said together. “You’re the dumbass who did it!”

“Did they rehearse this?” Mammon leaned over to ask Lucifer.

“No idea.”

Yay! Murder solved! Time for the life lesson!

“If only I had trusted him to be my apprentice…” “oh wow what a convenient life lesson, right father? Right Satan? Trust?”

“…” “…”

Satan and Lucifer got poofed back to normal and everyone got to go home. Lucifer, like in canon, lets Satan give the speech because he learned that he needs to trust his brother more and have a little bit of faith.

The speech is a success, and life returns to normal, but better. Satan and MC build up their relationship and after a few weeks, it was like the stuff from the beginning of the year never happened.

The attic was Belphegor’s favourite nap spot, though at the moment, Belphie didn’t want to sleep in the attic. He had been stuck up there for the past four months, and the only form of social interaction he had was sporadic chats with Lucifer or the half-human.

He must have been going completely mental up there because he was actually wishing he was talking to the kid, at least the brat was nice to him…

“Belphie!”

The cheery voice of the little “angel” echoed down the hall, Belphie found himself smiling at the sound, at least before he realized what he was doing. MC appeared at the door, practically bouncing on their toes.

“Belphie Belphie Belphie!” MC waved their DDD in the air.

“MC MC MC.” Belphie repeated. He leaned against the wall next to the door and yawned. “Nice to see you again, any updates?”

MC flicked through their DDD and gave Belphie a thumbs up. “I’ve been practicing my magic and stuff, but that’s not what I’m up here for.” They held up their DDD to show Belphie a picture.

“Beel’s team won their game-thing!”

The picture showed Beel in his team uniform eating an entire pie with a medal around his neck, the rest of the brothers and MC were posed for the picture around him. “I have no clue how this sport is supposed to work or what the rules are, but apparently he won, so that’s good!”

Any traces of Belphie’s half decent mood vanished as he looked at the picture. Everyone seemed… really happy. Levi, Asmo, Satan, Mammon, Beel, all of them, looked happy. Happy without him…

“That’s… great, MC.”

—————

Belphegor truly didn’t think he’d pity the human he vowed to kill. MC was literally a mixture of everything he hated, humans, Lucifer, Diavolo’s stupid exchange program… but yet, Belphegor felt pity.

The way MC lit up when they talked about the fun things they had done with the brothers and the other exchange students, how they went up to the attic to keep him company when they had a spare bit of time… they did all of that without knowing that Belphegor despised them. It was honestly pitiful.

Though, the Avatar of Sloth’s feeling of detest had somehow lessened. The little half demon had managed to get their hooks in him. Unfortunately for them, it only made Belphegor’s blood boil more. His brothers adored that little brat, it was plain to see. The half human had won them all over, like half of MC’s ancestry wasn’t responsible for the death of their little sister.

Belphegor narrowed his eyes as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had been stuck up there long enough to have counted every knot in the wood, every nail and plank, and every spider that managed to crawl through the cracks. The familiar feeling of guilt began to twist in his stomach. His sister died because Beel chose to save him. He should have been more careful… he shouldn’t have taken her to the human world…

‘It’s their fault.’ Belphie tried to push any and all thoughts other than that out of his head. ‘That human killed her. If they had never met she wouldn’t have died.’

Repeating that over and over did not expel the roiling feeling of guilt that crawled its way up Belphie’s spine and constricted his ribs.

“I hate you…” Belphie growled. MC was the reason for all this, weren’t they? They were the reason he wasn’t with his family, they were the reason they could be happy without him, yet even repeating his declaration of hatred like a mantra didn’t make the guilt go away. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!”

A sudden sharp yank on Belphie’s ear made him lurch upwards and look around the room. Nothing.

It was a childish gesture, wasn’t it? A sharp pull to his ear, a habit he knew all too well belonged to…

It belonged to…

…

Belphegor needed to sleep.

———————

Sup my witches, bitches, and bastards, we’re reaching the exciting part :D the part you angst hungry sickos (affectionate) are waiting for! ✨ lesson 16 ✨ next time, we’re doing the buildup, then after that, ANGST COUNTRY BABY!

Reblogs are very appreciated!

[sondrawr]

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

You are mine.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

[grotesquegabby]

💐your pick uwu

Things/mistakes were made? possibly~

a moment from the past, a friendship between two elders. Though one is not so fond of the other and pretends. The others true feelings are...unknown.

The Flower

Blackwood was proud of what he made and so he wanted to show it off. Who other than the one whose own imagination was just as strong if not maybe a bit stronger than his. He despised him for it, but these flowers! these were beautiful and he sort of wanted to brag so why not bring a few to the Mad One as a sort of ‘gift’.

He popped up into the Mad Ones realm, looking around for him. Unsure of where he was he took a step and soon enough heard that voice. “Welcome oooh King of Spades~” “Mad One!” shouted Blackwood with a smile as he looked around, only to stop and frowned, “um...where are you?” “Why I am right here~” The voice sounded right next to his ear. He jumped and turned around, nothing. “where...I hear you but dont see you..” He grumbled. The ever mad giggle the Mad One let out was eerie as a long leg made it into Blackwoods view. Then another, and soon the arms and face were in view. “I was right here by this tree~”

“ah. hehe.” Blackwood laughed though a bit nervously, before looking down at his new beautiful creation, “I brought you something!” He smiled.

Mad Ones smile only grew, more razer sharp teeth revealing themselves, “A present?~ For me?~” He bent down fast, coming face to face with Blackwood.

“Did you get...taller?” asked Blackwood.

The Mad One seemed to have a sly grin on his face as Blackwood said that. Otherwise no response. Blackwood cleared his throat. He held out the flowers with a grin of his own, “These are for you.” The Mad One stared at them and one hand took hold ot eh bouquet of newly created flowers, “How nice these are~ Did you make these yourself.” He giggled.

Blackwood seemed to puff up a bit with pride, “oh yes, just made them today in fact. I plan on having some grow on my planet. What do you think of them?”

One of the Mad Ones hands conjured up an oddly shaped vase which he put the new flowers into. “They are lovely~, I enjoy the bright colors. And the smell almost fruity. Such a nice little creation~”

Blackwoods eyebrow twitched a bit, nice...little...creation. Thats it.....But he did his best not to show hoe he truly felt. The Mad One spun around and one hand was placed upon Blackwoods head, “I also created a flower~”

Blackwood smiled politely, “oh...really? Well what a coincidence!” The Mad Ones grin only grew upon his reply which made him slightly nervous but hes more irked than anything else. The look on the Mad Ones face said he wanted to show it off just like Blackwood wanted to show off his. “I will take you to it, just one thing you should know~”

Blackwoods brow rose in question. “Dont get to close to it~”

He was confused, “why..? is it fragile or something.” He internally laughed at the idea of the Mad One creating a fragile flower. Most of what the lunatic made was sturdy, weird, or if it was fragile it had something up with it.

The Mad One snickered at what Blackwood said, “Follow me...little King~” He turned and started his walk. Blackwood reluctantly followed with a sneer that he believed to be hidden from The Mad One.

It took a bit, as the Mad One was taking him into darker parts of his realm. The trees were black as pitch, the sky was a dark purple, the grass no longer bright and spring green but a deep greenish blue.

Soon enough the Mad One stopped but Blackwood had not noticed and bumped into one of his legs. A long arm outstretched and pointed, “Look there, see the patch of plant life that glows.” Of course it glowed...the Mad One loved things like that. Blackwood looked up, seeing clustered of beautiful little blue flowers, a few among the clusters growing tall on thin but strong stems. Blackwood hated to admit it but they were very nice. “So...why cant I get close to them. Afraid I’ll break them if I step on them.” “oh no little King~ they will simply kill you.” the Mad One chuckled at the look Blackwood gave him. “What...” the look of surprise was not surprising to the Mad One. “These flowers are deadly to deadlights. They affect all of them unless of course someone were to find an antidote but that’ll take too long~ by that time the plant may evolve on its own. Its quite exciting.” Blackwood felt shocked that The Mad One of all people would make something like this...but maybe he shouldn’t have been. The Mad One was unpredictable and did as he pleased. He was also....suffice to say...jealous he didnt come up with it first.  The Mad One walked ahead of him and into the patch.

Okay, now he was just showing off at this point. The Mad One plucked a flower and sniffed it, “They are nice.”

He walked back over, “want to give it a sniff~” he said jokingly but Blackwood internally growled while externally he smiled, “Id be delighted!” Mad Ones eyes lit up with something, and Blackwood wondered if for a second he wanted to hurt him. The Mad One brought the flower closer to him and Blackwood leaned over closer but the Mad One brought it a bit out of reach. “It had a strong scent I suggest you sniff it from further away and ...not directly~” Blackwood huffed and sniffed, the smell of sweet cotton candy drifted over to him. Then his nose itched..and itched and suddenly...he coughed, he bent over and covered his mouth, “What...Whats happening.” “That would be...one of the affects it has~” The Mad One threw the flower off to the side, though he was still bent down to Blackwoods height. “Little King~ Do you remember what I am the elder of~”

Blackwoods coughing fit calmed down but his nose was itching like crazy. “Distortion and reality....of course I remember.”

The Mad One giggled eerily so, “Yes but for some reason you and most of the other Elders seem to not realize what that means. Why do you think the flower does not affect me?”

“Because you made it so you probably made it so only your immune to it.” replied Blackwood as a matter of factly. The Mad One busted out laughing and wiped away a tear. “I am not you little King~” he said almost teasingly, “I am immune because I have made it so. Most of you elders forget I am the master of reality. The abilities of you other elders do not affect me because....I have made it so. Not even Death can touch me.” Blackwood took a moment and realized what the Mad One said, and felt ridiculous for not taking that into consideration. The Mad One stood up at full height, somehow even taller than before. The Elder was growing before Blackwoods eyes and he never noticed.

“I also imagine you wonder why I made these flowers.~ well I made them for those like you. People who think they know whats right all the time, everytime. People who deem themselves better than others. People who are false~”

Blackwood let out a breath and looked up at the Mad One, “Whatever do you mean Mad One, I am not someone who is...as you say false. I am nothing if not genuine.” The Mad One rose a brow his grin ever present appeared almost sarcastic and annoyed. Dont know how he achieved that.

“Well I dont like people who are that way. When they cause trouble~” His grin grew wider than normal, reaching past his ears, “I get.....mad~” He giggled as his head tilted at an inhuman angle.

Blackwood nodded, “Of course” Blackwood knew this was a warning. A warning that was well received.

[sunnytumbies]

just follow my yellow light (and ignore all those big warning signs)

Warning! This fic includes mentions of depression, anxiety, needles (in a medical setting), and dealing with grief/trauma. Please stay safe should you choose to read! 

A/N: This is also a more plot-heavy fic, with most of the fiendery occurring in the very last sections, so please be aware of that!  Word count: 8499 Title: “Yellow Light” by Of Monsters and Men

The thing about hospitals is that they’re all the same.  

Cal understands why people hate them—really, he does—but sitting here on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him, a blood pressure cuff tightening around his bicep, he can’t help but feel...safe. Understood.  

He’s biased, he guesses. He grew up in one, doodling on prescription pads with crayons, running his favorite toy car along the floor (weaving around the nurse’s practical clogs on his hands and knees, look, Mom, look at how fast I am!), his mother Marianne bouncing him on her lap as she updated charts on her computer even though he was far too old for that, stray blonde hair that escaped from her tight bun tickling his cheek. Every once in a while, she’d turn to him with a wide, warm smile.  

The whirring of blood pressure machines were his lullaby. The smell of antiseptic was the closest he got to the smell of home, and was in fact the very smell that followed him home from work with Marianne, permeated the whole house along with her tired sighs and her whispered arguments with his father Henry when she thought Cal was sleeping.  

So, yeah. Cal likes hospitals. Don’t overanalyze it.  

The nurse—Alicia, today—gives him a small, tired smile, the expression of someone who genuinely cares but is too busy to do much about it. “Dr. Moore says everything looks good, Cal. Just make sure to keep an eye on your lungs. Don’t bind for too long and keep doing your injections around the same time each week, okay? You know where to find us if you need something.”  

“Thanks, Alicia,” Cal says, but she’s already whisking out the door. Cal wonders how many patients she has. Alicia oversees the hospital volunteer program, and even though Cal's known her for years, he swears her face is as young and beautiful as it was when he was a child. She’s funny and whip-smart and strong and she likes Cal best, he thinks, but lately she’s looked so tired. 

He wonders if she’s one of the nurses who really cares about all of her patients. He wonders if that kind of thing is sustainable.   

Alicia cares, he thinks.   

He’s walking down the corridor, idly rubbing at the bandage across his forearm—and yeah, okay, if he has to name one part of the hospital experience that he could do without, it’s the blood draws—and he’s so fixated on reaching under the bandage to rub at the stinging skin there that he almost runs directly into Sweater Guy, who reaches out preemptively to steady Cal by the shoulders. 

“Shit, sorry,” Cal mutters reflexively, then looks up to see that it’s him and, well, fuck.  

Cal’s been volunteering at the hospital for six months or so, now, answering call buttons for the nurses and giving directions to confused family members and just grunt work, really, something—nay, anything—for him to put on his resume, and at every single shift he’s volunteered for, he’s seen Sweater Guy.  

He’s Cal’s height but twice as skinny, collarbones jutting out underneath his sweaters (his endless sweaters, usually layered over collared shirts and rolled up to the elbows, no matter how swelteringly hot it gets outside). The sweaters bother Cal more than they should, because they all look expensive, and yeah, sue him, he’s a little bitter, because he buys one new pair of shoes a year and calls it splurging. He’s a candy striper, Cal thinks. He wears a pair of yellow-tinted glasses that Cal cannot for the life of him make sense of, constantly slipping down his nose (and yes the yellow compliments the rich brown of Sweater Guy’s skin beautifully, not that Cal has noticed, thanks). He has what Zara always insisted is sex hair, expression perpetually annoyed, like he always has something better to doing.  

And he avoids the fuck out of Cal.  

“It’s not on purpose,” Zara said one day a few months ago, leaning conspiratorially  over their little table in the hospital cafeteria, mouth full of mediocre tuna fish sandwich, because Zara is a godless heathen who enjoys tuna fish sandwiches. “He’s just...busy, you know? He doesn’t avoid you more than he avoids anyone else.” 

“Except he does,” Cal muttered, toying with the bottle cap from his soda. More than once he’d made eye contact with him in the hall, and then watched him completely switch directions, head ducked down low over his shoulders.  

Not long after that, Zara--who had, until then, occupied the third room in he and Amy’s apartment--left school to attend a community college program for mortuary science, because Zara is, in addition to being a godless heathen, a chiefly ridiculous person, and now Cal doesn’t have anyone to complain to about this.  

It shouldn’t bother him, except...Cal is likeable. He is. He charms nurses as though that’s what he’s getting volunteer credit for. Babies smile at him on the street. He’s likeable.  

So what the fuck, you know?  

“I apologize,” Sweater Guy says now, and Cal is hyper-aware of the guy’s chapped lips, of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously in his throat. He makes himself look away.  

“You apologize? I’m the one who didn’t see you, dude,” Cal says, and God damn does that yellow sweater he’s wearing look nice on him. It shouldn’t. Yellow is categorically the worst color. Cal’s pissed.  

Sweater Guy actually cracks a smile. “Yes, well. I’m glad we avoided a collision.”  

And just like that, he’s walking off, and Cal doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of it, if it means anything at all, but surely first contact after six months of silence means something.  

“Hey,” he calls out before he can think better of it. “What’s your name?”  

Sweater Guy stops and blinks, surprised, then pauses for a minute like he has to think about it. “Oh. My name is Quincy Washington.” He swallows. “What’s yours?”  

“Cal.”  

“It’s nice to meet you, Cal,” Quincy says softly, and Cal watches him walk away until he disappears around the corner.  

* 

Cal has a routine. He’s never been particularly organized, never been the type of person with color-coded planners or who lays out his outfits the night before, but he has a routine for check-up days: after picking up his inhaler refills and testosterone from the hospital pharmacy, he’ll treat himself to an iced chai tea latte with almond milk, hot if it’s cold outside or he’s feeling adventurous. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits in line to place his order, his lips flicking up into a small little smile as he pulls out his phone, realizing he finally has an update, deciding to send it to the group chat he still has with Amy and Zara: 

I figured out his name!!  

Amy texts back immediately, and Cal’s little smile splits into a full-blown grin. ???????????

Sweater Guy, Cal types, shifting forward as the line moves. It’s Quincy Washington, apparently. 

Cal grins when he sees a message from Zara appear: r u sure he gave u his real name? that sounds pretty made up ngl :* but hey u finally talked to him!!!! told u it wouldn’t be hard!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 

Cal rolls his eyes a little, but good-naturedly. Zara was always convinced that Cal has a crush he’s not addressing, a conspiracy theory that has infected Amy as well, because no one fixates that hard if they DON’T have a crush, Cal, come on. Cal maintains that while he isn’t blind, there are about a million things more interesting about Sweater G--Quincy than how attractive he admittedly is. 

Cal: In my defense, he talked to me first, and it’s only because I ran into him. 

Zara: charming! did u gaze longingly into his eyes? did he gaze longingly into urs?

Cal rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Well it wasn’t his EYES I was looking at. ;) (I  was looking at his stupid yellow sunglasses.) 

Zara: silly! u should’ve asked him if he needs roomies. it would be an honor if my old room went to The Cause :)))

Cal’s lips droop, the smile sliding off his face as he pockets his phone. He knows Zara meant nothing by it, but he’s been compartmentalizing the roommate situation until now, and it’s not something he can particularly deal with at this moment. He doesn’t have to, as it happens--at that moment, an impatient “--sir? Sir, may I please take your order?” breaks through his mental abstraction, clearly not for the first time, and he shakes his head to clear it, cheeks flushing as he approaches the counter, mumbling apologies. He orders his drink, iced chai tea latte, please,  making sure to leave a hefty tip in the jar. 

Eager to spare himself further social anxiety, Cal grabs his drink as soon as it’s placed on the counter, mumbling another apology as he grabs a straw and walks briskly out of the exit closest to the parking lot, sipping eagerly at the drink (he swears it’s even better than usual) and what do you fucking know. 

“Quincy,” Cal says when he reaches his car, clamping down on the little thrill he gets from knowing the name. He swirls the drink a little like some kind of movie character with a glass of wine. He’s chill. He’s cool. 

“Oh. Hello, Cal,” Quincy says sheepishly. He’s standing at the front of a car—not just a car, the car—its hood propped open in a universal sign of defeat. “I seem to...be having some car trouble.”  

“No fucking way,” Cal breathes out, because some things are too strange to be coincidences.  

“I’m...I’m sorry?”  

Cal shakes himself. “No, you’re good, sorry. It’s just that, uh. This is your car?”  

It’s a Mercedes AMG, and it’s been parked next to Cal’s car every day for a couple months now. Cal’s awe hasn’t dulled with time. He figured it belonged to some paranoid doctor, rich and extravagant and scared enough of car crashes to buy a luxury armored SUV. The fact that it belongs to Quincy isn’t strange all on its own—because sure, whatever, Quincy is well-off, that’s a thing that happens to people—but the odds of the day he realizes it belongs to Quincy being the same day he learns Quincy’s name after months of wondering and silence?  

Well.  

“Yes. It’s practically new,” Quincy says sadly, “but I’m hopeless with cars. It’s probably something rather foolish.”  

And then, because Cal is a masochist, he finds himself saying “Well, I know a thing or two about cars,” and yeah, okay, this is happening, apparently.  

“You do?” Quincy’s expression is nothing short of hopeful. “Cal, I would be incredibly grateful.”  

“Of course,” Cal says, already moving toward the car, because who is he to say no to a beautiful boy in a yellow sweater, to a beautiful car with its hood propped open? “It’s no trouble. Keys?”  

“In the ignition.”  

Cal forces himself to focus on the task at hand, even though sitting in the driver’s seat makes him feel downright giddy. He tells himself it’s the car’s immaculate leather interiors, the sheer novelty of sitting in a ridiculous, extravagant vehicle, and not the boy standing in front of the hood with his arms folded across his chest in defeat. He takes a breath.  

Although, he thinks as he twists the key in the ignition, surely this is an acceptable thing to be intrigued by. Why is unassuming Quincy, who looks no older than Cal, driving an armored SUV—and not just any armored SUV, but one that can sustain machine guns and hand grenades?  

He guesses people could say the same about him and his car, because the upkeep of classic cars is a bit of a bitch, but Cal’s beat-up inherited ‘59 Chevy Apache isn't machine gun proof, and it certainly isn't new. She's valuable, of course, but she was passed down to him, not bought fresh off the lot, and that value is probably tempered by years of dings and scratches. She's not a symptom of extravagance the way this absolute mammoth must be. So. Not the same, actually.  

When he tries to crank up the car, it makes a horrible grinding sound that he knows well, the needles on dashboard instruments shuddering. Cal takes great pains to compose his amused grin into something more sympathetic.  

“Good news and bad news,” he says, slamming the car door behind him reflexively before cringing. This isn’t the Apache, with its squeaky doors and stubborn latches, and that door alone probably cost more than Cal’s college tuition. “The good news is it’s nothing serious. You’ve just got a dead battery.”  

Quincy slumps a little with what Cal assumes is relief. “That seems manageable.”  

“The bad news, though,” Cal says. “Do you have jumper cables?”  

“No,” Quincy replies, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed.  

“See, that’s what I was worried about.” Cal gestures to his own car. He sips at his latte, and is genuinely alarmed to realize it’s almost empty. It’s delicious, but still, he’s only had the drink for twenty minutes at the most. “I don’t have mine either. I--” Cal considers the location of his jumper cables, in a heap in the living room of the apartment, leftover from a Skype debate with Zara centered on a story her classmate insisted was true concerning jumper cables and nipples. Cal doesn’t regret the use of a visual aid--he won the debate, after all, because seriously, have you seen jumper cable clamps, there is no way--but he decides this is not something he needs to share with Sweater Guy. “They’re at home. I can go grab them and come back to give you a jump, though? Our place is literally right around the corner.”  

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Quincy hedges, a little desperately. Cal sees him battling internally between the need to be polite and the need to get his car running again.  

“You’re not imposing,” Cal says, “because I offered. Seriously. Apologizing to me when I ran into you! Thinking you’re an imposition after I offered you something! You’re too nice for your own good, Quince.” The nickname slips out without Cal’s consent, and he feels the tips of his ears warm.  

Quincy looks at him, tilting his head curiously. “I have an anxiety disorder,” he says after a moment, very plainly, and Cal feels like the biggest asshole in the world. He feels like an even bigger asshole because his knee-jerk reaction is to laugh, because what a mood, really.  

To his abject horror, the laughter actually bubbles out, warm and genuine and fuck, he needed it, but he can also feel himself blushing crimson, because Jesus Christ, Cal, this is not the kind of reaction you should be having to this information. “I’m sorry,” he manages after a too-long moment. “I’m so sorry, oh my God, I promise I’m not laughing at you. It’s just...fuck, we’re not allowed to be that blunt, you know?”  

Quincy inclines his head again, an unspoken question, and yeah, okay, you made this bed, Cal, now lie in it.  

“I just mean, like...okay. Example. I’m chronically ill, right? I have asthma, thanks for that, genetics, but anyway the point is that I tell people I’m sick and they’re like, get well soon! They don’t understand that I don’t...want that. They don’t get that I’m sick, and that it’s okay! That’s fine! If you’re sick, you either have to be dying, or you have to be overcoming it or some shit. I just…I wish I could introduce myself like hi, I’m Cal, I have depression and my lungs don’t work very well. But I can’t, because that’s weird, that makes healthy people feel awkward, and our whole lives are about making healthy people feel better about our fucking lives.” He takes a breath, a little more painfully than he would prefer because it's goddamn cold out. “I just mean...I don’t know. It’s refreshing.”  

Well, okay. Emotional intensity with Sweater Guy is not what Cal banked on happening today, but Sweater Guy is Quincy Washington, and now that he’s looking at him up close, he kind of feels like he’s demystifying him or...or something. The expensive sweater, he sees, is fraying at the sleeve from being picked at nervously. That annoyed expression, the one Cal always interpreted as aloof, is the face Quincy makes when his glasses start slipping down his nose. His sex hair is just...really good hair, perhaps a little mussed at the roots from a tendency to run his hands through it with the air of an exasperated father in a movie, and what’s wrong with that, really? 

Sweater Guy, as it happens, is just a guy.  

Anyway, Cal’s shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, feeling the full force of the straight-up monologue he’s just delivered, but then Quincy is saying “That’s exactly it” in this relieved goddamn voice, so maybe things are okay after all.  “What is that? Why do they make it so weird? It’s not as though it’s contagious.”  

“Right? I don’t know. I’m just kind of exhausted of healthy people.” He inclines his head, toward his car, moving to the driver’s side because, again, it’s cold as shit and his lungs ache and he really should get Quincy that jump. “I’ll go grab those cables.”  Something in the pit of his stomach grumbles at the movement, and he frowns, a reflexive hand coming up to rest on his belly. Weird. 

“Oh, yeah,” Quincy says, like he’s forgotten what the whole point of this was (and doesn’t that just make something warm pool in Cal’s chest, God, he’s so screwed), and casts a withering glance toward the hospital doors. Cal looks at him for a second, shivering underneath his layers in front of his out-of-commission car, and before he can think about it any further than that he’s saying “You can ride with me there and back, if you want? It’s awfully cold out.”  

Quincy positively beams. “I would like that very much, Cal.”  

Okay then.  

* 

Amy is doing an honest-to-God tarot reading in the middle of the living room when Cal gets home, complete with candles and a red cloth draped over their coffee table, and isn’t that just their whole relationship summarized. He throws Quincy a put-upon glance over his shoulder, and Quincy bites his lip to keep from laughing. Has Cal mentioned that Quincy is attractive? God fucking damn it.  

“Permission to enter the divination room?” he says in lieu of a hello, and Amy startles, nearly knocking over one of the candles. 

“Cal!” Amy says, scandalized, staggering to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming! I would’ve gotten rid of these!” 

Cal can’t help but chuckle. “I’m not going to have an asthma attack from candles, Ames.” 

“You could! Go--go stand in the kitchen or something! Make your friend help me!” 

Cal gives Quincy a look, a sort of see what I have to deal with? shrug, and Quincy responds with an amused smirk. “I’d be happy to help,” he says in a tone that sounds like he’s honest-to-God fucking with Cal. “What tarot deck is that?” 

The kitchen is essentially attached to the living room, the two only separated by a narrow doorway, but Cal shrugs and takes this opportunity to wriggle out of his jacket and grab a soda from the fridge. He has a feeling he’s gonna be here for a while. As he reaches into the fridge, however, that strange little twinge deep in his belly makes itself known again, and he grimaces as a cramp seizes his insides. He closes the refrigerator empty-handed, leaning a suddenly-clammy forehead against the cool stainless steel. This does not bode well. 

“So how do you know Cal, again?” Amy is saying just as he’s composed himself enough to re-enter the living room. Quincy has migrated to the couch, at least, albeit with his back ramrod straight, Amy apparently having been satisfied that Cal is not in any immediate mortal peril. 

“He volunteers at the hospital with me,” Cal says before Quincy can say anything, and when Amy glances over at him, Amy mouths Sweater Guy over Quincy’s head. Amy’s eyes bulge, so Cal forges ahead before she can say something to embarrass him. “His battery died, so I came here for the jumper cables.”  

“Riiight, the hospital,” Amy says, a barely restrained grin in her voice, and God, when Amy tells Zara that Cal brought Sweater Guy home he is never going to hear the end of it.  “Did you put up the fliers, by the way? We’re really gonna struggle this month if we don’t get it figured out soon,” and Cal looks up sharply, idly placing a hand on his stomach when it protests at the movement. Why is Amy bringing up the roommate fliers now?  

“I know,” Cal says slowly, trying to communicate please don’t do this now with just a glance.. He sits on the couch next to Quincy, careful to leave a socially acceptable distance between them. “I know, Amy. But...no, I didn’t.” He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, his stomach starting to churn in earnest. 

“Cal,” Amy chastises, and Cal thinks he would prefer anger to disappointment. “Did you talk to anyone, at least? It’ll be easier if it’s someone we know for, like, negotiating rent and stuff.”  

“Um,” Cal says eloquently, but then Quincy is saying, “Actually, he talked to me,” and alright then, that took a turn.  

“Oh,” Amy says, skeptical, but her face has brightened nonetheless. “Really?”  

“That’s part of why I brought him with me to grab the cables,” Cal says, because he’s rolling with this, apparently. He really is never going to live this down. “To show him the room.”  

“I wanted to see it for myself,” Quincy says sagely.  

“Uh, yeah,” Cal adds lamely.  

Amy is giving him this proud goddamn grin, and Cal is having trouble looking at it, because seriously, it shouldn't be like this. Amy has left this whole roommate search up to him, which is a nice gesture—Amy could live with anyone, with her natural inclination toward small talk and her compulsive baking which is the least unwelcome coping mechanism and her goddamn optimism, but Cal, with his bound chest and testosterone injections, has a lot more to lose here. The thing is, Cal, for all his charm and his mock-flirting and his wolfish grins, has a hard time with people, so him bringing home a coworker (or whatever he's supposed to call Quincy—coworker doesn't feel right, and Cal's trying really hard not to overanalyze that) isn't exactly a common occurrence. Amy is a proud parent smiling at her kid for making friends on the first day of kindergarten, and Cal loves her for it, he does, but it also chafes against him like his chest binder on a hot day.  

"Well, go ahead," Amy finally says, breaking what could have turned into an awkward silence. "Don't let me stop you! I'm Amy, by the way. What's your name? I’m not sure I caught it." She glances at Cal as she says with a terribly unsubtle wink.  

"Quincy Washington," Quincy says in that same quiet way he told Cal. "It's wonderful to meet you, Amy. I’m a fan of tarot myself and you have an excellent eye for ambiance."  

"Thanks!" Amy beams, and Cal wrenches himself off the couch and ushers Quincy down the hallway before Amy loops him into a conversation about the history of tarot or some shit. Cal loves her to death, but knows she’s practically chomping at the bit. He won’t be surprised if she’s  texting Zara as he speaks. 

"You did me a solid, there, Quincy," Cal says quietly when they're far enough down the hall to be out of Amy’s earshot, hyper-aware of how sluggish he is. "We can just waste a little time and then I'll get you that jump."  

"May I see the room?" Quincy asks, and Cal's heart just about stops entirely. "I'm glad to have done you...a solid, but I do happen to be looking for a room to let." His voice catches strangely and unfamiliarly around the slang.  

Cal stares at him for a second. "Seriously?"  

"I am very serious. If you'll have me, of course," Quincy says then, rushing through the second sentence and looking self-conscious about it.  

"No, I just..." Cal says in something like disbelief, then shakes himself off. "Anyway. I guess I'll show you the room, then?"  

"Please," Quincy says, so Cal leads the way.  

"It's kind of small," he says apologetically, pushing open the door and flicking on the lights. They're Edison bulbs, and they cast the room in buttery yellow. "And obviously we'd move this stuff out of here if you moved in."  

Quincy doesn’t say anything, and Cal turns to see that his face is frozen in genuine, slack-jawed awe. It's more than a little endearing, and Cal tucks his fond little grin away before he speaks. "You're a book guy, huh?" 

"You could say that," Quincy breathes, and moves forward a little. "May I—?"  

"Go for it," Cal says, and Quincy reaches out to touch one of the bookcases.  

The room belonged to Zara until she moved out, the smallest room by far but also the one with the most windows, all against the far wall looking out toward the main road. Pushed against the opposite wall are three wood-paneled curio cabinets that Henry once used as bookshelves, packed tight with the books he cared about most in this world. Many of them are leather-bound and there is more than one special edition, all of them older than Cal's grandparents.  

"They're beautiful," Quincy finally says after a moment, "but why do you have rare books in your apartment?"  

Cal snorts, because it is so contrary to what he was expecting, but also because this is a valid question. "Honestly," he says, "I just couldn't bear to part with them. They were my dad's." The words are out before he realizes he's just dropped the dead dad bomb, so he forges ahead. "Uh, like I said, we'd get them out of here before you moved in."  

"Or you could leave them," Quincy murmurs, eyes darting back and forth as he scans the titles. "God, is that a livre d'artist?" 

On some level, Cal registers that this a very pretentious question, and also that there is just something strange about the way Quincy speaks, like everything he says has been polished beforehand. On another, baser level, he finds it frustratingly hot. "Uh, that sounds like a question I should maybe know the answer to, but honestly, these were my dad's thing. I haven't opened up any of the books since he died. I keep the shelves dusted, but I'm not much of a literature person."   

"Are you a book person?" Quincy asks.   

"Come on, you can be one or the other. People can like books without liking capital L literature," he says, turning to look at Cal with this ridiculously excited expression. It's kind of heartwarming. "You know, people who hate Hemingway but loved Twilight."   

Cal may or may not have the entire saga on the much smaller, far less decorative bookshelf beside his bed, but Quincy doesn't need to know that. "Interesting distinction. Yeah, I guess I am."   

"I knew it. Team Edward or Team Jacob?"   

"Wow I hate this conversation."   

Quincy smirks and turns back to the shelves with a quiet sort of reverence that makes Cal smile. It also makes his heart ache a little because it reminds him so much of his dad, but it's an ache that has dulled with the passage of time.    

"So," Cal says, trying to sound casual, "Are you a student?"  

"Yes," Quincy replies, still scanning book titles with a feverish intensity that skirts perilously close to lunacy. "I'm a senior. Are you?"  

"Yeah," Cal says thinly. There's still a chance, he tells himself, and has to catch his breath as his stomach cramps again. A low rumble has begun deep in his gut, like someone set it to simmer, his stomach doing lazy barrel rolls that make him swallow hard.  "Senior, too. Pre-med."  

"I'm a double major. Classics and Theology. Not the most practical, I know," Quincy says, sheepishly, like he's used to people reacting poorly to it.  

Fuck. God fucking damn it.  

"Oh!" Cal says, forcibly infusing his voice with something akin to enthusiasm. "That's really cool. Um. Side note, just by the way..."  

Quincy looks at him inquiringly. Fuck.  All at once, his stomach cramps harshly enough to have him seeing stars, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead again, and he can’t quite stifle a pained moan, clutching at his roiling insides, leaning against the doorframe for support. 

“Are you okay, Cal?” Quincy takes a step toward him, evidently not too worried about whatever Cal was going to say, looking more concerned than Cal would expect from someone who avoided the fuck out of him prior to today, and he gives a pained nod, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Something bubbles in his lower belly painfully, and it hits him all at once. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, noticing all at once how his stomach is puffy, poking out under his shirt and over the waistband of his jeans, how the cramps are accompanied by a near-constant rumble and oppressive waves of nausea. “Sorry, I’m--I  just forgot to ask for—” He swallows again, hardly able to think about the damned chai tea latte, presumably made with full fat milk, churning around inside him. “I’m...lactose intolerant,” he manages, painfully aware that this is happening in front of Sweater Guy of all people. “I forgot to ask for almond milk instead of regular.” 

“Are you alright?” Quincy sounds alarmed, eyes darting from Cal to the door and back again. “Should I get Amy? Is it an allergy, or—?” 

“No, no,” Cal manages, laughing lightly. “You sound just like her, though. It’s just—” He grimaces, clutching at a twinge of nausea— “Just a pretty gnarly tummy ache. I’ll be okay.” He allows himself to rest a hand on his belly, straightening up through immense willpower. “Seriously, let’s just...move on, if that’s alright.” 

“Of course,” Quincy murmurs, still looking rather concerned. It’s endearing, Cal thinks, even  through the fog of nausea and the embarrassment tinging his cheeks red. “I believe you were saying something?” 

“Oh,” Cal remembers, and looks at the floor. "My dad's name was Henry Kline?"  

Quincy freezes. To his credit, he reigns in the incredulous expression relatively quickly.  

"Cal," he says instead, very sincerely, turning to look at him with sad, sad eyes. "Cal, I am so sorry."  

"Don't be," Cal mumbles, looking down, rubbing at the back of his neck. His stomach lets out a loud, angry rumble, and he flushes an even deeper shade of crimson. "I just, uh, wanted you to know from me. 'Cause if you live here, you gotta understand that people are gonna talk. They always do, about us. 'Specially when they hear our last name."  

"Cal Kline," Quincy realizes all at once, and then, with that painful sincerity again, "I wouldn't listen."  

Cal smiles despite himself. "Thanks, Quincy."  

Quincy clears his throat, straightening up from where he's been crouched to pour over the books. Cal is sort of impressed at the sheer muscle tone it must’ve taken to forget he was doing a deep squat. "Cal, I have something to tell you as well."  

This is it, Cal thinks. He doesn't want the room. Doesn't want to live with the bereaved Klines. It's too much. Just give him the jump and go back to never speaking again. The anxiety stirs up his upset stomach, and he clamps down forcibly on a burp that tries to burble up. His stomach lets out a low groan in response to the air being forced back into it.   

"I was studying under Professor Kline," he says instead, and oh, okay. Which is to say, what the fucking shit, how many motherfucking coincidences can there feasibly be in one 12-hour period, but okay, it's better than what Cal was expecting. "I was a teaching assistant, and I was helping him restore his book collection." He glances back to the shelves. "I should have recognized them immediately, but I never saw them on the shelves..."  

Cal's glad Quincy isn't looking at him anymore, because he can't vouch for what his face is doing. The ache Henry left is healing, dulled with the passage of time, but it still hurts if Cal picks at it. Quincy studied with Henry. Quincy knew him in a way Cal never did, never will, his brain screams, and something about that is just, well. His stomach flips, something cramping low and urgent in his belly. 

Quincy is beautiful, and he is wearing a yellow sweater, and he likes Cal's car, and the only reason he cares that Cal's last name is Kline is because he doesn't want to be inconsiderate to Cal.  

So, fuck.  

"Well, now that we've got the awkward parts out of the way," Cal says, and Quincy flashes him a genuine smile that  is positively blinding. He recovers from his seven consecutive heart attacks before continuing, "I can show you the rest of the apartment."  

“Are you sure?” Quincy glances dubiously at Cal, who still has an arm curled around his belly. “You’re awfully pale.”

“That’s, uh—” Cal laughs nervously, feeling sicker and sicker by the moment. “Yeah. Maybe you could just...show yourself around?” At that moment, a low whine fills the apartment, a sure tell that Amy has gotten into the shower, and Cal’s stomach tightens. “Minus the bathroom, I guess. Sorry, our pipes do that when we use the shower. I’m just gonna, uh, have a seat in the living room.” 

Quincy doesn’t question this, and Cal sends up a silent cry of gratitude to whoever may be listening. He settles into his favorite crease on the sofa, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure Quincy is occupied with checking out the patio before pressing both hands to his grumbling stomach, feeling irritable movement beneath his palms. Oh, it hurts, cramps squeezing at his lower belly like a vice, a sticky, hot nausea plaguing his tummy.  He tries in vain to soothe the ache, rubbing his hand across his bloated stomach as gently as possible, but the touch only sends up a dangerous belch that leaves him panting, hanging over the edge of the couch, the taste of chai and stomach acid coating his mouth revoltingly. 

Quincy’s self-guided tour doesn't take long; their three-bedroom student apartment doesn't exactly contain multitudes. Cal has thankfully composed himself before Quincy pokes his head into the living room. “I have seen what I need to see, I believe,” he says with that stiff formality that seems to crop up occasionally. 

"Yeah, that's the place! Nice and straightforward,” Cal says brightly, as convincingly as he can without moving around too much. “Any clutter you see is mine because Amy is an android, probably."  

Quincy smiles, and Cal's cardiac health continues to worsen, God those fucking smiles. "Can you prove it?"  

"Irrefutably. Evidence: runs for fun. Consumes spinach, also for fun. Wakes up and goes to bed at the same time every day. Possibly irons her clothes, but I'm still not sure on that one."   

"She sounds...pretty human. Perhaps you're the android."  

"No, I just have depression," Cal says before he can stop himself.  

Quincy throws his head back and laughs, and it makes Cal feel so fucking warm. Has he mentioned recently that he is completely screwed in a way that has nothing to do with his cramping stomach? 

"God, Amy hates when I joke about it. It'll be nice to have someone who understands around here when you move in."  

Quincy straightens up. "When I move in?"   

"What can I say. You sold me. If you want to live here, I want you to live here." He smiles, small.   

It was kind of a done deal when you said you worked with Henry Kline, Cal doesn't say. The way you talk to me like I'm a normal person and the fact that you're fucking gorgeous are just bonuses. 

"There is one more thing," he says, steeling himself. Much of his life is spent steeling himself. He pauses, waiting for Quincy to make a joke, to grin another heart-stopping grin, but he just looks at Cal curiously. "I'm trans. I wasn't born a male but I am and always have been a boy. I bind my chest and live as a male and use he/him pronouns. If you don't understand it, that's okay, but I will demand a certain level of respect in my own home, and it'd be preferable if that respect was voluntary." The speech is well-oiled from use, but Cal's voice still shakes.   

"Is that all?" Quincy says, and Cal feels his entire body slump in relief, straightening back up a little when his stomach protests. "I mean, of course, Cal. I'm not ignorant."   

"Oh, yeah, right. Thank you, gentle cis man. I worship at the holy altar of your allyship." He says it like a joke, but it takes effort to get out, because despite everything, it's taken him years to give this speech to a receptive audience and not feel like he's been granted a favor.   

It's taken him years to say I'm here and not have it come out as I'm sorry.   

When he told Zara, it was this whole thing, Zara reaching across the table to clasp one of Cal's hands in both of hers, you know I'm here for you, right? Cal's Facebook messages are full of Zara sending him every post she sees with the word trans in it, and like yeah, Zara, you're very sweet and supportive, but sometimes Cal just wants to be Cal, you know?   

It's just that Cal's known Quincy for all of a few hours and he already feels so goddamn understood.  

"I'm happy to pay whatever Zara’s share was," Quincy says, "And if you would be willing to leave Professor Kline's books, I would be honored."  

"Consider it done," Cal says, smiling a little. He’s almost able to forget about the slow, sinister ache in his stomach. Almost. "Though get ready for Amy to talk about it all the time. She’s really not on board with them being here."  

"I mean...religion isn't my cup of tea either, believe it or not, but I saw an original King James Bible. That alone has to be worth at least twenty grand. Literature person or not, that's...a really valuable thing to be keeping in your rented apartment."   

Cal's eyes flit to the tiled floor, and he can feel Quincy's gaze on him, and he knows he's biting his lip, something he does often enough that one side of it is slightly larger than the other.   

"Oh...Cal, I apologize. I didn't mean to intrude." It's that stiff formality from their almost-collision at the hospital again, and when Cal glances up, Quincy is backing away from him, hands folded behind his back. "I'm sure they're insured, or...even if they're not...I just mean, it's your business, of course. I apologize."   

"No, it's fine." Cal clears his throat nervously. "You're right. Zara and Amy just kind of went a little crazy helping me get rid of his stuff when he died, and they wanted to donate them to the university. I probably should have let them, but..." He shrugs, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, presses his lips together around another burp that he forces down, wincing at the added pressure. "It's not like these are even all the books he had. There are probably hundreds in the storage unit. But I'm ridiculous, and they were just his thing, and for some reason the thought of them just sitting in a dusty room with boxes of his old clothes and the lawnmower and literal cobwebs just didn't sit right, so."   

"So you brought them here." Quincy looks at him like he understands, and isn't just that the worst fucking thing? "I get it."   

"I kind of do want to donate them, as it turns out," and wow, okay, Cal didn't realize that until he says it out loud. "I'm just a little worried because I haven't exactly been...maintaining them, or whatever. I wouldn't even know where to start. If I'm going to let the university open up the Henry Kline Memorial Library or whatever the fuck, I don’t want to give them dusty books with cracked spines, you know? He would've hated that."   

Quincy clears his throat, licks his lips a little, and wow, okay, Cal's feeling things again. "I don't know if this is something you'd even be comfortable with, but...I could continue the work I was doing with Professor Kline. We were in the middle of restoring his collection, and I learned his technique well. I still have access to the labs. I could take it one book at a time. With your approval, of course."  

Cal blinks. "Um...yeah. Yeah, okay. That's super cool of you, thank you."  

"Are you kidding?" Quincy blurts, and then scratches the back of his neck a little like he's embarrassed. "I mean, it's just that you're doing me a favor. Henry Kline's book collection...I'll admit that I've missed them."  

Cal can't help the little smile that tugs his lips up, and seriously, he has to get these feelings under control, God, the guy hasn't even moved in yet.   

Before he can say anything, Quincy's face softens into that aching sympathy again. "And Cal...I miss him, as well. He was a good man."  

Cal kind of wants to cry, so suddenly and desperately that it takes his breath away for a second. His stomach churns audibly, and Quincy looks at him in alarm. 

"Quincy," he says when he gets his voice back, "How soon can you move in?"  

Quincy beams. "How soon will you have me?"  

* 

When Amy gets out of the shower, Cal is sprawled across the couch, openly groaning, clutching his stomach with both hands.  

"What happened to Quin--Cal?” Amy blurts out as she enters the living room, rushing over to the couch when she takes in Cal’s sickly pallor. 

“Finally drove him back and jumped his car," Cal groans, still marveling that he was able to hold it together long enough. He may or may not have had to pull over on the way back, heaving up a trickle of stomach acid and chai tea latte onto the side of the road, at least as much due to anxiety as it was to lactose intolerance, but Amy doesn’t need to know that. "Says he'll take the room…" 

“Okay, that’s great, we’ll unpack that later,” Amy says, sitting gently at Cal’s feet, “But what’s going on with this?” She doesn’t wait for permission, laying a soft hand on Cal’s bloated belly, kneading gently at a cramp, ushering up a soft burp. Amy is sort of a miracle worker.

"’S gonna pay Zara’s share,” Cal murmurs, leaning into Amy’s touch, grimacing as the pressure ushers up a burp that brings up a wave of stomach acid. He swallows hard.  

"Again, that’s great, but,” Amy says, rubbing his belly in wide arcs, maintaining a steady pressure that does wonders for the cramps. “What the hell?” 

“I got anxious getting my latte,” he mumbles, letting his eyes slide shut. Amy’s ministrations are easing the worst of the nausea, and he is so, so thankful for her. “Forgot to ask for almond milk.” 

“Cal,” Amy says, all faint disapproval and warm concern. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“You were showering,” he whines, then whimpers a little at a particularly strong cramp, and Amy moves closer, applying a bit more pressure as she kneads at the cramp, massaging her other hand gently over the burbly places in his lower belly. “I made him show himself around. He didn’t even mind.” 

“Sounds like a dreamboat,” Amy says, her voice light and teasing. 

Cal doesn't know what to say to that that won't be self-incriminating, so he just says, "He really likes yellow."    

"I noticed that,” Amy agrees. "When does he move in?"  

Cal keeps his eyes shut, studiously avoiding eye contact. "Tomorrow."  

"Oh, wow, so soon! I can't wait to get to know him." Amy’s tone is completely genuine, probably working out what she can bake that properly conveys a message of thanks for living with us! She applies a bit of firm pressure unexpectedly to the bloat beneath Cal’s ribs, and he groans, feeling a flutter in his stomach as it tries and fails to expel a rush of trapped air. “Oof--please don’t do that again,” he manages, clutching at his chest. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” Amy says, sounding genuinely sad, and Cal slowly opens his eyes. “Just seems like you’ve got quite a lot of air stuck in there. Would you like some tea? Not chai, I guess...” 

Cal groans, shoving a couch pillow over his face. “I know. I’m an idiot. Oh, my tummy—” 

“Let me make you that tea,” Amy says lightly, giving his tummy a little pat before wrenching herself off the couch, and Cal loves the fuck out of her, has he mentioned? 

"I think you'll like him," Cal calls as Amy moves into the kitchen, deciding to take this opportunity to drop the bomb, adding more quietly, "Oh, and, small world, he worked with my dad."   

The rustling in the kitchen pauses, then starts again almost as suddenly as it stopped. "Does he...?"  

"Yeah, I told him. Didn't seem to bother him. He really likes the books."   

"The books," Amy murmurs, and oh God, not this again, but Amy is already following up with "Have you thought any more about what you're going to do with them?"   

Cal takes a deep breath and feels it stutter a little in his chest, reminding him he's been binding for a bit too long. "Yeah, actually. They were working on restoring the books when Dad died. He said he'd help me get them back into shape and I think I'll donate them to the university."   

"Oh," Amy says, pleasantly, and Cal reminds himself that Amy is good, that Amy is only doing what she thinks is best, what Zara told her would be best, that most rational people would question the wisdom of having cases of books worth thousands of dollars in an apartment not known for its impenetrable security measures. "That's really cool. He sounds like a really neat guy, Cal."  

Cal thinks of yellow-tinted glasses, of that scar on his face and the way he looked at Cal like he understands him. "Yeah," he says softly. "He really is."   

“Ginger or mint?” Amy calls, and Cal is thankful for the change of subject. 

“Ginger, please,” he calls back, carefully cupping his stomach with his palm, and takes a very deep breath. 

 *

A long while later, Amy has fallen asleep on his shoulder, a hand still splayed across his slightly-less-bloated belly, old episodes of The Twilight Zone streaming at a low volume on the TV. Cal can’t be bothered to move, too comfortable, too deep in thought, the churning of his belly finally soothed by Amy’s ministrations and a few shamefaced trips to the bathroom. 

Cal thinks about his dad every day, and that is no euphemism. He sometimes drifts past the extra room (Quincy's room, he thinks, something blooming in his chest in a way he doesn’t want to deal with right now) and sees his books, or catches sight of the scar on his knee he got the first and last time he and his dad went fishing when they were supposed to be studying for Cal's math test the next day, when a stray hook went straight through and he needed stitches, remembers the ice cream after, I'm not going to say don't tell your mom, but I'm going to say I won't if you won't, and he smiles, just a little (he didn't tell his mother). Every night he lays in a bed across from a desk that's been flush to the wall underneath the window since the day his dad built it, the one they picked out together at IKEA before Cal moved in, the one that had him muttering profanities for three hours on a blisteringly hot day in August while Zara’s mother, Virginia, poked her head in intermittently, how are those PhDs treating you, Dr. Kline?  Cal thinks about his dad all the time.  

It's just that he can't remember the day he died.   

It's just that he knows that he's the one who found the body, that he's the one who, somehow, called 911, who clung to Amy when the ambulance came, but he knows it the way you know stories about your fourth birthday party or your first day of school—more retelling than memory. Something you know because you're told.   

If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can remember what his uncle was wearing that day, what the perfume of the hospital secretary smelled like, but he can't for the life of him remember his dad's face, what the last thing he said to him was. And when it comes down to it, maybe he doesn’t remember what his uncle was wearing at all, maybe he just remembers him saying at the funeral, he bought me this tie, you know.   

You'd be surprised how many people come to a funeral for a professor, how many handshakes and hugs Cal got just for losing someone. How many looks of pity he got (gets) when they hear his name: Cal Kline, the guy who found his dad dead.   

And he can't even remember it.   

Psychogenic amnesia, Dr. Hodge told him in one of their first sessions, because yeah, when you're trans and you find your dad dead and can't fucking remember it, the one thing you spare no expense on is a really badass therapist. His brain couldn't handle what happened. He repressed it. It was the emotional shock, was the trauma, was the pain, yeah, Cal gets it.   

It's just that the one thing you should be allowed to hold onto are lasts, and Cal can't even remember his. He thinks of his dad and sees fishing, sees the lectures he sometimes sat in on, sees a receding hairline and eyes just like his and of course I still love you, sweetheart, daughter or son, you're family, and it aches.   

He wonders if Quincy's lost someone, if that's why he looked at him like that, eyes soft and understanding but not pitying. I get it, he said, and Cal believes him.   

Cal rolls that around in his head like a marble.  

I get it. I get it. I get it.   

Yellow's an awfully pretty color. 

[jojosthetic-boogaloo]

ur moodboards r so pretty!! i was wondering if i could get one w/ a matchup? i'm a 21 y/o 5'7" bi girl, gemini and an infp. my interests include writing (kinda edgy tbh) poetry n drawing. i'm v into vulture culture, specifically bone collecting and wet specimens. i love animals, esp ferrets (i have 6 lol). i love listening to music, mostly heavy or obscure bands. i'm not v assertive and i'm a big daydreamer. ppl say i have a rather dry/dark sense of humor. thank u and good luck w the new blog!!

Darling, for sure! And thank you so much!! I hate to admit that flattery will in fact get you anywhere ahh dang it ily

For your matchup! This is like, bit obvious ‘kay, but let me make it special aight yuh, cue funky goth music! 

((Also, I went with the assumption that ferret owners walk them?? I hope that’s okay and not too bizarre?? As a dog owner I am sorry if I messed that up hhh)

Translation: “Be my silver lining, help me make things better, darling.”

Leone Abbacchio!

At first glance, Abbacchio just really dug your style. The way you presented yourself was exactly according to his liking, extremely tasteful, he thought to himself. Still, having a platonic crush on your style didn’t move him to come up to speak to you out of the blue, what for anyways? Not like he was about to ruin some quite scrumptious girl’s day with his weird ramblings.

What a surprise though. Next time he spotted you in public it was by chance, and also amusingly entertaining. Were you really walking around with 4 ferrets on a leash? What was better, as he walked closer to you was, did you also carry two more ferrets on your tote-bag? He chuckled as he finally was close enough to you and spoke. “Excuse me miss, I couldn’t help but stare.” He started, earning a raised eyebrow from you, was this dude a creep or something? You tightened the leash quietly towards you, ready to lift your tiny children into the bag and run if needed.

“Oh, yeah?” You replied, on your guard, giving him a full scan with your eyes. Tall, well built, solemn looking, very nice lips and lipstick, nice hair, nice clothing style. Okay, visually, he had a pass, you had yet to see if he was a decent person. “Yeah.” He started, feeling the analytic gaze coming from you in his figure. He came in too strong probably. “I mean, it’s not every day you see a beautiful lady walking around with... six. Six ferrets in the street.” He had paused mid-sentence to count your pets. That, that earned positive points on his favor, he was cute, he got a pass.

“That’d be a beautiful girl for you, I’m not that old, sir.” You retorted, a small smile on your lips for you didn't mean no harm, and he understood that by replying with a smile on his face as well. “Ouch, okay, touché.” You both chuckled, then Leone presented himself, extending a polite hand your way. “I’m Leone, Leone Abbacchio, pleased to meet you miss.” He started, his lips together in a polite, amused smile. You thought it through for a second, realizing just how handsome this man was, timidly raising your hand to shake his. “Y/N’s the name, the pleasure is... mine, Leone.” He found that reaction interesting, contrary to the previous one, regaling you with a tender smile that barely showed you his perfect pearly whites.

“Well, Y/N, would you maybe... like to go for a drink?” He suggested, taking all his chances right there. How long had it been since he last went out with a girl for his own personal interest? He feared he’d forgotten how to act. Then came your answer, that actually put him at ease quite easily. “I’d love to, but I have to leave this babies back home first.” You started, then adjusting your tote-bag and reaching inside the pocket of your pants you took out your phone, unlocking it with practiced easiness. “Mind giving me your number so we can meet up some other time though?” He grinned, nodding and giving you a short “hm” as a response. 

You’d decided to meet up at the local music store, upon his request. Apparently, he wanted to buy a new album from his favorite band for his collection, and you didn’t comply, since you also were happy to check out on some new tunes. 

Watch him pleasantly surprised when he gets there and finds that both; you’re already there, even if he did get there a bit early, and also you were eyeing quite thoroughly the section he most liked to search through. “Hello there Y/N, anything catch your eye?”

As much as you’d liked to blurt out “You.”, you swallowed when you turned around and saw this wonderful eye candy ask about your music preference. 

After walking around the store for a while, casually chatting about the CDs both you and him pointed at or grabbed before placing them back in place you’d learned that you shared music tastes! Would he get any better than this? You thought, and simultaneously, so did he about you.

You decided to go for that drink you promised the previous day, he ordered some tea, and you did much the same. He refrained from drinking beer due to having problems with it in the past, he commented. You felt bad, so that’s why you chose the same thing, a small act of solidarity.

Through the afternoon, you’d been talking about books you’d read, sometimes coinciding on your reads, most the time Abbacchio recommending you books he’d loved, and so on.

It got interesting when you mentioned you also wrote some poetry sometimes. He asked if he could someday see your writings, and as much flustered as you got upon just thinking about it, you decided upon saying “We’ll see.”

When the night came, you’d realized you’d spent too much time in there, now a long 30 minute walk awaited you back home and, quite honestly, you weren’t exactly giddy and excited about it. 

“Don’t worry, bella, I’ll drive you home.” Great! You were rather nervous to get in the car of a man you’d quite prematurely met, but something deep in your gut told yourself to trust in him. And you did well, he opened the passenger seat’s door for you in a most outdated gentlemanly manner and turned around to sit down on the driver’s seat himself, revving up the engine and starting your way back home. You gave him the directions in a quiet tone, the music on the radio calmly playing while he let you guide, eyes focused on the road ahead and the wind gently swaying his hair backwards from his half open window. 

You took some time to quietly observe his features. The moonlight did him justice, he looked handsome during daylight, but this was another thing entirely. You realized you’d gotten a small crush on him at this point, sighing and staring at the road ahead. Not aware he’d noticed your staring and was now biting the inside of his cheek where you couldn’t see his embarrassment.

When you got home, your stomach sunk. You felt just how much you didn’t want him to leave just yet. And so, when you undid your belt and were about to turn for the door after a quiet “thank you”, you decided on turning back once more, only to notice he’d leaned over onto your seat and his face was mere inches away from yours, staring back at you with quiet surprise and wonder.

He swallowed, timidly speaking up after clearing his throat, not moving an inch. “You were about to... forget your bag in the back seat...” He stated, and you did notice your bag was being held in the hand that invaded your seat by its handles.

You slowly leaned in, and it happened, you pressed your lips to his, and he pressed back against you in return, raising his hand to your cheek and letting the bag softly drop into the car’s floor. 

When you broke off the kiss, you bit your lip. You were both adults, there was no harm in asking, right? “Uhm... would you want to... come in?” He chuckled and leaned back into the driver’s seat, moving the gear lever while still looking at you with a smirk on his lips. “Sure bella, let me park first and I’ll be there in a minute.”

So he spent the night with you. Next morning, you woke up with a small paper note next to you in bed, right where he’d laid previously and it read, in utmost fancy calligraphy “Went for breakfast, that was wonderful. - Leone”.

You threw yourself back into the mattress again, giddily waving the paper around as your kicked your legs like a teenage girl in love. You loved this man, he was amazing, so thoughtful, so kind and charming. He made you feel safe, and that’s what you most cherished. Sooner than later, you heard the doorbell ring, and promptly threw a shirt on you along with some undergarments to find a handsome silver haired man standing at your door with coffee and pastries.

After meeting up a few more times in this fashion, you’d gotten to the point you just had to ask. Perched on his form on your sofa as you watched a documentary on pagan rituals he seemed to be rather interested on, you rested your head between his shoulder and his chest and timidly asked, playing with his hand that rested on your thigh. “Leone, what are we?” 

He seemed to stay silent for longer than comfortable. But when you looked up, seeing him arch his brow in confusion and turn to look at you for a brief moment before turning his gaze back to the screen. He threw an arm around your shoulder and squeezed you close, resting his temple on top of your head tenderly as he seemed to try and find his words without missing much of the show.

“I thought we were dating already?” He nonchalantly replied, which made your chest tighten and a sharp breath inflate your chest. You let it out and gave a small nod onto his chest, placing a soft kiss on it and turning your  gaze to the TV once more, feeling him run his hand up and down your forearm in a comforting motion. “I’m glad we are then.” He chuckled and shook his head, but added nothing else, the smile never leaving his lips. 

[myheroaesthetics-blog]

Quirkless but Not Worthless: Chapter 2

1 | 2

“[_], your leg’s starting to heal nicely. You’re a real trooper,” Dr. Masashi complimented while overlooking her x-rays, her eyebrows furrowed at the site of her arms, the broken bones there would still need time, but other than that, she was doing fine. “Do you have any discomfort in your legs? Are the splints in properly?” She asks, concerned.

She nods, “Yes, Dr. Masashi. I’m as good as I can be. I just can’t wait to get out of this hospital bed.”

“Oh yes, you’ll be out with time. Focus on eating your meals and then, when your leg’s healed enough, you’ll start rehabilitation.” She’s flipping through my papers, giving them one last once over, “I definitely see you getting better. Until next time, [_].” The sound of the soles enter and leave the room, she’s guessing a nurse came in.

“Here’s your lunch, is there anything else you’d like for me to do for you before I leave?” He’s especially peppy, nurses aren’t normally “excited” about work, though it’s better for someone to be happy than pissed.

She shuffles her torso a bit, the fact that both of her legs are raised in the air and her right arm is in a sling make it more difficult to lean up. “Do you, by any chance, know how I got here? The doctors and nurses haven’t told me anything. I’m just a little,” she grunts out, “--confused.”

She can see the gears turning in his mind, there’s no sound but the table being turned so that it’s on top of her, and her lunch being set down. [_] at least has one arm that’s perfectly functional, so she’s been using that without bothering the nurses. It looks and smells good, but her mind is elsewhere, wondering about the events from nearly two weeks ago.

“Let’s see, he had blonde hair, a scowl, and a hero’s costume.”

Her eyes widened, “A hero? Do you know his name?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know that, but he was really cute. He saved your life.”

“I know that now...I wish I could tell him thanks.”

“He even placed you on the gurney himself. I believe he was really worried, it’s a shame he didn’t tell us his name.” He trails off and catches [_] staring at him with the widest eyes, he gives her a sweet smile and makes his way to the door. “I placed the remote on your lap, have a nice meal.”

***

The next week, [_] decided to have a visitor, though her roommate had taken it upon herself to eat the coffee jelly that was supplied by the hospital. “--and then, I told everyone I was doing his work for him the entire time. How could he get promoted before me? I’m too petty to be happy for someone.” She stuffs another spoonful into her mouth.

“Yeah, that’s cool and all, Natasha, but you could scratch the back of my head like I told you to ten minutes ago.” She reluctantly obliges. “Do you have any information on the hero who saved me?”

“His name’s Ground Zero. He was on the news because of what happened to you. I hope you don’t mind being shown on national television. He didn’t stop for an interview either, he just picked you up and blasted away.” Natasha shows a video from her phone that she saved, the sight of [_] crashing into the street before a car comes is almost too much to watch, the moment is cut, and she’s laying on the ground. Ground Zero lands above her, picking her up with one arm, eager to get her to the nearest hospital.

I throw my head back into my pillow, the cushion comforts me, I wonder how he felt and smelled? If he said anything, what was spoken? Was I saved for a reason? Not in his opinion, but in the grand scheme of things? I wonder, just as to what I’m here for, I don’t feel particularly special. The way this all came about is just coincidence, but why me? The statistical probability of being in the wrong place at the wrong time is very high.

“I’m going...to...cheer Ground Zero on. If I’m at a public place, and I see him, I’ll scream for him to win. A hero needs fans.” As soon as I say that she nudges me in the head, “Ow.”

“You love superheros just like me. You just lie.”

“No! I like things the normal amount, I just care about my personal hero!”

“Oh, yeah right. Talking about cheering for a hero--we could have been at all the hero fights cheering!” She starts to go on and on about all the wasted time, and what her favorite heros are for the 100th time. She can talk about heroism for hours.

“You can go home now, Natasha! I’ll be out of here tomorrow. Make sure you pick me up.” [_] dismisses her, but she comes right up to the bedside and mushes her cheeks. [_] is powerless right now and she is loving it.

***

Two more weeks pass and her bones have healed up completely. It’s like it never even happened. She’s even going outside more often, well, that’s because she’s looking for clues on Ground Zero’s whereabouts. Her first day back in school was filled with classmates signing her arm cast. Doing work is easy enough, you really just need one arm for that, anyway. The cast is mounted on a shelf like it’s a trophy, it reminds her everyday to try her best at finding Ground Zero, and thanking him from the bottom of her heart. Maybe she’ll become a super smart medical research scientist and discover a cure for a disease. Who knows what the future holds?

[_]’s search history is scattered with questionings of the hero, where he frequents, where he’s been recently, who he might be friends with...or dating. You have to look that stuff up if you can. Videos from UA’s Tournament popped up with Ground Zero, based on his quirk, which is very rare in itself. With or without the mask, he’s so handsome, but very angry. There’s just so much anger in that boy. Though, he’s ranked number one for the freshmen class, but he seems to get in a lot of trouble. There’s a video from the summer of this same year, caught by a sludge villain, then he was abducted by the League of Super Villains, his face was plastered all over the news.

She leans back in the chair, testing the twist in her legs in boredom, everything’s back to normal for [_]; but what is normal for him? Kidnappings, being restrained by his own school, shouting and cursing at all times? She wonders if he feels like he’s got so many obstacles and that going to UA to become a hero is a mistake? That’s how she’d feel deep down, sometimes [_] doesn’t believe she’s in Japan for a real reason other than just wanting to be on her own as far away from her family as she can. They aren’t terrible people, She’s just been smothered.

Writing down all of the places she’s found, today’s work is done. The only thing to do is to find him, he has to be at or near one of these places. He has to.

***

The first place to check of course is UA Academy. Ditching school to find another guy at his own school seems counterproductive, because you’re just avoiding one school for another. When she’d taken one step past the gates, they closed shut, she had to jump back s quickly, all of her sweets dropped onto the pathway. “Ah, whyyyyy,” a tear nearly drops from her eyes, “If the doors were just going to smash together like that, then there should be a warning.”

Second stop, the next free day she had, was the very same street he seemed to have been patrolling when she had her accident; devoid of any sign of the night her life had changed or that she’d been there at all. Everyone goes on about life naturally. That’s how it is when it doesn’t happen to you, but if you’re saved by a hero, or if you look up to them, they’ll be on your mind many times throughout a day. You become a fan.

That day was spent walking up and down the streets within a ten block radius, hoping to catch Ground Zero, and find him. With hopes set high, the fall is even greater; he wasn’t patrolling today, even though it was a Saturday. She checked twitter and no one had heard from him that day either, or else there would have been posts like “Ground Zero yelled at me to back up and it was so cool”.

The third day, and all of these days aren’t consecutive at all, so she really had to find time that worked for her to go out on a wild goose chase, she was wrapping up a box of candies she bought from the store for him. The lights from the early saturday morning were peeping through the blinds; mornings gave her more energy, if she could go to sleep the night before instead of staying up.

“What are you doing, who are you giving candies to? Don’t tell me it’s--”

“Ground Zero.”

Natasha facepalmed, “I can’t believe you’re still looking for him. I’m telling you, you won’t.”

[_] shook her head, doubt was trying to rear its way into her life in the form of her friend. “Can’t let that get to me.”

“Whyyyy, I could be eating that instead.” She whined a lot for a twenty-eight year old.

“No,” [_] says, “I’ll meet him, and tell him of his good deed, and maybe he’ll be a better, friendlier person. I bet he doesn’t get thanked a lot.”

She flops on the couch dramatically, “You’re too nice for this world.”

That day, she went to different hero agencies around the city, hoping they knew of Bakugo and had some sure fire way to contact him.

“Are you here to show off another quirk to get into my agency?” Asked Best Jeanist, his disinterested voice nearly made her turn right back around and leave. His office looked like a modeling agency, very chic, very modern; it matched his whole...vibe. High fashion.

Clearing the cat scratching her throat, she opened her mouth to speak. “Oh no, sir, I don’t have a quirk at all.”

His eyebrow raises in confusion, “Is there something I should know about? A robbery? Murder? Kidnapping? Area that’s been destroyed that have survivors that need rescuing?” He starts to name off different reasons for being there and the longer he goes on, the more [_] feels like an idiot for going there. They all seem so dire, this was definitely a mistake.

“I’m actually looking for Bakugo Katsuki.”

Best Jeanist stifles a laugh, “Why would you ever want to do that?”

***

Walking the way back home was horrible. How could he say that about Bakugo? Yeah, he could be aggressive but he was still a hero, he was still saving people’s lives.That takes a special person. [_] chuckled to herself, “Look at me, talking about Bakugo like I know him.” She tries to sidestep a hero leaning against the wall of a storefront, but is frightened to have him step right in front of her.

“Excuse me--” He holds a hand out, which she walked right into before backing up to look him in the eye.

“Yes?” With his dark red hair, pointing in every which way, same colored eyes staring at her, and outfit showing off his muscles, she could feel her face growing hotter.

“I’m on patrol but I heard you talking about someone I sort of know,” he says with a bright pointy smile.

[_] jumps up, “You know who Bakugo is? That’s amazing! I’ve been looking for him for two weeks!” She clutches the bag and hands it over to him, “Take this, please.”

His face is pink as she realizes that what she’s done is like some sort of weird confession. “I...thank you. I’ll enjoy these!” He bows.

She could never tell him that they weren’t for him, no, that’d be cruel and embarrassing. “Ah...thank you so much…”

He points to himself, “Red Riot.”

“Yes, Red Riot,” her smile is warm and inviting before she asks him, “Do you by any chance know where Bakugo is?”

“Oh yeah, he’s--why do you want to know where he is?”

[_] knew she’d get that question. She was prepared. “I had a big accident, but Bakugo was there to save me. I just wanted to tell him thank you.”

He laughs aloud, the sound of him slapping the back of his neck before rubbing it was so loud, she worried if he hurt himself. “That means this is for him--”

“No, please, you keep it. I was going to give whoever told me how to contact him that as a gift.” A lie.

“Thank you again. He’s normally with...well with the squad if he’s not at school, in his room, or doing hero rounds.” He looks around for a moment, “Tell you what, we’ll be at this restaurant to celebrate one of our classmates achievements, I hope you can come to thank him.” He writes down the name of the place, date, and time on a spare piece of paper she rummaged through her purse for. “You have my full support for Bakugo’s hand in marriage!” He walks off, waving his gift into the air as he turns a corner.

[ladyartemisia28]

Say Amen (Saturday Night)

Chapter: 1/?

Pairings: Prinxiety, side Logicality, Platonic Moxiety, Platonic/Family Logince. 

Warnings: None that I can think of. 

Words:4708

Summary: Sanders Sides Human College AU

Being partnered for a class project causes some tension for Virgil and Roman. Until they both go to the same party and well...things happen.

Chapter 1: I Pray for the Wicked on the Weekend

~

On a Friday in a classroom sounds of idle chatter filled the room, if someone were to look through the window a light drizzle would be visible.

The teacher arrived soon after the bell, she wore a white blouse, tan sweater vest with multicolored diamond pattern, and blue jeans.

After she dropped her books onto her desk, she then began to frantically attempt to smooth her slightly damp brown bob. Before she spoke she adjusted her glasses that matched her bright red lipstick.

"I am sure you have all read the assigned books." she began. "Your task now will be to work on a creative presentation about any of the themes the work of your choosing. This project will be due at the end of the semester."

"I'd like to let you all pick your own partners for this assignment, BUT many of you elect to not pick partners"

In the in back of the room, a boy named Virgil sat. He was only half awake due to his chronic insomnia, so he didn't notice a quick look in his direction. With him being in her Creative Writing class last semester, she knew that he had difficulty with group participation.

"I will be choosing your partners for myself"

Towards the front of the room was the dramatic Roman. He was doodling ying yangs in his notebook absentmindedly as he kept an ear open for his name.

"Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Alexander"

Roman pulled from his daze he looked up. He did not recognize the name 'Mr. Alexander', he took a look around to see who was the lucky winner of his partnership. He saw that he had no one looking towards him with joy and excitement.

The teacher had moved on, so he turned to his desk mate, a friendly brown haired fella named Sloane.

"Who is Mr. Alexander?" he whispered not wanting to offend the person in question.

"The boy in the black, in the back corner, his first name is Virgil." he replied with a smile."Cute, in a edgy kinda way right?"

He turned around in his chair to take a subtle peak at him, he was a bit surprised so his gaze lingered.

The boy in question had on a black leather jacket with a gray hoodie under and under that a dark gray t-shirt.

So many layers thought Roman, was he THAT cold? His legs were clad in black tattered jeans, and on his feet were black and metal combat boots.

This Virgil had the gray of his hoodie up over his head and his face downcast. 

This made Roman ever so curious to see what lie underneath.

Not his usual type at all, but everything he could see, was very hot none the less.

"Yeah," he grinned agreeing with the assessment. "Well, its time to meet my new cohort!"

~

Virgil had actually heard that his name announced. But his social anxiety was getting the better of him at the moment. He was still gathering his courage to get up from his desk when a person approached his desk.

He glanced up and then did a second take at the stunningly gorgeous male in front of him. A delicate wisp of red hair fell in front of his whiskey brown eyes.

Scarlet pigmentation faded to orange, yellow then at the crown of his head there was a shift in hues to green. Then blue and then finally the last color at the nape of his neck was a hint of purple.

He wore what almost looked like a letter mans jacket. Tan on the body of the jacket, cream sleeves, stripes of black and red at the wrists and at the collar. Underneath the jacket was a tight fit white shirt that showed off his fit body. 

Unwillingly the thought of the Tumblr post of Dorito!Steve came into his head, it did make him internally chuckle a bit. As his eyes scan the lower half of him he saw skinny blue jeans and brown boots.

Virgil looked up at his face after a embarrassingly long time of ogling his body.

~

When the leather clad boy looked up Roman could finally see his face. His blue eyes narrowed then widened with a look of surprise. Roman's knees felt weak, he had a strong weakness with so called guyliner. Roman wondered if he was wearing light foundation, could his skin be that pale and smooth?

"Hey there, I'm Roman Sanderson." Roman declared with a grin and flourish, waiting for him to introduce himself.

Although he knew his name he wouldn't deny him the opportunity of a proper first meeting.

"And your name handsome?" Roman inquired as Virgil blushed at the compliment. He reached a ring clad hand over to remove his Nightmare Before Christmas messenger bag from the seat next to him. It was kept by his side as a sign to say 'This seat is not available don't sit next to me!'

"Virgil Alexander" his quiet gravely voice responded and ducked his head in embarrassment. Roman suppressed a small shiver at the deep baritone voice.

Roman slid into the seat to the left of him, then took out his three books. Getting a closer look at him from up close he saw his face in more detail. How could Roman have never noticed him before, he was outstanding! He had a pointed chin, full lips, the carved cheek bones like a sculpture, that Roman would kill for. His facial features were sharp yet pleasing. It was like looking at an scowling angry angel.

"So...” he cleared his throat with a small cough “I am partial to the Epic of Beowulf. I love warriors defeating monsters. Knights and Fantasy is so my jam. My nickname around the drama department is Prince Roman.”

He waited for a moment for the dark boy to contribute to the conversation. Also much as he loved to hear his own voice and get to have creative freedom. He was beginning to worry that this partner would be no help on the project if they couldn't communicate. He hated when others who didn't help to get credit for his work.

“BUT I'm guessing that you would favor Dante's Inferno." Roman harmlessly teasing him.

"Cause of my name, right?" Virgil deadpanned flatly as he stared at his chipped nail black polish on his right thumb.

"No, not because of that, even though that is a very funny coincidence." the bright boy smiled as he finally got a response. "Because it seems like you like dark things? " He then gestured towards his messenger bag and person with a large flourish of his hand.

Virgil chuckled at that.

“Yeah I do, look a bit somber.” he replied as he looked down at his attire.

“I think you look JD-lightful.” Roman complimented wondering if Virgil got that reference. JD was a villain, but he was hot.

“Are you comparing me to a sociopath?” he muttered with a slight edge to his voice, as he finally raised his head to look at Roman.

An awkward silence fell over them. Roman broke the quiet a bit louder than necessary.

“I didn't mean to insult you! I just...!”

“I was kidding.” he smirked as he interrupted seeing that Roman had began to panic.

“I understand the look is intimidating. And I get it Christian Slater was hot, so, I guess thanks.”

“Oh, you know I wasn't even sure if you had seen it.” he sighed with relief, internally he was feeling a rush of excitement. He thought that JD was hot, so possibly gay.

“Its a dark deconstruction of those unrealistic 80's teen movies, I love it. I'm also a fan of Winona Ryder, she's in a lot of my favorites. Beetlejuice, The Crucible, Edward Scissorhands, Dracula, Stranger Things.” his face brightening a little bit as he named each movie and tv show. Roman was mildly impressed by his taste in media.

Many of them were things that he would have guessed, like the Tim Burton movies. But he wouldn't have guessed The Crucible to be on his list.

“Wow, so have you ever seen the musical?” Roman asked excitedly.

“Of Heathers? No I can't say I have.” he admitted with a lift of one side of his mouth.

"It's amazing. Candy Shop is such a bop! Although I would very much like to suggest some more productions for you. Wicked, Sweeney Todd, Jekyll and Hyde, and the classic Phantom of the Opera. Oooooh speaking of Opera, Repo the Genetic Opera is a movie musical, so much easier and cheaper to watch. Repo is has an extremely gothic aesthetic. It doesn't have a stage production sadly.”

“You really like theatre don't you?”

“I'm an actor so I would say that I do. I've been in many productions both musical and straight play. Of course that doesn't mean that I'm straight.” he gave a wink at that. Feeling more in his comfort zone being able to brag about himself.

Virgil could feel the reddening of his face at the wink.

“Soooo... I WAS actually leaning more towards Dante's Inferno...” he hastily changed subject to ease his discomfort, missing the micro expression of disappointment on Roman's face.

~

"So are you going to Sloane's party tomorrow night? It's supposed to be chill and if you know him he has great taste in music." Roman questioned as class drew to a close. "If you'd like I could accompany you, you know... "

Much like the class bell going off, within Virgil's mind an alarm went off as well. He suddenly on was guard, his thoughts went to disbelief.

How could he believe anything that he is saying. His words are too charming, it reminds him of.... Virgil began to think, before shaking his head and refusing to continue down that train of thought. His mind was screaming that this guy was not interested in him.

"Yeah, no, Romano was it?" Virgil snarled at him, "I don't know what you want, but I'm not an idiot, so just stop this stupid game."

Roman was so confused.

"Who spit in your bean curd?" Roman asked taken aback.

"I know guys like you, and I don't like being manipulated."

"Excuse Me!" He exclaimed as he placed a hand on his own chest."Their are no GUYS like ME!"

"I'm not falling for this Prince Charming ACT!"

"Act, ACT! I may be an accomplished actor," He declared as he stood with a dramatic chair push, he squared his shoulders with a proud look on his face. “But when it comes to affairs of the heart, I'm never insincere with my affections! When I say that I would like to take you to a party, I truly mean it. " 

With a dramatic flourish of his hand he placed a hand to his chest and gave a look of extreme distress.

"Sure, of course you do, Princey." he scoffed as he stood up as well.

Roman gave the smallest step back as Virgil had seemed shorter than him while they were sitting. Since he had been slouching. But at full height he probably had at lest two inches on him.

“Fine, Forget it!” Roman angrily declared as he grabbed his bag and stomped out of the now empty room. “No, seriously Forget I ever said anything to you! When we work on this on Sunday lets just skip the pleasantries.”

“Fine with me” Virgil retorted as they both reached the door around the same time.

Roman took a turn to the left out the door. Virgil to the right.

~

Thinking it over and over in his head while he made his way back to his dorm room. The thought that maybe Virgil could have said no a little nicer, did occur to him. But he was so startled he just said the first thing that came to his head.

He was just going to try and go to sleep till Patton returned to the room.

Roman thankfully had already scheduled something that evening that would keep him distracted. He went directly to the drama department and picked up his sheet music for the singing portion of his his auditions. After singing through his warm up scales and the pianist came up to him and told him that he was up next. 

Agony by the great song writer Stephen Sondheim was ironically the perfect song for him at the moment.

He did flub up on the pronouns a couple of times but he easily had the feelings behind it spot on.

“Hey you seemed a little bit off today, you okay?” a person with big brown eyes and a orange beanie on their head.

“Yeah Joan, I'm just thinking of my last class. This literature class is harder than I thought it would be.” Roman replied with a halfhearted smile, he wasn't technically lying to one of his best friends. He just didn't include the Virgil part that was making it difficult.

“Well if that's all it is. ” Joan said skeptically.“You did really good today. I could really hear the feeling behind it. You really have been working on the characterization”

“Thanks,” Roman smiled fully the compliment. Joan finished up playing the piano for the rest of the actors.

“So hey are you going to Sloane's tomorrow?” Roman asked impulsively, thinking that going alone would be a bit shameful after he had been shunned earlier. Even taking a friend would be something.

“Nah, I have plans with Talyn.” Joan said as they took their papers from the piano and returned them to their folder.

“Oh, ok” he sighed dejectedly

“Ok now I know that something is wrong!” they accused gesturing with the folder. “If you were feeling like yourself, you would be bragging that you were the one to set us up!”

“I just am worried about class.”

“Class, huh.”

“What's his name?”

“Virgil” Roman said without thinking. He then tried to recover, but failed. “I mean...who?”

“Come on let's go get some food. You can tell me all about 'Class'.” Joan finger quoted and then led Roman out of the auditorium.

~

"Patton, why?" Virgil whined as he sat on his bed the next evening.

"I love you my dark strange son" a soft lilting voice announced. Patton had a strange habit of calling his best friend son and kiddo, he was a wonderful combination of Parental and Childlike. Virgil when he first met this guy he didn't really 'get' him. But he was also always in his corner, regardless of who he was fighting.

"You need to meet people"

"I don't want to meet people, I hate people!"

"You don't hate me." Patton objected with slight questioning pout.

"You're not People." Virgil muttered with a tiny corner of his lip lifting.

"Awww, Come here you Anxious Bean!" his bubbly voice exclaimed as he opened his arms wide for a hug.

Patton was a very touchy person, he hugged as a hello and a goodbye. Incidents had happened when Virgil had to remind him that he must ask if someone was in a mood for a hug at the moment. Virgil was hoping that Patton to let him stay and listen to music with the lights off.

With only a small sigh he shuffled over towards his best friends. He let Patton give him a squeeze,but did not wrap his arms around him in return.

"You are going through a tough time, kiddo." he continued Virgil visibly bristles at the mention of the difficulty he had been going through.

"I don't like when you pressure me to be social." Patton unwrapped his limbs, but kept in physical contact by holding him by the shoulders. He was trying to get some sort of eye contact as well. But Virgil kept his eyes downcast.

"I'm not saying that you have to find a new boyfriend. You could just get to know your classmates outside of class."

"College kids are even worse outside of Class."

"Now Kiddo, you too are a so called “college Kid” no need to be so gosh darn judgmental." Patton said as he let his friend escape his grasp, Virgil sat aggressively on his bed with a little bounce of the mattress.

“If I leave you all alone, you will just listen to that PG13 music in the dark. I really really think you need to do this. Don't you know I just want you to be happy?”

"Yeah I know you do...” Virgil then decided that he would get this out of the way.

"But after this, I'm off the hook for being social for the next two months, ok?"

"One month"

"A month and two weeks, and I'll go with you to the Halloween Costume Party"

“You'll actually go in costume? Not just wear a paper that says 'costume' on it?”

“Yes,”

"Deal!" he exclaimed as his soft blue eyes lite up in excitement.

"I'm glad that you are happy."

"So how do I look?" he asked as he opened his arms again this time to give his friend a clear view of his shirt. On his torso was a pink floral shirt covered in cats that said 'You've Cat to be Kitten Me Right Meow'.

"You look nice." Virgil responded as he dumped the contents of his makeup bag onto the bed. He grabbed his black eyeliner which he used to reapplied his underneath his eyes.

After finishing his face he went to his closet he took a look at his personal armor, his black hoodie with a gray grid pattern. He could cover his head with it's comforting hood, and avoid eye contact.

“Who's party is this anyway?” Virgil asked as he pulled on his converse.

“It's at my pal Corbin's house, I think his boyfriend is hosting though.” Patton stated as they left the room.

~

In a comfortable sized apartment within walking distance of the college. Roman started at his refection in the large bathroom mirror. He finished his applying his golden winged eyeliner. He dusted on a hint of highlighter on his cheeks and forehead. He finished off his look with a red tinted lipstick.

In the doorway stood a tall man with hazel eyes peering at him.

"You know that the social gathering starts in less than 15 minutes." Logan sighed as he looked at his stainless steel binary watch."And it will take at lest 20 or more minutes to get there, not to mention the hassle of finding a spot."

"Well I have to make a good impression, the people must get what they want!" Roman exclaimed as he did another take at his hair.

Roman took a glance over at him. Logan while never a slob, he also had such a nerdy style. In fact he had been mistaken for a teacher several times. He wore a black button up shirt, a pair of khakis and brown dress shoes. He was at the moment tying a plain blue tie.

"Why the Tie, Logan Berry?" Roman questioned.

"Don't call me that. If I remember correctly the saying that mother always said 'Dress to impress'. I like you also want to make a good impression. Just in a less flashy more conservative professional way." he said as "Now what do you think the four-in-hand or half Windsor?"

"Neither! What do you think that a job interviewer is going to be at the party? That they are going to see you in something with style and say, “Hmm that Logan could have had a job at our stuffy office but look at his outfit”!"

“Why do I even ask!” he fumed as he went with a half Windsor and left Roman alone momentarily.

Grabbing his gold cased phone off of the marble counter top he glanced at himself. He took a few pictures and posted them on Instagram with the hashtag #Slay.

As he left with his thoughts he returned to think of how in a different situation. Roman could have been going to this party with a rather striking date instead of his nerdy older brother. He felt unease at the memory of Virgil suddenly turning on him. Roman had thought that they had been having a rather enjoyable time. That they had a sort of connection.

He had just wanted to spend more time with him. And it wasn't like he had outright stated his lack of interest in men. He could have understood that. But that fact that it seemed to be Roman himself that he objected to really hurt.

"Parking spot." Logan said as he returned, now with suspenders that Roman had to admit made the outfit look a little better. Roman quickly removed the look of sadness from his face before turning to his worrisome sibling.

"Well we can take an Uber or a LYFT, or something!" he replied as he grabbed a denim jacket and pulled it on.

“Ooooh Lyft definitely, Uber is known to employ homophobic individuals.” Logan elaborated as he pulled out his phone to order a Lyft.

“Okay Lyft it is!” he declared as he gave himself one last look over before heading out to the living room to wait for the ride.

~

"Hey there gorgeous, how you doing on this fine night Corbin?" Roman he said to a short glassed boy with brown skin “Your boyfriend hosts a nice shindig!”

“Hello Roman, thanks. He really loves these things. It makes him so happy that I barely mind cleaning up the mess at the end of the evening.” he proclaimed as he motioned to the room with a head nod. He smiled at his boyfriend who approached with two bottles.

“Ah the things we do for LOVE!” Roman exclaimed as Sloane slung an arm around his shorter partner.

“Speaking of romance, how's the master of love and matchmaking doing lately?” his usual deskmate and friend asked kindly.

“I did ask Virgil from our Medieval Lit class to come with me here.” Roman hated admiting that he had been jilted, but Sloane was such a sweetheart that he just knew that he would have something to make him feel better. “I can't believe he rejected me. And so harshly. ME!”

“Well, he...” Sloane began.

“I mean I was so charming...sincerely charming. Not faking it like he thought!” Roman interrupted.

“SO did you bring your brother with you?” Corbin hollered over Roman to make sure that he was able to get a word in as he saw the struggle that his boyfriend was having. Sloane gave him a silent 'thank you' unseen by a preoccupied Roman. “I had a question for him for our chem class.”

“I just...” Sloane tried again.

“Can you believe it!” Roman once again continued to talk over his soft spoken friend.

“He's out on the patio, if I remember correctly he was talking to Elliot Smith.” Roman sighed as he returned to his thoughts, not noticing the look of concern that Corbin and Sloane exchanged.

“Ok, well I'll see you around Roman.” Sloane said before he took his partner's arm and they walked through the crowd.

“Yeah,” he muttered to the couple.

He was at a party! He had to do something to make himself feel better.

“Hey Enrique, Come on over here Handsome.” Roman took out a phone, as he called over an attractive looking guy with long brown hair. “Lets take a few for Instagram!”

“If anyone wants to follow me it's Prince of Romance!” he loudly declared. As a few more people got into frame he took a couple pictures with them posting different each time. From a view able distance arrived Virgil and Patton with his head bopping along to the music.

“And THAT is who I was assigned to work with in Medieval Lit. ” Virgil grumbled as he gestured with his grape Gatorade, before taking a swig.

“Seems like a friendly fella!” Patton exclaimed with a happy clasp of his hands

“Lets go talk to him.” “I rather not” Virgil stated with a gruff tone.

“Why not?” Patton asked Virgil had decided to not tell his best friend about Roman coming on to him. He knew that Patton would make a bigger deal of it than it was.

“I already am getting to know him well enough.” Virgil said hoping that would be that.

“But...” Patton started.

“Patton! Virge! So great to see you out and about!” a lovely girl with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes came up to them. “He promised to go with me to the costume party.” Patton excitedly said to the short girl.

“Yay! Virge, can I borrow Patton for a quick minute?” she asked with a warm and bright smile.

“Sure Val, no problem.” Virgil replied as he was actually very happy for the bubbly pair to take their leave.

Here that showboat was flirting with every guy within range. Just like Virgil had guessed, he wasn't really interested in him. I mean why would he be? Stupid Roman with his stupid gold phone, stupid strong jaw, and stupid waist to hip ratio of Steve fucking Rogers! Looking at the easy smile on his face as he chatted with his friends after his impromptu photo shoot.

Virgil felt a disappointment that he knew it was unwarranted.

Roman didn't owe him anything.

~

“Fuck” he cursed to himself. He wondered how out of any party he HAD to be at this one.

Virgil was unsure how long he was left alone before he spotted the absolute last person that he wanted to see.

His honey colored slicked back hair, dressed in a checkered yellow and black button up shirt and black slacks. Virgil couldn't see his feet but he was sure that he was wearing his signature gold snake scale shoes.

He felt his rapid and loud heartbeat. All the voices around him turned to buzzing incomprehensible sounds that almost sounded inhuman. He glanced behind him and saw that Jae was still there, looking for someone.

Virgil covered his head with his hood and began to search for Patton.

Walking down the small hallway trying to escape he only saw a few handful of blurry unrecognizable faces.

Virgil was sure that he was spotted, feeling dizzy he ducked his head lower. He in his confused state continued his retreat in the opposite direction to where Patton was. Struggling to remember the breathing techniques that Dr. Picani taught him.

Four in, hold for seven, breath out for eight.

His panicked brain formed an insane plan. Then as he turned the corner and entered a semi-secluded hallway like magic he saw a face that he knew. He made his way through the crown and slides up in front of Roman.

He threw back his hood and hurriedly pleaded.

"Hey, my ex is here, I need help! Please make out with me!"

Chapter 3

~

Chapter 2

[bubble-tea-bunny]

midnight movies

[roman godfrey x reader]

author’s note: tried to write something fluffy for roman for a change, just to try it out. inspo’s from this song. y’all should listen to it cuz it’s cute af

word count: 3,023

There’s still fifteen minutes until the movie’s set to start and after Roman takes a sip of his soda, he notices the cup’s already feeling quite light. He swirls it once, the ease with which he was able to do so confirming that he’s indeed running low on the delicious cola.

“Shit,” he mutters. He holds the cup up to try and peer through at the syrupy liquid inside.

Letha, chewing absentmindedly on a mouthful of popcorn with the bucket on her lap, turns to her cousin. “What?”

“I’m almost out. I gotta get a refill.” He’s out of the car without another word, closing the driver’s side door and walking towards the back of the lot where the concession stand rests. Other cars are still pulling in, but all the spots up front and closer to the screen have been filled quite a while ago. There’s a single file line to buy snacks but multiple registers are open, and Roman easily falls into it. He’s third in line, making it just in time, because it seems as though a flood of people have all at once decided to get their snacks.

He leans against the metal counter, waiting for the employee to finish refilling the popcorn machine so he can ask for his refill. He’s tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the cool surface, and can hear the person at the register to his right asking for a bag of M&M’s, a box of Sour Patch Kids, a box of Milk Duds, and a box of Cookie Dough Bites. It’s a hefty amount of candy, and Roman raises a brow as he glances at the one ordering it all.

Your smile is wide and friendly as you name off everything and you grip the edge of the counter as you wait patiently for your food. Your hoodie is large and the sleeves cover most of your hands, leaving only your fingers exposed. It looks warm and comfortable, the perfect combination for a chilly evening at Hemlock Grove’s only drive-in movie theater. As if feeling Roman’s stare, your gaze slides over to him, and your smile is shy and you can’t hold contact for very long before you turn your attention back in front of you. But he’s burning the image of the gentle curve of your lips and the softness of your eyes into his brain, clutching at a drink half empty and already half in love with you.

“Can I help you?” The smile on the worker’s face is bright, like yours; but unlike yours, it’s forced, practiced and overtly polite.

“Uh, yeah.” Roman clears his throat, turning away from you. “Can I get a refill?”

The employee takes the cup and double checks what the drink is before walking over to the soda fountain. Roman decides it’s dangerous to be left idle like this because he finds himself looking back at you and the various sweets you’d ordered now resting on the counter while you pay. When you’re asked if that’s all, you smile and nod, your ponytail swaying slightly as you do. After everything is paid for, you gather the sugary treats in your arms and traipse back through the lot in the direction of the cars. He watches until you’re out of sight. A part of him is hoping he’ll spot you again somewhere.

Roman walks toward his Jaguar, sipping absentmindedly at his soda as he weaves his way through various vehicles, before telling himself he should stop lest he be all out again by the time the film begins. His eyes are darting around in search for you but he’s coming up empty-handed. He doesn’t quite understand this tug, the pang in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about you and your very apparent sweet tooth and your smooth tresses thrown into a messy ponytail and your overly large hoodie. And he doesn’t want it because it feels fucking weird and what happened to looking at a cute girl and thinking she’d be a good fuck?

With three minutes left he’s back in the car, his drink in the cupholder because he knows if he keeps holding it he’ll constantly have the urge to be taking sips, which would lead to not only the need for another refill, but multiple trips to the restroom. He can hear muffled laughter and he turns his head to the right, in the direction it’s coming from.

A black pick-up truck two spaces away has its tailgate lowered and a few people sitting on the bed. One of them is you. You’re giggling at something your friend has said and pop a piece of candy into your mouth, and it’s with slight amusement that Roman is guessing which treat you might be tucking into currently.

He’s so enamored and not being very subtle about his staring, so it doesn’t take Letha long to notice. She furrows her brows as she looks at him then follows his line of sight. You’re sitting on the side closest to them which makes it easy for her to figure out he’s staring at you.

“She’s cute,” Letha compliments with a small smirk.

Roman blinks and turns to the blonde. He doesn’t blush, only chuckling and meeting her with a small smirk of his own. “I saw her at the concession stand. She’s cuter up close.”

Letha laughs. “Are you going to talk to her after the movie?”

Roman isn’t sure. For once in his life, he’s not quite sure of anything at all. But he doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t know if he’ll talk to you because he’s never been the tiniest bit flustered at the prospect of talking to a girl he thinks is attractive, so he shrugs as if that’s any better. And even if it’s not and Letha wants to call him out on it, she decides not to because the parking lot lights have begun to dim in preparation for the movie.

He finds himself stealing glances your way, and it’s always the same. Your eyes are glued to the projector screen, which illuminates your face, flashes of light bouncing off the planes of your cheeks and the whites of your eyes. Yet to him it’s as though with each glimpse he’s taking you in for the very first time. At one point you reach up to tighten your ponytail because it’s starting to fall and the hair tie is loose enough to slide right off. You never actually retie it, hair getting messier each time you have to tighten the tie.

Maybe he should be embarrassed that by the time the film is over he’s absorbed very little of it, but he’s masking it by nodding at various intervals as Letha tells him what she thought. And he’s listening, genuinely, but it’s sort of difficult to follow her discussion of the story when he can’t match the faces to the names and he’s getting irritated at himself for never getting a name to match your face. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to you. Half of it was nerves (Roman Godfrey held back by nerves? Who the fuck was he?) but the other half is because you’d immediately left to go to the restroom, and as you did so, your friends had gotten into the truck and started to make their way towards the back of the lot, closer to the exit and the restroom. Letha had noticed that and smiled sympathetically, said that maybe you’d be there next week, and Roman had tried to brush it off by grinning and asking if this meant she’d liked her time at the drive-in enough to want to come back. (It did, if only because a girl has never made Roman this flustered and Letha desperately wants to see how it plays out. She wonders if he even knows how to be shy.)

———

The following Friday they’re back at the drive-in, not quite nabbing the same spot they had last time. They’re still in the center but a couple of rows back. Roman thinks that maybe coincidences don’t exist when he falls into line at the concession stand, behind you in your familiar hoodie. Tonight your hair is in a braid, but it isn’t any less messy. Your fingers are curled around the hem of the large article of clothing as you wait for a register to open up. You walk up to the next one available and he can hear you ordering a different assortment of candies from last week plus popcorn this time, and he smiles to himself, head angled down so no one would look over and just see some guy smiling stupidly at seemingly nothing. Before you can pay, Roman forces his feet to move, and he comes up behind you.

“I’ll pay for that.” He’s already fishing his wallet out from his back pocket.

You glance up at him with eyes wide in surprise, and he’s smirking down at you as he holds out his card, which the employee takes to swipe. You’re much shorter than you appeared to be from a distance.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you say quietly, but the tone goes up at the end, so it comes out more like a question, which betrays your confusion.

“You’re welcome.” After your snacks are paid for and before he’s about to order his own, you linger off to the side of the counter for a few moments, trying to figure out how you’ll carry everything back. There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he watches you. “If you don’t mind waiting a second, I’ll help you carry stuff.”

You blush heavily, the fluster well-lit by the fluorescent lights, and you laugh bashfully. “Okay.”

Roman has one arm wrapped around his bucket of popcorn and his other hand carries the bags of candy, while you carry your own popcorn and a large cup of cola. As the two of you start walking back towards the cars, you pass the growing line for the concession stand, and Roman glances over at it, wondering if maybe it had been dumb to not get his own soda on purpose so he still had a free hand to help you out. Now he’ll have to get back in that line. But then you speak up and he tells himself that no, this isn’t a mistake at all.

“Thanks again for paying for my snacks and helping me bring all this stuff over,” you say. “It’s very sweet of you.”

“I should be the one calling you sweet, with that sweet tooth of yours.” He holds up the bags of candy slightly, which crinkle with his movements.

You laugh. “In my defense, I do share those.”

The two of you approach the same black pick-up truck, and you’re accompanied by the same people from last time. You hand one of them the bucket of popcorn and set your drink down on the truck bed, then take the candy from Roman with another smile.

“Thanks…” you trail off.

“Roman.”

“Thanks, Roman.”

He loves the way you say his name. With a smile and nod of his head he makes his leave, heading for his car and thinking about how nice it sounded when you said his name. As he walks away, he can hear your friend speak up.

“Hey, [Name], who was that?” Your name is [Name].

When he gets back to the Jaguar, he taps on the window on Letha’s side a couple of times. She opens the door and he hands her the popcorn but doesn’t get back in the car.

“Where are you going?” she inquires.

“Back to concession for a soda.”

Letha raises a brow. “Did you forget to buy one?”

“I’ll explain when I get back. That line is getting long.” He sighs and starts the walk over, and Letha looks at his retreating form for a few seconds before she shrugs and closes the door again, eagerly munching on her movie snack.

Luckily the wait isn’t as bad as Roman thought it’d be. He pays for his soda quickly and makes a beeline back to his car, now that there’s no cute girl stealing away all his attention. The moment he’s sat down and closed the door behind him, Letha begins her questioning.

“So you forgot to buy the soda the first time?”

Roman tells her about having run into you again and paying for your food, which he helped carry. And that if he’d bought his soda he wouldn’t have a free hand to do so, so he didn’t. Letha’s smile widens as he continues his explanation, and it’s oddly fitting that she’s chewing on popcorn, entertained as she is by the string of events her cousin has just experienced. He probably doesn’t even notice the sound of his voice as he talks about you. It’s soft and fond despite not knowing more than your first name, and his gaze is concentrated on the projector, but it’s unfocused, like he’s distracted. It’s certainly a new look for him, but not a bad one in the least bit. She can’t contain her small smile and when he finally looks at her, he raises a brow at seeing it.

“What?”

“You like her a lot.”

Roman could shrug, much as he did last week as though to say I have no idea, and the vague gesture would be excused by the fact the movie is just about to start and so they need to quiet down. But that’s not what he does this time, not when he really takes a second to think about how he felt when he looked at you or heard you speak and realized this is all together a foreign concept, strange but not unwelcome and Letha has hit the nail on the head even if he tries to reason she hasn’t.  

“I guess I do.” It comes out quietly and is followed closely by the film’s starting credits song (it’s an old black-and-white flick with credits at the beginning rather than the end), like he’s in a movie of his own.

———

You and Roman next run into each other at the ice cream parlor in town but this time you don’t let him pay for yours. So he asks if he can keep you company instead and you say okay, and you find yourselves at the table in the corner. You tell him your name upon realizing you’d never told it to him and he holds back from saying I know. You’re talking like old friends as you work away at your frozen treats, and he can’t shake the notion that it feels like you’ve known each other forever. And maybe you have. He sees lifetimes resting behind your gentle [eye color] eyes and he wonders if in one of those you’d crossed paths too.

He asks you if this Friday you’d like to go with him back to the drive-in, then quickly adds that if you wanted to go somewhere else, then that works too. You smile and state the drive-in sounds perfect, and secretly he’s glad you say that because there’s just something about you and the drive-in that go so well together. Perhaps it’s because it’s the place he first met you, and the thought of the drive-in theater without you around seems strange to consider now. Perhaps you make the same association about him and that’s why you’d said it was the perfect place to go.

It becomes routine, every week finding yourselves at the drive-in theater. He pays for your candy and teases that maybe he should stop fueling your sugar addiction and only laughs when you playfully shove him, trying to tell him it isn’t funny because those sweet treats are serious business but failing to come off as serious because you’re laughing too. Then on one particular Friday, you’re in his Jaguar, front and center of the lot. The best seat in the house. You’d never scored such a good spot before. Roman hands you your boxes of candy when he returns from concession and you’re quick to open the Swedish Fish. Before you reach in to grab a few, you hold the box out to him, offering him some. Roman glances down at it then looks up at you and your kind smile. He opens his hand palm up so you can pour a few pieces into it.

He’s unable to concentrate on the movie tonight because when it starts and everyone is quiet, he starts to process that you really are sitting next to him, and not in a different car however many spaces away which makes him bummed that he didn’t happen to park as close to you this time. You’re close, closer than you were, but not the closest you could be. The center console separates you but it’s like an ocean to Roman, entirely too much open space, and he wants to close the gap because he’s observing the way the light of the film is flashing across your beautiful face. He wonders just what all this means, what it means when his heart squeezes every time you grace him with a smile so airy he swears you might sprout wings and fly, what it means when he seems to feel a little bit more each time he hears you laugh.

You feel him staring and meet his gaze and he knows what all that shit means. Of course he does. He always had, deep down. But he doesn’t admit it to himself. Not even when the two of you lean in close and your lips meet and suddenly the film is the least important thing right now. Not even when he’s looking at your eyes and seeing eons in them as if you’re a being outside time itself and all he can hope is that maybe in the lifetimes yet to come that he can’t see, he’s there somewhere. So you can cross paths again and again and again.

[littlelovelymemes]

✰ * º ❛   buzzfeed unsolved sentence starters  ( pt. four )   ❜

         (   part of the youtube starter series   )

‘  you don’t feel strange at all? not even a little bit?  ’ ‘  oh shit, waddup! i’m taking a selfie with some demons, yooo. hell yeah, whaaa!!  ’ ‘  you’re insufferable.  ’ ‘  yeah, i’m just gonna... get some fucking holy water.  ’ ‘  i’ve lived my life with one adage and that’s don’t fuck with demons.  ’ ‘  i just love seeing you squirm!  ’ ‘  okay, tell your spooky story!  ’ ‘  i think this is all bullshit.  ’ ‘  we better get out of this house, somebody knocked our little bear out of his little wicker chair.  ’ ‘  you’re telling me you wouldn’t be unnerved by going upstairs and seeing a bunch of stuffed animals organized into a little cult circle when no one did it?  ’ ‘  what the fuck? oh shit! no!! where’s my holy water?  ’ ‘  what the fuck? oh shit! no!!  ’ ‘  where’s my holy water?  ’ ‘  it’s just a flashlight! it rolls, it’s cylindrical!  ’ ‘  here’s the thing-- this is what i fucking love about like, paranormal evidence. people are always clamoring for it, right? like ‘where’s the evidence,’ and then when the evidence is finally they’re like, ‘fake!’  ’ ‘  if you slit my throat tonight, i’m gonna have a hard time forgiving you for that.  ’ ‘  will you haunt me for the rest of my life?  ’ ‘  no, i won’t haunt you cause i’ll be dead. ghosts aren’t real.  ’ ‘  that demon’s racist!  ’ ‘  fuck that demon, he’s whitewashing the history of this house.  ’ ‘  this demon’s what’s wrong with hollywood.  ’ ‘  whatever, demon’s racist. i don’t respect this demon.  ’ ‘  you’ve lost your mind!  ’ ‘  here we go! rock and roll, buckaroo.  ’ ‘  fuck this house. fuck this house so hard.  ’ ‘  here’s the thing, i discount almost 100% of all of ‘i saw it in the middle of the night’ things because sleep paralysis, often times, most people wake up and see shit.  ’ ‘  if i wake up tonight and there’s this grotesque looking thing laying next to me and just staring at me with it’s fucking stupid beady eyes open, i’m gonna shit myself. there’s gonna be poo in my sleeping bag.  ’ ‘  i’m gonna sleep closer to you, i don’t care.  ’ ‘  every little pin drop that you hear, every little creak, it’s gonna make your butthole tighten.  ’ ‘  i think it would be a sleep-full night for me if it weren’t for you.  ’ ‘  annnnnd nope, i’m man enough to admit that this is not happening tonight. i can’t. it’s not happening ever.  ’ ‘  you givin’ up?  ’ ‘  i just think it’s silly to give up at the last minute, but whatever. you know, it’s no big deal.  ’ ‘  did you just call the demon a motherfucker?  ’ ‘  i don’t give a shit now, i’m gone.  ’ ‘  peace out, bitches. go fuck yourself. you were truly awful and i hate you.  ’ ‘  this is the happiest moment of my life.  ’ ‘  i think it was just a wonderful coincidence.  ’ ‘  i’m glad it happened because i got to see you turn into a babbling mess.  ’ ‘  i’m happy to let you believe in this ‘cause i think it’s fun that you believe in it, cause if we go to more places, it’s gonna be fun to watch you freak out some more. so great.  ’ ‘  let’s just call it unsolved, how ‘bout that?  ’ ‘  but we sure had fun!  ’ ‘  he looks really happy, actually. look at that little face. he looks like he’s eatin’ grapes.  ’ ‘  that’s really interesting, let’s get the fuck out of here.  ’ ‘  i don’t wanna imagine that. can’t you just let me enjoy the moment for once?  ’ ‘  what a trip its been. we’ve seen a lot of stuff. seen spiders, we’ve seen... ghouls.  ’ ‘  this looks like disney land. i wouldn’t be surprised if they got cotton candy in there.  ’ ‘  yuk it up, man. yuk it up. you’re really enjoying this, but when the lights go off, this may be a little different.  ’ ‘  you’re full of shit if you do not feel strange right now.  ’ ‘  i assure you in like half of the places you’ve been, people have died there. people have probably died in the chipotle we just ate at.  ’ ‘  well then that’s why she didn’t live forever! cause she found a loophole!  ’ ‘  i won’t argue that your logic is flawed. i just hate it because it’s detrimental to my argument.  ’ ‘  you think the ghosts just checked in every like 3 to 5 years?  ’ ‘  this is a theory. i’m just stating a theory.  ’ ‘  no one builds a house like this because they have arthritis. no one says, ‘oh, my knuckles feel a little funny. i’m gonna build a house with 500 rooms.’  ’ ‘  i hear ya, man. i agree with ya. i’m just saying this is a theory that people believe... and i’m relaying the theory.  ’ ‘  those people are idiots.  ’ ‘  i mean, you know what the doctor says: ‘nothing’s better for arthritis than a two story drop to the floor below’ right?  ’ ‘  although, i will say, i cannot imagine communicating with spirits produces any kind of receipt.  ’ ‘  that’d be-- yeah. i... i agree with your calling of bullshit.  ’ ‘  good! i’m glad we agree on something for once.  ’ ‘  i’m gonna lock myself in here with the ghosts.  ’ ‘  i knew that you were gonna do that and it still scared me. fuck you.  ’ ‘  hey, man. calm down!  ’ ‘  you almost scared me to death -- i’m never gonna forgive you for that. hope you’re fucking proud of yourself.  ’ ‘  there’s a lot of things that you can’t see that are real. you can’t see gravity -- that’s real.  ’ ‘  i can’t see gravity? yeah, i can drop an apple.  ’ ‘  hey, ghosts! tussle my hair. give me a little purple nurple or something, let’s have some fun!  ’ ‘  you’re the worst.  ’ ‘  if i have to spend one more moment looking at your silly face, i think i might murder you myself.  ’ ‘  we’re on our way to a nightmare.  ’ ‘  you’re on your way to a nightmare. i’m on my way to a nice retreat.  ’ ‘  this is a mistake.  ’ ‘  there’s also a thunderstorm rolling in so that’s fun.  ’ ‘  he looks fine. look at him! the kids fine and now i feel like a big weenie.  ’ ‘  you are a big weenie.  ’ ‘  this is the beginning of a horror movie right now.  ’ ‘  that’s an ominous cloud in the sky. some very atmospheric thunder.  ’ ‘  well, this seems all horrible and awful in general.  ’ ‘  look, there’s spiders everywhere, so that’s nice.  ’ ‘  see, i’m more concerned about the spiders than the ghosts.  ’ ‘  i thought i got bit in the asscheeks by a spider.  ’ ‘  anytime i get even remotely spooked, i just look to the monkey with the sunglasses.  ’ ‘  is that a bed? is that a guy? should we poke it with a stick?  ’ ‘  uhh, sure. if that’s what it’s gonna take to get us out of here then yes, i believe in all of this.  ’ ‘  this is a fucking nightmare.  ’ ‘  what the fuck was that?! holy shit balls!  ’ ‘  okay, i don’t care what his favorite was -- fuck that, let’s go.  ’ ‘  toodaloo, can’t say it was pleasurable.  ’ ‘  fuck everything about that place.  ’ ‘  ‘odd’ doesn’t even begin to describe this one. it’s very strange.  ’ ‘  my interest is piqued.  ’ ‘  they’re making their kids work seven days a week? my parents would maybe be like, ‘empty the dishwasher’ on a... you know, a thursday, and i’d be like, ‘this is bullshit.’   ’ ‘  i guess i’d run away from my parents if they made me work seven days a week, especially if i was shoveling horse shit and moving dirt.  ’ ‘  i’d fake my own death.  ’ ‘  you strike me as one of those idiots who likes to put their phone down and walk into the middle of the woods and experience nature and all that bullshit.  ’ ‘  either way, leaving your house in this day and age without your phone, without your credit cards, that’s already a death sentence. you can’t do that.  ’ ‘  this is what happens when you live on a farm.  ’ ‘  what wide generalization are you gonna make about people on farms right now?  ’ ‘  i just think you gotta read some-- some culture, eh, watch some two and a half men, i don’t care. just connect to popular media and know what the world is thinking, otherwise you go nuts.  ’ ‘  yeah, ‘cause nothing says sanity and civilization like a red robin resturant, right?  ’ ‘  how much trouble could a family of farmers get into?  ’ ‘  farmers and bears don’t mix. they don’t put bears on farms.  ’ ‘  i imagine this is a little bit more than they bargained for when they were trying to find that pikachu.  ’ ‘  that’s fucking terrifying.  ’ ‘  you just lock your door. you’re in a car, drive away. that’s not that scary. and then, you know, if the doors don’t work and he starts breaking a window, then guess what? time to die. and that’s a bummer.  ’ ‘  then guess what? time to die. and that’s a bummer.  ’ ‘  what point does the fear come in? about when the life is draining out of my body.  ’ ‘  oh yeah, excuse the public for wondering about your safety, sir.  ’ ‘  this does make me realize i don’t give people the middle finger enough.  ’ ‘  i guess i’ll just go fuck myself then.  ’ ‘  i’m not gonna go find my kids if i’m trying to get off the grid. off the grid, no more kids.  ’ ‘  alright, well... once again, we’ve solved nothing.  ’ ‘  do you think you could become part of a shared delusion?  ’ ‘  every time i’ve ever offered even a little bit of a delusional thought, you immediately shut it down.  ’ ‘  no one thinks they’re susceptible to shared delusions and then it happens.  ’ ‘  what if we’re in a shared delusion right now?  ’ ‘  is this all in our mind?  ’ ‘  it could be all in our mind. this could be the most elaborate delusion of all and we’re talking we’re talking about delusions which, in term, is actually a weird delusional loop.  ’

[jaeminlore]

incendio » onew

- prompt: i am sorry i accidentally transfigured your goblet into a gigantic, venomous spider, at least madam pomfrey was able to bring down the swelling, and look, i brought you some chocolate frogs (a prompt from this post) words: 2156 category: hogwarts!au, fluff a/n: i miss onew a whole lot!!!!! i'm super sorry i changed the plot but you said i could and also i couldn't find inspo for the one you gave me. i hope this one is good enough to make up for it.

the sweetest baby

- Sometimes, Jinki ran out of luck. His friends called it the "Jinki Effect" or rather called him "Jinki the Jinx" with the following definition: even if he did everything right, it would still end up wrong. Although it was a source of the boy's laughter, Jinki found it rather inconvenient in most situations.

For instance, in transfiguration class. Jinki never could seem to do exactly as his professor said. Professor McGonagall hated it, considering Jinki was so smart at his written tests. His practical tests, however, were a different story. He never seemed to be able to transfigure things the way he was instructed to. Need Jinki to turn a matchstick into a needle? He'll turn it into a pencil. Need him to turn a sandwich into a lunchbox? He'll turn it into a book. Today in particular seemed to fall out of his favor, since Professor McGonagall had decided to put them into pairs. Normally it would've been fine; Jinki could've grabbed his fellow Hufflepuff, Jonghyun, and it would be less embarrassing when he accidentally turned a loaf of bread into a pillow. But no, that would be too easy, Jinki assumed. Instead he was paired with you, a random Ravenclaw who seemed far too excited about this project for Jinki's taste.

Normally, he would be excited about learning new things. However, constantly messing things up since first year had made him a bit numb to that ecstatic feeling. He studied you for awhile as you listened intently to Professor McGonagall's instructions, gripping a golden goblet in your nimble fingers and shooting a smile at him. He started only for a moment at the way your eyes flickered with something of eagerness and childlike mirth. Jinki snapped out of it quickly in fear of being caught and scrambled for his own goblet to turn into a ... rat, was it? Yes, that had to be it, Jinki concluded as his fellow students began to wave their wands at their partner's goblets and turn them into small rodents. You faced him, offering a curious curl in your lips as you asked, "Aren't you going to go first?" Jinki could already feel beads of sweat sprouting against his hairline. He stuttered for a moment and got his wand out, clearing his throat before pointing it at the goblet. He spoke the words he vaguely remembered, although his mind was cluttered with images of you and whether or not you would think him stupid for not being able to perfect the spell. He muttered the spell and flicked his wand at the goblet. Nothing happened. "Huh, that's strange," you muttered. You reached for the goblet, only centimeters away before it transformed with a loud pop that echoed across the classroom. Suddenly the goblet was a spider, large and hairy like a monster with far, far too many legs. The creature darted forward, ignoring your shouts of protest, and latched onto your wrist. "Mr. Lee!" McGonagall barked. With a flick of her wand, she instantly transformed the spider back to it's cup form before turning to the shaken Hufflepuff once again. "What is going on here?" Jinki shrugged, his mouth hung open. He stared at you, holding your wrist with your face twisted in pain. "I-I'm sorry — I didn't mean to — " "You never mean to, do you?" Another Ravenclaw, presumedly your friend, snapped, causing Jinki to jump slightly. "C'mon, Y/n, let's go see Madam Pomfrey." Jinki watched you go, wondering how on earth he was ever going to make up for this one. "Stay behind class today, Mr. Lee," McGonagall said, "I have a few things to discuss with you." Jinki waited until the last student cleared out before making his way to McGonagall's desk, although every bone in his body told him to stay away. This was the moment where he would be kicked out of Hogwarts forever. He knew this day would come, however not now. He only had the rest of his seventh year left; he could graduate and then his professors would never have to worry about him again.

McGonagall had never looked as intimidating as she did just then, her narrow, cat-like eyes peering down at him from behind her half-moon glasses. "You're a very bright student, Lee. It never fails to amaze me how you manage to get perfect marks on all your written tests. However, I must remind you that you will take your N.E.W.Ts at the end of this year. Many of which are not written tests, but practical. If you can't get high marks in those tests, you could fail and repeat seventh year all over again. "I say this because I believe you have enough potential to complete the practical exams: get a tutor. If that doesn't work, get a new wand. Because right now you're likely to be sitting right at your desk this same time next year, while your classmates have all moved up and out. Think about it. Good day, Mr. Lee." "Thanks, Professor," Jinki managed to say despite his worry-clouded mind. How was he ever going to find someone who would want to tutor a seventh year? Tossing his newfound worries behind him, he quickly made his way to the hospital wing after a quick trip to his dormitory. Upon entering, he found you sitting on a hospital bed, your wrist freshly bandaged and your fingers slightly purple and swollen. "I'm so sorry," he blurted, running to your side. "I'm horrible at spells and I really don't know how this one happened but I promise it wasn't on purpose — Look! I brought chocolate frogs!" You laughed as Jinki nervously dropped the candies onto your lap. "You didn't have to do that, Jinki. I know you didn't mean to. Besides, I get today off of lessons, so I have to thank you." Jinki couldn't help but feel flustered when you winked at him, your playful aura surprising him in all the best ways. He watched you open all the chocolate frogs and check the cards. When you found one you didn't have yet, you patted the blankets in a gesture for Jinki to sit. "I wanted too," he assured you. "It's my fault you're in here, after all." "You can't help that you suck at magic," you said, and Jinki's gaze snapped to yours quickly, wondering if you were joking or not. When he saw the twinkle in your eye, he simply shook his head at your attempt to joke with him. "That isn't funny," he muttered. He changed the subject quickly after that, in the hopes of learning more about you, "So your name is Y/n?"

"Yep," you said, "Captain of the dueling club, and top in all my classes. I could help you, you know." Jinki bit his lip. He hated to admit that he needed the help, but at the same time he desperately needed it. "It's practical exams," he said, "If I have to use a wand, I'm going to fail my N.E.W.Ts." "That's not good," you said, your words coated in sympathy. "Tell you what, meet me in the empty classroom in the fourth floor corridor after class tomorrow and I'll teach you a few things, okay?" Jinki nodded, keeping a mental note to cancel tea with Jonghyun. "Okay. Thanks, Y/n and I'm really sorry again for everything. I hope your wrist feels better." - You took a deep breath as you stood before the door of the classroom you told Jinki to meet you in. This was it. One step in and you would be alone with your crush again. You had been watching Jinki from afar since your fifth year, and it was sheer coincidence alone that the two of you had been paired up for a lesson. Even if that lesson ended with you getting bitten by a venomous spider, you couldn't help but think it was an act of fate. The more you thought about it, the more stupid you felt, which would be the reason you never thought too much about your feelings for the cute Hufflepuff. Because when you did, you felt like a lovesick idiot. You wondered how long you could stay out here before Jinki would think you had left him.

With no time like the present, you braced your palms against the wooden surface of the door. A third hand appeared in the equation, pressing against the small of your back and eliciting a shout of surprise from you, whose nerves were already shot. Jinki apologized profusely for scaring you, his hand still on your back but now rubbing comforting circles into your skin. "I was just going to tell you to let me open the door — you know, because of your wrist and all." "Oh," you eyed your nearly healed wrist, still bandaged. "Thank you. I think I can open a door, though." Jinki ignored you and pushed he door open. "We can't take any chances." "Aw, do you care about me?" you cooed, looking up just in time to see Jinki's flustered face. "No," he shot back, "it'd just be a shame for my tutor to get hurt before she taught me anything." You laughed at his comeback, happy that he was playing along with you. "Okay, I'm going to bring out the practice dummies. I need you to be prepared to cast whatever spell I shout at you." "Like a speed drill?" Jinki, who could already feel sweat dripping down his back, asked. "Exactly," you said, pulling a train of practice dummies out in front of him. "It'll be a good drill to get you warmed up for the lesson. Diffindo!" Jinki caught on immediately and cast whichever spell you dictated to him. Still, although he seemed to be doing everything right, he couldn't get the complete spell out. "Your form is excellent and your diction is even better than mine," you told him, confused, "Do you remember what Ollivander said the day you got that wand?" Jinki stared at the stick of wood in his hand for a moment, recalling the memory to you. "He said it was tricky and had its own way of doing things. He said I must feel what the wand feels." Usually you took Ollivander's words as a load of bull, but this was really all you could think of that might be his problem. "Okay. So feel your wand as you cast. Ready? Incendio!" Jinki obeyed your instructions, but still nothing more than a sliver of fire sprouted from the tip of his wand. He groaned at the small wisp of smoke, almost as if it had done him harm. "I really am the worst at spells." "Not necessarily," you said, studying the way his face twisted. "What were you thinking about when you casted that spell?" "I was thinking of how much I wanted to be able to cast a spell."

"That's your problem," you said, walking over to the Hufflepuff boy. "Not only do you need to feel the magic through your wand, but you should also think of the spell and and what end result you want when you cast a spell. For instance, cast Incendio again and imagine the dummy disintegrating into flames." Jinki nodded and held up his wand. He took a deep breath and then— "Incendio!" The dummy burst into flames, the red fire curling up towards the ceiling. You hastily put it out with a water spell before attacking Jinki in a hug. "You did it! See, I knew you could! I'm so proud of you!" Jinki laughed and held on to you, burying his face in your shoulder, "Did that really just happen? That was so easy! Y/n, I'm going to pass my N.E.W.Ts!" "I know!" you said, his excitement contagious. "We should go tell McGonagall!" "No," Jinki grinned, "let's surprise her during the next transfiguration class, when I successfully don't turn anything into a venomous spider." You giggled, "I can't believe it only took you one lesson to gain control." Jinki's face fell then, and he looked down at his wand. "Well, I mean, they don't have to be over. Who knows? I mean, this could all be beginners luck and I could turn a rope into a snake tomorrow. Maybe we should keep having these tutoring sessions." Your cheeks felt abnormally hot, and you almost wondered if Jinki had secretly casted Incendio towards you, because that's what your skin felt like. "Okay. Tomorrow then, at this same time." "Great!" Jinki said, gathering his stuff to leave. He stopped right in front of you and you held out your hand awkwardly, not knowing what else to do. He ignored your hand and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before he straightened back up. "Well I'll see you later, Y/n." "Right!" you said, wishing he would leave before your face got too red. "Later!" »the end«

[anghraine]

“per ardua ad astra” - chapter thirteen

Sorry, I know this has taken forever. Talky transition chapters are a bit of a slog, but I think we’re finally getting somewhere :)

last chapter:

“We would aim to neutralize the threat in any case. This is simply happy coincidence.” Now he did glance over at Cassian, blocky features inscrutable. “An Alderaanian spy landing here is more luck than we ever anticipated. Yet here you are.”

Cassian considered him.

“Yes,” he said. “Here I am.”

this chapter:

Back in the elevator—bored rather than cringing—they both sighed with relief.

“For once we do have good luck,” she said, just to needle him.

Cassian leveled a long-suffering expression at her. “There’s no such thing as—”

“I know,” said Jyn, smug.

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve

Again, Jyn and Cassian dutifully made their way to the medbay. Again, Dr Esten scanned Cassian’s bones. To their vast relief, she announced that his ribs had continued to improve at the bacta-accelerated pace, and should be healed altogether within seven or eight days. For the present, she approved increasing hours of half-duty through the coming week.

Back in the elevator—bored rather than cringing—they both sighed with relief.

“For once we do have good luck,” she said, just to needle him.

Cassian leveled a long-suffering expression at her. “There’s no such thing as—”

“I know,” said Jyn, smug.

“And if there were,” he went on, “we’ve already had plenty.”

Doubtfully, she said, “Really?”

He didn’t reply except for the familiar, fractional tug of his mouth, something warm in the gaze intent on her face. Since Cassian almost always looked at her like that, Jyn saw no need to bother analyzing it. It wasn’t like she glanced elsewhere when they talked. And she, too, felt a certain difficult warmth when she considered him, one she suspected might be just as visible in her own features. Not to strangers, not most people, but—most people wouldn’t catch the flickers on his face, either. And Cassian wasn’t most people.

For all that acknowledged reciprocity, though, it still came as a surprise when the elevator jolted and a half-stumble had them plastered together. They must have drawn within a few breaths of each other, but Jyn hadn’t noticed.

She didn’t think Cassian had, either, to go by the flush matching hers as they disentangled themselves. He kept one hand hovering near her waist where he’d braced her, the imprint of his fingers lingering.

“All right?” he said, just as Jyn burst out,

“Your ribs—”

“They’re fine,” said Cassian, colour still high. “I took the pills right before we left. I won’t feel anything for another hour.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but let it pass as the elevator pinged. Only with that did they remember to back into a suitably professional distance, both stumbling a little. Cassian looked self-conscious and Jyn felt sure she did, too; she certainly felt it. They’d simply recreated the hand’s-width distance that allowed for collision in the first place, but she hadn’t noticed.

Well, why shouldn’t they? It was better to stay close in this place, anyway. You never knew what might happen.

All the more now, she decided over the next few days, with Cassian properly venturing out as Willix. Nevertheless, that proved less exciting than she hoped. Their commander, reasonably enough, decided that immediately assigning a Scarif evacuee to the quadrant’s prisons seemed unlikely to foster confidences. Cassian probably wasn’t yet fit for it, anyway. Instead, Tor ordered him to oversee the cryptanalysts for the first two days. The delay chafed, but after the hours upon hours of dredging up scraps, Jyn couldn’t help feeling like a child in a candy store as they observed Imperial techniques, Imperial knowledge, and best of all, Imperial intelligence codes.

Without anything but slight nods, they split up to survey as much as possible. While Cassian occupied himself with snapping out occasional commands or corrections, Jyn didn’t imagine that a mere aide could get away with it. And she didn’t want to. Instead, she cleared her mind of everything but committing as many details to memory as possible, covering a significantly wider swath than Cassian. He had the role to maintain, and she could see traces of increasing weariness as the hours rolled by; Jyn couldn’t do anything about those, but she could remember.

They hardly spoke on the way back to their quarters, expressions unchanging. But when the door shut behind them, they grinned at each other.

Shyness still crept between them, but slower and fainter. Cassian’s crooked smile turned uncertain, Jyn’s hesitant, and still they stayed where they were. He handed over his datapad without a word.

Needing no explanation, she began tapping out codes into the pad’s records, everything she could remember, as precisely as she could remember it. Once she’d finished, she handed it back and waited as Cassian added his own observations. That might have been correcting her record, but Jyn didn’t think so; she’d seen more and had less to distract her, so her memories should have priority.

“Can you secure it?” she asked, once his own taps ceased.

“Yes, I think,” said Cassian. “Better than yours, certainly.”

“I should hope so. Mine’s just nuts and bolts.” Jyn paused. “If we get back, this is going to be ...”

“Worth its weight in kyber,” he supplied.

Eyes meeting again, they exchanged satisfied looks. If, thought Jyn, always if—but now, a more promising one than ever.

That first day, after they finished Cassian’s shift and ate lunch, he insisted that he wasn’t tired and could stay with Jyn on her surveillance tours. She just scoffed and pointed at the bed.

“Esten—”

“I know,” said Cassian irritably. But as ever, he listened to reason and lay down. He was asleep within five minutes.

Jyn stayed long enough to feel reasonably sure he wasn’t about to do something foolish the instant she left. For all his caution, Cassian followed his instincts, whether they led to pragmatism or wild danger. If he felt it necessary, he’d risk anything.

She understood, and that was why she kept a suspicious eye on him for a good half-hour. Still, it felt odd—a bit creepy, really—to just sit there and watch him sleep.

It’s not my fault, she reminded herself.

Cassian didn’t completely relax in sleep, but Jyn could see years fade from him. As usual, her fingers itched to push his fringe back and irritate him by ruffling up the strict part in his hair. Even softened in rest, he had a sharp, angular face, all the more after days without real food and his clothes hanging on him before that. Imperial severity did nothing to help.

As if somehow aware of her wayward thoughts, Cassian shifted, turning his face into the pillow with a soft noise in his throat. Irrepressibly, she wondered if he ever made the same noise while conscious, or—

Death Star, she reminded herself.

Anyway, the movement had mussed his hair. Obscurely satisfied, Jyn left him to his probably-terrible dreams, and headed out for another day of eavesdropping on tedious conversations.

Five hours resulted in little beyond junior officers sulking that they’d have no shore leave on Alderaan. She’d never seriously anticipated that, but it only confirmed her fears. None of the senior ones seemed to anticipate a landing, either, though a major talked vaguely of a reconnaissance team. Jyn didn’t quite see the need for that, even if they intended a full military occupation rather than the attack she feared. Of course, there were always unknown nooks and backstreets in cities, and beyond them hidden routes and cavities. But those seemed hardly significant in this case.

As she returned to their quarters, Jyn decided that Cassian might know more about the higher levels of Imperial ineptitude. They could discuss the reconnaissance issue. It wasn’t like she didn’t mean to pass on everything she heard, of course. Unless he still slept, but—the thought came with some dreariness—there was no hurry. The next week alone seemed to stretch out in an endless, featureless corridor.

As it happened, he was not asleep. Jyn’s train of thought swerved as soon as the door rose halfway to the recess above, even before she stepped through.

Cassian sat at the table usually folded into the furthermost wall. With his right hand, he held an unfamiliar tool—pincers of some kind. With his left, he steadied Kaytoo’s severed, upside-down head.

“There you are,” he said, not looking at her. Since he had a wire from inside the head caught delicately in the pincers, Jyn didn’t take it personally. She darted inside, sealed the door back down, and overpowered a certain amount of queasiness as she strode over to the table. A weakness, perhaps, but she didn’t like corpses.

“Here I am,” agreed Jyn. She sat down in the narrow, metal chair attached to the table. “Ah … how’s that going?”

“I don’t know yet.” With slow, precise movements, Cassian disentangled two wires and then set the pincers down. He looked over at her, to all appearances very alert. “He took severe internal damage.”

“Internal damage?” Until now, she neither knew nor cared about the technical details of droid construction. All her work was with raw data.

“The head itself didn’t get the worst of it. You see?” He gestured at the mostly smooth metal. “The main frame must have. But everything is connected.”

She did see the head. Specifically, she saw the vacant, unlit eyes.

“Like a person,” said Jyn.

With one of his warm looks, Cassian nodded. “Yes. Not as much as most organics, but shocks to wiring in the legs can affect the whole system. At a certain point, central functioning stops, even if the data core is intact.”

“So there’s a chance that it is?” The head still unsettled her, but it receded into something like insignificance. “I thought there might be. I hoped.”

“A chance—yes. You gave him that much.” The softness in his face lingered. “Thank you.”

Awkwardly, Jyn nodded. To go by the colour on his cheeks, Cassian didn’t feel much more comfortable. He picked up the pincers again.

“Willix’s record says that he’s some kind of droid programmer,” she said. “You really are?”

To her vast relief, he turned Kaytoo’s head about, the eyes now fixed on the wall instead of Jyn.

“More or less.” With a indeterminate quirk of his brow, Cassian went back to carefully separating wires. “I’m nothing to a real specialist, of course. I haven’t had … ah, time for that.”

She doubted that he’d have made a profession of it in any case. Many people suffered the same sorts of losses they had, but few turned those losses into a cause at age six, and never swerved from it in twenty years. A man like that would always find something to fight.

“I did get a few years of training when I was a boy, though,” he added. “Not only droids, though that’s where it is most useful.”

Just as she’d gotten a few years of training as a girl, Jyn thought. Hers had taken a different direction, slicing data and breaking codes rather than building new ones—a microcosm, perhaps, of the difference between Saw and the Rebellion. And the Partisans didn’t have the people or the time to spare for dedicated training in anything. They learned the necessities as they went, or burnt out, or died.

“I imagine,” she said. “So you’ve got robotic spawn wandering around? Let’s hope I meet some eventually.”

“They’re not—” Cassian shook his head, then tilted it downwards. “Anyway, you already have.”

Genuinely taken aback, Jyn stared at him. “You created Kaytoo? You built him that way?” She thought it over. “On purpose?”

He made a choking sound. At first, she could only hope he wasn’t about to cry—hard to imagine with him, but he’d turned his face away and pressed his lips together and—oh.

“Er, no,” said Cassian, laughter running beneath the very slight tremble in his voice. “I reprogrammed him. He was already himself—Imperial droids develop like any others, if they manage to avoid wipes. They’re just coded with constraints on their behaviour and processes. I managed to strip those out with Kay and leave his consciousness intact.”

“Just took them out?” Jyn didn’t know whether to be skeptical or impressed. “I don’t know much about droid programming in particular, but Imperial protocols are usually pervasive.”

“You’d know,” he said, tugging at wires again. Despite the matter-of-fact tone, the sudden flash of respect in his face left her sure that he himself had only just remembered that. “It took months. Almost a year.”

Well, that was more believable. If less impressive.

She lifted her brows. “A year?”

“I was eleven,” said Cassian, setting the pincers aside.

Jyn swerved back. “You were rewriting Imperial code at eleven?”

With Saw, she’d had all sorts of training by eleven. But though she was a top-notch slicer these days, back then she barely knew what it was. Data work required a patience she only managed to grasp in her teens. Not that she couldn’t have managed it, if necessary. In some other universe where she’d been passed to the Rebellion instead of the Partisans, she felt sure she would have. Competed with Cassian, probably.

Something about the idea chilled her. Not the cold discomfort that Kay’s head provoked, but a shiver that ran over and under her skin. It was easy to envision that life, a more orderly, more cautious version of the one she’d led with Saw. If Lyra had survived, if she’d stayed, she likely would have turned to the Rebellion. The very year that Cassian wrangled with Imperial codes, Jyn might have walked into the Yavin base as a girl instead of a woman, hand-in-hand with her mother instead of cuffed. If—

Cassian’s face smoothed out, which could mean anything. “You can’t believe it? Gerrera must have had you doing more than that.”

“No,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “He was always more about blowing things up than figuring out how they worked. It was my mother who had me learning.”

“Your mother,” said Cassian carefully.

“I’m not insane.” Jyn fiddled with the pocket of her trousers. “I mean, before she died. She had some sort of laboratory, and she’d teach me while she worked, and have me help her with experiments when I got older. You wouldn’t believe how much I could tell you about rocks.”

“There’s not much I wouldn’t believe about you,” he said, dry tone at odds with a faint but almost sweet smile. “She was a geologist, I think?”

“Yes,” said Jyn. She could feel a peculiar softness drifting over her thoughts and face, unsteady and involuntary, but pleasant for all that. Not happiness, but perhaps some near cousin to it. Distracting herself, and hopefully him, she lifted the crystal out of her pocket by the cord. “She was the one studying kyber crystals, originally. This was hers.”

When Cassian reached out with his free hand, Jyn nearly twitched. From the moment that her mother bound the kyber crystal around her neck, she’d fought to keep it. The necklace was the one thing she could claim as entirely her own, and she had not retained it this long by letting it fall into the grasp of others. Holding herself very still, she said nothing, letting the crystal dangle between them.

“Kyber,” he repeated, fingers only just brushing it. “This has the power to destroy worlds?”

“You’d need a bit more,” said Jyn. After all these years, she studied the planes and edges, the way light gleamed along them, somehow different against Cassian’s hand. “My mother never imagined—she didn’t care about practical applications. And she didn’t trust the Republic.”

“Good for her.” He lifted his eyes to hers and instantly pulled his hand back.

“I don’t mind,” she said, surprised to find it true. That in itself made her uncomfortable, and she hastily changed the subject. “So the Rebellion started you on data work? At six?”

He paused, then shook his head. “It was just political dissent and mercy missions then. The missions became a cover for sedition soon enough, though, and it was easier to pass them off as helping war victims with actual war victims there.”

It only took a few seconds to put that together. “Your job was being a tragic orphan?”

“Many tragic orphans,” said Cassian.

She gave a short laugh. “Of course. You were that convincing?”

“Yes,” he said frankly. “I was valuable because I could remember the stories I needed to tell and act them out, but I looked small and”—he gestured vaguely—“pathetic.”

“I can imagine.” Looking at him now, she really could. His fine-boned features, often harsh, lent a certain delicacy to his face when he felt like it. He’d already shaved off a good half-dozen years with his beard, looking like a remote relation to the Rebel captain she’d met less than a month ago. As a literal child, no doubt Cassian could have turned himself into something fragile and pitiful when needed. “Missed your calling on the Holonet, did you?”

“My sister used to say so.” He looked startled as soon as the words left his mouth, and quickly got to his feet, picking up Kay’s head and taking it back to the lockbox.

She already knew there had been a sister at some point, but it struck her as odd, nevertheless. There was something profoundly solitary about him, as she felt in herself. Until he mentioned Rana and her goggles, she’d assumed he must be an only child, too.

Jyn pocketed the crystal. “She was older, right?”

“Yes. Five years.” Cassian, half-kneeling, fiddled with the lock on the box. Re-setting it, no doubt; if she had succeeded in preserving Kaytoo’s data, not much could be more dangerous for discovery.

When he rose and turned back towards her, he looked friendlier than she’d expected from the clipped answer. Baze, she remembered, had thought he looked like a friend. Baze, of all people—but she supposed she’d thought so, too. The realization of his real plan for her father had come as not just horror, but a shocking betrayal. After so many breaches of trust, she never imagined it from this man she’d known for little more than a fortnight.

Maybe time didn’t matter much in war. When it came down to it, Cassian probably hadn’t imagined himself choosing faith in Jyn over the Rebellion, either.

He said abruptly, “She used to tell me to cry to get us out of trouble.”

Jyn nearly laughed. “You can cry on demand?”

“I could as a child,” said Cassian, looking uncomfortable.

“Useful.”

The discomfort vanished, his eyes brightening in one of his incomprehensible changes of mood. “Well, yes. When I was … eight, I think, I had to be this girl rescued from Fieris—”

“Girl?” she said.

Unperturbed, Cassian replied, “Back then, I looked more …” He gestured vaguely at his face. “Ambiguous. I wasn’t even human all the time. So they had me with, you know, curls and grime and dust everywhere, and when Imperial troops came to examine the ship—we had crates of blasters—I just started crying and screaming. I didn’t have to pretend not to understand the questions, since I didn’t speak very much Basic yet, and kicked and bit every time anyone came near, while the senator apologized and—ah, they left quickly.”

Jyn, imagining a tiny curly-headed Cassian shrieking and biting Imperial officers, gave up the fight and snickered. “Sounds satisfying.”

To her alarm, he broke into the bright, dimpled smile that he usually reserved for lying, absent the usual traces of coldness. “Very.”

She felt a bit like he’d brained her with one of her new blasters. It was profoundly unfair. Not to be outdone, she let herself return the smile without any attempt at restraint, her own as light and vibrantly alive as she felt in that moment. Not triumph, not relief, not even hope: just the sheer pleasure of their coexistence.

Gratifyingly, Cassian looked a bit dazed.

“I’ve never cried on cue,” she admitted, “but—all right, I’m sure you can guess that Saw didn’t laugh much.”

One of his hands had rested, curled, on the table. Now he flattened it out. “Gerrera? I wouldn’t have imagined it, no.”

“Well,” she said, “let me tell you what happened when I was ten.”

The transfer to prison duty proved less interesting than Jyn hoped, though she’d known better than to expect it.

They were posted in a prison only a few floors above the entrance to the Death Star. The lower ranks, of course, did most of the actual work of feeding, guarding, and terrorizing captives. Minor officers oversaw them, while the current commander stood guard at the main terminal, keeping track of changes, managing personnel and prisoners, issuing orders, and dealing with outside interference. It was profoundly dull—all the more so for Jyn, stuck at Cassian’s side with vastly less authority to do anything.

She did, at least, have somewhat more freedom. As often as they dared allow, she strode up and down the halls, trying to inconspicuously take the measure of other staff and memorize the structure of the prison. The rest of the time, Jyn stood by while Cassian chatted, in a standoffish way, with the sergeants, corporals, and lieutenants who answered directly to him. Soon, she was just about ready to drill a hole in her brain, not assisted by the sheer amount of time it took to travel between the prison and their quarters.

Bodhi laughed at her. “Boring is good, sergeant.”

“Sure it is,” said Jyn.

“Any moment that those … Rebel scum aren’t causing trouble has to be an improvement.”

She felt rather like a proud aunt. “More or less. Who knows what they’re planning, though?”

“We’ll figure that out when it happens,” Bodhi said, firm despite the faint edge of shrillness. “How is the captain?”

“Much better.”

His voice settled into good humour. “Really?”

“He stole my blanket last night,” she told him, almost as entertained by his strangled laugh as she’d been by Cassian’s guilty face. “In fairness, I kicked it off at some point. I run a lot hotter than him.”

“I bet everyone does,” said Bodhi. “Remember what he wore when we met? It’s not—it wasn’t all that cold.”

Hurriedly, she said, “Right! I didn’t need more than a scarf, and he was huddled in that fur coat. It’s not like he’s from a warm climate, either.”

“He’s told you where he comes from?” Bodhi asked, sounding startled.

“Alderaan,” she said. “Up in the mountains, too! There really is no excuse.”

“Oh, like—”

Jyn’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Have you seen …?”

“No.” Though the risk of interception wouldn’t come from those physically near, Jyn still peered about the women’s fresher. Completely empty, as usual. “We don’t want traitors looking at us. And it’s a nice post, when all is said and done. We’re not risking any appearance of … conflict of interest.”

“Huh,” said Bodhi. Without a body to study, face and gestures, she couldn’t quite tell if he understood. After what he’d managed so far, though, she couldn’t seriously believe that he didn’t.

Putting Cassian and Princess Leia aside, she asked Bodhi about news from his end. But apart from the same hints she’d heard about a reconnaissance team, he could report nothing. He felt sure his rudimentary combat skills had improved, he got along with the other troopers—Jyn nearly shuddered at the thought—and his commander seemed satisfied with all the transferred troops. They couldn’t hope for much more than that.

As far as Jyn and Cassian’s own duties went, they picked up nothing suspicious from any of the officers, Alderaanian or otherwise. Jyn felt no surprise, but it came as a twisted relief; this way, they didn’t have to choose between their cover and what passed for decency here. Instead, the first three days in the prison dragged on vacantly. By the end of the third, she found herself looking forward to the arrival of the sneering officer who always relieved them; Jyn hadn’t bothered to learn his name, but she knew his shift had been moved to accommodate Cassian’s.

He resented Cassian and alternately insulted and leered at Jyn, but he was very nearly pleasant as he marched through the door.

“Lucky bastard,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me?” said Cassian.

“I hear we’re coming out of hyperspace,” the officer said. “Ten minutes or so.”

Jyn’s fist clenched behind her back, pulse ticking in her ears. Exchanging a glance with Cassian, she swallowed the hot lump in her throat.

“About damn time,” she said.

“You said it. Now you can go see, but I’m stuck in here.”

“A pity,” replied Cassian, clapping his shoulder. With that, they strolled out, the usual silent halls hectic with officers and stormtroopers and the occasional droid.

Jyn and Cassian turned to each other, wide-eyed.

“Do you think—?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. She felt her skin heat with the pounding of her blood, but he was pale.

She could think of nothing else to do. Neither, plainly, could Cassian. Without another word, they walked together towards the nearest available viewport. It took a good ten minutes, with other officers clustered like insects in front of pane after pane. Jyn and Cassian had only come to a standstill when the relentless light of hyperspace fled, darkness illuminated by the gleaming planet in front of them.

Alderaan.

Cassian stared unblinkingly at his world. He’d told her that it wasn’t his home; the city of his birth had been blown to rubble twenty years ago, its place entirely supplanted by the Alliance. Yet he still talked of Alderaan with pride, echoed resentments he could only have absorbed second-hand, admired the senator, murmured Alderaanian to himself when he thought her asleep.

She’d never had anything like that. Jyn could hardly call Coruscant home, and the rest of her life was spent hopping from town to town and planet to planet. Home meant people, not places. These days, it meant Cassian.

In that moment, she couldn’t regret it. Jyn suppressed the urge to reach for his hand, not knowing if she wanted the comfort for herself or for him. Instead, they both stood perfectly straight, gloved fingers clenched at their sides.

“Alderaan,” said someone watching from the next panel. “There it is, thank the Emperor. We’re finally out.”

A sergeant replied, “I’ve never seen it before. You’re sure we won’t get shore leave?”

And without warning, without explanation, green light lashed towards the planet. The same horrifying light she’d seen as they fled Scarif, but brighter and more poisonously vivid—Jyn and Cassian’s hands did fumble together now, dread choking her—and with a blinding flash, Alderaan exploded into fire.

Gasps and chatter echoed meaninglessly in her ears, nothing tethering her to the galaxy but the crushing grip of Cassian’s fingers. She couldn’t look at him, look at anything but the fading ring radiating out where billions of people had lived, thirty seconds ago.

Papa, she thought numbly. Papa, I’m so sorry.

“Yes,” said the first officer. “I’m pretty sure.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Four Minutes” (Rated NC17)

After being apart for a week, Sebastian rushes over to his boyfriend's house with the promise of sex all night long, until Kurt screams his name.

But that's not exactly how it goes down. (1343 words)

I set this in high school, with Kurt as a senior at McKinley and Sebastian a senior at Dalton, because I would have loved to have seen Kurt spending his senior year having all sorts of dirty sex with this handsome boy. Dare to dream ;) Also, for anybody curious, these are Kurt's pants.

Read on AO3.

“God, I want you so bad!” Sebastian growls, the sentence finishing with his tongue in Kurt’s mouth as he lifts Kurt up and attacks his lips. Kurt giggles and squirms, tries to turn his head to the side so he can speak, but Sebastian pins him to Kurt’s bedroom wall, kissing unrelentingly, unwilling to let Kurt free for a second. They’d been apart for a week – a show choir competition taking Sebastian and the rest of The Warblers to New York while Kurt stayed behind in Ohio and sulked. Sebastian did everything he could to bring Kurt with short of shoving him into his suitcase, but the invitational The Warblers were performing at coincided with mid-terms at McKinley, and if Kurt was going to get into a college without the word “community” in the name, he’d have to ace them all.

That meant no cutting classes to fly off to New York, the city of Kurt’s dreams, to watch his boyfriend shake his ass on stage.

“Do you?” Kurt teases. He finally gives in, stops the struggle and lets Sebastian assault him at will, only wincing once when Sebastian squeezes his ass – not because it hurts, but because Kurt didn’t have the chance to change before Sebastian barreled over to his house straight from the airport. Kurt is still wearing his favorite Marc Jacobs silk pants, and Sebastian is stretching the seams.

Sebastian squeezes again and pulls Kurt close, rutting against him. Sebastian’s erection, already thick, strains against the fly of his slacks, and Kurt decides fuck it. If Sebastian shreds these pants, it’ll be for a good cause.

Besides, Kurt can always get him to replace them. These are kind of last season anyway.

“A-ha,” Sebastian groans. “It’s been so damn long. Fucking you all night … it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Thank God your family isn’t home,” Sebastian whispers, hot and hoarse against Kurt’s cheek. “I wanna hear you scream my name.”

Kurt’s face burns hot, his heart pounding in anticipation. God, that sounds so good right now. “So you weren’t spending all of your down time getting better acquainted with your right hand then I take it?”

Sebastian huffs, lips and teeth moving down Kurt’s neck. “Are you kidding? Do you know who I was rooming with? Two Mormons and a Jehovah’s Witness epically cramping my style. Besides, I promised you I wouldn’t.”

“True. But you do make a lot of promises.”

“And I keep every one.” Sebastian chuckles darkly. “Especially the bad ones. What about you? You put on any Celine Dion and romance yourself while I was gone?”

“Believe it or not, I was able to restrain myself.” It helps that Kurt has never really been too comfortable with masturbation, and that privacy in his house, even with the door locked, could be severely lacking at times. Tonight, with his dad and Carole out of town and Finn spending the night at Rachel’s, is a gift.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. I was holding out for this, so you’d better make it worth my while, Smythe.”

“Oh, I will.” Sebastian’s mouth slides down Kurt’s neck to the place where a single swipe of his tongue will make Kurt tremble. “You can count on that.”

“So, tell me …” Kurt gasps when Sebastian’s mouth, the mouth Kurt’s been missing, the one he’s been dreaming about going down on him, gnaws at his shoulder, then takes a leisurely trip back up his neck to his ear “… what exactly have you been thinking about?”

“How I’m going to have you on all fours. How I’m going to pound your ass for hours.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. That’s so.”

“Well …” Kurt wriggles out of Sebastian’s grasp. He likes Sebastian’s vision, but he has a few ideas of his own “… I might like to offer an alternative.” He opens Sebastian’s fly and sticks his hand down his pants. Long fingers wrap around Sebastian’s cock, and Sebastian’s head falls back, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Jesus Christ, Kurt!” he moans, grinding into Kurt’s fist. His body shudders, and he knows something disastrous is about to happen. He feels the edge of it rippling beneath his skin, trying to force its way through, but he railroads on, trying to ignore it. He can push through, overcome; he’s always been able to. It doesn’t matter that Kurt’s the ultimate. It doesn’t matter that Kurt is, by far, the sexiest boy that Sebastian has ever hooked up with, even if he’d tried his hardest at first to deny it, to cover those thoughts up with insults and cheap jabs. It doesn’t even matter one single bit that Kurt has already started tearing Sebastian’s clothes off – literally - one button flying through the air and landing on the floor, skittering away to God knows where. Sebastian loves when Kurt gets like this. He’s so animal, so fierce. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. Sebastian would have never guessed that of him, that he wouldn’t just roll over on his back and expose his belly like an eager bitch. Kurt doesn’t ask for permission, he just takes and takes and ...

Is that his mouth on Sebastian’s …?

Sebastian’s eyelids fly open, that edge beneath his skin tearing through with the flaming heat of an active volcano. “O-oh …” he stammers. “Oh God … oh no …”

Four minutes later …

Kurt sighs. It’s not subtle. Not at all. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth with a breathy, disappointed, “Hmph,” at the end. This is the twelfth time in two minutes that he’s done that.

That’s not a good sign.

Kurt and Sebastian didn’t make it to the bed. After the initial shock of Kurt’s mouth on Sebastian’s cock, Sebastian became paralyzed … until he started to cum, jerking into Kurt’s mouth like his body was trying, against Sebastian’s will, to shove his cock down Kurt’s throat. Then his knees gave out, and after that, he couldn’t find the energy to crawl. So that’s where they stayed, lying side-by-side on the floor, not talking, not touching. They’re only a foot-and-a-half from where they started. Kurt’s bedroom door isn’t even shut.

Sebastian sneaks a look at Kurt. Before Kurt can sneak his own peek at Sebastian, Sebastian’s eyes dart back to the ceiling.

“So …” Kurt sighs a thirteenth time. He leaves that one word hanging in the air between them, giving Sebastian an opening to apologize, possibly beg for forgiveness.

“So …” Sebastian exhales in frustration “… was it good for you?”

Kurt snaps his head and glares, ready to lay into the conceited asshat he insanely refers to as his boyfriend, but he sees Sebastian’s tight-lipped embarrassment, his cheeks turning a shade of red Kurt has only seen on Japanese candy, and he blurts out a laugh, eyes squinting tight until tears leak from the seams. “No! Not in the slightest!”

“Hey!” Sebastian whines when Kurt snorts. “It isn’t that funny!”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” Kurt agrees, no for Kurt, anyway, although it kinda is – the great, self-proclaimed sex fanatic Sebastian Smythe, the fabled French Whore of Westerville, lasted all of a minute forty-five seconds inside his boyfriend’s mouth. At the start of the year, when Sebastian was trying to undermine Kurt and The New Directions, Kurt would have found that hilarious.

It still is, but in a more ironic sense.

“Well …” Sebastian turns on his side to look at his boyfriend “… are you kicking me out now, or do I get the chance to make it up to you?”

Kurt rolls to face him. “You’d better make it up to me, or I’m dumping your ass right this minute.”

Sebastian smirks like the devil, confidence returning, as he rolls onto his hands and knees and climbs over Kurt’s body. Kurt crunches up to kiss him, to reignite some of that heat from earlier, but Sebastian’s hand on Kurt’s shoulder pushes him away. “Nu-uh-uh,” he tuts, “you’d better put that mouth away for now. It’s dangerous.”

[alexandraburton-x]

@zachwinthrop      zach slung yet another glass of champagne to the back of his throat, becoming addled with the frothy ( b u b b l e s ) ascending beyond his logic. low-bass heartbeats thumped throughout the vehicle, causing tremors to rumble right beneath their feet. faith’s laugh chimed in his ears. he turned his chin to her, grinning, a weightlessness floating through his body. he was sure he had gotten everything R I G H T this time. faith wasn’t destined to be in his life forever, they were both more than aware of that, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t retain and relish in her for now. his game plan was simple – wait patiently for alexandra to recognise that whatever asher did for her wasn’t half of what he could do for her – and then it would all work out. he was certain. and if it didn’t he would invoice her his car repair bills.         the couple pulled up outside the apprised cocktail lounge and emerged to a squall of flashing lights, shielding the mouths curling around their names, shouting to look here, smile this way, and do you have any comment on the photos from the bbmas after party? amanda must have tipped them off – there had been solicitude surrounding his name the past two weeks after his great DISAPPEARING act and accounts sighting him drunk and disorderly, or just plain disorderly, in more than one location. faith had followed suit and hastily gone into hiding until his team had reigned him back under their control – their anxieties simmered, but it was known among them, ( although unspoken ), that zach did what he wanted, and it was their job to cover his tracks. but to amanda’s relief he returned as though nothing had happened at all, and she knew better than to grill him. leaking his whereabouts to the press didn’t bother him – in fact, it lulled him into a faux entrapment that his life had settled into a comfortable M E D I A N.         inside, garish lights swathed the surface of his sun-deepened rind until he appeared to be natant in rippling colour. the paparazzi subsided, leaving only the underlying thrum of music and slurs ghosting the rims of cocktail glasses. ❝ i’ll never get tired of having the thing everyone in the room is gawking at on my arm, ❞ faith drawled, redolent syllables pronounced upon the shell of his ear. he tosses an idle smirk over his shoulder. ❝ did you just call me a THING? and also imply that you own me? faith coleman… ❞ he mocked, leaning across the bar to open a tab. ❝ people don’t own me, i own everything. ❞ he murmured, emerging his lips upon hers. she perches upon a barstool looking like some perverted fantasy – with her hips stretched like a wooden Christ, lips painted dark as blood and even hair so golden it could have only been the result of some somber presage. he stood at her back, his hand cradling the exposed base of her embowed spine. zach wilts around her, balancing the unopened phial of moët & chandon dom perignon in a greedy palm.         they share the exorbitant elixir between them until the bottle is almost drained and he feels dizzily inebriated – the kind that doesn’t leave his memory with boring holes the next morning – and he had taken a seat at the plush barstool beside her. ❝ i’m drunk, ❞ he garbles merrily, tipping his flute toward her. she raises a sculpted eyebrow. ❝ as am i. are we lowering the cachet of this place? ❞ zach laughs. ❝ obviously not. we’re the coolest people here. ❞ he is jeering, but faith allows her misted gaze to dance over the crowds of people adorning the lounge as if searching for a worthy contender to their ‘coolness’. and then she freezes on the space hanging right above his shoulder. he doesn’t notice.        ❝ zach, i think alex is here. ❞ his heart gyres, but he keeps his eyes steady upon faith’s defined features, hand on her knee. ❝ yeah? ❞ he goads. he could have laughed aloud. she disappears, positively UNTRACEABLE for three years, and suddenly, she’s everywhere. she’s all over him like some kind of terminal ( r a s h ). not that he particularly minded. perhaps this would be fun, he mused. ❝ that B I T C H, ❞ she seethes, stunning zach for a moment. but then he remembers the lies he had spun her. whoops. ❝ i should go over there and say something. i want to. i want to say something to her, see how brave she is then. ❞ a clean row of ivory sinks into his plush lower lip, biting back a laugh. he takes her chin in his fingers, re-directing her gaze to him. ❝ i promise you i’m telling you this for your own good, ❞ he cautions. ❝ faith, that girl will eat you A L I V E. ❞ faith physically deflates in her seat, a pout protruding her bee-sting lips. ❝ no sulking, ❞ he instructs, standing and holding her hand to guide her. ❝ we can do this theeasy way… who knows? maybe you’ll even become friends. ❞ zach grins at her reassuringly, turning on his heel.        and there she f u c k i n g is. clinquant and glowering at him like some kind of scorned norse goddess. he smiles obliviously, ear to diamond-adorned ear. he almost doesn’t see that pathetic excuse of a clone practically clasped around her like she was his life-source at her side. ❝ alexandra! and C O. ❞ zach doesn’t even offer asher a glance – his eyes entirely transfixed on a woman he would never, E V E R, be able to fucking shake. he takes the liberty of seating himself at the private booth, tugging faith’s arm lightly to join him. he wasn’t sure what he was feeling – hysterical, maybe? he was too giddily drunk to care. he was teetering somewhere between outrageously jealous, realising he had no right to be as the FRIENDSproposal was entirely his idea, and amusement in its purest form.       ❝ well isn’t this just a merry fuckin’ coincidence! ❞ he squeezes faith’s thigh encouragingly, then glances to her. she smiles, and then he does too, because she’s fucking gorgeous and all four of them know it. and it was sort of SEXY that she had the confidence to put a brave face on. stupid and asking to be buried six feet beneath alex’s louboutins, but sexy regardless. ❝ hi, ❞ she coos sweetly, curling a possesive claw around zach’s bicep. ❝you must be alex. i’ve heard plenty about you. i’m faith. coleman. and you..? ❞ she turns to asher, raking honeyed hues over him as painfully slowly as she could manage.

        alexandra protracted her daedal, manicured fingers out toward the bottle of armand de brignac, whirling them around the neck of the generous glass. ❝ friends? ❞ asher S T I F L E D, his starless tinctures immense with amusement. ❝ i must’ve missed something in between the psychopathic rage & his charming mug shot that would warrant ( f r i e n d s h i p ). ❞ her delicate shoulders wrenched without care, soft laughter fading from between her varnished, plush sepals. hearing someone else drawl what she’dA L W A Y S known was hilarious, substantiating zach’s plaintive position in her otherwise peachy life. she poured the blush tinged bubbly into her crystalline flute, which compulsorily danced toward her mouth – watering pout. ❝ you’re right, babe, ❞ she respired, the delicious scent of candied liquor laced within her warm breath. she placed her palm gently upon his inner thigh, wanton curves twining to lure his pure petals into a kiss. ❝ and that’s why i need you. because you’re N O T H I N G like him. ❞          asher grinned, immaculate ivories melting her into a plash of ( a p h r o d i s i a ). ❝you’re wasted, aren’t you?” she wrinkled her cherub nose, molten chocolate curls spilling over her shoulders as dipped her head to the right. ❝ no? what? ❞ alex began to laugh, her full glass of champagne threatening to spill from its vessel. but her twinkling moment of pretending zachariah winthrop was V A P O R O U S was over before it started. the sound of his fabricated timbre caused her blood to simmer. it wasn’t an amiable act, but rather one to demonstrate his dominion. she wouldn’t allow him that, not now & not ever. restraint laved her ireful silhouette as she turned to attend to him. alexandra smiled, not out of charm or civility, but out of M E R C Y. auric hues relented as he opts to secure a place at their table – a bold choice, but not unexpected. their ( e n t i r e ) relationship had been a game and his moves were as predictable as his envy.          ❝ isn’t it though? ❞ she mused, folding her sun – kissed stems one over the other as she swilled from her glass. she admired faith’s affinity, coiling a gentle hand around her fraudulent swain. it made her laugh at how S A D the entire show had become. ❝ have you? mm, to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. ❞ ironically, she had heard very little about faith with the exception of zach divulging she was a mere distraction from real life. asher shifted indignantly beside of her, his thickset fingers smoothing through onyx tresses, ❝ asher, nice meeting you, ❞ he forced in his dulcet tonality, providing scarce eye contact to either of their new guests. she cleared her throat, reclining softly into the crook of asher’s sinewy chassis, ❝ it’s nice seeing you again, zach. dry this time. ❞ she reminded, raking her manicured crescents against the stem of her glass.