#like the whole 'everything's gone to absolute shit and their poor tired brain just stops working for a minute before they collapse'

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Honestly love it when characters are just...really out of it but in a very specific way.

I love scenarios when someone's going through Some Crazy External Shit that's really extreme and traumatizing and draining and they're absolutely exhausted and their brain is just not in the right place & they're kind of seeing things.

Like okay if they're in an intense battle that's been going on for hours and they're bleeding and staggering and are still on their feet with adrenaline alone, but then they're hit badly again and kind of bleeding out and there's gunfire or lasers or magical explosions going on all around them and they're trying to stay conscious while also disassociating completely and when somebody grabs their injured body and starts to drag them from the battlefield they look up and all they can see are the shadowy arms of death before they pass out

Or someone on the run through a forest at night with a storm raging overhead, lightning threading through the sky and thunder booming with alarming volume, they're terrified and cold and certain either the storm will kill them or their pursuers will, and suddenly a lightning bolt strikes a tree near them and lights up the whole world for an instant, now there's fire and water and wind all around them at once and their ears are ringing and they're sure they must have already died somewhere in their chase

Anyway whumpees being in that panicked, adrenaline-ridden, in-bad-shape-in-a-multitude-of-ways state and then something just absolutely bonkers happens and they can't process it (usually followed pretty quickly by them losing consciousness either from exhaustion, cold, their injuries, or sheer panic)...just gets to me

[cyarikashakira]

Chimichangas

A/N: This is my first time writing a fanfic. I am super nervous but I have an overabundance of love for Joaquin Torres so I had to put it somewhere. I'm doing @caplanbuckybarnes's summer writing challenge.

Summary: Falling in love at the supermarket wasn’t on your to-do list today, yet here you were snatching looks at a cute stranger.

Warnings: (I don't know if these count as warnings) GN!Reader, No Y/N, Joaquin Torres is an absolute cutie pie!

‘They were gone. All of them.’ I thought as I rummaged through the wrongfully stocked freezer. A sniffle escaped, then two, which was followed by a full on wail.

“Who the hell put the Steak and Cheese chimichangas where the Chicken and Cheese chimichangas goes!?”

I slammed the freezer door and rested my head on it and placed my hand on the cold glass.

Casual shoppers and workers tiptoed around me while I grumbled to myself in annoyance. I just wanted my comfort food.

A full on breakdown in the middle of a grocery store and I gave no fucks. A tap on my shoulder and I whirled around ready to light up the poor soul who decided to bother me.

“What do you want?” I wiped the tears from my face with a growl. Giant innocent eyes looked at me in shock as I grimaced at him.

“Hi - um, can I help you?” He bravely pointed at his name tag which said ‘Joaquin’ with the Walmart name above

“Sure~ can you just point me towards the person who decided to sleep on the job and stock the wrong chimichangas in the wrong spot? I just wanna have a little chat.” I said with a fake smile on my face.

“Th-that would be me.” He gulped and pointed over his shoulder towards the stocking material behind him.

You peeked around him and just glared.

“So it was you. You have been declared as my arch nemesis. Where are the chicken and cheese chimichangas?”

“They are out of stock. But we can call you when they are back in stock.”

The air suddenly became tense.

“...Believe it or not, they already have my number because I buy them so often. It is Tuesday and it’s 8:30. They are always stocked at 8pm on Tuesday.” I looked down at my watch to double check the time. I crossed my arms ready to take my frustrations out on the worker.

“We are going to have to call some people.” He said plainly.

“What?” My head tilted to the side in confusion.

“For this chimichanga shortage. We need to call some people.” His smile got bigger as he continued talking.

“Chimi..changa shortage? If they are going to fix my day then you better call them.”

“I’m kidding..”

“Oh.” I let out a nervous laugh and made a face.

He ran a hand through his fluffy black curls and huffed. I took a look at his face, he was nervous.

“...Are you new?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“To the stock things department, yes. This grocery store, no. I’m so sorry that I stocked it wrong but thank you for pointing it out for me.”

I immediately felt bad because I realized that I was being a dick over some food.

“I’m so sorry. I’m just having a bad day. It was just a complete shit show. My cat got sick, my car is on it’s last leg and my boss is on my ass and I ran out of chimichangas and forgot to restock my fridge so here I am today - “

I rambled on and on.

“Hey, it’s okay. We all have bad days. I thought this was about to be a bad day for me also because you were upset at me.”

“I’m sorry again. I’ll live without them. I should go home before I embarrass myself even more.”

I lowered my head now feeling shy and more aware of my surroundings.

“Before you go, I think I have something that will make your day a little better. Follow me.” He turned swiftly and started walking away.

“Uh, no. I’ve burdened you enough today, sir.”

He stopped and turned to face me again. A smile formed on his face. Were those dimples always there?

“Come on. I’m just taking you to a person who can solve your problems.”

“Oh o-okay.”

I followed behind Joaquin towards the front of the grocery store. He stopped in front of the deli section and tapped a hand on the counter to alert the workers.

“Hey~ is Margie in today?” He said sweetly to the teenage girl who could barely see over the huge counter.

“Yeah Curly, she’s in the back. Let me go get her.” She ran to the back and pushed the double doors with force.

I looked at Joaquin with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“Why do they call you Curly?” A small smirk appeared on my face. He blushed and his hand went to his hair once again.

“My hair. It is how everyone finds me and the fact that I’m tall. Everyone has a nickname here. We are as much a family as capitalism will allow us to be. Margie is just...wait until you see her.”

The shock of blue hair caught my peripheral and I expected to see a teenager. No. A tall lady who was on enough to be my mama strolled up to the counter with a huge smile on her face.

“What can I do for ya, Curly Quin?” Her accent drawled as she leaned against the display case.

“We have a situation. Apparently, I suck at my job and a certain someone had an entire meltdown in the middle of the freezer aisle because they are having a bad day like it was my fault. I’m pretty sure they want to get me fired but I’m too cute for that, right? So we need a solution to their chimichanga problem.” He sarcastically and over exaggeratedly explained the situation to Margie and his smile got wider as he went on.

“So Grilled Cheese over here wants a chimichanga? How is that my problem?” Margie planted her eyes on me and I felt like I swallowed my heart.

For an old lady, her look was intense.

“I need the goods. The family secret, the whole enchilada, you get where I’m going with this. I’ll finally bring you back your book that you let me borrow when I first started working here.” Joaquin slapped on the puppy dog eyes and Margie rolled hers.

“I’ll believe it when I see it. That was a year ago. I’m never getting that book back and you know it. I’ll be back for you and Meltdown over here, assuming that is you.” She gave a small smile and moved to go towards the back doors. “Give me a sec.”

As soon as she disappeared, I face palmed and groaned.

“You guys are going to make fun of me forever, aren’t you?” I looked at him in despair.

“Oh yeah, you know it. Welcome to making history.” He smiled towards me, flashing a dimple.

“Is there a way that I can make everyone forget about this? I will pay you guys off. I promise. Just forget everything that happened here today.” I waved my hands in circular motions like I was casting a spell, earning odd looks from everyone around.

He laughed for the first time that night.

“It’s not every day a grown up has a total fit like a toddler. This has made my day and probably my whole week.”

I groaned again and stomped my foot in annoyance, ready to snap at him.

The back doors flew open and a brown paper bag was thrown in my direction. Joaquin and I fumbled to catch it at the same time and we butted heads.

“Good thing you knocked some sense into each other so I didn’t have to. Get out of here kids, your chimichanga problem is solved.” Margie smiled.

I opened the steaming paper bag and started crying.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” I started bouncing up and down with joy. I wrapped my arms around Joaquin and pulled him into a tight hug, crying on his shirt.

“No problem, I can’t breathe, please..let..go..” He said dramatically.

I immediately let go and cleaned my face putting on a huge smile. He took a deep breath and put his hand on his chest.

“You guys are the best and I am so sorry for taking my frustrations out on you. I really hope you can forgive me at some point.”

“Already forgiven. I just always want to do something positive with my day and make others smile. It’s all in a day’s work.”

“I don’t know how to thank you guys enough for the chimichangas.” I held the bag close to my heart, grinning widely.

“Go home and eat them. That’s thanks enough.” Margie deadpanned.

Oh. She was still there.

“Yes ma’am. Have a good night. Thank you for everything!” I waved goodbye to her.

“Don’t mention it kid.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow Margie!” He said to her.

She waved us off and we were on our way to the front doors of the store. We stopped just before the entrance, triggering the doors to automatically open. We were blocking the exit and people started going around us.

“I guess this is goodbye? Until I come in to restock my freezer again.” I said glumly, holding out my hand towards him to shake his hand.

“I guess so.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, placing it in my hand.

Question marks filled my brain as I looked down at his phone in my hand. He shyly placed his hand on the back of his neck.

“I told you whenever we restocked, I would give you a call so.. I would need your number for that.”

“Oh. But they already have my numb- Oh. Okay. Oh. Oh um, of course uh..”

I stuck my tongue out in concentration as I typed my name and number into his phone and handed it back to him.

“There you go. I uh, look forward to your call for whenever the chimichangas are back in stock.”

“Of course. I’m just doing my job. If they aren’t in stock and I’m off of work, can I still call you?”

My brain short circuited and I blinked rapidly at him. He was smooth. Toooo smooth. I studied his face for a joke.

“You aren’t joking with me, are you?” I put my hands on my hips.

“Nope, not one bit. Are you okay?” He questioned. I was sure smoke was coming out of my ears at this point.

“Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Just tired, it’s been a long day. I should get going.” I looked off towards the cars in the parking lot.

“It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry about your chimichangas and for my poor stocking skills.” He apologized sincerely.

“It was nice to meet you too, Joaquin. Thank you for everything. Am I allowed to hug you again?”

His brown eyes lit up and he furiously nodded. I wrapped my arms around him and he did the same to me. We let go as quickly as we started.

“I’ll see you around, Grilled Cheese.” He gave a two finger wave towards me and started walking backwards.

“Likewise, Joaquin Phoenix.” I started walking in the other direction.

“Haha. So original! It’s actually Falcon!” He shouted.

“What?” I stopped and turned back towards him but he was already gone.

I shrugged and walked towards my car. I opened the door and climbed inside, tossed the bag of chimichangas in the passenger seat and rested my head on the steering wheel. I released a huge sigh while lifting my head, started my car and began driving home. The street lights blurred past me on my drive home. My body was on autopilot as I opened the door, kicked my shoes off and sat on the couch next to my roommate with my bag of chimichangas.

I took a bite and immediately frowned.

‘Damn it. Steak and Cheese strikes again.’ I started laughing and shaking my head, dropping the chimichanga back in the bag.

“What is your problem?” My roommate said staring at the tv, not concerned to turn their head towards my hysterics.

“Nothing. I just had a meltdown in a freezer aisle and I think I fell in love with a stocker who is bad at his job.” I leaned back against the cushion of the couch and sighed dreamily.

“....no offense but you aren’t allowed to go to the store unsupervised ever again. You got issues...”

My phone began to ring and I just stared at the unknown number before answering.

“H-hello?” I stuttered.

“You will never guess what we just got in stock.” A light voice filled with laughter said over the phone. A huge smile formed on my face and I was booking it out of the door and yelled a quick bye to my roommate.

“I’m on my way.”

I hope you guys enjoyed this. I tried my best :)

[vostokovasmelina]

— 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝟑𝐂. (𝐬.𝐰.)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢  |  𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢 | 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

characters: fem!reader; sam wilson; archibald the tabby cat; sarah wilson

word count: 3.1k+

warning: mentions and descriptions of alcohol, death, grief, trauma, therapy, depression – i call this post-snap realism

series summary: after the blip, sam wilson gets home to an unpleasant surprise - his key doesn’t fit the lock anymore and his apartment is now inhabited by a stranger and a grumpy feline. however, the unusual encounter is only the beginning of their post-blip lives and the reader soon learns that what life takes away, it can give back in the most particular ways.

a/n: the ending is a dark unedited mess, so proceed with caution

Taking a cautious sip of your hot beverage, you watched this absolute gatecrasher of a man trying to make up his mind about whatever he was so confused about – Sam kept looking all around your apartment as if searching for something he had left there, his slightly lost and disoriented expression sending a sudden wave of guilt rushing over you. Now that you thought about it, it really must have sucked absolute cheese for him to come home hoping he could finally have that huge cup of strong black coffee he had been anticipating ever since having defeated that enormous purple bastard from Outer Space, only to find that his coffee machine was long gone and now this random lady with a philodendron problem and a judgmental cat were inhabiting the place with absolutely no room left for him whatsoever. It did sound tragic when you put it that way.

However, it really wasn’t your fault that you had needed to find a brand new residence approximately five years before. He really should have checked in with someone to make sure he still had somewhere to go home to. You were quite clearly the real victim here. And Lord only knew how poor Archie was going to process all the excitement of the day.

For a few seconds, you contemplated whether or not to put your thoughts into words, and eventually decided against it for the time being. The man had just helped save the world a few days before, after all, and out of what? Good conscience? Personally not for you, but you could appreciate it in others. And it would have been a real shame to die right when your fan-favourite succulents and killer new posting schedule had been attracting more Instagram followers than ever before. Thanks to the savior complex flaming inside of the gentleman standing before you though, the regular civilian had luckily escaped such terrible hardships. And special thanks to approximately a thousand and one other superheroes. Oh, and to an African country filled with similarly public-spirited people.

For a few awkwardly long seconds neither of you said a word. Sam kept looking around and you watched him look around, slowly lowering your mug onto the table and tilting your head slightly to the left. Weird how Sarah had never mentioned the brother believed to be dead for the last five years was this handsome. It is unfair, really. Some people are just naturally gorgeous no matter the shitty kitchen lighting, that tiny confused frown that had been sitting on their face for the last half hour, or those shiny black bugs for eyes tearing up ever so slightly to snitch on a long repressed yawn.

“Now that the drama is over and the Avengers as such are non-existent – have you considered a career in modeling yet?”

Sam snapped his head towards you with such force and speed that for a moment you were afraid you’d have to spend the rest of the afternoon sewing it back on his neck. You grabbed your mug still pretty much filled to the brim with tea and raised it back up to your mouth to hide your lingering half-smile behind a faded portrait of baby Archie on the ivory porcelain.

“Just saying, I would buy anything for this face on the package alone,” you continued with the confidence of a woman who hasn’t got a single drop of shame left in her body. But it was fine ‘cos you didn’t actually mean it, right? It was all just a joke, an attempt at lightening the mood and snapping him out of his puzzled melancholy. And that tiny flutter of your heart upon hearing Sam’s perfect little chuckle was but a momentary malfunction of the organ. The incident was purely physiological. No contribution from any emotional factors. It was simply an innocent coincidence that these two, completely unrelated things had co-occured.

So when your gazes met, you didn’t tear yours away in embarrassment – you stood your ground, completely unaffected and unbothered, ignoring the increasingly hot sensation in your cheeks when you saw Sam raise a cheeky eyebrow at you. Before even more damage could have been done, however, you decided to cut the party short.

“Oh, no. Don’t get your hopes up, Birdman. I simply couldn’t keep watching you in your deeply disturbed state.”

Very, very smooth. Cleared of all suspicion. Good job.

“Wow. Okay. That was cruel,” Sam scoffed and gave emphasis to his words by bringing up his right palm dramatically to his chest, right above his now most definitely broken heart. The overall effect got ruined by an annoyingly goofy grin in the end and before you even realised, you had already reached out for your massive mug again to drown your own erupting smile in the hot liquid.

In the silence that followed, however, you saw Sam’s smile fall ever so slightly, as if exhaustion or worry were holding onto the corners of his lips, physically tugging them down, and you shifted slightly uncomfortably in your seat. It was time you had stopped messing around with the poor guy.

“Look, I know this is weird but I’m sure we can find a solution. Just call Sarah so she can stop worrying now,” you suggested, finishing your tea and pushing the now empty mug to the middle of the table before leaning back in your seat.

“Ugh, yeah,” Sam started slowly, squatting down to get his mobile and the charger out of his massive sports bag. “Can I plug this in somewhere?”

You blinked at him a couple of times while he waited patiently for your answer. You could only imagine the number of missed calls and unread texts waiting for Sam on his phone, but you decided you didn’t know him enough to give him a lecture on behalf of his sister. So you just gave him a tired nod and gestured lazily towards your battered kitchen counter, Sam following your direction with his gaze.

“Above the microwave. Oh, and the socket farthest to the left–”

“–doesn’t work. I remember.” Sam flashed another exhausted but friendly smirk at you above his shoulder, and you allowed yourself to return the gesture to his back once he wasn’t watching.

“Right, sorry. Forgot I was the intruder here,” you joked, delighted to earn another one of those irritatingly lively chuckles of this man’s.

You seriously needed to get your shit together.

“Okay, while your phone is doing its thing, let’s call Sarah from mine, I guess” you continued, jumping up from your chair the moment Sam returned to the table and you headed towards your worn little couch where you scratched Archie gently behind his right ear. “Where have you put my phone, you dirty old man?” You cooed, smiling softly while sliding your hands under the cheap cushions and booping your irritated cat’s tiny nose when your fingers finally touched the cold metal you had been looking for.

Once seated again, you caught Sam staring at Archie, his eyes slightly narrowed in what appeared to be deep concentration. You furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head, waiting for your uninvited guest to notice you.

“I don’t think your cat likes me too much,” he finally said, slowly tearing his gaze away from the pet feline’s and looking into your slightly more welcoming human eyes instead.

You chuckled dryly, turning around to see Archie in all his glory on the couch. He simply gave you an unbothered look before completely losing interest in the two of you, and he hopped of the couch, slowly making his way towards your bedroom where you knew he would bundle up under your bed on the cosy carpet. He had apparently decided it was time for his beauty sleep.

“Yeah, he’s like that with everyone. Nothing personal,” you assured Sam, who offered a tired half-smile in return. You cleared your throat gently, eyes fixed on your phone’s screen and fingers already searching for Sarah’s number. Once you had found it, you handed it to Sam whose only job left was to press the call button. You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly and he let out a sigh while reaching out for your mobile.

* * *

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to talk to Sarah. Quite the opposite, actually. But he was embarrassed. Sam knew full well how furious his sister was going to be. And honestly, rightfully so. He couldn’t argue with that. After all, she did say there had been something she wanted to talk to him about. And Sam did hang up on her without a passable excuse. And he did let his phone die on his way back home to Louisiana.

Yeah, he most probably wasn't going to be nominated for this year's Brother of the Year award.

Their last call had happened two days before. Two days is a long time without any news from a brother who had just returned after having been believed to be dead for the past five years. And if you had been to ask him, Sam wouldn’t have been able to tell you what had gotten into him either but ever since the Blip, something had not been exactly right. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was going on, so he hadn’t brought it up to anyone, but his brain felt slow and foggy as if it hadn't had time to catch up yet.

Sometimes, Sam worried that the molecules in his brain had been mixed up and hadn't been put back into their original places in the process of the whole turning-into-dust-and-back-into-human-form-again thing.

It was a silly thought, yes, but with everything going on in the world, would it really be that hard to believe?

"Hey hon! What's up?" Sam's thought process was cut off by the endearing voice of his sister, and though he was aware all this affection was not directed towards him – given that he had called Sarah on your phone – his heart did swell upon hearing her again.

And then he said hi and it all went south from there.

Sarah was obviously pissed.

She asked Sam if he had any idea how many texts and missed calls she had left him, and no, he had no clue but if he had to guess, the number would have been way high up in the double digits.

Then she started going off on Sam, using different kinds of actually very creative euphemisms – which was a problem because Sam got so distracted by his sister's choice of words that her short, well-thought out rant had very little effect on him, but at least he had enough self-respect left to get his sister off speaker at this point.

"Look, Sarah, I know I messed up but I'm fine! I swear," he started, cutting his sister short while subconsciously picking at the skin around the nail on his index finger with his thumb. "What if I stop by Andy's and tell him to give me their best apple pie?" Sam added, hoping this promise would serve as an ice-breaker. Sarah did love her desserts. A lot. And Andy always gave a discount to the Wilson family, too.

When he heard his sister's tired sigh, Sam's heart gave a hopeful flutter, but he was rudely dragged back onto the ground on his way to cloud nine the very next second.

"I'm doing the shopping at the moment. Just got here and it's gonna take long," Sarah replied, annoyance poking through all her words. Then, the tension that had been dominating the pair's call suddenly seemed to evaporate as Sam sensed a weak shadow of a smile in her following sentence. "But that apple pie does sound good."

Sam couldn't help the grin that creeped its way onto his face and he didn't even care about Sarah's semi-serious threat, saying how they were nowhere near finished yet. He muttered out a quick sorry again, promised Sarah to give her regards to you and finished the call with a charming 'I love you' to which his sister replied with a snarky 'I bet' before hanging up with a promise that she would call again when she got home.

Sam let out a relieved chuckle before handing you back your phone and taking the final sip of his slightly lukewarm coffee, watching your bright red-nailed fingers tap away on the device, and he swallowed harder and probably louder than he had meant to. You just happened to put your phone down the very next second, so he tried to cover up the gulp by clearing his throat and shifting his gaze from your nails to your eyes.

Beautiful eyes.

Well shit.

"So, I guess you're staying," you started hesitantly, raising your eyebrows at Sam in a slightly impatient manner, which snapped him out of his blissful thoughts and thrust him back into reality.

Was he staying? He certainly had nowhere to go now that he was practically homeless and his sister was unable to welcome him in her own home for the next two hours, at least. But then again, you were a complete stranger whose afternoon he had just disrupted, and it didn't matter how weird it felt seeing you be so at home in his apartment because it wasn't his anymore. It was yours and you had all the right to kick Sam out and he had absolutely zero right to argue.

But, thankfully, he didn't have to.

"Which is fine, by the way. I did promise you an explanation, after all." Sam couldn't quite ignore the hint of dread behind your words and he was ready to object, to leave you alone and spend the rest of his afternoon doing God-knows-what, but then you offered him another cup of coffee followed by a tiny but honest smile, and Sam just couldn't bring himself to say no.

* * *

Sam Wilson was ridiculously easy to open up to.

It made you want to commit a crime.

His gaze was so intensely warm that after a while, you were looking at everything in your apartment but him just to avoid accidentally trauma dumping on him, especially when you got to the part about group therapy.

Because you had met Sarah at a group therapy session approximately four and a half years before.

It had been clear from the very first minute that neither of you had actually wanted to be there and that both of you had been forced into this situation. Sarah had been dragged to group by an overly enthusiastic co-worker of hers whose crush on the counselor had been probably more intense than the trauma she had suffered – she had lost a dog and her neighbor to the right whom she had always talked shit about behind his back. She was a nice enough woman, but considering that people had lost actual family in the Snap, her presence had always been mostly aggravating, to say the least.

In your case, it had been your grandmother who had bullied you into going to one of the sessions because 'she had the same rotten mentality when Miss Taylor told her to go but then she found it life-changing'. At this point, you had become so indifferent to everything in the world that you hadn't needed much convincing to go. You had told yourself it would be one session anyway after which you would have told Grandma Ethel that 'therapy was simply not for you' and could have been back to your usual Thursday evening routine consisting of a cheap bottle of red wine and depressing reruns of trashy British reality shows from the late 2000s.

The actual sessions had never worked for you. They might have if you had actually spoken up at any of them but you had never become quite ready to talk about your loss in front of a dozen other people, most of whom you had already known. But then you had met Sarah and something about her had made you feel secure, secure enough to talk about them for the first time, so you had started hanging out at a café not too far from the community center and it had become the best thing in your life.

"And the rest is history," you finished, getting up from your chair to put both yours and Sam's mug in the sink and watered your nearby plants while at it.

"I'm really glad Sarah had someone by her side," Sam commented and you could hear a hint of guilt in his words but you decided to ignore it. You simply nodded and muttered out a weak 'yeah', saying you were just as happy to have found a friend like Sarah.

Then Sam said something that made all the muscles in your body tense up and you froze completely for the next couple of seconds.

"And have you seen your family yet? Now that they've come back?"

It was an innocent question. He doesn't know the whole story. So calm down.

You slowly put down the glass you had used earlier to water your plants and tried with every particle in your body to put on the best toothpaste commercial-worthy smile you could force out of yourself before turning back towards Sam and answering his absolutely understandable question.

"Yeah!" No. "They're doing well, actually!" They're fucking dead.

Sam's genuinely happy smile was way too much to handle and if it hadn't been for a call from Sarah, you would have broken down in tears right in front of him the very next moment.

So instead of all that, you decided to turn right back around, pour yourself a huge glass of cold tapwater and down it in one breath while Sam finished his brief conversation with his sister. The stinging pain in your chest that followed was enough to distract your thoughts until he was finally at the door, saying goodbye and thanking your for the coffee and saying sorry for intruding and taking absolutely way too fucking long to finally leave.

"Hey, um... I could give you my number? If you ever need anything or..."

He can't be serious.

"Sure! You can, ugh, put it in my phone," you replied, your hands shaking dangerously as you reached into your back pocket for your mobile and handed it to Sam, who knew better than to comment on it.

Once finished, he returned your phone with one of those irritatingly joyful smiles of his and with a final 'see you around' Sam Wilson was off and you proudly patted yourself on the back for successfully holding it together until you finally reached your couch.

* * *

mini-series taglist – let me know if you want to be added

@softieyn

@mahvericks

@amirahiddleston

@fireghost-x

@samuelthomaswillson

@itsnottilly

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mcu taglist – join here

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[wwwafflewrites]

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 11—Bugs (Part 2)

The Winchesters had been generous compared to this guy. If you had been cramped before, this was suffocating. You were in the passenger seat, with a gag pulling tight on your lips.

To even consider fighting against him was a joke.

Your nose flared as you breathed heavily—as it was taking all your focus not to puke all over yourself and the van (considering you had a gag in your mouth—gross). 

You grimaced, tteeth grinding against the wet rag. Your headache was killer, and even though this was supposed to be a traumatizing event, you could feel yourself on the verge of passing out. 

You sure put the nap in 'kidnapped'.

The Winchesters had probably found your little crime scene already. They both were as quick as a whip, so it wouldn't be long until they figured it all out and came for you. That is, if you were important enough to look for.

You'd like to believe you were a little more valuable than a map to find John, now. You had planted your little hints—little bits of the future for them to digest. That had to be enough to intrigue anyone. Especially the Winchesters.

It would be stupid on their end to just let you go.

The van lurched to a stop and you threw your eyes open, not even realizing they'd drifted shut.

You were so tired.

Your vision was fuzzy and it hurt your head to squint into the night. You were miserable. But you watched as the demon left, and you did a double take as he walked over to a familiar vehicle, instead.

That's my car.

It was enough to get you to press your face closer to the window. A figure emerged from behind the car. 

Meg.

You watched, dumbfounded, as she approached the demon. Didn’t she first appear in Scarecrow? That was at least a few episodes away.

You tensed as she pointed in your direction. The other demon nodded, approaching the van again.

What are they saying about me? 

When he threw open the car door, you fell with it, falling down onto the gravel without any way to break your fall.

“Well,” Meg scoffed, kicking at you, "this is disappointing. This is supposed to be 'the one'? She’s a twig.”

Other Demon™ wrenched you upward—seriously, could we please stop with all the sudden movements?—and ripped the gag from your mouth. It left a line of saliva down your chin, but you were too miserable to care. 

You snorted. “Angels tell you that? Because they never lie.”

Other threw your back into the van, and your vision grayed out.

Shit.

You blacked out—only long enough for your knees to buckle, and for you to choke under Other's iron hold—and then you were back. You were barely able to shuffle back on your feet, sputtering.

The ringing in your ears was gradually drowned out by a buzzing, and everyone paused. 

“You,” you coughed wetly, “hear that too?”

Everyone turned to watch as a great swarm blocked out the moon and stars, and you barely had enough conscience to feel fear.

Bugs.

You slid down the side of the van, alone.

Light swam over the area. The buzzing faded.

Was it them?

Shouting. Shouting and light.

Had they come for you?

You felt your eyelids flutter.

You shuddered, sobbing into the dirt when you couldn’t move.

Your panic attack still crushed your lungs as you were forcefully shaken, and, terrified, you gawked into the green eyes of a cross Dean Winchester.

You tried to push him away, but he just pinned you down, scowling and shouting some more.

“—drove—?”

"—what else—?—is there—"

“—her—all we know—”

"—did you—left—should have—"

They were talking about you, but you couldn’t give a damn.

You were so so tired.

"—concuss—"

"—don't let—"

"—know!"

"—dead?"

"—!—"

Without warning, the light around you brightened to become one blindingly white abyss. When you blinked, Dean's face was all but gone, replaced by Castiel.

"Where am I?" you asked. There was no pain. Where had your pain gone?

"Heaven," he said. He left you no time for questions before his hand reached up, caressing—

You woke abruptly to a hard slap on your face.

You gasped—you could breathe!—and your eyes shot open. 

Your headache had melted away, your aches were no more, and the rings of torn flesh around your wrists were gone, as well as your handcuffs.

You were healed.

You blinked, feeling weirdly refreshed as you looked past Dean, as if to catch a glimpse of Castiel behind him. But there was nothing. Meg was gone. Other was gone. There was just a wash of light over gravel where they had all been.

“Whatcha' looking at?”

You looked him dead in the eyes and answered, “A bitch.”

Dean frowned. “Funny,” he said, wrenching you up by the arm and pulling you away from the van. “Thought you were dead for a good minute there." 

“Not dead,” you replied, "but that was horrible."

“I don’t know, it looked like fun.”

You rolled your eyes. Asshole.

Dean still had you by the arm, pulling you toward Sam, who emerged from behind your car.

"Entire car was invested," said Sam as he approached, your bag in his hands. "Got us some weapons, though."

Sam dropped the bag and out rolled the jar of peanut butter and your loaf of bread, which was crawling with bugs.

The last of my food.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Peanut butter and bread? You live like this?" He kicked the bag away like it was repulsive.

Well, screw you too, Dean.

"Also…" Sam trailed off as he grabbed a weapon. The angel blade. "What is this?"

"It's a knife," you said innocently.

Sam's expression pinched. "Yeah, I can see that," he said. "I mean, what does it do? What is it made of? And can it kill you?"

How ironic, considering you'd died a minute ago (or… you were pretty sure, anyway). It clearly didn't take much to kill you, and that blade wouldn't be an exception.

But they didn't need to know that.

"We could always just see for ourselves." Dean shrugged when you didn't reply.

You snapped at him, "If you wanted to, you'd have done it already. You need me alive." Man, you were beginning to sound like the typical monster. That was depressing. "And it's just a fancy knife. I stole it, okay?"

"You stole our gun too," Sam said as he pulled out their gun from your backpack. "And our dad's journal. You’re quite the thief."

You scoffed. "You're one to talk, Mr.CreditCardFraud. You both love to judge me for everything you guys do daily."

Sam's expression hardened. "Oh, right, because we kill innocents and work with demons."

You gaped at him. "Are you kidding me? You thought that entire kidnapping was me working with them?!" You were on the verge of hysteria. "And I'm sure you thought all those restraints were just funhousing, right? Good times with my demonic pals?"

"Not sure what you're talking about."

You frowned. "I mean just now. Big, burly guy? Ring any bells?" You didn't feel like mentioning Meg.

"Uh… no. Nobody was here but you."

You blinked.

What.

You glanced between the two of them. “But… there was sulfur left behind, wasn’t there?”

“Doesn’t mean anything," Dean denied.

"Because you think I'm a demon. Then why haven't you tested me with holy water yet?"

"We did. Earlier. When I knocked you out. But just because it didn't burn you, doesn't mean you're not something else."

"Either I left the sulfur, or I didn't. You can't simultaneously believe I'm a demon and something else," you said, exasperated.

"Watch me."

"The van, then. The demon drove the van.”

"You hotwired it," he said easily. "See, you left a ton of blood behind—definitely enough to kill a person, mind you. When we found you, you still had blood pooling out of your stomach. And then, magically, you healed. Not a scratch on you."

Blood pooling from your..? What were they talking about? He was exaggerating, probably.

You could see where he was going. And it wasn't helping your case. "Do a blood test, then. That blood on the sidewalk won’t match with mine."

Dean leaned back, tilting his head in consideration before nodding to Sam. "Fine." 

Sam reached over, slammed the handcuffs back on your wrists, and lifted you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. 

“Kinky," you wheezed.

Sam ignored you.

You couldn’t deny that you kinda had a good view of that booty though… and his toned back and broad shoulders.

Not the time, brain. Shut up. 

Sam threw you in the Impala, and it was deja vu. Back at square one.

Slumping into the seat, you took some time to reflect.

Had you hallucinated Meg and Other?

No, you couldn't have. How else could you explain finding your car? How else could you explain the hallucinations, other than from the brain damage you got from Other repeatedly bashing your poor head on walls and sidewalks?

Your memories were a garbled mess. Like a dream confused with reality.

Then there was the whole heaven thing. Had he interfered? Was the light—instead of headlights—actually Heaven saving you? You lingered on the idea. That meant Castiel was looking out for you, at least.

There were so many things you couldn't explain yourself, much less to the Winchesters.

And Sam… Sam was going to be a hassle.

Older Sam would have tried to understand you by now. He was more level-headed. Monsters weren't all black and white in his eyes—mostly because he knew what being the monster was like.

But this Sam? He was so freaking young. Naive, grieving, and angry. Not to mention, he blamed you for the death of his girlfriend, which was setting him back on his ability to empathize with you. He absolutely hated you.

After all, instead of evidence to prove your innocence, the Winchesters instead kept finding the complete opposite. Every good deed you did was tainted by either the heaven's bloodthirsty intervention, or just your own naiveté. 

Your guilt was climbing so high that you were beginning to agree with the Winchesters. You were the monster—I mean, look at all the times I'd screwed up!

Your presence was killing people. Whether it was your intention or not.

You sighed.

Sam was twirling the angel blade in the car, getting a feel for the weapon. He said, “You know, when I said you were 'working with demons', I actually meant the one from a few weeks ago—the Bloody Mary case."

"You mean the demon I killed? Because that totally sounds like I was scheming with demons.”

Sam paused. "You killed it with this knife, right?"

You went quiet. Damn.

He twirled it again. "Thought so. So it is more than a 'fancy knife'. Makes me wonder what else you're lying about."

"As if you wouldn't be lying your head off if you were in my position. I forgot how honest you two are." You snorted. "You two have no problem lying to each other. Like, seriously? Dean, you lied to Sam about the demon knowing about Jessica's death. On your, what, fourth hunt with him since he'd gone to college?"

Hypocrites. Both of them.

The statement made Sam squint. "How the hell would you ever know?"

"Uh, I was with you? On the plane?" Anxiety pooled in your stomach.

"No, you vanished into thin air before that conversation ever happened," Dean accused. "Another reason to believe you aren't human."

"I have my sources." Sources. Right. What sources?

"And what the hell are your sources?"

Supernatural, you wanted to say, the television show that ruined my life. But how could you tell them that?

You couldn't tell them you were a demon, either. Not only because you weren't—but that would just spell out a whole lot of trouble for you. Not to mention they now possessed your angel blade.

And you most definitely couldn't tell them the truth.

So you did the insane.

"I'm psychic."

///

Tags: @megamindsdespondentcousin​ @depressedunicorn43​ , @rosaren2498​ , @pillowjj​ , @busy-bee-angel-misska​ , @elliotts-world​ , @dagnylokisdottir​ , @omg-we-really-doo​ , @millieccino​ , @regainedworld , @badgal-jackie​ , @postcardsfromliterallynowhere​ , @super-calithehamm​ , @teresa-67​ , @ofthedewthesunlight​ , @dream-believe-and-love​ 

[katsukis-sad-angel]

FatSquadCanons; During and right after the Chisaki arc

Pairing: Taishiro Toyomitsu x Reader, Eijirou Kirishima x Reader, & Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Summary: The Fat Gum squad and their girlfriends/wives/fiancees during and right after the Chisaki Arc in My Hero academia

Warnings: Sex talk, slight angst, mentions of intercourse, cock-warming, swearing, cuteness

Author’s Note: That gif below brought back the sun, cured my depression, got rid of my anxiety, cured the coronavirus, and made Jesus rise from the cross and beat the shit out of Pontious Pilate

Enjoy!

Taishiro Toyomitsu

Mostly SFW

Misses you

A LOT

You’re so pretty and happy and you give the best hugs and have the sweetest voice so being deprived of those things for so long…

But he had to focus

They had to save Eri, so he couldn’t have your elegant features staining the cloth of his mind right now

You, on the other hand, try and cope with your worry, lust, and sadness by rolling up in his spare hero hoodies and his big black shirts because they’re warm and they smell just like him

You miss the way he held you in his arms as though you were made of porcelain, the way he kissed your lips like it was the last time, his big, warm, soft stomach you could sink into, the twisty blonde hair you loved combing your fingers through, his big smile, his huge hands, his hugs, his lips, his dick, and his laugh

That chuckle...

It would be the death of you

You just wanted to be back in his arms… or in his lap…

Or under him while he fucked your brains out

Pick one

He hasn’t been home in 2 whole week

So your touch starved as fuck, hungry for dick, lonely, sad, and worried

You’ve been eating dinner alone and the news has been on nonstop

So when he comes home with bandages all over his scraggly, skinny yet buff body, you immediately start bawling your eyes out

You’re so happy he’s safe and alive

He holds out one of his arms to you and you stumble from your chair and collapse into his arms

“Tai! Oh, my god!”

He picks you up and carries you to the couch like the goddess you are and lays down with you, kissing your cheeks, telling you how beautiful you are and how much he missed you until your stormy sobs have calmed to the occasional violent hiccup

“Honey bear, it’s ok. I’m here now. Don’t cry sweetheart…”

I want him to call me ‘honey bear’

The two of you lay there for the rest of the day

You get up occasionally to get your man food and to take a piss, but that’s about it

Refuses to let go of your waist even though his stomach sounds like a possessed garbage disposal

“Don’t worry about me Y/n, I’m fine. Just stay here, ok?”

You rest your head on his chest to listen to the beat of his heart

Nice pecs pillow

Forehead kisses, ear nibbles, ass and thigh grabs, hand kisses, etc

He’s all over you

He thinks you such a beautiful goddamn queen through the bright red tearstains and the evidence of emotional eating that had gathered on your hips

He tells you that, just the part about your cute and squishy hips

You end up falling asleep like that under a pile of blankets

NSFW

The very next day, as soon as you’re up, you start riding him like a horse

“That’s it babygirl, be a nice little cowgirl for me. Just like that~”

“Did you miss my cock while I was gone?” He’ll whisper in your ear, sucking on one of your piercings

“Yes, fuck yes I did Tai!”

Holds your bouncing hips with the one hand that works, kisses you, sucks tiddy, and makes sure you get off at least twice before he does

When he’s done, you collapse on his chest, panting

For a couple of hours, you lay there cock warming him because he asked you to

Then his stomach started up again and you got off and fed him everything in the house while naked because he asked you too

The end

Because you asked me too

Tamaki Amajiki

SFW

…

Poor sweet elf boi

Doesn’t really know how to cope

Spends a lot of time locked in his room

You notice he’s eating less

When he allows you to come into his room, he’s always wearing one of the hoodies you let him have

On those nights, there isn’t a lot of talking, but there is a lot of cuddling

He rests his head either on your chest or your stomach, wraps his muscley arms around your waist and holds you close

Whispers ‘I love you y/n.’ every so often

You’re really worried about him

His pretty black eyes are dull, he slouches more, Mirio can’t cheer him up, you can’t cheer him up, his indigo floof droops a little, dark bags under his eyes, stutters a lot more → talks even less than before, he looks sad, and is jumpy

He’s been really distant too

Staring off into the distance, completely zoned out and lost in his thoughts

24/7

So one day when he comes back from patrol with that spunky redhead and Fatgum, you go to his room and knock

No answer

You knock again

Still no answer

You fumble with the doorknob, but it’s locked

Using your quirk, you manage to get it open

“Tama, why is your-”

“Tamaki?”

Tamaki Amajiki was rolled up in several blankets, making him look like an adorable burrito

He was struggling to escape his warm cocoon, squeaking softly as he attempted to get his arms out

He blushed as soon as you saw him and then tried to hide his face in embarrassment, but you didn’t let him sink too far

You smiled indulgently and helped him unroll

“Tamaki, if you were cold then- Wait… are those my socks?”

“Yes.” He mumbled, hiding his face in your shoulder

You giggled

“Don’t be embarrassed Tama! If you want my clothes, just ask!”

You wrap your arms around him and pull him down so you’re laying comfortably in his bed together

“How are you doing?” You coo, stroking his soft indigo locks

“Awful.” He mumbled, burying his face in your chest

“I’m sorry to hear that…” You reply, tracing the indent on the back of his neck, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. But I’m not allowed.”

“Oh. That’s ok. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but just try not to think about it. I know it’s hard and you’re under a lot of pressure, but tonight, just think about me. Or takoyaki. Or Nejire and Mirio.”

“You smell good.” He whispered bashfully, “New perfume?”

“Mm-hm! You like it?”

“Yup.”

“Good.”

You smiled sweetly, letting his soft voice (I love you Aaron Dismuke) play its melody over and over again in your brain

You were so lucky

You kissed his forehead and whispered, “If you need someone to talk to, I’m right here Tamaki. Ok?”

He nodded sleepily, eyelids drooping from lack of sleep

“I love you bunny.”

“Sweet dreams.” You sigh, relaxing in his safe embrace

NSFW

Don’t get me wrong, Tamaki is one of the sweetest, kindest, most adorable yet hot guys EVER, but he isn’t some fucking pushover

He’s domming your sorry ass in bed, whether you like it or not

He’s got tentacles

TENTACLES

GOOD HENTAI ANIME = TENTACLES

And he fucking knows how to use them to make you scream

He also has a cow hoof you can stretch yourself on

What happens if he eats noodles?

But that’s beside the point

Tentacles

With those, he can tease you, tie you up, make you cum, squirt, serve as a second dick for ur arse, put them in your mouth, etc etc etc

Anything you can imagine

Picture this: Tamaki is fucking your from behind, buried to the hilt in your cunt. Two tentacles trapping your arms against your back, one in your ass, one in your mouth, and one massaging your throbbing clit

You’re overstimulated, moaning, and crying from the pleasure, pain, and overwhelming arousal

“Do you like my tentacles Bunny? Does it feel good?”

“So wet for me… such a pretty Bunny when I fuck you like this.”

“More? Greedy bunnies get punished~”

Loves it when you’re all needy, hot, and bothered underneath him, begging for just a simple touch

It makes him feel really strong and happy

Knows it feels good because you make the most erotic faces

Nuts almost immediately when you do → tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream, and cheeks flushed

Aftercare? 

You won’t even remember the accidental scratch you got from the lobster claw

Sore pussy and/or ass?

Hickeys?

Dry throat?

Hungry?

Anything marring the beautiful expanse of skin before him?

Gone

He’ll massage you, give you a bath, food, water, endless kisses, hums to you softly, bandage you up (if need be) and tuck you in

He NEVER wants to lose you to someone else, so he makes ABSOLUTELY sure, you’re 100% feeling loved at the end

He loves you so much

Never forget that

Eijirou Kirishima

Mostly SFW

Baby boy…

He has been very distant since this whole thing started

No more study and cuddle sessions (where you normally end up fucking)

Fewer hugs and kisses

No big girl fun time in bed

Not as many baby shark doot doo doo doo doo smiles

*author drowns in utter despair*

All you have are the clothes you steal from his closet every now and then

(every time you’re in his room) cough

So while boi is being a distant and depressing fuck, you bundle up in all 11 of his Crimson Riot hoodies (some of them are used as pants) and think about him

His garnet irises, his adorable sharp-toothed smile, his killer upper body, his soft red hair, his voice (thank you Justin Cook), his hands, his dick, his manliness, the tiny scar above his eyebrow, and his sharp jawline

Perfection

Kiri, on the other hand, wonders why you’re spending so much time in your room all alone and why fuck cuddle nights stopped

Right when he needed all of the love and support, it stopped

Were you mad at him?

Did he do something to upset or offend you?

Did he say something rude or insensitive without thinking about it?

Did you get tired of him?

Did you want to break up?

Had Bakugou finally stolen your heart from him?

He couldn’t tell

You looked to upset all the time, giving him distant looks, suddenly running to your room with your eyes full of… shit, were those tears?

No, not eyes full of shit

Eyes full of tears

Come on guys

He ran after you, but by the time he got to your hallway, you were already locked in your room

He knocked on the door

“Who… Who is it?” You whimpered in a choked voice

“Uh, Eiji… your boyfriend…” He said softly, running a hand through his softened locks, “Can I come in?”

“I…” You pause, “I guess. Gimme a minute.”

Shuffling sounds

*nose-blowing*

Then the door opened to reveal a slouching you in one of his hoodies

You had a used tissue scrunched in your fist

“Babe, are you ok? You’ve been acting really weird lately and I’m worried!” Said the pure ginger shark

“E-Ever s-since you s-started that work-study, you’ve been r-really d-distant so I thought you might’ve f-found someone else. Either that or you j-just needed t-time alone.” You whimpered, holding back tears for what seemed like the billionth time that day

“Baby girl, no one could ever replace you!”

Sharky pulls you into a hug

“I’m sorry you thought that Y/n. I’ve just been really zoned out because I’m trying to balance school, work-study, and our relationship all at once. I really need those study nights honey, I’m begging you. You explain stuff so simply and your notes are really descriptive. I love you so much and I don’t like it when you’re sad, because then I’m sad and then everyone is sad.”

“Eiji… I’m sorry, don’t blame all this on your self. I’m just being a whiny bitch.”

“Don’t say that!!”

“But I-”

You were cut off by a kiss

Eijirou cupped your flushed cheek tenderly with one hand, and with the other, he held the small of your back so you were flush up against him

“Eijirou…”

That night, you fall asleep on his chest, but Kiri can’t sleep

His phone on your nightstand flashes and he carefully picks it up, turning down the brightness so as not to disturb you

Apparently, it’s time

Carefully, he slips out of bed to join Midoriya, Ochaco, and Tsuyu downstairs

NSFW

When all of that is over and Kirishima is in your arms safe and sound again, he gets down on you before you even pull out your flashcards

Presses you back into the carpet and starts sucking your face

“Eiji? Wha-”

“Sssh.”

Clothes start flying everywhere except away from you and your horny boyfriend, who has moved onto your neck and jawline, kissing and nipping along your collarbones and mandible

You thread your shaking fingers through his pretty red hair

“So wet for me already?” 

“Mmmh, you smell so good…” Eijirou moaned, sucking your puffy clit, his hands clamped on your hips to prevent you from bucking or squirming

“M-More… please, more! I need more Eiji~”

“Did you miss me, or just my cock?”

“Both- fuuuuck~ Eijirou oh my gOd~”

“You like that sweetie? Huh? Tell me how much you like it~”

…

*coughs*

You can hardly walk the next day

But don’t worry

Kiri will treat you like a queen and carry you around until you fall off or feel better

No studying happened unless you count Eiji learning to make you squirt

Otherwise, no

Neither of you did anything productive

But you did have a fun, sensual evening with the person you loved most

Nighteye Squad hc’s coming soon!

[bookphile]

I stared reading Midnight Sun on Amazon preview - I’m not planning on purchasing it at all. I remember reading it back when she posted it, when I was still a fan, and back then I was still in high school myself, so Edward being in high school also made sense. But now that I’m 29 - and I don’t know how old Meyer was when she wrote it - it seems absolutely nightmarish to me that the Cullen “kids” not only force themselves to go to high school, but they have gone to high school several times over. I’ve been to high school once and the idea of having to go back and do it again is a nightmare, hell, I wouldn’t even consider going back to college (that’s a bit different though). But high school? Especially as an adult??  WILLINGLY? Holy hell. 

I vaguely remember that the reason the Cullens do this is to appear normal and not raise suspicions. But like, they do... they stick out like sore thumbs wherever they go because 1. they’re inhumanly beautiful, 2. they “appear” more intelligent than most teenagers have a right to be (and I said appear because they all do some dumb shit) 3. they are wealthy and act that way. 4. Carlisle and Esme themselves appear very young and have five grown adopted children. That’s weird and suspicious even without taking anything else into consideration. 5. They don’t really socialize with anyone in town or make friends, even for appearance’s sake. And in a small town like Forks that is bound to make you a weirdo. The kids only hanging out/dating themselves  especially screams cult behavior. 

Like, why not just say that they go to boarding school (would explain why they don’t spend time socializing), or that they’re home schooled, or hell, they all appear to be old enough to be out of high school and there is that super popular post about how Twilight should have been set in college, which makes the most sense. 

But even if you wanted it to be set in high school, the more palatable plot would be if there was some sort of a problem with the “fake” documentation when they come to town, and like one or two of them, like Edward and Alice, are forced to enroll to complete their credits (as they are preparing to enter college for yet another degree).  The town doesn’t have a home schooling program, so whoops there’s absolutely no way to get out of it, so they have no choice but to enroll. I can also see Emmett enrolling for the joke of it and Rosalie is not about to let him go off alone for seven hours a day. And Alice feels bad for Jasper being left out so she convinces him too. 

Now imagine their first day. Edward is understandably in hell with 300 teenage voices yelling at him. Alice’s foresight goes haywire because all of them are freaking out so bad. Jasper is just catatonic from sensory overload. Emmett thinks it’s the greatest thing. Rosalie is disgusted with everything and everyone. And all the humans just go nuts at the appearance of these new to town, beautiful, wealthy, and mysterious teenagers. 

Even funnier would be if it’s Bella’s first day too and everyone keeps lumping her in with them and mistaking her as the less attractive younger sister or something. And because she’s shy and clumsy and doesn’t want any more attention that she’s getting, she is in fact, hiding behind the Cullens at every class introduction and gets tired of everyone ignoring her when she says she’s not one of them, so she just stops. Even the Cullenses, out of sheer shock, assume they somehow miscounted and have somehow managed to forget a younger sister. 

By the end of the day half the school assumes that they’re not human, because Edward just keeps answering unasked questions, Alice keeps accidentally warning people about their futures, Emmett breaks multiple things including chairs, desks, and doors, Jasper just refuses to talk, respond, or react to anything out of sheer fear of going berserk, and Rosalie can’t get the hang of “acting” human and hisses at anyone who gets too close. The other half just thinks that they’re eccentric rich people or plain old weirdos. To the teachers of course, they’re typical teenagers. 

Bella is also in turmoil and unable to deal, but that’s because she’s a shy human girl who is being lumped with these otherworldly creatures and by the end of the day she is in too deep to safely retreat to safety. In fact, it’s not until they’re all preparing to go home and are getting ready to get into Edward’s car and finally  have some mental clarity after a day of chaos that they even notice Bella and remember that she’s human. And she’s just like “I’m sorry, I got super confused when no one was listening to me, and I’ll just leave now.” Which is when, of course poor Edward realizes he can’t hear her thoughts and he just didn’t notice before. And the fact that she smells particularly delicious, but maybe that is just his tired hurting brain and he’s just hungry.

Anyway I’ll stop there before I rewrite the whole book and this is already too long. But imagine if Meyer was a good writer. 

After the first day, Jasper and Rosalie refuse to go back, Emmett drops out because Rosalie makes him, and well, Edward and Alice have no choice. But they cling to silent Bella like a life raft, and that’s how he falls in love with her and how she becomes Alice’s bestie.

[fingerguneds]

Stozier + going to the movies

im like one hundred percent sure this is not what you wanted and it turns out i dont know what a drabble is so it’s 4.4k long but um..yeah hope you like it 

Richie is tired. Okay, “tired” is actually a litotes — he’s fucking exhausted. Two weeks of pre-holiday classes — two weeks of deadlines, exams and final test, two weeks of nervous breakdowns and panic attacks for all students, and for him, probably the biggest procrastinator in their year, it was a hell ride. Sugar-high, coffee-flavoured satanic ritual.

But in the end, he finished up good, of course he did, because not only he’s a phenomenal fuckup of a person with a pathological time-management crisis, he’s also a smart fucking guy. And now, after his last French exam, it’s only fair that he goes home and tries to recover from his two weeks long sleep deficit, but…no.

The problem is, he promised Bill to accompany him to the new Star Wars film premiere, they got the tickets days ago, and even though Richie feels like throwing up and lying in his puke for a month and crying helplessly about of it, he promised. And it’s not just someone, it’s Bill, his best friend, and the newest part of Star Wars! And maybe, if three Red Bulls and two strawberry-flavoured Fantas didn’t make his heart stop, another large-sized slushie won’t either. His heart’s a strong one, it’s been to hell and back and he can show you vouchers — his student’s record book, thank you very much.

“You’re gonna have diabetes,” Eddie, Bill’s boyfriend, intones, when Richie arrives to their apartment to pick up Bill with a venti gingerbread latte in his right hand. “Feed him something or come up with a good eulogy,” he tells Bill, standing on tiptoe to leave a quick peck on his cheek.

“But your mom told me I shouldn’t ever force myself to eat—” Richie tries, but Bill pushes him out of the apartment with a sigh and closes the door, leaving Eddie’s pink-cheeked and ready-to-fight face behind it.

“Sure you’re not hungry?”

“It’s always like that when you miss a night of your beauty sleep,” Richie grimaces as they get into the elevator. “But we still can grab something to go.”

“McDonalds?”

Richie chuckles. As kids, they always went to McDonalds before films, hiding burgers and fries in their little hats in winter or bringing a special backpack “for illegal purposes only” in summer so the cinema boys wouldn’t kick them out, or worse — make them throw everything away. Now, no one cares whether you bring your own snacks or not, and they actually finish their food while driving, but there’s still a lingering touch of nostalgia to the whole process.

They’re barely on time, because Richie insisted on buying a goddamn slushie, although the line was fucking enormous, and yet they take their seats exactly one minute before upcoming film trailers begin. They’re both excited as hell, the slushie tastes amazing after the first proper meal he’s had since yesterday’s evening (yes, fries, nuggets and a Big Mac is a meal, unlike two Kit Kats and a bag of Doritos), and yet…nothing goes as planned.

After fifteen minutes of the film, Richie starts to zone the fuck out. The food is still warm in his belly, his winter scarf he didn’t pull off is soft and comfortable under his crooked neck, his eyelids feel like the only thing heavier than them is his head. He tries, he really does, he clears his glasses twice, he finishes his slushie with the largest gulps to wake up, he bites the insides of his cheeks, but it’s all pointless.

Thirty minutes into the film, and Richie’s gone.

***

“Richie! Richie, wuw-wake up! Oh my guh-god, I’m so suh-sorry, he—Richie!“

Bill sounds nervous. His childhood stutter comes back when he is. There’s a tug at Richie’s hand he barely registers.

“It’s okay,” someone chuckles curtly right above Richie’s ear. “At least his hair is clean.”

Um, rude.

Well, maybe in a different situation, Richie wouldn’t have thought that it’s rude. Like, it’s always nice when people have clean hair. Yes.

But.

He’s diabolically tired. His nerves are nothing but a strained, stiff line that is in an alarming danger to snap and slap you in the face, his mind is dangerously aggressive, meeting every single thing with feverish hostility, and Richie doesn’t even wonder if it’s him the voice is talking about. Even if it’s not, it’s still rude. He tries to remember when he last washed his hair — this morning, to not die before emerging from his flat. And his shampoo is nice too, it’s his mom’s shampoo, because he has her curls and—

“Richie!”

He straightens up abruptly, as if someone just kicked him in the balls, eyes still blurry, like a newborn bird’s.

“Ye.”

Someone starts laughing.

“He sounds like that vine.”

Richie blinks and turns to his left, still not quite conscious of the situation, yet quite aware that this someone’s laughing at him.

The first boy he sees sits one seat away from Richie, but he’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, face on the palms of his hands. He’s the one who said about the vine (Richie’s almost one hundred percent sure he knows which vine), and although Richie feels very attacked, he has to admit, the boy’s cute. He has dark skin, dark eyes, jawline to kill (and to die) for, and his smile is so wide and genuinely nice that it would be a shame to get mad at the owner.

Fuck this guy, he’s educated on vines and he’s hot. If it wasn’t for the “basically a ray of sunshine” part, Richie would fall.

And then there’s the asshole. He opens his mouth again.

“The peanut baby vine?” Richie looks at the mop of curly dark-blond hair, currently hiding the said asshole’s face as he turns to look at the first guy, and Richie’s offended diva is back. He may be a fuckup, but no one has a right to say anything about his hair with a voice like this. Even if it’s greasy as fuck, knotty and smells like used oil, like everyone’s hair smells after visiting places where kitchens are inside the main room and they just keep frying the shit out of food right in front of you; even then, no one can say shit about his hair, even—

“Yeah, that one,” the dark-skinned guy laughs again, and the curly asshole turns to face Richie.

No one can say shit about Richie’s hair, even if they own Cupid’s face. No joke, the guy—pardon, the motherfucker looks like an epitome of Cupid from the Psyche myth (not the fat winged baby). Richie quickly gets mad at himself for paying this much attention to the guy, but know your enemy, right? Know your enemy — their hair dark blond hair, like fields of rye in November, their plump pale lips and pale, although with a warm undertone, skin with an almost invisible constellation of freckles on the wings of his nose, their eyes and their dark, muddy colour Richie can’t really identify in the poor lighting of the auditorium. They’re bright with joy and fox-like curiosity, yet insolent and a little arrogant; daring.

Seriously, do people have to be this pretty? One is hot, like an Abercrombie model you see once and think of for days, the second one is not hot but really, really attractive, like someone who would make a fortune with this intense stare, peeling you off right there, where you’ve had a misfortune to capitulate.

“Rich,” he feels Bill’s large hand on his shoulder, still participating in this ugly staring competition with the curly one. “Guys, we’re sorry ag-again, huh-he’s really tired and doesn’t cuh-control himself.”

Richie blinks and frowns, ready to explode right into Bill’s face, but he cuts him off.

“Come on, Richie, we gotta go.”

They stand up, Richie taking his empty slurpie glass in one hand and looking at the guys again. Everything feels like a dream, his brain is too heavy, his legs disobey, his hands don’t feel like they belong to him.

“ ‘s alright, no big deal,” the first boy says again with the gentlest glimmer to his eyes and the loveliest smile, but Richie…Richie’s tired and bitter and…stupid.

“Yeah, you’re probably used to people leaving after waking up with you,” he says, looking directly into the curly one’s eyes. “Not you, you’re cool,” he winks quickly at his friend, as Bill starts swearing quietly and pulling Richie towards the door.

“Dude,” he says, when they both emerge from the cinema doors, a cig already in his fingers. He offers his pack to Richie without a word.

They smoke in silence, walking towards Richie’s car, and Richie is the one to break it.

“Did I really fall asleep on him?”

Bill chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“Yes you did. I didn’t notice until the lights were on.”

“Surprised he didn’t say anything,” Richie mutters, turning the car key.

“You’re too hard on the guy,” Bill huffs out, lips still wearing a lopsided grin. “He didn’t say anything—“

“Yes he did, I heard what he said about my hair, it’s—“

“Rich,” Bill sighs, but he’s not in the least bit mad or disapproving. Bill has always been a keeper of the wonderful gift of understanding. “He said you weren’t a bother and that he’s glad your hair’s not greasy. This is a perfectly normal thing to say, you’re just tired and tensed, and take things too personally. You just need a rest. C’mon, want me to drive you home? I’ll catch a bus to mine, no problem.”

***

The next four days Richie spends at home, sleeping and eating. Sleeping, eating, watching Netflix, thinking about the curly boy, sometimes. Actually, the memory of that day quickly turns into something embarrassing for Richie, something he knows that will make his cheeks grow hot and pink even years later. He was really, really rude to the guy, rude for nothing, and the worst part of the situation is — he can’t apologize. And! The worst-worst part is that the second-to-worst part is — the boy was absolutely gorg dot com. What an unfortunate turn of events: Richie can’t even suck his dick as an apology. Or just suck his dick. Whatever, he’d find a way to make it up to the boy, he’s talented with all parts of his body.

But it’s like falling in love with someone you saw on a train or in line at grocery store. Or maybe slightly worse, because Richie manage to fall fucking asleep on the guy, but still — a crush, doomed to picturesque longing and a quiet little death. It’s all about the masochistic nature of humankind — Richie concludes bitterly to himself, because although he’s a certificated Trashmouth, there’s a pathologically romanticistic heart under all these layers of shit.

No, seriously. He’s too much for everyone, even for himself. Especially for himself.

But enough with this shit, Richie decides the moment next, because his mood swings are the only thing wilder than his imagination. C’est la vie, you fuck up and you keep going until you fuck up again. Maybe there is a lesson he can learn, like to keep his mouth shut when he’s tired or, um, to do his homework in time and not traumatize himself…but it’s Richie. He never learns.

He falls asleep on his couch again, trying to decide what he wants to eat after waking up. God only knows why his actual last thought is so, what the curly boy smelled like?

***

Richie doesn’t remember the last time he’s been to a library. He’s always felt that a book should belong to him for being able to read it comfortably, but when you’re assigned to write a research on Andrei Tarkovskiy’s connection with slavic symbolism…not many books you can find in a regular American bookshop down the street.

The library is huge. The entrance is decorated with ionic columns and the door is so massive Richie barely manages to open it. Inside, it’s just as impressive, with the highest ceilings he’s ever seen and beautiful bookcases and tables of dark wood, situated under big thick windows. Richie undoes his scarf and immediately walks towards the service desk, knowing for sure there’s no way he’ll manage to find anything without help. His steps are loud in the monumental silence of this place.

“Uh, hi?” he says, as quietly as he can, and the boy behind the desk looks up at him and smiles politely.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“Well,” Richie chuckles, trying to hope for the best. “Do you happen to know any books related to slavic symbolism in Soviet cinematography, Andrei Tarkovskiy’s specifically?”

The boy arches his eyebrows. Richie smiles unsurely and gets ready to shrug it off and maybe convince his lecturer to change his topic of research.

“I’ll have to be honest, I have no idea how to help you, sir, but my colleague, who is currently in the section number eight is probably more educated on this matter.”

“Oh, okay,” Richie nods, considering to leave the place right now, but the boy’s softest, a little apologetic smile decide for him.

“It’s to the left, straight up until you see the number.”

“Thank you very much,” Richie tells him and turns towards the rows of bookcases.

12, 11, 10, 9…here it is.

The amount of books is almost frightening. The bookshelves are no less than two and a half meters tall, and Richie immediately imagines one of these things crashing epically right on his head. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath, then turns behind the number Eight.

Five or more bookcases, forming some kind of a wall. In a couple of steps from where Richie’s standing, leaning on one of them, there’s a ladder, and on the ladder, one and a half meters above the floor, there’s a boy with a couple of books in his hands. Richie, even in glasses, can’t really see his face, because the light doesn’t reach it.

“Hi,” the boy speaks up first, although Richie decides to wait until he’s finished. It’s like, dangerous. The whole construction looks…unsafe. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, hello, uh, the boy at the desk told me you could help me to find some resources on slavic symbolism in Andrei Tarkovskiy’s films?”

Richie doesn’t notice that he’s holding his breath. The boy’s hands don’t stop, they don’t even flinch, he surely keeps placing the books one by one to where they belong. They’re both silent for a long minute.

“I’m not sure I can help you to find something with both Andrei Tarkovskiy and slavic symbolism, but you could look through slavic symbolism analysis in Russian art in general and the language of Andrei Tarkovskiy’s separately.”

Motherfucker.

“Oh wow, that would actually—“

“Also on the Internet there are a lot of articles on what inspired Tarkovskiy’s methods, if I were you I’d check them out as well.”

The last two books stay tucked under his arm, and that is when he begins to climb down.

“God, lemme help you,” Richie’s heart trembles and starts beating faster at the sight of how tremendously dangerous the boy’s position looks, and he rushes towards the ladder.

“I’m alri—“ the boy turns his head to look at Richie, and when their eyes meet and the spark of recognition explodes between them, two things happen at once: first, Richie’s heart stops, and second, the boy falls down the ladder.

“Bloody fuck,” Richie breathes out, already on his knees beside the boy’s sprawled body. It’s him, of course it’s him, his curly hair, pale freckles on heart-shaped face, but now it’s all red, wearing a grimace of breathless pain. Richie’s so shocked he doesn’t know what to do. The boy turns to lay on his back and a hard moan escapes his lips.

“Oh God, oh fuck, what the—“

“Shut up,” the boy manages to say, chest trembling from the efforts to control his breath. “Shut up and call the—“

“Stan! Jesus, what happened!?”

The other boy is now here too, Richie sees him with the corner of his eye. He looks back though, quickly inspecting the boy’s—Stan’s body.

“What does it look like,” he mocks, cheeks darker than a pomegranate. If Richie wasn’t so terrified, he would appreciate this. Like, a lot. “Call an ambulance, quick, I think my collarbone is broken.”

“Oh my God,” Richie and the other boy mutter in unison, and Stan rolls his eyes.

“Well unfortunately, it’s not my fucking neck, so I’m kind of in pain right now and would really appreciate—“

“God, yes, sorry, yes.”

Richie too pulls out his phone, hands shaking, while Stan closes his eyes and tries to remain unmoving. There’s not much Richie can do, but it’s still something. The other boy’s panicked voice is explaining something in the background. Every ring lasts forever, and when Eddie finally picks the phone, Richie’s sure he almost had a heart attack. Twice.

“Eds? Hi, listen, what do I do if someone breaks their collarbone?”

He accidentally catches Stan’s unreadable stare and looks away, heart already on fire.

“What? Richie, what the fuck, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m just—“

“Did anyone break their collarbone?”

“Well it looks like this, yeah.”

“Did you call—“

“Yeah, but—“

“Okay, fuck, okay, most importantly, do not try to move the body until they arrive, it’s really fucking important, got it? Let them stay where they are, immobilize the shoulders completely, also—do you have ice there?”

“Do you—“ Richie turns to the other boy, but he’s still on the phone, so he has to ask Stan. “Do you have ice?”

Stan blinks, and for the first time, Richie notices that he’s balancing his head above the floor. It’s clear lowering it hurts him. Oh, and his pride is too hard-to-swallow to ask for help. It’s hot.

“Yes, I think we do.”

“Yeah, we do,” Richie repeats and moves awkwardly on his knees to help Stan keep his head up. Stan freezes for a second, but then blinks and relaxes into Richie’s hands.

“Use it for pain, you can give them an ibuprofen too, but don’t let them move, Richie, okay!? Now tell me what the fuck—“

“Later, Eds, thanks a lot, bye,” Richie breaths out as fast as he can and focuses on Stan.

Even upside down, he looks pretty.

Fuck.

Richie, shut the hell up, you’ll think about this later, you sick fuck.

Stan looks him in the eye, and Richie sees that those irises are brown. They’re bright with accidental tears, framed with dark thick lashes, and the colour is not exactly brown, more like greenish-brown, like pine tree needles three weeks after Christmas.

“You shouldn’t move,” Richie says, back to reality. “You shouldn’t move, we need ice and you’re allowed to take an ibuprofen.”

“They’re gonna be here in ten minutes,” the other boy finally joins them, face as red as Stan’s. Actually, even worse: red is his neck and probably his shoulders are too.

“Could you bring me some ice? And a glass of water with an ibuprofen?” Stan asks him, and Richie’s finally calmed down enough to notice how calm Stan is, although the situation is…literally the craziest he’s ever been in. He moves his leg to support his arm holding Stan’s head. Fuck, those curls are soft. Not like Richie’s, Richie’s are soft too, but Stan’s are in thicker rings, curling tenderly around Richie’s pale fingers, licking the boy’s unhealthily pale sweaty forehead.

“Like what you see?” Richie hears Stan’s voice and meets his intense gaze again. There is this daring glimmer to his eyes again, and Richie willingly accepts it.

“Dude, stop,” he chuckles weakly, licking his lips. “ You know I’m already in love.”

Despite their position, Stan huffs, but then his face skews of pain.

“Shh,” Richie winces and moves his fingers in an instinctive soothing motion. “You’re gonna be fine soon.”

“It’s not that bad, just a collarbone. Happens to people all the time.”

“At least it didn’t break through your skin,” Richie blurts out and regrets it immediately, cheeks flaming up.

But then, Stan chuckles. There’s a dimple in one of his cheeks, the left one. Richie’s almost sure his eyes are fully heart-shaped by now.

“Here,” the other librarian boy rushes up to them with what looks like a towel, stuffed with ice cubes, and a glass of water.

He puts a pill in Stan’s lips and lets him drink carefully, then passes Richie the towel.

“Tell me where,” Richie murmurs, and despite how fucked up the situation actually is, this feels oddly intimate. He lowers the towel and feels how more tensed Stan grows.

“A bit—yeah,” he breathes out, and Richie presses down a little.

“Told you you should’ve taken a lunch break,” the librarian guy mumbles softly, and for a moment Richie thinks he’s gonna cry.

Stan rolls his eyes. Richie keeps holding. Somewhere near the door bursts open.

***

“This shit’s surreal,” Bill says after a long pause, when Richie calls him from the hospital an hour later. “I don’t believe this.”

“Fair enough,” Richie nods to himself, inspecting his shoes. “And yet.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Probably something stupid,” Richie hears Eddie’s voice and grins.

“You’re absolutely correct, Edward.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” comes an answer, and Richie thanks him once again for helping out.

“Trust me, I was ten times worse.”

“It’s actually unbelievable,” Bill says again, and Richie knows the face he’s probably wearing at the moment: blue eyes wide, eyebrows furrowed in the slightest bit, one corner of his lips crooked a little. “If it’s not fate, I don’t know what it is.”

“Ooooow,” Richie and Eddie fondly mock him in unison, and Richie knows for sure someone’s gonna get some when he hangs up. “Don’t get too emotional, Big Bill, Edster likes it rough, just like his mom.”

“Oh for fuck’s—“ Eddie’s scandalized howl is the last thing he hears before the line goes silent, and he’s alone again, with the most shit-eating smirk on his face.

The other librarian boy — Ben, he learned when the ambulance arrived — stayed at the library, and Richie was secretly happy to accompany Stan to the hospital alone, although he insisted a couple of times that Richie doesn’t need to.

Richie’s stomach growls and he needs a fag asap, but there’s no way he’s missing Stan. God only knows when he’s at the library again, and Richie needs…Richie needs to talk.

And when Stan, with a sling supporting his hand, walks out of the emergency room, Richie stands up, not being able to help a smile forming on his face.

“Don’t you have other things to do?” Stan asks him, but he’s not annoyed. He looks tired and disheveled, but still calm, and Richie notices that they’re both the same height. Stan’s all legs though, all legs and curls.

“You’re the most important one on the list,” Richie answers automatically, and Stan purses his lips, clearly unimpressed. His eyes glimmer brighter, though. “Hungry?”

Stan graciously arches his dark eyebrow.

“Are you—“ he cuts himself off, clearly thinking it’s a bad idea, but when Richie keeps waiting (politely, although he’s nervous as fuck, because hello to today’s third heart attack), he licks his lips and starts again. “Are you trying to ask me out?”

“Maybe?” thank God his voice sounds much, much more confident than he, in fact, is.

Richie probably needs to get comfortable with Stan needing a moment of silence to think good. Unlike other people that start…to ramble.

“Sorry, I’m just used to people leaving after waking up with me.”

Richie’s jaw hits the floor harder than that meteor hit the Earth and fucked up the dinosaurs. Go off, Stan the Man, go the fuck off.

And he doesn’t even look proud of himself. It’s as casual for him as it is for Richie to tell your dad a mom joke. For Heaven’s sake, who is this guy?

“Well,” Richie squeaks, feeling that his body is on again, as if something blew his fuse for a moment. “It’s not happening any time soon, pretty boy,” he points at Stan’s sling, “so I thought maybe I could try something different.”

“Like what?” he’s smiling now. Legit.

“A dinner? A couple of them? Maybe films? Although I’ll have to be careful with this one, your shoulders are fragile now.”

Stan’s smile becomes even wider as Richie continues to ramble, and although it’s not the brightest and sunniest smile he’s ever seen, it sure feels like the most precious one. It feels like a reward.

It still feels like the most precious reward, weeks later, when they finally wake up together and Richie only leaves to pee and to make them a coffee. Months later, when Richie lets his hand slide down Stan’s shoulder and feels the slightest crook to his collarbone with the tips of his fingers. Years later, after some shitty horror film about some monster clown who eats kids, when he proposes in that empty cinema auditorium, in those exact seats.

Stan still needs a minute to think good, but his burning, incandescent smile says everything Richie needs to know.

[mageicalwishes]

Crying In My Prom Dress - Chapter 1

Read on AO3: here 

Summary: The Leaver's Ball marks the end of the school year. The end of their time at Watford. Baz has a confession to make before it's too late. But, will he ever pluck up the courage to tell Simon how he feels? Inspired by the song "Prom Dress" by Mxmtoon.

Chapter: 1/7

Words: 1537

Just to avoid confusion - This fic is set in an AU where none of the major events that take place within "Carry On" happened and takes place in their Eighth year at Watford, although Baz was still kidnapped by Numpties. No front seat for him.

Baz

It’s bad enough that I have to share a room with Snow given the ... circumstances. The last four years at Watford have practically been hell. Sharing a room with the person you want the most is like sharing a room with an open fire. He’s constantly drawing you in. And you’re constantly stepping too close. And you know it’s no good - that there is no good - that there’s absolutely nothing that can ever come of it. But you do it anyway. And then … Well. Then you burn. As it happens, I am severely burned. Charred, even. I’ve tried to stop it. I’ve tried everything. Everything just to make all of this go away. I tried fighting him (but every time he’d tackle me to the floor my brain still strayed to, shall we say, “devious” places). I still loved him, even though I spent my days desperately trying to convince him (and everyone else around us) that I didn’t. I tried “getting it out of my system” the summer after Fifth year (but that just provided me with a new array of distracting mental images my mind could wander to when he was lying barely a metre away from me). I still loved him. Last Summer, I desperately tried to find someone else. Anyone who could just take my mind off of Snow. But, that failed too (obviously). Nobody else could compare to Snow - How could they? They weren’t him. Of course I didn't want them - I wanted him. I still loved him. So, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here right now. I’m not sure why I insist on torturing myself further. Sharing a room with him has been painful enough, but that’s mandatory. That’s all the Crucible’s fault. Following him when I know he’s going to meet Wellbelove, that’s … soul-crushing. And, that’s all my fault. Even for me this pathetic. Pining after him like bloody Romeo to Rosaline. Father would be so disappointed. The heir to the Grimm-Pitch estate, trailing after the Mage’s protégé like a love-sick puppy. It would bring him to tears. But here I am. They’ve stowed themselves away in a cosy, little storage room. And I’m sat (alone), hidden away on a balcony, watching them through the window. Like I said, pathetic.  

They’re practising their steps for the upcoming Leaver’s Ball. Simon Snow can’t dance. He’s stomping all over her pretty silk boots. She looks lovely today (as always) - all golden white hair and creamy pink skin. She’s opaque. Like milk. Like white glass. He looks - Well, he looks perfect (as always, he’s inflammably handsome). He’s still wearing his uniform, minus the tie. He’s loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing the moles that are scattered all across his collarbones. I’d kiss them - If I could. I’d kiss every single mole on his stupid body. But I can’t. He’d never let me. His trousers are hugging him just right. It’s nearing the end of the school year so (with all that gorging himself on scones and roast beef) he’s filling them out deliciously. His bronze curls are delightfully tousled (he runs his hands through them at least one hundred times a day). And he’s flashing a delightfully charming grin, small crinkles forming beside his eyes. His eyes are an ordinary blue. You could say they’re nothing special … but that would be a lie. They’re captivating. Simon Snow is an artwork - beautiful, but untouchable. At least, untouchable to me. Not to her. Not to Wellbelove.

Simon takes a particularly bad step and she stumbles backwards (he always has been a clutz). He catches her, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pulling her back against him. He’s smiling down at her, and she’s smiling back up at him. Repulsive. I wasn’t convinced about them as a couple (and not just because I’m hopelessly jealous of her). When I flirted with her in Fifth year (another desperate attempt to ensure Snow and the others didn’t suspect my feelings for him), she definitely reciprocated. She was certainly eager . But looking at them now … They’re shining together. They’re glowing every shade of White and Gold. It’s practically blinding. They’re a picture-perfect fairy tail - the pretty princess and her heroic prince charming. I'm the monstrous villain. Well, as long as the prince is happy, I suppose.

Then, a voice started me from my thoughts. I nearly whipped myself around at the sound - Thankfully, I caught myself before I did. I hadn’t realised I was no longer alone. How embarrassing. “He’ll never give her up, you know. Not without good reason,” they repeated.

“Hello, Bunce,” I answered, refusing to turn to look at her. I can’t tell if I’m blushing. It’s been a while since I’d fed, hopefully my cheeks are unable to betray me. Still, best not to risk it.

“You’re wasting your time. He thinks she’s his destiny - he can’t help himself. Believe me, I’ve tried talking some sense into them both.” She sounds tired. Snow’s poor long-suffering companion. I understand. Snow is certainly intelligent (although I’d never tell him that), but he can be painfully thick sometimes.

“What do you mean? Badmouthing Watford’s golden couple, Bunce. Tut Tut Tut,” I mock.

“They make each other miserable. Not always. Sometimes they - Sometimes it’s good. They’re just not right for each-other, though. I know it. She knows it too. I can see it in her eyes sometimes. It’s just, Simon isn’t quite there yet. He still thinks he's in love with her. I don't think he ever has been - not really”. That is … certainly not what I was expecting her to say.

“And why are you telling me all this?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Simon may be oblivious, but I’m not. I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Oh. Shit. She knows. Denial - that’s always served me well in the past.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, not quite managing to maintain my usual coolness.

“I think that you do, Baz. It’s okay. You can trust me. I’ve suspected for a while. I would never tell anyone - Not even him. Although, I think it would be in both of your best interests if I did.” I believe her. In spite of her more annoying personality traits, Bunce has always struck me as a fundamentally good person (she’s always been there for Simon when he needed her).

“Well as you said, he can’t help himself. Neither can I. I can, however, help the amount of damage my … “emotional affliction” does. I’m not going to tell him. I always thought - I thought I might, one day. But he doesn’t reciprocate. He can’t. He already has enough reasons to hate me. I’m not giving him another.”

“Boys. You can never just talk,” she sighs. “I love Simon, I do, but he’s oblivious, even about the way he feels. You don’t have to do anything, like I said your secret’s safe with me. But, if you did. Tell him, that is. I think you’d be surprised. I’ve never seen anybody as invested in somebody as Simon is in you. He can tell himself he’s trying to catch you “plotting” all he wants, but it goes way beyond that. He talks about you all the time - far more than he ever has about Agatha. I don't think you ever leave his mind.  When you weren’t here at the start of the year he practically broke down. He was constantly on the verge of going off the whole time you were missing. I could hardly breathe over all his magic. Even if he doesn’t realise it, even if you don’t, I think he does reciprocate. And, even if I’m somehow wrong (which I’m definitely not), he wouldn’t hate you for it. Honest,” she says. Oh. Okay. So, Bunce thinks I have a chance. Cool. Good. Great. Crowley. Stay calm, Basilton.

“Okay, Bunce. Whatever you say,” I reply, attempting to keep my voice as flat as possible. She sighs (again), and I hear her swing the door open behind me.

“I just want what is best for Simon. For you too, Baz. I know you don’t want to hurt him. I don’t think you ever have, not really. Neither of you are really happy as is. I just - I just want you to at least give yourselves the chance to be, before it’s too late.” And then, she was gone.

I can feel my heart stuttering within my chest. My mind is racing. Bunce thinks I have a chance with Snow. Bunce thinks Snow may … return my affections. Bunce wouldn’t lie. Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life. She could be wrong though. And even if she’s not, he’s not going to give up Agatha. Nobody in their right mind would, I mean look at her. Should I tell him? Would it ruin everything? I mean, Snow already hates my guts, I’m not sure there is really much left to ruin. But, I can’t. I’m a monster, and Snow’s - well Snow’s decidedly not. I dedicated half my time at this bloody school to being as cruel to him as I possibly could. He could never never love me back, not the way I love him.

[milofuckedup]

Questionnaire; task 2

read more about my boy under the cut

Basic Character Questions

First name?  Milo

Last names? Blevins

Middle names? Dean

Nicknames? Mi, Mimi, Spacey

Date of birth? September 9th 1996

Age? 23

Physical / Appearance

Height? 6″0

Build? Athletic, lanky

Hair colour? Honey Brunette

Hair style? Mess of locks across his head

Eye colour? Blue

Glasses or contact lenses? Neither

Scars or birthmarks? cigarette burns across his arms, a scar above his right eye

Tattoos? none

Physical or mental handicaps? none

Type of clothes? thrift store chic. He lives in light washed jeans and old button down shirts

Race / Ethnicity? caucasian 

Mannerisms? fidgety, stuttery, always rubbing his lips 

Personality

What words or phrases do they overuse? “im sorry” “lets play a game” “can we go home?”

Do they have a catchphrase? No

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic? pessimistic

Are they introverted or extroverted? VERY introverted

Do they ever put on airs? no

What bad habits do they have? smoking, drinking, running away 

What makes them laugh out loud? just about everything

How do they display affection? gently nuzzling his head into you, resting his head on your shoulder, holding your hand. He likes to be touched softly

How do they want to be seen by others? like a nice person, someone who loves deeply and genuinely 

How do they see themselves? as actual human garbage 

Strongest character trait? sensitivity 

Weakest character trait? sensitivity 

How competitive are they? not at all

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider? he over things EVERYTHING

How do they react to praise? awkwardly

How do they react to criticism? crying

What is their greatest fear? spiders

What are their biggest secrets? he is sure that everyone in his life hates him, they all want him gone, so he works with everything that he has to try and get people to stay

When was the last time they cried? right now, he is probably crying this moment. 

What haunts them? his father

What will they stand up for? his friends, his loved ones, never himself

Are they indoorsy or outdoorsy? indoorsy

What is their sinful little habit? chainsmoker 

What quality do they most value in a friend? honesty, loyalty, wont leave him

What do they consider an overrated virtue? Dignity 

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be? his inability to speak about what he wants, what he likes, what he needs from someone

What is their obsession? reading

What are their pet peeves? people biting their nails. 

Friends and Family

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of? hes all alone. 

What is their perception of family? that it isnt who you are born with it is who you chose. 

Do they have siblings? Older or younger? none

Describe their best friend. Luna Olsson she is selfless, and thoughtful and has picked Milo up more times than he can count, she is the on person on this planet he trusts enough to live with, he loves her more than he thought he could, he has let her in more than anyone else. 

Ideal best friend? See Above

Describe their other friends. Hudson the person he always turns to when life gets too tough. Tanner  the man that he can always have fun with, turn his brain off with and just let himself breathe with. Rion someone who has always been perfect and loving and gentle with him. 

Do they have any pets? no 

Past and Future

What was your character like as a baby? As a child? he was a quiet baby, and a well behaved child, he did everything that he could to get his mother to stop abandoning him  

Did they grow up rich or poor? DIRT poor

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected? neglected 

What is their greatest achievement? staying alive

What was their first kiss like? awkward, fumbly, he threw up afterwards because his stomach was in knots

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved? make them feel like they were second best

What are their ambitions? maybe get his GED one day

What advice would they give their younger self? its all shit, dont even bother trying

What smells remind them of their childhood? burning tires, old gas stations, and piss under bridges

What was their childhood ambition? to stay alive

What is their best childhood memory? his 10th birthday his best friend came over with a cupcake and remembered the day while his mom was drugged up on the couch

What is their worst childhood memory? take your fuckin pick. 

Did they have an imaginary childhood friend? no

When was the last time they were crushed with disappointment? every day 

What past act are they most ashamed of? any time he has ever been intimate with someone 

What past act are they most proud of? any time he has been intimate with someone 

Love

Do they believe in love at first sight? no 

Are they in a relationship? no 

How do they behave in a relationship? like a lovesick puppy, very clingy, very needy, asks if they still love him every twenty five seconds 

When did you character last have sex? two years ago

Has your character ever been in love? yes

Have they ever had their heart broken? yes

Conflict

How do they respond to a threat? tears

Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? his tongue 

If your character could only save one thing from their burning house, what would it be? the teddy bear his grandma gave him

What do they love to hate? reality television 

What are their phobias? spiders, the dark, being alone

What living person do they most despise? no one 

Have they ever been bullied or teased? his whole life 

Where do they go when they’re angry? on a long drive to the next town over 

Who are their enemies and why? he doesnt like to have any 

Work, Education and Hobbies

What is their current job? gas station clerk 

What do they think about their current job? he hates it

What are some of their past jobs? gas station clerk, thief, drug dealer

What are their hobbies? reading, writing, singing 

Educational background? didnt get ANY formal education

Do they have a natural talent for something? singing 

Do they play a sport? Are they any good? god no 

What is their socioeconomic status? lower lower lower class 

Favourites

What is their favourite animal? cats 

What place would they most like to visit? england 

What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen? the beach at night 

What is their favourite song? halloween - hunny 

Music, art, reading preferred? music: indie. Art: abstract. Reading: character studies 

What is their favourite color? green

Favourite food: chicken tenders and fries

What is their favourite day of the week? friday night

Possessions

What is in their fridge: ketchup, sauces, lemons

What is on their bedside table? books, a glass of water 

What is in their car? absolutely nothing

What is in their purse or wallet? his id, and his library card

What is in their pockets? a packet of gum, his phone, his empty wallet, his keys, two rings that he takes on and off 

What is their most treasured possession? his book collection

Spirituality

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel? doesnt have one

Do they believe in the afterlife? no

What are their religious views? none

What do they think heaven is? a full fridge and your best friends 

What do they think hell is? other people

Are they superstitious? no 

What would they like to be reincarnated as? a house cat

How would they like to die? car accident or sleep 

What is your character’s spirit animal? field mouse

What is their zodiac sign? virgo

Values

What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? abandonment 

When did they last lie? he doesnt really lie, he mainly omits truths

what is their view of lying? he hates it, thinks its despicable 

When did they last make a promise? last week 

Did they keep or break their last promise? he broke it

Daily life

What are their eating habits? whenever he can, he will eat whatever is in front of him. 

Do they have any allergies? pollen 

Describe their home. small, dingey, covered in books, a bed on the floor, empty fridge 

Are they minimalist or a clutter hoarder? clutter hoarder 

What do they do first thing on a weekday morning? sleep, he just finished the night shift

What do they do on a Sunday afternoon? go for a walk and take a picnic

What do they do on a Friday night? stay in and read

What is the soft drink of choice? sprite

What is their alcoholic drink of choice? whiskey neat

Miscellaneous

Who is their hero? he doesnt have any

What or who would your character dress up as for Halloween? dracula

If they could save one person, who would it be?

If they could call one person for help, who would it be?

What is their greatest extravagance? he owns an iphone 5 

What is their greatest regret? hurting angel @angclhqs​

What would they do if they won the lottery? buy a house, donate the rest

Do they believe in happy endings? no 

What is their idea of perfect happiness? a good book, electricity on, and a cup of tea 

What would they ask a fortune teller? how long until I am content

If your character could travel through time, where would they go? 2200 

If they could have a superpower, what would they choose? invisibility 

[siriuslyblack12]

chapter 4

Remus felt the sofa dip as James sat down beside him, the popcorn he was carrying spilling as Peter took a handful. Movie night, a time-honoured tradition for the marauders, had fallen on a Thursday this month, but the inconvenience wouldn’t stop them. James always hosted, so at least they could rely on Mrs Potter to wake them for school in the morning. Sirius flicked through Disney Plus on the TV, sat criss-cross in the most ridiculous onesie James had jokingly bought him one birthday, struggling to pick a film.

 It made him look great, hugging everything delightfully, whilst still having that sense of humour that he adored.

 Can you stop being a gay disaster for 5 minutes?

 Sirius had begun to act normally again after only a few days, refusing to attest to what exactly was bothering him, ignoring people when asked. On the first day he’d laughed along with his friends as he used to, Remus had given Lily a concerned look which was shrugged off timidly.

 “How ‘bout Shtar Warsh? We haven’t washed dem in a while.” Peter suggested through a mouth full of food.

 James huffed, “No, Wormtail, we watched all the bloody films last month, remember?”

 “Well what about Narnia? Magic and shit.” He tried again. Everybody groaned.

 “Ok, ok, I get it,” He defended, hands going up in mock surrender. “What do you suggest then?”

 Remus watched as Sirius thought for a moment, pulling at his hair before switching to the Marvel section, “You can’t go wrong with Avengers, lads.”

 “Sirius, you are literally the only person who likes the Avengers.” James said as he put his head in his hands, snatching the popcorn bowl from Peter and offering it to the room. “Moony, you’re awfully quiet, what do you think?”

 Remus tore his eyes away from Sirius just as he tilted his head and offered his infamous puppy dog eyes, the caramel flecks shining in the light of the TV. Truthfully, he didn’t much like Marvel movies, finding them a bit boring, but how was he supposed to say no to those eyes? “I don’t mind, let Sirius pick.”

 Sirius squealed girlishly before starting the film, getting up from the floor and situating himself right next to Remus, body pressing against his side. He drew in a breath.

 Stay calm. You’ve sat close to him before.

 “Wait who’s that? What’s he doing?” Peter was one of those people who talked the whole way through a movie, asking question that would be answered within a few minutes, and it was annoying to say the least. “Oh fuck! Why’s he doing that?!”

 Sirius laughed seemingly right into Remus’s ear and the sound was infectious. The slight feeling of hot air against his face sent a jolt down his spine; he didn’t dare to move an inch in case he got too close, or in case he got too far away. He couldn’t deny himself the feeling of it, even if it was only temporary.

 As the evening faded to night, sun into the moon, the four of them lay tired, barely processing what was happening on the screen with eyes blinking wearily. Yet Remus was wide awake, all too aware of the soft dundun dundun dundun of Sirius’s heartbeat. It was calm and lethargic, accompanied by the rise and fall of his chest. The screen was busy with action and explosions, and Remus’s brain was loud with spinning thoughts.

 James yawned exaggeratedly. “I don’t know if I can stand anymore of this Padfoot, turn it off.”

 “But this is the best bit!” He pleaded.

 “It was the best bit half an hour ago, hell, it was the best bit 10 minutes ago. Poor Peter’s trying to sleep.” A snore came from the floor almost in agreement.

 Sirius sighed, “please… just let me watch this, I’ll turn it off straight after. Swear down.”

 “Fine, but I’m going up to bed. Turn off the lights when you’re finished, would you? Mum says we’re trying to save money on the electric.”

 “You got it Prongs!”

 The room was eerily silent as the film continued, apart from Sirius’s quiet reaction and Peter’s thundering snores. Remus’s breathing evened out gradually as he settled back into the heat of his friend’s body. He knew he was crossing some sort of boundary but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Staving off a yawn, he braved a look at the other boy, only to meet bleary eyes and a drooping head.

“You don’t actually like Avengers, do you?” He smiled.

 Remus’s breathing picked up again. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

 “No, I know, I know… It’s fine. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

 He scoffed, “I wasn’t pretending. Why would I?”

 “You tell me, Moons.”

  ~~

  Remus woke up to a head heavy on his shoulder, still peacefully sleeping, his lips slightly parted and hair falling onto his back. When had Sirius fallen asleep? And when had he gotten right there?

 “Boys, boys, I can’t believe I forgot!” Mrs Potter entered the room briskly. “It’s time to get up, hurry now.”

 The head on his shoulder jerked up, obviously startled as he brought his arm up to cover his eyes from the intensity of the light. “What time is it? Moons?”

 “It’s about 8, Sirius love. Was it a late night?” Mrs Potter asked, tidying the blankets and bowls scattered all over the floor.

 He stretched lethargically. “Not quite.”

 She left the room with a final wake up call to Peter, leaving Remus to deal with a half-asleep Sirius Black practically on his lap. He watched as he brushed his hair out of his face, rubbing at his eyes and pressing into the material of the other’s pyjama t-shirt. The bastard doesn’t even look dishevelled.

 “Morning, Moons, you alright?” He mumbled.

 Remus stuttered, “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m great, yeah, I’m… peachy.”

 “Peachy?”

 He didn’t notice the way Sirius’s cheeks flushed and his face fell, nor did he notice the waver in his iron confidence that was built up so high. The boy sobered slightly, finally lifting his head and coming back down to reality.

 “How did you-, um, did you sleep okay?” Remus asked.

 “Absolutely peachy.” Sirius laughed, “How about you?”

 His palms began to sweat as he answered shakily, trying his best to change the subject “Oh, yeah, do you know where I put my, um-, my bag?

 The other boy faltered, gathering his own belongings and spare change of clothes. “I think it’s in the kitchen mate.”

 “Right, thanks, yeah,” Remus said.

 Peter looked up from the floor, appearance in stark contrast to Sirius’s effortless, I woke up like this aura. He felt around for his phone and once found he cursed loudly, “Shit! I forgot to charge it, my mum’ll go mad.”

 Remus wasn’t listening as he stared at the back of a certain someone’s head, wondering if he’d done something wrong. It seemed as if there was an entire section of his brain dedicated to Sirius, whether that be anxious thoughts about his wellbeing and emotions, or pathetic crushing.

 James burst through the door, “Do you need me to call your mum? Is she worried about you?” He cooed. “Okay now, that gesture wasn’t very nice.”

 When Remus turned back to look at Sirius, he had already gone, presumably to the bathroom. James spoke warmly, “What do you want for breakfast? Dad says he’ll make bacon if you fancy it.”

 “Have you got sausages as well? That’d be nice.” Peter had stopped panicking about his phone, perking up at the mention of food.

 Remus truthfully was quite hungry, but suddenly wasn’t in the mood. “I’ll eat at school, thanks though Prongs.”

 “It’s no trouble, he always makes too much anyway.” James reasoned.

 “Seriously, I’m fine.” He said dismissively, giving one last reassuring smile before stalking into the kitchen to sit at the bar, scrolling through his own phone lazily. Mr Potter was hard at work at the stove, the bacon James had spoke of by his side.

 He sought out conversation, “How’s your mum these days? I haven’t spoken to her in a while.”

 “She’s doing well, yeah.” For a moment he let his mind linger on the thought of his mother, pushing herself to her limits just for mere household chores, every adult he knew always asking about her. He tended not to think too much of it, but occasionally it was impossible to ignore. Never did he talk openly about what was going on, he was similar to Sirius that way.

 “Something smells good.” Sirius sauntered into the room, looking even more perfect than before, if that was possible.

 James chuckled, “Unlike you.”

 “Very original.”

 “Again, unlike you.”

  ~~

  Marlene looked away from where she was tracing glitter onto Remus’s eyelids, “Seriously, Re, I don’t know why you were so against this. It looks good!”

 “I wasn’t against it, I am against it. This is stupid.” He huffed.

 Remus was sat in the girls’ bathroom, legs folded on a closed toilet seat, head tilted up to meet a makeup brush. Surrounding him were Lily, Mary, Dorcas and Marlene, all gossiping excitedly about an art project they were doing. After he’d come out to Lily, he’d found it easy and comforting to tell the other girls too (though still not ready to tell the boys), who’d jumped on the excuse to show him love, support and happiness. They were currently working on a project about gender expression, using Remus as a very unenthusiastic model.

 “Jeez, Marls, doesn’t this seem like a bit too much?” He asked.

 Dorcas laughed, “There’s no such thing as too much!”

 “Tell that to the people who are going to be blinded by my fucking-,” He winced as the brush pressed harder against his skin, “be careful with that, -my eyes.”

 Marlene swiped a thumb over the glistening skin, before leaning back to inspect her work. “Hey babe, do you think I should go for red or pink on the lips? I think the red goes cute with the eyes.”

 “Whatever you think.” Dorcas smiled sweetly.

 Remus made a noise in the back of his throat, “As long as it doesn’t take too long, I have to take all of this off before my next lesson.”

“You should keep it on, it’s nice.” Lily suggested, “I think Sirius would think so anyway.”

“Fat chance.”

 He felt his phone buzz in his pocket so he got it out, not without protest from Marlene. The beating of his heart picked up as he saw it was a snapchat from Sirius, his momentary freeze allowing Lily to snatch it right from his hands.

 “Speaking of him, what’s going on?”

 He snatched the phone back. “I haven’t opened it, dumbass.”

“Well then you better open it before I do, dumbass.” Lily teased.

 He wondered for a moment what it could be, considering Sirius must have been well into a lesson. Not that I know his timetable. That would be weird. He tried to reason with himself about all of the possible things it could concern, and how practically none of which aligned with his fantasies and wishes. Reasoning had always gone out the window when it came to his friend.

 Friends. That’s all you are.

 “C’mon Remus, let’s see it.” Mary sang.

 Marlene joined her, “You cannot leave us waiting like this.”

 “He’ll open it when he’s ready, guys.” He heard Dorcas say vaguely.

 He only hesitated for another second, until with a surge of confidence he tapped his phone to open the message. For a moment, he thought I’m overreacting, it’s just a stupid snapchat, but this moment was cut short by a glance at the picture of Sirius from under the desk with the caption ‘meet me in Slughorn’s empty lab in 5. We need to talk’

 Holy. Shit.

 “Um, Marls?” She hummed in recognition. “How fast can you take all of this off my face?”

  ~~

  It was eerily quiet as he cautiously walked into the lab, having never been there outside of lessons. It was also strange to see Sirius perched atop the counter, legs swinging wildly and fingers picking at his nail polish. Remus remembered when he’d first started painting his nails, claiming he was only doing it because it pissed off his mum, but it was to be suspected that he secretly loved it.

 Sirius lifted his head and scanned Remus’s face in confusion. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

 “Marlene happened.”

 He laughed, “That explains it.”

 The two looked at each other for a moment, searching for the words but not quite finding them. It was awkward, but the comfortable kind. Remus broke the silence shyly, “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

 Sirius sighed, “I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”

 “What-, what do you mean? Isn’t that why you wanted me here? No offence, but I wouldn’t just risk detention with Slughorn to just stand here,” He asked, before realising what he said. “Not that I don’t… I wouldn’t… I just wanted to know what’s up.”

 Sirius rubbed at the back of his neck. “Keep talking, please, it makes me less nervous.”

 “What do you have to be nervous about?” Remus said, kicking at his shoes.

 “A lot, apparently.”

 Sirius stilled where he was sitting, hooking his ankles together to stop the violent swinging, running a hand through his hair. Remus’s mind reeled trying to make sense of what was happening, or what he should be doing. Say something, idiot. “Me talking makes you less nervous?” It was more of a statement than a question.

 “I guess it does, yeah.” Sirius replied quietly.

 Remus found a poster on the wall to burn his eyes into, reading the same sentence again and again without really understanding it. Truth be told, he had no idea what was going on, and at this rate he’d never find out.

 He spoke with a care-free façade, “So who’s lesson are you skiving? Wait no, don’t tell me, it’s Binns, isn’t it?”

 “You know me so well.” Sirius said with a hand over his heart. “He doesn’t even notice! It’s a wonder anyone shows up.”

 Remus paused a moment for a thought, “Perhaps it’s just the people who actually care about their grades. Or the people who chose the subject because they enjoy it, not just because James picked it, who only did it because Lily did.”

 “Couldn’t be me.” Sirius giggled. Giggled.

 “Well, for once I can’t be too angry,” Remus mirrored his laugh. “You did save me from the wrath of Marlene’s makeup brush. I don’t think I could have been able to stand any more glitter.”

 “I don’t blame you.” Sirius said amusedly, before adding, “I don’t blame her either. Looks nice.”

 Remus’s breath caught in his throat. “You think?”

 Rather than be embarrassed as he was before, Sirius let out another hearty laugh. “You’re always so self-deprecating, mate. You look good, any bird would be lucky to have you.”

 “I’ll have to take your word for it.” Remus replied happily, any sadness slipping from his shoulders as he took in the compliment. He’d never been good at taking compliments, either out of disbelief and surprise, or his anxiety.

 They’re only saying these things out of pity, he’d think. But he didn’t think that now.

 It subdued for only a few seconds, the two laughing about anything and everything, before Sirius blurted something that made Remus’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “I like boys, by the way… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 FuckfuckfuCKFUCKFUCKSHITSHIT

 “What-, you-, I don’t, what?” He spluttered, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

 “Do you really want me to answer that?”

 Remus had to bite back a smile, “No, I absolutely do not. I just… wow.”

 Sirius nodded. “Wow. That sums it up pretty well.”

 “I-, I had no idea, I mean, that came out wrong.” He then realised how awful this sounded, probably making Sirius think he was homophobic or something. He debated it in his mind, he had the perfect opportunity to tell him of his own truth. “Does-, does anyone know? James maybe?”

 Sirius’s squeezed his hands between his thighs. “The only people who know are my so-called parents and Regulus. Long story short, they’re not exactly the most accepting people in the world.”

 Remus let out a sympathetic noise, “I’m so sorry.” You can’t tell him now, it’d take his moment away.

 But maybe I have a chance. A very small one, I’m probably not even his type. But a chance.

 “Can I… Do you… A hug, maybe?”

 Before he could blink Sirius was wrapping his arms around him, pressing a teary face to his shoulder. It was slightly difficult at the angle, and Remus had to stand on his toes to put his own arms on his waist to steady him.

 Sirius breathed, “I left, Re. I told them and stood up and I left.”

 “I’m proud of you, it takes a lot to do that”

 He hadn’t known when tears had started to stream down Sirius’s face. “But Reg, he’ still there. I left him in that fucking house! I could have-“

 “He’s a smart kid, you know that. You had to get out, you can’t put all the fault on your shoulders, Pads.” He was saying anything he thought could cheer him up. “Where did you even go? After you left, you had to have gone somewhere.”

 “Round James’s. Mrs Potter set up an airbed and everything.”

 Remus smiled, relieved that he’d gotten the comfort of the Potter household. “Pads, can I tell you something?”

 “Course, Moons.” He lifted his head from where it had been pressed against Remus, looking him right in the eye.

 “Me too.”

 “What?”

 “I-“ Spit it out. “I like boys too. And girls. Pads… I’m bi.”

 This time he did notice how Sirius’s face flushed as he cleared his throat. “I’m happy for you, mate. Although the glitter might have given it away.”

 “You think?”

  ~~

 One week ago.

 Sirius was running. He didn’t know when it had started raining, but now he was picking up the pace as to not get caught in the heavy downpour. It was cold – dark with an evening breeze and freezing – and he was only wearing a thin, white t-shirt and jeans. His long hair stuck to his forehead unpleasantly, beads of rain and sweat dripping down his entire body.

 ‘Then leave! Get the fuck out of my house!’ Mr Black boomed.

 He hadn’t expected to leave, to tell them he was gay or to stand up for himself. It had been an idea in the back of his mind for a while, but as he was now actually going through with it, he was regretful. It was the name of his brother coming from Mr Black’s mouth with such disrespect had been the final straw.

 He knew exactly where he was running, the only place that had ever felt like home. He flinched as he heard himself bang on the door heavily, his mind swimming elsewhere, and fell into the arms of the woman who opened the door with a startled smile.

 “Sirius love, what’s going on?” She inquired. “Gosh, you’re soaked through, let’s get you to the shower.”

 He nodded glumly and heard his best friend hurry down the stairs, “Padfoot! Are you okay? Who was it? I bet it was his parents. Those bastards, I don’t know why you stayed there for so long. Is Reg okay? Is he here? We’ll take him in too if we have to.”

 “James, stop crowding him. I’m sure he’ll tell us when he’s ready. In the meantime, let’s get you cleaned up.” The last part was directed at Sirius.

 He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Can I stay the night?”

 Mrs Potter’s eyes curled kindly, “You’ll stay as long as you need. Who would I be to send you away in this state?”

 “Sick!” James exclaimed while his mother shushed him. “We’ll have a sleep over, wouldn’t that be cool?”

 Sirius hadn’t smiled all night, but in that moment he did. “Thank you.”

 “C’mon, mate. You can pick some of my clothes.”

 “Not a chance, you dress like a 9-year-old kid.”

 “Do not.”

[moved-to-anthotnio]

thorns and roses.

Commission for @starksnack | Chapter: 1 - ? | Rhodey/Tony | 4.4k words | mit era, college shenanigans, tony needs a hug, rhodey is amazing at giving hugs and cuddles, first impressions, past abusive relationship, underage drinking/alcohol abuse, hurt/comfort, falling in love, hanahaki au, fluff and cuteness, rhodey is amazing let’s be honest, latine tony, latine rhodey

•••

MIT, 1985

James Rupert Rhodes is, to say the least, an absolute dumbass. He’s not stupid, or, Dios lo prohiba, dense. He’s just a dumbass with a heart too big for his own good. Or that’s what his mamá tells him over the phone when he calls her at three in the morning, very, very scared, and with no idea how to deal with the kid currently heaving up his stomach in the bathroom of James’ dorm room.

The kid has been holed up in the bathroom for almost two hours straight now, looking scarily pale and sick. Something at the back of James’ mind keeps telling him to take the poor dude to the doctor, but knowing that it’ll probably just get the kid in trouble, he decides to take the matter into his own hands. Rhodey calls his mamá, knowing that she’s dealt with James’ brother’s tequila and mezcal hangovers more often than not, and is far more experienced in this area than himself.

Mamá Rhodes walks him through it, gracias a Dios. James does what she says and gets what she asks for – juice of any kind, ibuprofen, a warm bath, a set of fresh clothes, some Vicks Vaporub because every Latine knows that shit’s magical - hoping that the kid doesn’t decide to escape from the room when he isn’t looking. It makes James’ heart clench to just think about it. The kid looked pretty scared when James found him and carried him to his room - his eyes were unfocused and he was crying, but James made no comment, knowing that he could make things worse, and just took him to the bathroom and helped him as he emptied his stomach. Now, two hours later, the kid’s still inside the bathroom, but thankfully James does know what to do.

He starts the bath, going over everything his mamá told him to do over the phone in his mind, repeating it like a mantra, and making sure that the water’s warm enough to lessen the kid’s incredibly visible pain instead of worsening it. He’s kneeling on the floor next to the kid, who’s gripping the toilet seat as if his life depends on it, when the water starts running, slowly filling the tub. James turns around on his knees to help the kid undress and put him inside the tub. The process is slow, mostly because the kid won’t stop shaking on his feet. James tries his best to undress him down to his boxers, holding him up with one arm so he doesn’t fall, and then helps him into the bathtub. The kid sits down heavily, his legs clearly giving up underneath him once they make contact with the warm water. His eyes look empty and tired, and James resists the urge to join him inside just to hold him close and try to ease his pain.

Instead, he tries his best to wash the kid’s hair, rinsing the sweat and smell of alcohol and the bit of blood that somehow ended up in his hair from his bleeding nose. He gently rinses the kid’s body, going over his arms, back and chest first, avoiding adding too much pressure on the nasty bruises spread across his skin. Then he goes over the kid’s legs and feet, then back to his face. The boy doesn’t move at all through it, and keeps silent, his eyes look gone and unsettlingly empty, like he’s in a completely different place. It worries James, but he hopes that once the boy gets some rest, he’ll feel better.

When it’s time to dress the kid up, James decides that it’s something the kid should do on his own. He leaves the fresh set of pajamas on the counter of the bathroom, and waits outside as the kid dries and dresses himself up. He hears a knock on the door, and supposes that the kid has finished. He opens the door carefully, and yeah, there he is, dressed up with his hair still dripping. James takes the towel - the fluffiest he has - from the bathroom lid and gently dries the kid’s hair.

He helps the boy walk over to James’ bed, and carefully sits him there. The kid doesn’t look up, just stares down at his shaking hands, trying to stop them from trembling by pressing them against his thighs. James takes the orange juice and the pills and hands them over to the kid, who takes them bashfully and downs them together in one go, before looking up and giving James a strained smile.

“So,” the boy starts, his voice rough, a weird spark in his eyes as he looks at him, “What’s it gonna be? Do you want a handjob? A blowjob? I’m pretty good at those, not gonna lie. Or will you sell the story of how you rescued me from my antics to the press?”

James stares blankly at him for a second, his brain trying to process the kid’s words. He stares at him, almost sure his mouth is hanging wide open - okay, completely sure, if the kid’s expression is anything to go by. But hey, you can’t blame him really; this is a lot to process, because honestly? Qué verga esta diciendo este niño.

James clears his throat, which has gone dry. “What are you talking about?”

This time, the kid’s expression grows more confused. He raises an eyebrow. “What am I talking about? I’m talking about what you want from me. What everyone always wants from me.” The pitch of his voice went up at the end of the last sentence, making it sound like a question.

James feels his blood run cold. He looks at the kid, who is sitting as straight as he can on the bed. It’s probably to make himself look older but James is no fool. He knows the kid can’t be older than sixteen.

“How old are you?” He asks, voice slightly choked.

Dios, this is too much for him. He should have just used the Pomada De La Campana for the kid’s bruises and let him go an hour ago, instead of going through an entire range of disturbing emotions in a split second.

The boy looks at him, his warm brown eyes looking puzzled, and shrugs, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

The boy stares at him, his eyebrows knitted together, obviously looking for something in James’ expression. Whatever it is, he must have found it, because his face relaxes, his hands stop gripping his pajama bottoms hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and his shoulders hunch. He looks very small and incredibly tired, the lines around his eyes obscuring his expression. James wants to do nothing but wrap him in a blanket and cuddle him, and promise that everything’s gonna be okay in the morning. He can’t do that, though. Not after the kid’s offer earlier.

A couple minutes pass before the kid talks again. “I’m fifteen.”

Oh, Dios mío, Santismo.

“And why the hell would I want to have sex with you?” He blurts out, horrified.

It should be impossible, but the kid looks even smaller after that, and something in his face seems to break. James wants to kick himself in the balls.

“No- That’s not what I- Fuck- I mean,” He takes a deep breath, pressing his hands on each side of his temple. Oh Dios, he’s gonna have a headache soon. He can feel it coming. “I mean. You’re a, you’re a kid. You shouldn’t be offering anything sexual to anyone in the first place, and no one should be asking that from you, either. That’s just- No.”

He must have found James’ explanation better, because his face shifts from wounded to surprised and then amused, even though James’ pretty sure there’s absolutely nothing mildly amusing happening right now, if anything, this is stressful and infinitely tiring.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” The kid asks, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

James frowns and huffs, “Well, let’s say that your messy look and your vomit on my bathroom floor sure aren’t helping me solve my doubts at all.”

“Fair,” the kid shrugs, and then he takes the covers from James’ bed and shifts until he’s comfortably lying under them, his back turned to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired?”

“No, not that. Why are you sleeping in my bed?”

“Because I’ve decided you’re my best friend now.”

“That isn’t bizarre at all.”

“I’m sure your whole night has been bizarre already, why does this surprise you?” The kid asks, amusement clear on his voice. “Actually, don’t answer that, your life will just keep getting weirder from now on and there’s no point in asking any questions.”

James rolls his eyes. “What should I call you, though? Kid, niño, mijo, idiota, brat?”

“Cállate, I’m sleeping.”

“Y el enano es latino! Aleluya!”

The kid groans loudly, pulling a pillow over his head.

James laughs, and starts getting ready for bed. He makes sure the kid really is turned to the other side before he starts taking his clothes off, which are gross and sticky with the kid’s vomit and, wow, that’s disgusting, ugh, ugh, ugh. He should probably take a bath, but Dios, he’s terribly exhausted. Once he has changed into the set of fresh pajamas, he gets into the empty bed on the other side of the room. At times like this he really is thankful he accidentally wasn’t assigned a roommate, because Santo Dios.

Later, when he can feel himself drifting off, he can hear the faint sound of the kid’s voice. “Hmm? Did you say something?”

“Mi nombre es, uh, Tony. Tony Stark. You can call me Tony.”

He smiles, “James Rhodes, call me Jim.”

Tony turns, just to raise an eyebrow at him. “Jim? Yeah no.”

James rolls his eyes, “Night Tony.”

“Sure thing, Rhodey.”

Damn, this kid.

•••

Tony moves into James’ dorm room over the course of the week. Suddenly his dirty clothes are lying on the floor, his books and papers are scattered over the previously empty desk, and the bed starts looking like someone is finally using it. It’s kind of annoying for James, but very amusing too.

They never talk about the night James found Tony, and sometimes it feels like it never happened. Ignoring its existence is like a silent pact they made the moment they both fell asleep that night. And who knows? Maybe it’s for the best. That night…it was awful, finding Tony like that, James’ heart breaks a little more every time his mind conjures up Tony’s scarily empty face. So, no, they don’t talk about it. And James doesn’t ask.

They talk about other things instead. Slowly, they start learning a lot about each other. Talking with Tony, at first, feels like a game of 20 questions, except it’s one they started and never stop playing during the first two weeks since that night. James talks about his family; tells Tony about his brother and sister, about his mamá and his papá. He tells stories from his childhood, how he never learned to do anything besides cleaning his room and how to make coffee because his mamá wouldn’t let him do anything else. He asks Tony once or twice about his family in return, but with time, he learns not to bring Tony’s family up unprompted, and instead waits for Tony to tell him about them when he feels comfortable. Slowly, he learns that Tony’s mother is mexican, like James’ parents, and she, along with Jarvis, their butler, has taught Tony most of the things he knows.

James knows there’s more to her, and that Tony really loves her, just by the soft smile he gets everytime he mentions her. It makes something warm blossom in James’ chest everytime he sees that smile. Seeing Tony happy makes him happy.

On the other hand, James starts hating Howard all on his own, just by the way Tony stiffens and his eyes tighten around the corners whenever he mentions him. It’s a cold, unwavering hatred that pools at the bottom of his stomach; that he tries to ignore because he’s kinda afraid he’s maybe letting his feelings toward Tony run hot.

And well, isn’t that quite something.

Tony isn’t like anything James ever imagined Tony Stark would be. He doesn’t party much, nor does he go out with girls as much as everyone believes he does. He’s a genius, an absolute genius, and the expanse of his knowledge never ceases to amaze James. Tony works on personal projects a lot, as well as various projects for Stark Industries that James isn’t allowed to know about but still does because Tony never shuts up. Watching Tony work is mesmerizing, to say the least. His eyes light up with an unwavering wonder and energy, and once he starts it seems like he can’t stop. His hands moving in big expressions along with his words, and it feels like his entire body lights up with his love for science.

James’ pretty sure that Tony’s brain is above everyone else’s, but underneath all that, he’s just a normal kid. As much as someone like Tony Stark can be described as normal. And an absolute dumbass, just like James himself. Just like any other kid, Tony stays up late, sometimes doesn’t go to classes, eats a lot of junk food - which makes James sick, to be honest - lives off coffee, and doesn’t know how to do laundry.

And that’s exactly what they’re doing right now. Learning to do laundry. Because there’s only so much time you can go without washing your clothes and get away with it.

Mamá Rhodes is on the phone with them, talking them through it. James is close to giving up, if he’s being honest. But Tony is certain they can beat the washing machine if they try hard enough. So they’re still there.

By the end of the day, they start getting the hang of it, much to mamá Rhodes’ delight, who hangs up as soon as she hears the washing machine working in the background. Tony and James, on the other hand, feel like crying with relief. Then they laugh and laugh, until their bellies hurt and there are tears at the corners of their eyes.

They decide to get lunch afterwards. Tony, of course, decides on getting pizza, but James takes his phone away from him before the call goes through.

“What are you doing? Honeybear, this isn’t fair, give me my phone back!” Tony pouts, trying his best to reach the phone where James is holding it up over Tony’s head.

“First of all, stop calling me that. And second, no, we’re going to eat something healthy. You weigh fourteen pounds soaking wet, and are way too small for your age.”

“How dare you! I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much!”

“C’mon Tones, we both know our bodies deserve a break.”

Tony crosses his arms, glaring at him, “Pizza is perfect for a break.”

“Sorry, dude. It’s a hard no from me.”

They end up getting pizza anyway. And if anyone asks, James is immune to Tony’s puppy eyes, okay?

•••

In the nights that follow since Rhodey found him, Tony dreams of him.

Dreams of his hands running along his body; cold, long fingers pressing on his hips, his chest, holding him down, painting his skin purple and green. And Tony wakes up every single night with the taste of bile and salty tears on his tongue. So it’s easy, very easy, to just slide into Rhodey’s bed and hold onto him until the memories go, until the pain in his mind goes away. And he holds onto Rhodey, that first night when he startled him awake with his uncontrollable sobs that made him cry even harder in embarrassment, and the nights that follow, where the tears stream down, but Rhodey holds him back and whispers words of comfort in his ear. Because he cares. He cares about Tony. So it’s easy. Very easy to hold on and not let him go.

He never tells Rhodey about him. About Ty. About his hands and his lips, about his words and lies. About how he used him, only to get some money from him. About how Howard screamed himself hoarse over the phone when Ty threatened him about making his relationship with Tony and the details about it public, blaming it all on Tony. About how Tony was stupid enough to almost fall in love with Tiberius Stone. He never tells Rhodey any of it, nor how he ended up drunk off his ass at that party, a death wish almost crawling in the depths of his heart. And thankfully, Rhodey never asks.

And it’s good, this thing he has with Rhodey. It’s nice, easy.

Until it’s not.

Months pass and they become inseparable. Best friends, Rhodey says one time, and when Tony says it back, the words feel weird in his mouth, entirely too good to be true. But that’s what they are. Best friends. And Tony would never ask the universe for more, truly and irrevocably happy with what he has already, except when he does.

It’s funny, really. How people seem to know more about him than himself. Tony supposedly knows himself, though, and it’s quite obvious that he should have known something like this would happen.

You’re greedy, you’re never satisfied, are you? Always seeking more, like a needy little bitch, don’t you?

And it’s true. Those words Ty spat to him when Tony found out it was all a lie. Tony wanted their relationship to be true, to be real. He loved Ty, and he thought Ty loved him back, but it wasn’t the case. And that’s when he realized: he always asked for more. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. He’s selfish, and wants to receive from everyone around him. Wants to be liked, wants to be cared for, wants to be loved.

So really, it shouldn’t be a surprise when his heart starts swooping in his chest every time Rhodey looks at him, but it is. It is. And it’s awful. His heart dances under his best friend’s gaze, but his stomach plummets, filling with cold, unforgiving dread. And he hates himself, he does, because it all comes down to this, doesn’t it? He always wants more, it’s never enough. And what’s worse, he is never enough. Not for Howard, not for Ty. And if he asks Rhodey for more, and for some magnificent reason he gets it, he would never be enough for Rhodey. Because Rhodey deserves more, far more than Tony can give. And it wouldn’t be fair to keep him, it would be selfish. And yet, Tony wants.

Months pass, and almost too soon, a year goes by. The feelings carefully hidden in his chest grow with time, and he wants and wants and wants, and has nothing but himself to give back. But Tony’s broken; a mess of scattered tiny, useless pieces, and he’s not enough, never will be. Why would he?

•••

Winter Break, 1986

Just like last year, they go their separate ways during winter break. Tony couldn’t bear the thought of intruding on the Rhodes’ celebrations, even after Rhodey insisted that his mamá would be pleased to meet Tony after a year of them being friends.  He would love to go and finally meet the Rhodes family, of course, he knows that mamá Rhodes is a sweetheart and would welcome him with open arms, but everytime he thinks about it, he feels uneasy, so he decides to stay at school during break.

He occupies himself with new projects, and ignores the fact that he would really love to go see his mamá. It also makes it easier to forget that Rhodey is gone, slightly more bearable. The first couple days are torture though; missing Rhodey feels like missing a part of himself. And no matter how many times they go their separate ways, it’s always the same pain the first couple days. He can’t help but feel absolutely ridiculous at the thought. He’s known the guy for, what, a year and a couple of months? Tony has always known he’s clingy, but this definitely has to take the cake.

It’s okay, though, he doesn’t need Rhodey. Tony can take care of himself and do the stuff he has to do. He doesn’t need Rhodey’s help, or hugs, or cuddles, or - or anything.

He’s gonna be okay.

Who is he kidding? He misses Rhodey too much, to the point where he can’t sleep at night. It’s absolutely, and he can’t stress this enough, ridiculous. Honestly. And yet, it doesn’t erase the fact that he misses Rhodey’s warmth beside him, his awful snores, and his grunts when Tony moves even slightly when he’s trapped between James’ arms while they sleep on his bed. It’s become like a lullaby for Tony; makes him feel safe, and cared for.

See? Ridiculous. Besides, if you asked Tony, he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint exactly when he started being so needy for his…best friend.

Okay, that’s a lie. Well, half lie. He doesn’t remember when, but he does remember how.

Once they got comfortable enough with each other, Tony latched onto Rhodey with a pathetic need that still unsettles him to this day, but can’t avoid as much as he tries. It’s just that, well, Rhodey gives lovely cuddles. And since that first night when Tony crawled into his bed sobbing his eyes out, well, it seems like Tony just can’t get enough. He is almost always touching Rhodey in some sort of way, be it a hand on his shoulder, a kiss on the cheek, midnight cuddles, everything he can get his hands on. Tony would say it’s a need, if it didn’t make him feel extremely dumb. Rhodey, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind, eagerly returning the kisses and words and hugs and everything Tony gives him.

It settles down a need inside Tony that he didn’t even know existed.

So really, it’s not surprising that he can’t sleep without him in the room anymore. Just like it’s not surprising when he notices he’s got a crush on Rhodey. If anything, it’s just disappointing. He’s not disappointed that he can’t sleep without Rhodey - although, yes, he very much is, he would like a couple of hours of rest when he’s gone, thanks -, but he is disappointed that he’s got a crush on Rhodey. Not because James isn’t crush material, on the contrary, Tony is firmly convinced that James Rhodes is an absolute catch and anyone dating him would be the luckiest motherfucker in the whole universe.  But sadly, Tony knows the feelings aren’t reciprocated, and never will be. So there’s no use in hoarding those feelings towards his best and olny friend.

Plus, not even Rhodey would want Tony, right?

That’s another reason why he didn’t want to go to the Rhodes’; he needs to get rid of his feelings, because otherwise, they’ll just grow more and more, and will slowly kill him. Although it is a very tempting ending to his life, he really, really doesn’t want to die. Not yet, at least.

Tony has been elbow deep in grease and mechanical parts for hours now, probably days even, when his phone finally rings. He looks at the screen and panics when he recognizes Rhodey’s ID. What if his feelings are so obvious that the universe noticed and wants to fuck with him? Tony’s been through some stuff, and he wouldn’t pass this as a coincidence at all, knowing what has happened ion his life so far. He looks for something to dry his hands with, his eyes settling on one of his shirts, and mourns its loss as soon as his dirty hands touch the fabric.

Tony grabs the phone with trembling hands, it’s been a while since he’s heard Rhodey’s soft voice, and thankfully, he’s fast enough to answer the call before it disconnects. He’s greeted with the sound of Los Peces En El Río blaring in the background, and the faint sound of conversation and laughter. “Honeybear, how’s it going?”

“Merry Christmas, babe,” Rhodey says, his words soft and slightly slurred, and Tony is fairly convinced that he drank way too much ponche and wine.

He ignores the pet name and the pang of hurt in his chest, “Ya es Navidad?”

“Si, since two hours ago, dumbass.”

“Bueno, pues Feliz Navidad para ti también, sourpatch.”

Rhodey laughs on the other side of the line, and Tony can’t help that little smile that spreads over his face. He tells Tony that his hermanos say hi, along with mamá Rhodes and Mr. Rhodes; he even hands the phone to his mamá so Tony can talk to her. She tells Tony that she would like to meet him someday in person and that he’s welcome to comego go visit whenever he pleases. Tony smiles through it all, and agrees to go during spring break. Eventually, after a long talk with Roberta Rhodes, the phone gets handed back to James, who laughs and apologizes if it was too much. Tony assures it wasn’t, everything was really sweet. It reminds Tony of his mamá, who’ll probably call him later.

“And how are you hanging on?”, Rhodey asks, unable to keep the concern away from his voice, making Tony roll his eyes fondly. “Everything okay? You haven’t destroyed anything, have you?”

“Everything’s peachy keen, sugar,” Tony says, looking around their room. There are papers and metal pieces scattered around the room; it’s an absolute mess, but nothing’s broken. “Nothing broken. Right now science is at work and I’m very close to cracking this formula, like, really close, Rhodey.”

“That’s amazing, Tony.” Rhodey’s voice softens even more, and Tony feels like he’s melting. “I’m very proud of you.”

He can feel himself blush, and is extremely grateful that Rhodey isn’t here to witness Tony completely embarrass himself.

“S’not ready yet, so there’s nothing to be proud of, platypus. I’m more likely to make this place explode than to actually figure this out.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rhodey says, but the words are fond and laced with amusement. The line goes silent for a moment, then, “Wait, are you in our room?”

Tony doesn’t answer.

“I thought you were in the lab, oh Dios, Tony Stark, I swear, if you blow up our room you’ll be sleeping in the hallway, don’t you dare-”

Tony laughs, loud and heartfelt, and he feels like he’s hasn’t laughed like this in days. Who would’ve thought that Rhodey’s voice would make Tony’s world brighter. So really, he can’t help it, the words come out of his mouth all on their own. “Yeah, yeah, honeybear, I love you too.”

Oh shit.

Tony hangs up.

[fragiledewdrop]

High school Newspaper Shenanigans

I don't have a lot of good memories about high school, but today I found a dusty copy of what passed for a "newspaper" in my school and it brought me back to when I was 16.

The girl who had been running the school newspaper for as long as I could remember was graduating that year, so she had to prepare for the final exam and university and she did not have time to edit anymore. My friends B., C., and I, in what was probably a fit of madness, decided to try our hand at it. And so I found myself co-editor of a newspaper. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but it would be one hell of an adventure.

The paper was called "Up!", after the Disney movie, for...some very creative reason I cannot remember. The first thing we did was change the title to "Up patriots to arms!"

One of the first things we had to cover was a very important, popular, yearly student strike,which would have been fairly easy, if not for the freaking tension between the two student organizations in our city. The biggest one, the "Rete" , was basically left wing - although many people didn't know or care about their affiliations- and they constantly butted heads with the student block, a group of self proclaimed neofascists who dressed in all black, used smoke bombs during protests and were always surrounded by the police.

We decided it would be a grand idea to interview the respective leaders to get both opinions on the matter.

The president of the "Rete" came to meet us after school. The highlight of the interview was when he said that his was a "non political organization", at which point we looked at each other in disbelief and asked him:"Really?"

The answer was "Yeas, although of course many of us are registered in different parties along the whole spectrum, such as..." and he started listing all left wing parties in the country, from communists to centrists, because apparently that's what he meant by "variety". Anyway.

It was time to interview the leader of the Block. He told us to wait in a square until someone would come get us.

B. and I were getting very nervous.

A guy with a shaved head and a black leather jacket came towards us. "You the journalists? Follow me"

We followed him to the lair. I mean headquarters.

(By the way, we realized we knew this guy. He was a lamb. I had no clue what he was doing there.)

The headquarters' walls were legit covered in swastikas and pictures of Mussolini. Yikes.

The leader was also very nice. Didn't stop me wanting to throttle him when he said that poor Mussolini was just misunderstood.

I had to ACTUALLY stop B. from doing something rash. No picking fights with the fascist dudes in he fascists's lair, please.

They straight up told us, I shit you not, that they were a brotherhood and, as a very effective bonding experience, they put on music and danced in a circle while whipping each other with leather belts. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Maybe they were, but it didn't seem so. That didn't make it into the article, but it's forever etched into my brain.

I was shaken, but the double interview turned out great. #journalism

A while later we were sitting at a school assembly in the local movie theater. Everybody was complaining about the fact that our gym's roof had collapsed the year before and nobody was doing anything about it. We were taking the bus every week to a public gym, but we had to pay for it and were Officially Not Happy About It.

It was then that B. went : "You know what would be great? If we could interview the mayor about this"

I lit up. "Oh my god! We could ask him so many things! And not just about our school, but about the Linguistic High school that had to be evacuated and about [all the other schools that were literally falling to pieces. You know, Italian things]"

But the consensus was that, while we could try, it would be almost impossible for us to get an interview. So we sighed and sat back.

C.cleared her throat. "Guys." "Yes?" "You know how the mayor is a lawyer?" ".... Yes?" "Well, my dad is a lawyer. He knows him."

We dragged her to the bathroom

"We are not leaving here until your dad gets us an appointment" (poor guy)

He did

For that same night. At the town hall. At 8 pm.

We cleared our afternoon to come up with pertinent questions and practice and freak out.

At 8 we were at the town hall.

There was a red banner on the balcony with a slogan on it, that would be there for months afterwards, because...

... that same night a group of workers had occupied the town hall to demand better pay and better working conditions

Good for them

Bad for us

We were about to leave, but they assured us the mayor would be with us shortly

We waited three whole hours

During which, obviously, an old council member came to talk to us about how, if we wanted to do some real journalism, we should investigate the presence of the Illuminati in our town

Not gonna lie, we were kinda interested at that point

Around 11, the mayor called us in

I am going to concede that he must have been tired

But he was still a slimy son of a bitch

Extremely condescending

When we brought up our problems, he told us our schools were the Province's responsibility

(the Province would of course later tell us we were the Mayor's responsibility)

It was a train wreck

But eye opening

The article we wrote was extremely passive aggressive

He told C.'s father that he really liked it

I don't know if he was impermeable to sarcasm or just a politician.

Fast forward a few months. While our math teacher was talking, a giant piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, missed her by millimeters and crashed on the floor. We went on, business as usual, but that was kinda scary. And it was not the first incident of that kind to happen in our school.

We decided to do a reportage

Armed with notebooks and a camera, we went from classroom to classroom, asking students and teachers about problems with the building.

It was like opening a can of worms.

We got everything from "Oh yes, don't you see those huge holes in the ceiling and in the floor?" to "Yes, every time it rains the classroom gets flooded" to "See this giant wooden piece of tent rod? It fell on my shoulder last week. We don’t even have tents!"

Everyone had something to complain about. The teachers. The janitors. It was scary, to be honest. Especially considering we were repeatedly told ours was the safest school structure in town (what with having been standing since the end of WWI and all)

One day, while we were trying to get on the roof to evaluate its conditions, the headmistress called us in her office.

She said that she had gotten wind of what we were doing (duh)

And she hoped that we wouldn't give a bad impression of her "to parents and important people"

Because after all her hands were tied

It was the responsibility of the Mayor and the Province

(Just who the fuck was responsible for us?)

She smiled sweetly, leaned in towards us and whispered "You'll be careful now, won't you?"

She looked at me and said my name

Hoping I'd be the responsible/most easily intimidated one

(I had beef with that woman, mmmkay? But that's a story for another day)

I smiled and I told her: "Of course. We are just taking pictures of what we see. We'll let the truth speak for itself"

We did

No commentary

Just very objective descriptions and pictures

We really felt like heroes of the free press and free speech, at the service of the people despite the threat of power. (Yes, it sounds dramatic. It's because we were teenagers)

And then there were the other, less momentous adventures:

That one time when, after days of editing, we had to fill a little blank space at the bottom of the last page and nothing fit. We were frantically searching through our notes, the articles other students had sent us, drawings, everything, and we were slowly losing hope, until B. unearthed one of my notebooks and said : "What is this? 'Requiem. In memoriam termosifoni malati, ego ista verba pronuntio..." I was horrified. "NO" I yelled. "That's just a joke. We are NOT publishing that. NO WAY!" It was really a silly thing, you see. There was a radiator in our classroom that didn't work very well. Sometimes it was scorching hot, sometimes (on the coldest days, obviously) it was icy. So my friend E. and I had decided that the radiator was "sick", and we wrote its last will, its epitaph, parodies of famous poems like "La fontana malata" (The sick fountain) by Palazzeschi or "All'amica risanata" (To the healed friend) by Foscolo (can't find translations, sorry). It was fun. B.had found my silly attempt to write a "Requiem" in...kinda dog Latin I guess? But the grammar was correct. In any case, IT WAS NOT MEANT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. But we were desperate, so I relented. On one condition: it had to be ANONYMOUS. And that was the best decision I ever made in my entire life, because when we distributed the newspaper I saw a bunch of Latin teachers analising the fucking thing in front of their classes. "Mmmmhhh I am not sure an accusative was the best choice here. I would have gone with a dative." Then write your own pastiche poem, Marta! One of them had even copied it on the blackboard and was trying to figure out the metric! That was the equivalent of a 3am shitpost, not fucking Catullus, people! I have never been so embarrassed in my life! At least my friends were having a field day with it. Oh, and my Latin and Greek teacher figured it out. She read it and told me : "This was you, wasn't it?" I wanted to disappear. But she said it was funny, and that was the end of it.

All the times we had to edit what other students gave us and it was WILD, you guys. The grammar alone...The choice of topics....We got quite a few articles about UFO sightings over our town, so that was a thing. (We got to see a lot of really interesting and creative stuff, though)

The times we absolutely lost our cool, because it was hard work, okay? "Federica, your Isabel Allende analysis is a bit too long. Maybe if we cut the Scheherazade comparison..." "YOU ARE NOT CUTTING THE SCHEHERAZADE COMPARISON, B." "But.." "That is the backbone of the whole thing. The structure would collapse without it." "It's only a metaphor!" "No! I won't sell myself and my principles for a chance to be published" "Guys! CALM DOWN! It's just...essentially a book report." "SHUT UP C."[........] "I think we need to eat something" "Yeah. Should I make pancakes? With chocolate chips or without, B.? "

The time we got stuck at school because it was snowing, and C. wrote a beautiful piece called "The agonizing mesmerism of snow", and our friend P.,who was a wizard with a pencil, made an earie and amazing drawing for it that almost made me cry. Coincidentally, it was the day pope Ratzinger resigned. We thought it was a joke while still at school, then later on agreed that it was the reason it had been snowing in the first place. None of us wanted to write about the pope, so we asked the guy who was always sending us articles about the occult and arcane symbols hidden in churches. It turned out great.

The time a bunch of our more "troublesome" classmates started making hilarious dirty jokes based on Catullus' double entendres and B. promised them we would publish them (anonymously) if they wrote them down. They did, and the result was a page titled "Surrealism" full of the dirtiest "poetic" stuff in existence that made everybody laugh themselves unconscious, with the exception of some teachers who somehow didn't get the jokes.

The time we interviewed our student representative (a classmate of ours), whom B. had always thought was too full of himself and needed to be brought down a notch. So we "accidentally" misspelled his name in the article. Nobody noticed except him. He was fuming and it was glorious (not my proudest moment, but what can you do)

The time another brilliant classmate wrote a piece called "The pathologic mysoginist" that absolutely enraged some of the guys in our school. I stan her to this day.

That time I wrote a long article for Woman's day about the abuse and mistreatment of women in our country and across the world. I thought it was nothing special, really, but then Maria the janitor (the sweetest lady in existence) stopped me in the corridor and teared up a bit and said that she hadn't known about a lot of the things I had discussed, but she thought it was important to talk about them and that she felt represented as a woman and that she wanted to bring the paper home to read it to her husband. It touched me so deeply I still get emotional when I think about it.

Anyway, all of this and more happened in one year. Then we, too, had to worry about university admissions and exams and we passed the burden on to "aliens and occult" guy (who was amazing too)

But I remember the passion we poured into it, the willingness to take risks, the feeling of defying authority for the "greater good". We were idealists, all of us, and so full of hope and a will to change things in every way we could. Maybe a high school newspaper means nothing in the great scheme of things, but it meant something to us. It made us brave when we didn't think we were. It made us defiant. I wonder if that part of me is still sleeping, somewhere deep inside.

[sholiofic]

Jack gets amnesia post-s2, maybe an AU version of Song Remains The Same, but take it however you want. Peggy/Daniel + Jack as friendship or full OT3. I just rewatched s1 and imagining s1 Jack waking up to find Peggy and Daniel all emotional over him would be... somewhere between weird and a recipe for lots of ansgty defensive lashing out.

Jack felt like he was struggling through gray molasses, fighting his way toward the light. When he finally managed to open his eyes, everything hurt, including breathing.

For a single panicked instant he thought he was back in the war, he’d taken a hit – but no, the memories came down on him in a cold wave that helped clear some of the cobwebs from his brain. The Navy Cross. The lies. The job at the SSR.

Had he been hurt in the line of duty, then? Everything was strangely hazy. He couldn’t even remember exactly what day it was. Or what month. Just his luck to get shot – or something – after working under Dooley for … a month? Two months?

He blinked blearily at a block of sunshine on the white wall. Definitely in a hospital. Slowly the sound of a rhythmic clicking, that he couldn’t quite place, penetrated his haze. It was coming from beside him – mechanical equipment, he thought at first, but it started and stopped unevenly, and then there was a quiet murmur of, “Oh, bollocks.”

It took him two tries to turn his head to the side; his own weakness astounded and annoyed him. And what he saw then was … the SSR’s glorified secretary?

What the heck.

He just stared at her for a minute, halfway convinced that this was a dream, especially since Marge Carter had her head bent over a snarl of pastel-colored yarn and her face screwed up in a look of frustration.

“How does Rose make it look so easy?” she muttered, trying to untangle the yarn and only snarling it further. 

Well, this was flattering, Jack thought. Maybe Dooley sent her over to keep him company during his convalescence from whatever the hell happened to him.

He cleared his throat.

Carter jerked and looked up, and then an astonishing look came over the face that he’d only ever seen in a handful of expressions, mostly various shades of annoyance and frosty ice queen. Now, out of nowhere, she looked soft, and she looked warm, and she was looking at him like that.

“Jack,” she said, and her voice was warm too. “You’re back with us. How are you feeling?”

Jack stared at her. Definitely a dream, he thought. Or … was this that thing he’d heard about, where nurses during the war fell for their patients? Women were charmed by injured men, he’d heard (though if Carter was that type, you’d think she would’ve fallen hook, line, and sinker for department sad-sack Sousa, and that was never gonna happen).

“Can I bring you anything?” Carter asked. As she spoke, she was busy stuffing things back into the handbag in her lap. Was that a pistol? It got a ball of yarn stuffed on top of it before Jack could get a good look. “A drink of water, perhaps?”

So that was what was going on. Carter went doe-eyed for wounded birds. He was almost disappointed; it should have been flattering to have her getting all dewy at him, but instead he thought that he’d liked her better frosty.

But Jack was nothing if not a smooth operator, and anyway, having a cute dame waiting on him wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. He managed to put on the best approximation he could of his usual flirty grin, despite the steel bands around his chest – never let them see you falter. “Water’d be grand, if you don’t mind, sweetheart.”

Carter stopped in the act of trying to cram yarn and needles into her bulging handbag, and gave him a quick, sharp look. “What did you just call me?”

… and as soon as the wounded bird picked itself up and managed to get itself back into the air, the kitten-claws came out. Women were so predictable, really. “Did I forget to say please?” he tried, with a half-hearted bat of his eyes, but he had a feeling it came out more pathetic than intended. Every word he managed to get out seemed to take a too-big bite out of what little energy he had. He felt like absolute shit, his chest hurt like something was clawing it from the inside, and he didn’t have the strength to play the flirting game just to get a damn drink of water. He got so goddamn tired of the games sometimes, tired of himself when he played them, just … tired.

Maybe he really had been on death’s door, if he was having thoughts like this. If there was one thing he hated, it was being honest with himself.

“Oh, Jack,” Carter said, and she let out a laugh that was more of a weird little huff, half laugh and half sigh. He genuinely couldn’t tell if he’d upset her or not, but she abandoned her bulging handbag with yarn trailing out of it, and vanished beyond his field of vision, returning a moment later with a tin cup.

Well, if he’d put her in a snit, at least it wasn’t enough of a snit not to get some nursing out of it. Surprisingly decent nursing. She cupped her hand under his head and held the cup to his lips. True, she spilled a little water down his neck as he sipped, but honestly he hadn’t thought Marge had a nurturing bone in her body. Apparently he’d managed to look miserable enough to bring out a little of the woman in her after all.

When she took the cup away, he managed a grin. “You’re a pretty decent little nurse, you know that, Carter?”

“And you’re worrying me exceedingly,” she said, absently moving the knitting out of her chair so she could sit down. “What do you remember?”

“Hoping you’d tell me that.” He raised an arm, painfully weak, to touch his aching chest, and found thick layers of bandages.

Carter took in a quick breath; it sounded almost pained. “Do you remember any of what happened to you, Jack?”

“Not … exactly,” he admitted, but there was only one plausible conclusion to jump to, from those bandages. “I was shot?” Yes. Yes, that felt right.

“Yes,” Carter said, breaking into a grin. “They said …” She took another breath. “They said there could be some memory loss, some possibility of –” There was the briefest hesitation. “– brain damage. Your heart stopped, Jack.”

“Hell,” he muttered, poking at the bandages. No wonder Dooley thought he warranted a pretty dame fetching and carrying at his bedside. Carter wasn’t even looking at him, staring at the wall and blinking rapidly; just the thought of blood had undone her, apparently. For his part, Jack thought he must be the unluckiest sap in the whole SSR, survived the war without a scratch just to come home and get perforated. “Tell me they caught the guy,” he said.

“They … that is to say, we,” Carter said, looking back at him with a little more steel, and there were those kitten-claws coming out again. “We were hoping you could give us more to go on. We’ve no leads, Jack, and the trail’s growing cold. You don’t remember anything at all?”

Oddly, there was something, or at least there seemed to be, coming out of the gray haze of his thoughts – the flash of a muzzle of a gun. But now that she’d been talking to him and muddling him up, he couldn’t tell if it was real or not. “Wish I could help a pretty lady out,” he said, flashing a smile he didn’t really feel. “But it’s all kind of a blank.”

“Jack,” she said, and there the smile again, almost teasing, though with something uncertain underneath it that seemed to surprise him; it didn’t fit. “You’ve been acting quite odd since you woke up. I do hope being shot hasn’t caused you to fall hopelessly in love with me. Daniel would have to have words with you.”

“Daniel?” For a minute all he could think of was a CO he’d had during the war by that name. Major Daniel Franks. Hell of a bastard too.

Her smile, already tentative around the edges, dropped away completely. “Jack, please tell me you remember Daniel.” She sounded really anxious.

Who the hell was she talking about? Oh, wait a minute. Daniel was Sousa’s first name. Jack tried to think if there were any other Daniels at the SSR, but he couldn’t think of any, and his chest hurt and he was exhausted and he just wanted to not be having this confusing conversation with a woman who couldn’t seem to keep a thought in her head for more than a minute at a time.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “‘Course I remember.” Smiling as he said it, but he’d almost gone on automatic at this point. He just wanted this conversation to be over; he could feel his hands shaking and sweat breaking out on his forehead just from the effort of keeping himself focused on the conversation. Screw waking up to a pretty dame at his bedside; she wasn’t fulfilling her brow-mopping duties at all. Instead she was being weird and prickly, running hot and cold for no apparent reason. Typical dame.

Carter put a hand on his shoulder, but just then, the door opened and – speak of the devil, and also, what the hell – in crutched Sousa. He was moving carefully, carrying a tray with two cups on it, one trailing a teabag.

“Okay, Peg, for starters, records at the hotel are an absolute mess,” he began. “I swear they haven’t got a – What, hey, hello there!”

And he broke out in a beaming grin, while Jack eyed him suspiciously. Why the hell was Sousa playing office coffee boy in his hospital room?

“Daniel,” Carter said gratefully, and oh good, he’d guessed right about the Daniel part. She rose quickly and took the tray. “Thank you. Jack’s awake.”

“Yeah, I got that. How long?” Daniel crutched over, still beaming while Jack continued to give him a nervous look and wonder why the hell Sousa of all people should care if he lived or died.

“Just now,” Peggy said. She set the tray on a table in the corner. “We’ve been having a most interesting conversation, with little enlightenment, however. He doesn’t remember much.”

“Seriously, Peggy, you’re grilling the poor guy the minute he wakes up?” Sousa settled a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack just kept staring while Sousa beamed at him. Dealing with Carter’s wounded-bird womanliness had been a little weird, but he’d had no fucking clue that the same thing happened to guys and frankly he did not like it one bit.

“I was not ‘grilling,’ I was –”

“Interrogating?”

“– having a friendly conversation.”

And now he felt like he’d fallen into an Abbott and Costello routine. Where had all of this patter, this easy banter between the two of them come from? Carter’s eyes sparkled; Sousa was grinning, and he still had his hand on Jack’s shoulder, well beyond the casual pat that should have gone along with visiting an injured coworker in the hospital. This was more like brothers-in-arms, like someone in his unit might have done – and that was a thought that made him try to shove Sousa off.

A ripping pain tore through his chest and his vision whited out for a moment.

He came back to himself with Sousa still gripping his shoulder and Carter crouched on the other side, both of them looking scared to death. Now he just felt like he’d fallen through some kind of a – of a –

– black hole in reality –

… where the hell had that thought come from?

“Jack,” Sousa said with a nervous laugh, “please don’t do that.”

He was too scared and in too much pain to cover anymore, and that was a sign, beyond anything else, of how desperate things were. “Why in the hell are you doing this?” he snapped at them both.

“What?” Sousa said, looking baffled.

Carter’s grip tightened on his other arm. “Jack,” she said, her voice steady and somehow magnetic. “Slow breaths. Stay calm. What’s the year, Jack?”

“1945,” Jack said, staring at her, mesmerized. Distantly he heard Sousa curse softly.

“Very well,” Peggy said, speaking as if to herself, and then her smile firmed and she assumed a more businesslike demeanor. “Very well. Welcome back, Jack. As you no doubt inferred, you’ve been shot, and you’re in Los Angeles.”

“Okay,” Jack said very faintly, staring at her.

“And also,” Peggy added, “it’s 1947.”

[sorrytobreakyourheart]

Micmacs: weapon manufacturing criticism in a comedy

So in On Why Pre-Afghanistan Tony Stark Isn’t a Bad Person ( while not a hero ) I talked about the movie Mimacs à tire-larigot as a counterpoint to all my positive arguments to defend Tony as a weapon manufacturer, and I figured that

(A) most of you probably don’t know that movie since it’s french ( like me) ( and I’m writing this in English, which is probably not helping but eitherway )

(B) I should probably expand on why exactly liking Micmacs and agreeing to a lot of it doesn’t negate my feelings on Tony’s ethics

+ there’s a lot about that movie that stands on its own, without me throwing Tony at it. It’s, first of all, a comedy, though, so of course there isn’t a long and winded commentary of weapon manufacturing thrown in the middle by a character.

The parts that directly relates to Tony or the MCU in general will be in italics.

( I’m not, obviously, going to tell you absolutely everything about it, but mostly the part about weapon manufacturing and how it ties in with Tony’s past )

First of all, the story ( and, because I can’t control myself, the arguments in the middle ):

The Incidents

Bazil ( Danny Boon ) is a child in 1979 when his father ( a soldier ) is killed by a landmine as the man is working on removing landmines from the maroccan part of the Sahara. His mother receives his father’s things, and he learns that La Vigilante de L’Armement was the landmine’s manufacturer.

30 years later, Bazil is shot in the head by a stray bullet from a car/moto chase between two criminals, and survives, but the bullet is still inside his brain because removing it has 9/10 odds of leaving him a vegetable. That also means he spends a lot of the rest of the movie suffering from that bullet, with the risk of dying without warning at any moment. Later, he’s given the bulletcase his replacement at work found on the road: it’s from Les Arsenaux d’Aubervilliers.

Now, I would be the first to say that yes, his life was fucked up by those two weapons, but the manufacturers are not necessarily the ( only ) ones responsible for that. Assuming those two enterprises followed the rules, you can say that the first guilty party in his father’s death is the government/military that started the war/decided to use landmines, and that the criminals in the shooting could have stolen those weapons ( or gotten it from a stolen shipment ) from the military, making it the criminals’ fault.

Both are true, regardless of the manufacturers’ own guilt.

The Aftermath

On top of having lost his father and risking death by inconvenient bullet everyday of his life, Bazil lost his job ( logical, someone had to do the work while he was recuperating ) and now lives on the street, scrapping by as he goes.

After a few months, he’s taken in a by a group/family of other lost people. They live in a cavern of recycling materials ( and by recycling trash ). There’s Tambouille ( Mama Chow in English ) who’s the group’s mom. Placard ( Slammer ), who did 25 years and is possibly a former crook from what we see. Remmington, an African ethnograph who somehow ended up poor in Paris like the rest of them and uses an overwhelming amount of french language clichés. La Môme Caoutchouc ( Elastic Girl ), a contorsionist. Petit Pierre ( Tiny Pete ), an old man who doesn’t really speak but makes incredible automatons. Fracasse ( Buster ), a former human cannonball with the injuries that goes with the job. Calculette ( Calculator ), a girl whose ability to tell anything and anyone’s measurements is basically a superpower.

The Revenge

One day, as Bazil is collecting things thrown away to use again, he ends up right in between the buildings of Les Arsenaux d’Aubervilliers and of La Vigilante de l’Armement. He recognizes the logos, and tries to get to talk with the CEO of Les Arsenaux ( bullet ) for compensation, but get thrown out. Then he cross the street, and hears a speech by the CEO of La Vigilante about how making weapons is awesome ( I’m admittedly symplifying here ).

Frankly, at that point Nicolas Thibault de Fenouillet ( old-style CEO, Les Arsenaux ) and François Marconi ( modern-style CEO, La Vigilante ) don’t seem that different from Tony. They live in luxury, make weapons for their country and possibly its allies, their public persona is not necessarily likeable, but you can always chalk it up to the fact that yes, it’s a public persona ( they aren’t engineer, though, just the CEO ).

Except. Tony might have refused to see Bazil, if he had come to him for a bullet made by SI, but he wouldn’t have made the kind of joke de Fenouillet did ( “He says he has one of our bullet in his brain, sir”/”well that makes something for him to remember us by” ). On top of that, when Bazil was thrown out by security, they took their time to mock him and his head wound, to be cruel. That’s not a behavior Tony would have tolerated from his employees, supposing de Fenouillet knew about it.

Except, I made an argument in my previous post about the Ares Award and Tony’s absence, him not necessarily wanting an award for being a weapon manufacturer, and that directly relates to Marconi’s speech. Marconi, him, is there, and makes the praise of his business, and jokes about Rimbaud having been a poet only to become a weapon dealer, and himself planning to do it the other way. He does it unprompted. He shows the ego we keep hearing about in Tony, when Tony wasn’t even there for his own award ceremony, when Tony only said that the weapon industry was necessary when Christine Everhart basically asked him if she was ashamed.

Anyway, Bazil is angry. He wants revenge, which, okay.

He starts spying on both CEOs, making a plan to take them both down. And as it turns out, Marconi is ( oh, surprise! ) contacted by an African ex-dictator who wants to start up shit again because he likes being a dictator better than being an ex-dictator. Marconi spends about two seconds and a half saying he only sells to legitimate clients, before being told how much he’s going make, and then, his ethics go right through the window.

Which, you know. Tony never agreed to do. Not even when the Ten Rings kidnapped him and tortured him.

There’s a confrontation with the rest of the gang, and eventually everyone in on the plan ( which, you know, is about making les “Marchants de la Mort” pay; you know where I’m going here ).

The plan, in fact, consist of a lot of shennanigans that probably wouldn’t work in real life, but the gang is just that good, and it’s a movie. They start by incapacitating the dictator’s men, and Remington pretends to be them to offer de Fenouillet the same deal, so that both CEOs think the other one undermined him when the deal doesn’t happen. Then they get in, wreck Marconi’s cars, steal de Fenouillet’s rather disturbing collection of famous people’s body parts, steal a shipment of bombs, etc.

From there the CEOs are the one escalating. Marconi put pressure on a cleaning lady to sabotage de Fenouillet’s testing unit, which causes a massive explosion at the plant of Les Arsenaux, and there are no casualties but only by chance. De Fenouillet sends a tactical team to kidnap/murder Marconi.

It’s all interrupted when the dictator’s men get back in the story and play Russian Roulette with Marconi ( before the tactical team gets there ), Bazil gets caught because he was worrying about Elastic Girl ( who was looking for blackmail, and is currently hinidng in the fridge ), and the CEOs finally realize what’s going on ( kinda ).

Bazil almost gets killed, but the gang as a Plan B, and ends up kidnapping de Fenouillet and Marconi instead, staging a flight and arrival in the desert, putting a grenade ( not armed ) in de Fenouillet’s mouth, who’s sitting on Marconi’s shoulders, who’s standing on a landmine ( not armed either ), while they are all disguised as arab women with picture of their dead/injured children.

Before long the two are confessing to a lot of things, starting with all the people who are not legitimate clients they sold things to ( IRA, ISIS, you name it ). They are being recorded, of course, and when the gang stops acting and reveals who they are, they also download the video on ( old, old ) YouTube. Les Arsenaux and La Vigilante are about to close, de Fenouillet and Marconi are ridiculed, about to be tried, and lost all their support.

Bazil is happy with his new family.

The End.

Non-Violence

Bazil & Co’s plan never involved violence. They aren’t looking to kill either CEOs, and the employees are not treated like acceptable casualties just because they work for the two assholes. In fact, the only people who die here are not part of the plan, are killed by de Fenouillet’s men, are the dictator’s men. The most violent thing they did was release bees on workers to steal the bombs, and send a car with goons in it in a billboard

Unlike, say, Wanda and Pietro’s plan, who just didn’t give a damn about what happened to anyone ( the Avengers themselves, but also all the people who would get caught up in whatever they’d pushed Tony into doing ) as long as they got to kill Tony, to make Tony suffer, until they realized it had gone too far and (A) they were going to die too, (B) maybe seven billions people was a bit too high a casualty count even for them.

The only thing you can blame the gang for is the explosion at the factory ( if there had been casualties ), in that they instigated the rivalry, but, in the end, that’s on Marconi, much more than on the gang, because he’s the one who decided to do that ( and by pressuring an imigrant couple to do his dirty work, no less ).

Tony wouldn’t have deliberately endangered people like that. If he was like that, he’d have dropped a missile on Gulmira to get rid of the Ten Rings, without care for the civilians casualties, instead of getting there in person and targetting only the terrorists.

A Plan that wouldn’t have worked if they hadn’t deserved it

Despite the fact that Bazil wants revenge, his whole plan only works if de Fenouillet and Marconi are, in fact, assholes. Marconi didn’t have to accept the dictator’s deal, but he did. De Fenouillet didn’t have to accept the dictator’s deal, but he did. When they thought the other one had started trashing their stuff, they didn’t have to escalate. Marconi didn’t have to take his employee’s visa so that his wife would be forced to sabotage Les Arsenaux. De Fenouillet didn’t have to try and murder Marconi.

If they hadn’t sold weapons to ISIS/etc, they wouldn’t have had anything to confess at the end. They’d probably have been ridiculed, but it couldn’t have done any grave damage to their lives. In fact, the gang would have probably been labelled as the villains for having harrassed/kidnapped/threatened ( since they didn’t know the landmine and the grenade weren’t armed ) people who were doing their job within the law.

At every turn, the CEOs had a choice, and at every turn, they disappointed. Which is why the plan worked.

Tony refused to sell/make weapons for terrorists, which is what pushed Obadiah to get rid of him. Tony demands a lot of his employees, but he doesn’t force them to do anything, they can leave if they want, if they think he’s wrong.

And if Tony, somehow, had still ended up in the same situation, threatened with death to admit to having done things illegal... He wouldn’t have had anything to admit, because he didn’t do it.

Reality vs. Fiction

That’s the big difference between Tony Stark and de Fenouillet and Marconi. He’s not a bad person for being a weapon manufacturer, because he did it following the rules, but they aren’t, because they didn’t.

Being a weapon manufacturer, again, isn’t a bad thing per se, even if it isn’t a good thing either. As long as there isn’t world peace, and the absolute assurance that this peace will go undisturbed, we need soldiers, we need weapons, and therefore we need weapon manufacturers ( but I already made my argument about it in my last post ).

Now, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that most, or maybe even, all, of the real-world weapon manufacturers are not good people who always follow the rules. But in case you hadn’t noticed, Tony Stark is the ideal ( or as close as ) of what a weapon manufacturer should be ( still not good per se, still not bad per se ), because he lives in a fictional world.

If you can believe in a soldier who never obeys orders he thinks are wrong and yet never gets disciplined because of it, if you can believe in a guy who turns into a giant green rage monster, if you can believe that six people can stop an alien invasion, and then you tell me you can’t picture a honest weapon manufacturer in that same world, well.

What we don’t need are weapon manufacturers like de Fenouillet and Marconi. What we need are people who are willing to make them fall, but not by using violence first either, not when it’s not needed, not when you can do it differently.

( though, the Plan almost went South at one point, which is why, sometimes, you also need an assurance, like, say, a way not to get killed by the weapon manufacturer who has, *gasp*, weapons! )

[inkth]

cream of the crop pt. 1

pairing → mygxreader

genre → angst (in future parts), fluff

warnings → for this part, there are no warnings

word count → 6.6k

okAY so fyi this is unedited for now and i might come back to switch certain things up but oh my god in bon voyage there was a part where yoongi got a strawberry milkshake and i stg this was in my wip waaaay before that so when i saw the gif i think i wailed a bit bc he made it literally canon my friends!!!! hope u enjoy this guys im chwishfsdkfhl

Yoongi just wanted a god damn strawberry milkshake to release work stress. not to be grabbed by the arm by a stranger begging him to role play as some perfect boyfriend or another.

There are a variety of absurd experiences Min Yoongi has been unfortunate enough to cross within his current lifetime.

Thinking back, there was that time Yoongi picked up the phone to his childhood best friend Kim Namjoon, who thought he was being robbed by foreigners on the side of the street at one in the afternoon, and frantically asked Yoongi to please come save him by the way its the sidewalk on 44th street bring a gun!

“What kind of fucking robbers let you make a phone call, dumbass?” Yoongi barked into the phone, pretty upset that his afternoon nap was interrupted by some nonsensical disturbance.

“Oh shit Yoongi, you’re probably right,” Namjoon exhales and stays on the phone with him though, as he tries to solve the mystery of the tourists who just wanted to let Namjoon know that he had dropped a couple bills. They were discreetly carrying knives because they were opening a wood carving stand a block over, Namjoon explained later. Yoongi was quite the unamused listener.

There was another time in his already awfully long life when Yoongi himself was found caught in the middle of a fight between a Minecraft gamer and a ballerina carrying a flower vase, but that was a long story where it finally ended with him being released from custody as soon as the police had determined his innocence.

Or that other glitch in his simulation of a life when he had to bring nine cats home with him after work. Yoongi never knew he had a cat allergy, but he learned it the hard way that night as he sneezed so hard for so long till he couldn’t hear anything out of his ears.

So when Yoongi is feeling something in the air tickle his nugget of a brain that he should skip his ritual milkshake tonight and head on home right away to avoid whatever this coming disturbance is, Yoongi does what Yoongi does best, and he ignores his intuition because who cares, what Yoongi wants is his McFreaking milkshake.

Everything goes smoothly. Yoongi successfully orders a milkshake at the bar. He successfully receives the right order. He successfully starts to drink the milkshake in the quiet serenity of two am on a Monday. 

But then he fails to leave as soon as she comes in the door, the same girl who legitimately flings the entrance open like some wild animal and he is so horrified he can’t look away from this scene and makes the mistake of meeting your gaze.

The damage is done, however. He knows you’ve selected him as your prey among the barren tables save for one lady picking up fries togo and the waitress staring at you in fear.

“Lady, please get off me,” he groans, pulling your fingers off his biceps as if they’re blood hungry leeches. His arm is free for maybe a second before your fingers fly back, grip stronger than before and this time Yoongi really can’t do much with just the one tired, exhausted hand; the one that isn’t holding the milkshake glass. 

He’s whispering a string of curses and damnations at One Week Ago Yoongi for slacking with working out. Or any of his past Yoongis, really. He rests his head on the tips of his fingers, weighing down on his elbow angled onto the table.

“You don’t understand,” you wheeze dramatically, eyes round with terror. Uh, hello? I don’t care enough to understand, Yoongi mentally comments. “My parents, they-“

Sure, you might’ve been exaggerating everything a little, but what’s a little show and extravagance when your damn life is on the line? A matter of life and death knows no tranquility.

He looks at you half lidded; boredom and ‘are you really still talking to me Ican’tbelievetheaudacity’ washing over his face doing a whole awful lot to create a grave aura around him. You can physically see the deathly ash gray energy come off him in waves like something from an anime.

At this point, Yoongi’s thinking he might just ditch you, make a run for it to never see your crazy ass again and the idea is so tempting but instead, he responds. He’s not too sure why, although it’s probably ‘cause he’s paid an awful lot for this deliciously overpriced milkshake that has yet to be completely consumed. But the fact of the matter is he does respond, even thought you’re clearly not in the right state of mind and he really should be telling you to go home.

“Listen, they’re not gunna care if your boyfriend’s a bum. It’s your life anyways, why would they care?” Yoongi notices he’s got about another sip or two of his milkshake and then he can hightail it outta this joint and a certain spazz grabbing onto him.

You let go of his arm, thinking maybe you came off a little too strong and run your hands over your hair to pat down the flyaways contributing to the messy, crazed look.

“Now, I really absolutely must get going… miss,” Yoongi has finished his drink with a content sigh, a little disappointed that the experience was partially ruined with your improv tug of war, but content nonetheless. “Don’t worry, I’ll go ahead and take care of your water,” he reassures you dryly and stands up from the bar’s long legged chair, grabbing his expensive leather jacket. The best purchase he’s ever made in his life, he tends to overshare this fact to anything or anyone with two ears and legs, seeing as how he wears it everyday through wind, rain and the scorching heat.

Your eyes flash in one last lunge of desperation and your integrity flies out the window and disappears into the sky like a balloon. Floating away… peacefully, gone forever till all that’s left is your soulless body embarrassing yourself like this on a Monday at two am.

“Please,” you choke out one last time and sincerity taints your voice, everything you’ve depended on relying on this thin line of his consent. 

There’s something about it that Yoongi finds himself hesitating for as his mind reels from the way your fingers grip the end of his jacket sleeve. 

“I really, truly only need your help for a couple days. I-I’ll even pay you.”

Your eyes dart to the floor from his face with your final push, unable to face rejection one last time from help you so ridiculously need. His body halts, and with this, you take it as a sign for your fingers to relax and stop holding his like some child refusing to let go of their lollipop. 

There’s one thing the weary should know, and it’s that one specific thing hits a chord with Min Yoongi that makes him who he is.

“Shit.”

Hana looks up at you in what seemed like concern and a bit of ‘damn, you live like this?’ tainting her face. You keep going back and forth between looking down at your most recent message on your phone and up to her face, still contorted in confusion unable to face the reality that is your life right now.

You’re not okay, this can’t be happening — everything you had worked up for up until this point, only to be destroyed by your parents’ wrath would be the endgame for your life. You need to lie down and forget this day even happened.

“Are you, okay?” She can’t help but emphasize the ‘okay’ with leaning her head in a tilt.

“Hana,” you squeak out, hands pressed against your eyes till you see stars. It’s late, you’re braincell-less from such last minute studying and you’re absolutely, completely fucked. And not in the nice way you normally would want to be.

“My parents are coming over and want to meet Jungkook.”

Hana lets out a strangled gurgle of terror from the back of her throat as she runs her hands through her dark hair and crawls over to you to peer at your phone screen. Now that she knows you’re fucked, you want to throw your phone out the window and run away. Or just throw yourself out the window. You stand up from your sitting position on the floor and take deep breaths counting to ten and back again.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You’re screwed.”

You twist your face and tell her, “Thank you so very much for the vote of confidence! I’ll just have to remember that while trying to explain everything to my parents.”

Hana’s pained smile emits an apologetic vibe as she continues to voice her thoughts. “Damn. Seriously though… what’re you gonna do, I mean. You still have… two days?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” you wail, falling back to the floor and hoping it’ll somehow open up, and take your body into the recesses of the earthy ground. “Is a day or two even enough time for him to come back from that trip?”

“Wait, you mean you would have your parents actually meet him?” Hana looks over at you incredulously. “Like, we’re talking about your boyfriend Jeon Jungkook, right?”

Backtrack – So, okay, yes maybe you had a few flaws. One of them was the fact that you were maybe a little too prideful. As in it’d physically pain you for your parents to know that your boyfriend was a bum who did absolutely nothing.

You had lied to your parents from the very beginning, pulling off the scam with a few explanations here and there saying, “Oh, no he’s too shy. He won’t take pictures!” when your parents wanted to see who this guy was. The occasional “He can’t meet up with us because he’s studying for his very big exam haha you know how these studious nerds are sorry!”

You wince from her tone, speaking as if he’s a demon sent from hell, and start collecting strands of your hair to comb through with worry.

“I mean, if he were here I could play him up as the guy I made him out to be,” you mused. “They don’t even know what he looks like. Probably think he’s afraid of cameras, poor baby.”

Hana looks slightly revolted from your gently verbalized “uwu” and snaps her fingers to garner your attention back onto the matter at hand.

“Wait- I,” you sat back up, all the blood rushing this way and that causing a weird feeling to consume you and you see black for a good three seconds before it dissipates. “Don’t judge me for what I’m about to say.”

“Done,” Hana nods. “I live with you and judge you enough already.”

You look at her unimpressed, lips curled into an unamused smile.

“How about I get a fake boyfriend? Like, right now?”

Hana doesn’t even know where to begin she laughs because she thinks you’re literally joking but then stops when she knows you’re not. “Uh, you do realize it is two am, Y/N. Where are you planning on going to look for an accomplice to role play your perfect boyfriend?”

“Honestly speaking, I’ll probably have to go to a bar or something.” Just saying this out loud was enough to acknowledge that you yourself were not thinking straight.

“You’re just going to walk into a bar and pick up the first dude you lay eyes on is what you’re implying…” Hana trails off, as she begins to re-evaluate the situation. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you sigh, brushing off your jeans as you stand up. “But this is my only option.”

“Well, you could always tell the truth to your mom and dad. You don’t have to be so full of it, Y/N. And listen, you’re 20 going on 21… how much longer are you going to hide this from your parents? You’re literally an adult.”

You frown and start walking out of the room, grabbing a jacket before you head outside and to the car. “I’m not full of it,” you defend your poor self. “I just need my parents to think I’m living my best life with the best boyfriend so they don’t rub in how they were right all this time or whatever overprotective shit they wanna pull on me.”

Hana holds up her hands as an act of surrendering and picks up your phone from the floor to hand it to you. Before it’s passed off however, a pinging sounds and she calls out the notification.

“Your mom texted you to say–“ Hana squints from how dark your phone’s lighting is. “They’re actually planning on starting to drive over tonight and should make it here by tomorrow evening?”

You start to panic, countless thoughts crashing the calm of your mind like stormy waves as you start to assess your problem at hand. You need to find a fake boyfriend, said fake boyfriend must learn what must be learned about you and said fake boyfriend will need to do a good enough job to keep your parents away forever and hopefully this will work because you don’t know what you’ll do the next time your parents come to “check up” on you because they think something’s fishy with this hypothetical fake boyfriend.

You let out what sounds like something between a sob and a groan as you snatch the phone from Hana’s hands and run out of the house, debating between driving to the nearest diner or running away from home.

See, the problem with your parents were that they were overbearing to the point that they even hated the fact you decided to attend college out of state. Mind them, it was only one state away, but it did absolutely nothing to soothe their constant fretting over your wellbeing and life. You were fed up with the relentlessly strict parental control and went crazy in college – finally dating, drinking and partying – although it was still at a good minimum.

To expose to your parents that you were dating an undecided major who spent the money he could scrounge around for on video games was a one-way ticket to hell so in order to save face and keep up the façade that you in fact were living your best life possible, you dreamt up of the littlest, white lie.

Your boyfriend was a perfect boy. One grade above you, one his way to graduating as a summa cum laude. He had an internship and was already guaranteed a job after college as a biomedical engineering major. You painted the perfect picture so you could present yourself in the best way possible to your parents.

The way your hard work was about to be shattered by the way so many coincidences piled on top of each other was a bit frustrating to say the least. You weren’t sure how you kept this a secret for so long and frankly, how your parents didn’t doubt you from the start but now they believed him to be a camera shy, facetime shy boy that only spent his time studying.

You didn’t even want to start on the numerous occasions you and Jungkook had ended a night fighting because of this ridiculous situation, that sure, you put yourselves in. You weren’t sure why you did this, but of course it wasn’t because you were too prideful.

Yoongi never lets money slip out of his hands. Call him frugal, call him thrifty, he doesn’t care. He just knows that if it’s worth the price, he’ll do it.

“Fine. I’ll do this. But I want cash and I want half of the end amount right now,” he knows he’s being demanding and it does look like you reek of eau de poor college student but with the request you’re making, he thinks it’s only fair.

You look teeny tiny and exhausted from the way you crumple your body on the seat next to him and it’s annoying how much work you’re going through because of a simple lie, but you can’t back out now. The way you’ve been explaining the situation to him is really making you sound a little crazy but hey, you’re only human and this isn’t the weirdest situation Yoongi has ever been in.

“How is this even going to work?” Yoongi looks at you as if you haven’t thought this far ahead. “Haven’t they seen his face? Is he even okay with this? Are you running a scam show? If this turns out to be a mess, I want no part of the repercussions.” He squints at you and crosses his arms, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m not stupid,” you roll your eyes and scrunch your face from irritation. “They’ve never seen pictures or anything of his face. I’m thankful my boyfriend doesn’t have social media, but I mean, even if he did my parents are technologically inept, anyways.”

“This is so extra, this is like, almost kind of idiotically stupid,” with a snort, Yoongi continues to doubt you. “I can’t believe I agreed to this. You better pay me the remaining amount as soon as this shit’s done. I’ve got things to do.”

“I’m sure you have so much stuff to do concerning your things,” you bite back and have to hold steady the urge to punch his weak looking noodle arm. Just keep thinking about how grateful you are that this sort of handsome spawn of the devil is agreeing to save your ass and livelihood.

He huffs and has the audacity to look offended, loosely crossing his arms across his chest. “Whatever, run this by me again.”

“Okay,” you sigh. You nearly teeter off the edge of the stool from sleepiness, an untouched glass of water in front of you and you watch the droplets trickle down the sides of the condensating cup. “My name is Y/N and yours is Jeon Jungkook. I’m 20 and you’re 21…”

You start to list off factual information and the details get a little blurry as they re-enter his mind because now it’s almost 3:20 in the morning and Yoongi just wanted a fucking milkshake but now it’s like he’s in college all over again, cramming all the notes and tidbits of information he can into his mind to purge it in five hours on the dreadful test. Even though Yoongi’s suffering, he starts noticing these things about you that’s definitely a little confusing to him and gets him a little worked up but in all the right ways.

He pays attention to the way when you laugh you move to cover your mouth with your hand, it’s kind of endearing. Sure, he’ll admit he thought you were pretty behind the air of desperation and super strange vibes you let out when you first marched into the door. Like, perhaps very pretty. He’s not sure but it might be something to do with the shape of your eyes and the pink of your lips. But the tendency you have to tilt your head when you smile is something that Yoongi starts noticing too and–

Yoongi catches himself thinking these thoughts that are so out of bounds and unnecessarily loud. It’s okay, he mentally argues. These are fake boyfriend feelings and it is late. I am exhausted, I don’t know what I am talking about.

And there you have it folks. Yoongi solves this problem of the Case of Weird Emotions with a simple answer. He’s just a really good fucking actor and can get into character so well that he starts thinking the way his character would. That’s all. And now Yoongi is mentally punching himself because he sounds really fucking weird. And fuck, he needs to stop cursing because he needs to be a well polished, dapper, perfect boyfriend.

He shudders and you see it, not because you’ve been looking at him but because he does it in a really obvious way that calls for attention in your peripheral vision.

“Are you alright?” You ask warily, eyeing him because what if he’s having a spasm attack holy shit?

Yoongi grunts with his absurdly deep voice and says, “Yeah, go on.”

“I wish we had more time,” you whine, rubbing your probably bloated face with sweater paws and something tickles Yoongi’s heart from the way you look and speak although he does his best to ignore it.

“It’s okay, I’ll remember this, I’m pretty sure… let’s just try and come up with a code word or something for me. Like, if I don’t know something I’ll say or do something and you’ll cover for me.”

You nod your head and for the first time that night it seems like you really smile and it’s cute, but not cute enough to swindle Min Yoongi’s heart. Of course not.

“Do you know how to crack your fingers?” You ask after a few moments of deep contemplation.

Yoongi suddenly looks small because he’s shoving his hands in between his thighs to cover them from the cold and you almost coo as he nods his head yes.

“Great,” you look away from his figure to calm yourself. “Just do that and then I’ll fill in. That’s the signal.”

“Does this mean we’re done now?” Yoongi’s voice has gotten raspy over the span of time you’ve spent with him because of how he spent most of it just listening to you and barely opened his mouth.

“I dunno,” you nervously gnaw on your lower lip, another habit Yoongi has picked up on fondly. Or not fondly, not at all… at least only fondly with fake boyfriend feelings. “I’m really not sure how this is going to turn out. Thankfully my friend is going to stay at a friend’s house to avoid more possible complications.”

“Alright then, give me a call tomorrow morning and I’ll get over to your place by two in the afternoon.”

You shake your head, “No, come earlier. We need as much time as possible to go over this. Remember? They’re arriving sometime that night.”

Yoongi groans from the revolting sentence he has just been forced to hear and he cries, “But I can’t! You’ve kept me up for this long evil lady, I should’ve been in bed falling asleep hours ago!”

“I’m sorry,” you feebly offer. “But I really need to nail in a lot more with you.”

Yoongi grumbles a wide variety of things under his breath comprised of but not limited to, “You’re lucky you’re cute”, “Fuck, I need a good ten hours of sleep to retain all this information, though” and “Damn it, I want my money”.

“Fine– 11 is the earliest I’ll be there. And are you sure you’re okay with giving me your freaking address? You’re going to let a stranger know where you live and you’re fine with it,” Yoongi lowers his tone towards the last bit in uncertainty.

“I’ll be fine because my roommate is a police force trainee who has armed me with a panic button along with pepper spray. You’ve been warned,” you wiggle your brows. “Plus you’re my fake boyfriend and you want the money. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven.”

You both get up from your chairs, leaving cash tips and Yoongi’s expression changes into one of respect and newfound admiration.

“Duly noted,” he chuckles as he holds the door open for you to walk through, the brisk, autumnal air enveloping you.

Outside in the parking lot you head towards your car and see only a couple other vehicles, one of them being a motorcycle and you don’t think twice about it till Yoongi is waving goodbye to you as he walks in the direction of it.

“Wait,” you call out and Yoongi immediately halts, turning to face you with an expectant raise of his brow. “That’s your ride?” You point at the motorcycle.

He smirks and shoves his hands into his leather jacket as deep black as the galaxy and his hair swirls around from the wind above his twinkling eyes.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

You groan, wondering if you have enough money to fork up however much it would cost to rent a car. You’re pretty sure you don’t, but if it’s for this boy, the best you could pick out on a quiet Monday morning at two, the cream of the crop, you’ve really got no other choice.

You just hope this cream of the crop has a license to drive a car.

The next morning you wake up at eight, sitting up in your plush bed as memories of last night flood your mind in horror. Restless sleep tightened your neck through the night, stress eating away at you and your ability to sleep peacefully.

You groan, peeking at your alarm clock and take a deep breath before you whip your hair out of your face and harden your resolve by sheer will. You pull of the covers and step out of your room, trailing for the kitchen in order to brew yourself some deeply needed coffee.

“Coffee first,” you mumble. Priorities.

Hana is sitting in the living room, a mug on the coffee table in front of her. She looks up as soon as she sees you enter from the short hallway.

“Mornin’ sunshine, there’s some coffee left for you,” she chippers cheerfully. “You got up pretty early. You’re meeting the man of the hour soon, right?”

“Meh, don’t remind me,” you grumble, shuffling into the kitchen and from the coffee machine, you see her kick her slippers off and finish the last of her homework. You pour the still hot liquid holy grail into your Totoro mug and start to mix in cream and sugar seeing as how you’re not as abhorrent as Hana with her love of black coffee.

“But damn, you were just a wreck last night,” Hana teases. “I can’t believe you really got someone to do something this crazy for a girl they just met.”

“It was the money,” you point out, sipping the first few tastes of coffee. It needs a bit more sugar. “I’m so fucken exhausted! Listen, I don’t even have that kind of money to pay him.” You can hear your stash of hidden cash for emergencies underneath your drawer already crying for help. This could qualify as an emergency, you doubtfully suppose.

Hana is still recovering from the surprise of hearing your insane plan worked, even if she found out last night. You remember how you entered the house, satisfied with how quote on quote smoothly the ordeal went even if you were about to be $600 short on money and stressfully sleep deprived the next morning. Hana walked out of her room with sleepy eyes and a bit of bedhead to you getting ready for bed so early in the morning, although she gained a bit of consciousness after hearing how your plan had indeed, succeeded.

Now that it’s the morning and your adrenaline rush had bled away and you’re in a clearer state of mind, doubt starts to trickle in and you are wondering what in hell you were thinking in the first place. You shake the thoughts away and focus on the task at hand.

“I’ll be getting out of the house soon,” Hana comments, starting to pack up whatever textbooks and notes she’ll need for the next day or two.

“You’re the amazingest,” you gratefully smile at her and try to convey your upmost sincerity. As best you could, at least.

“Yes,” she agrees mindlessly. “I am, aren’t I? I am so amazing—so amazing that I am literally leaving the apartment that I share with you for you and the stranger to bond and learn how to role play as lovers. It sounds crazy, I know, but here we are.”

Your smile fades away as you look at her in playful disbelief. “Go to your room, pack your granny underwear and your granny clothes, and leave this household!”

Hana scrunches her nose in distaste, “They’re not granny clothes! They’re retro! And thongs or whatever strip of fabric you claim are underwear are so uncomfortable, literally leavemealonegoodnightDevil!”

You laugh as she prances to her room to stuff her duffle bag full of clothes she’ll need in order to survive for the time she’s gone and you glance at the clock to see it read 8:30, and you go off to your room to get ready for the very. Incredibly. Extremely, long day ahead.

It is at ten that you have finished cleaning up your room, taken a quick shower and waved off Hana out of the home you two share. You walk back inside after seeing her depart safely promising to text you when she arrives, even though it’s the daytime and she’s just a good ten feet away, you never know what could happen. Even if she’s almost a police officer. 

Which, speaking of, she has reminded you countlessly about, telling you to pass on the message that she will personally come to fuck him up if anything happens to you. You appease her with saying you will, but you sure as hell don’t plan on doing so. 

Closing the door, you sigh deeply and it leaves you a little lightheaded as you lean your back against the door.

“Oh, shit.”

It hits you then that this is really happening. Like, your idiotic plan your brain thought up of that you thought was foolproof was really happening. There were so many holes that could expose you in a second and the thought of you being ousted in front of your parents tugged at your pride riddled mind.

The anxiety twitches your fingers as you pull up your phone and it leaves you staring at his message from last night.

yoongi: see u at 10:30

You forget he suddenly promised an earlier time at the last minute and you reckon you’ve got yourself about twenty or so minutes for him to show up at your door. It’s enough time for you to beat your face with makeup and put on some presentable clothes.

At 10:30 sharp he arrives at the door and it catches you by surprise because he doesn’t seem to be an advocate for timeliness. You tug down at your cropped sweater one last time before you open the door to see Yoongi in all his slightly bloated, freshly showered glory.

He looks a bit nervous, seeing as how he kept worrying over this very situation he should never have gotten himself into over the night not to mention what if you sent him the wrong address. Yoongi’s eyes flit from your face to the room behind you but he manages to keep his jittery 

“Hey,” you sigh in relief. “Thank goodness you’re here. And thanks for coming so early.”

Yoongi loses a bit of the nervousness in his system and seems a bit more relaxed than he was when you first met him, probably because he’s gotten a better grip of his surroundings than last night, when he was completely hit with a curveball. In the face. At 500 miles per hour. In the form of you. HIs face loses the tension in the muscles and his lips take on a nonchalant smile. You also notice he’s wearing the same leather jacket as last night and you wonder if he has anything else available to wear.

“No worries,” he says in that gruff voice of his but he clears his throat quickly and yeah, you notice he’s still pretty high strung. This whole tribulation is probably a first for him too.

“Come on in,” you gesture inside, and make space for him to make through. Not that he needed much anyways being the tiny man he is.

“Alright,” he mutters, stepping into the apartment and slipping off his shoes. He doesn’t really pay attention to the apartment anymore but rather your outfit. You wearing sweatpants that still hug your legs and figure looks really good with the bit of skin exposed under the hem of your cropped Adidas sweater and Oh my God shut up, he scolds his train of thought.

It’s just that psychology of attraction at first sight, or whatever. Sure, it’s not his first time meeting you, sure, but you two have only recently met. Yoongi is certain he is a man of strong will. He would never let himself start feelings these things for someone who is already in a relationship.

He tears his gaze away from you before you can notice his burning stare and starts to run his eyes over the layout.

“Well,” you laugh strangely, trying to cover your skittishness. “This is where I live. I guess we can run over what we talked about last night over there on the couch.”

You point at the black sofa and Yoongi nods, walking over to sit down stiffly.

“Did you want something to drink?” You ask, noticing the way he stays pretty quiet. This won’t do. Your fake boyfriend is a great conversationalist.

“No, I’m fine, let’s just go over what we have to. I don’t wanna mess up…” Yoongi trails off and a hint of concern tinges his voice as you smile.

“Sounds good,” you agree.

“Okay, first things first,” you start reciting the basics as you are sat next to him. Yoongi does a really good job of staying on task at first, he swears. He’s listening intently but all of a sudden he’s thinking about how sweet and pretty your voice is and next thing he knows he’s thinking about how hard it is to just even meet your gaze, because your eyes are just such a wonderful outlet of all your emotions it’s really hard to meet them and not just go on and dive into the pool that is you and then—

“We might have to gel your hair back,” you muse softly and Yoongi is shaken out of his schoolboy crush-like trance.

“Fuck no. No,” Yoongi is firm with his decision, holding his hand out to emphasize his stance. “The forehead stays covered.”

You can’t help but let out a laugh as you cover your mouth with your hand and say, “Fine.”

Yoongi notices once again how you have a habit of doing that when laughing and he hates how it’s pretty adorable. 

“How did you get here, anyways?” You ask suddenly. “Not with your bike, I hope…?”

Yoongi grins at you and you notice that he’s one of those gummy grinners and it does a little something to you but you avoid it at all costs and swallow it down.

“I Ubered here,” he said simply. “I figured I could say my car’s in the shop if your parents ask.”

You widen your eyes and nod in approval. “Brilliant! That’s really good Yoongi, thank God I don’t have to pay for a rent a car.”

“Speaking of payment,” Yoongi is reminded of your debt to him at the passing mention of money but is glowing from your praise. “Need I say more? Don’t worry about the Uber fee, I won’t be holding those against you, call it service.”

“How kind of you,” you grimace, hearing the cries of your emergency money once more, as you tell him to stay put. “I’ll be right back with half of it.”

When you count out 300 and carefully tuck the rest away, you turn around to walk out only to see Yoongi peering in your door, arms crossed and looking quite interested.

You jump at the sudden intrusion-like non-intrusion and scowl, asking, “What are you doing here? You scared me shitless and you’re very lucky I didn’t shriek.”

He shrugged, tousling his dark hair from his eyes and replied, “If I’m gonna be your fake boyfriend, I should know what your room looks like. As your fake boyfriend, of course.”

You groan and tell him, “Get a good, quick look around, because here’s your money and now we’re leaving.” You slap the wad of cash onto his unsuspecting palm and push his shoulders out the door.

“I know you kind of know me because of all the information I might’ve been burning into your mind the past 24 hours about yours truly, but I barely know a thing about you and we’re really acquaintences at best, still.”

Yoongi lets you lead him out of the hall into the living room and with a quick look at your lockscreen, you see that it’s still only 11:14. He stuffs the money in the back pocket of his jeans, which fit him quite nicely around the thigh area, if you may say so yourself. 

“Fine,” he mutters and you barely catch it with your already dull hearing.

“What’s fine?” You ask, sitting down on the sofa as he takes a seat as well.

“I said, fine. What do you wanna know about me?” He asks, finding interest in the boring coffee table.

“Uh,” you trail off, unprepared for this kind of a question. “Wait, do I want to know more about you? I should be thinking of you as my boyfriend Jungkook, putting history and information behind you would make it too easy for me to differentiate…”

Yoongi rolls his eyes with a condescending sigh that you somehow know isn’t very genuine. “Just ask three things about me, so we’re not complete strangers,” he offers a compromising deal.

You let it sit with you for a second. If you made a slip up would you be able to recover? It was already hard enough, calling him Yoongi—already so hard enough that it was weird to remind yourself you’d have to be calling him Jungkook in a few hours. Eh, screw it.

“Where do you work?” You ask your first question tentatively.

“I work as a part time server for now,” he replies as if it’s something of a bother. “At the barbecue place downtown.” You have a brief idea of where it is, having passed by it a few times while you were in the vicinity.

“Alright,” you huffed. “What’s your other part time?”

Yoongi looks a bit confused at first with the way you worded it, but he catches on quickly seeing as how he’s got a fast train of thought.

“Oh, yeah. You remember my bike? I wanna go into autotech service. Or something like that, like engineering,” he vocalizes his thoughts and grows a bit red.

“That’s really awesome,” you smile at him and he grows comforted by the idea of you approving his passion. Although he shouldn’t be so—

“Do you have a girlfriend?” This question takes you back by surprise too, and you swear it was a slip of your tongue.

“I—“ Yoongi wasn’t ready, didn’t even think you were one bit interested in his love life but he answers directly. “No.”

For some reason you like hearing that answer, something like satisfaction burns at your tongue and heart and you don’t understand why when you have a perfectly cute boyfriend named Jeon Jungkook (the real one) you can call yours.

“Sorry, I didn’t know where that came from,” you giggle nervously.

Yoongi brushes it off and breathes evenly. He’s not sure why he’s worked up uncomfortably like this and he wants to skip to the part where this is all over and he goes back to moping around, living out his normal, daily routine.

We are acquaintances, he keeps reminding himself.

You two end up talking about yourselves a bit more, because pictures of your dog reminds him of his dog and from there the conversation flows a little too perfectly because now you’re intrigued by the mystery that is Min Yoongi and you want to know more and everything about him. This goes on for the next six hours and it’s filled with so much talking and laughing and you’ve even cooked up lunch because oh my goodness you found ingredients to make pancakes.

Then dawn rolls around as if it’s only been a mere thirty minutes and to be honest, it feels likes you know Min Yoongi more than your own boyfriend Jeon Jungkook.

You shake that last thought off, startled from the way you so abruptly stated that. Internally, of course. 

Yoongi’s barely opened his mouth to ask you another question when-

The doorbell rings and it echoes throughout the inside of your home and holy shit it feels so intimidating and loud and Yoongi just isn’t ready, but can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now if he’s this scared of what’s to come. 

You glance at him almost as if you’re seeking refuge in someone’s comfort so he grits his teeth a bit because between the two of you, he realizes he’s got to stay the rock.

Yoongi narrows his eyes until they resemble somewhat to a feline’s. He’s the rock.

And not just in the Dwayne Johnson sort of way.

oooooookay oh my goodness this is unedited but i wanted it off my shoulders before i got to work so here this is please enjoy but send me feedback or anything you'd like through my inbox thanks!!!

[d0gdaze]

3.

The body swap au a surprising amount of people asked for, actually.

Read on AO3 / Summary

Pairings: Eddie Kaspbrak / Richie Tozier

Warnings: swearing, sexual references

Chapter 3/?

Prev | Next

Word Count: 4676

Eddie’s playlist

Mother Nature must have had it out for someone in Derry, because the storm hit hard. Overnight, the roads were flooded, trees bared of their leaves, some smaller ones nearly uprooted from the harsh winds, and though it had since reduced down to a drizzle, the sky remained dark and threatening well into the morning.

Richie didn't like the rain. Everything was wet and cold and grey, and that one part of the roof in the hallway always leaked, and the thunder meant he barely got any sleep, and his midday smoke breaks with Beverly were compromised. But, rather than feeling miserable about the weather, he woke up on that Tuesday morning with a newfound appreciation for it.

The storm had blown the power out.

There wasn't any music, or horrid singing.

The window was still closed.

Eddie wasn't awake yet.

Holy shit.

The grin that took over Richie's face then and there was only comparable to a child's on Christmas morning. Giddiness bubbled up in his chest, and he giggled – actually giggled – at the feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this unashamedly happy right after waking up – to be honest he thought this might be the happiest he'd ever been, maybe period. He chose to blatantly ignore how sad that fact was.

This was going to be a great day, he thought.

He practically skipped down the stairs at seven-ish, graffitied-to-all-hell backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing (relatively) fresh clothes and his favourite, most obnoxiously coloured hawaiian shirt over a white long-sleeved one, with his hair hanging over half his face, still damp from the shower. Morning showers, ah, how he'd missed those.

He hummed a tune absentmindedly as he went about collecting his shoes from where he had thrown them haphazardly into the living room the day before. He couldn't quite place where he'd heard it, for a while. He was just about to shrug it off, until he caught himself subconsciously singing.

“I used to think maybe you loved– FUCK,” he hit his palm against his forehead, as if he could physically dislodge the song from his brain. “Damn it, Kaspbrak.”

Beverly raised an eyebrow at him as he strutted out of his house, half a minute after Mike announced their arrival via car horn, smiling wider than she had ever seen him.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” she asked as he approached, faking a scowl.

“And hello to you too, gorgeous,” he winked, and proceeded to make a show out of taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, planting a kiss on her knuckles. She snorted out a laugh and yanked her hand back.

“Seriously, did you hit your head or something? Wait,” she did a double take, mouth falling open in an overly exaggerated gasp, smacking her hand over her heart, “did you actually shower? Who're you trying to impress, Rich?”

He shrugged, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

“Nobody, my dear,” he reached forward and took the cigarette from behind her ear, turning it over in his fingers before putting it in his own mouth. She made an annoyed sound in protest, but didn't actually stop him from doing so. “Today's just my day, y'know? I can feel it.”

“Well, could you bring it down a notch? You're making the rest of us look more miserable in comparison,” she brought her hand up to ruffle his hair. He laughed, jerking his head away. Something shiny caught his eye as he did.

“Would ya look at that,” he said, slightly muffled by the cigarette, and leant down to pick up the piece of copper. He held it up in front of his face, squinting slightly to make out the engravings.

“Lucky penny,” Beverly teased, crossing her arms over her chest, “guess it really is your day.”

“Yup,” he flipped it in the air and caught it, then shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, “guess so.”

“How goes it, Mikey-boy?” Richie asked as he squeezed himself into the back seat, without half the usual displeasure.

“It goes fine,” Mike replied, “you're very chipper this morning. Anything interesting happen?”

“Maybe,” Richie said, smug as anything, for some reason. Mike shot him a slightly confused glance in the rearview mirror but didn't press the matter. “Sadie's? We have heaps of time.”

“You still owe me for yesterday's,” Beverly reminded him as she swung herself into the car, “but I'm game.”

“Oh shoot, hold on-” Richie started patting himself down, searching his pockets for spare change. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, awkwardly thrusting his hips up as he did. He pulled out what he thought was a dollar bill and dropped back down into the seat. “Here's- oh!” He held up the crumpled tenner, attempting to straighten it out a little.

“Aw, Richie! So nice of you to pay for everyone!” Beverly grinned before snatching the note out of his hands. Richie let her take it.

“Just give me the change, yeah?” he laughed. An old Billy Idol song faded in on the radio.

Oh yes, he thought, sneaking one look back up at Eddie's window – he could just see out the back windscreen that the curtains were still closed – this was going to be a great day.

Eddie was having what was possibly the worst morning that anyone had ever had in all of human history, and it was unbelievably unfair, because he had never done anything wrong in all his life and he did not deserve this to be happening right now at all, and the universe or whatever was making him go through this terrible fucking morning obviously had a personal vendetta against him. He may as well have just crawled into a hole and died because that would have had a better outcome than what was currently happening. Everything was SHIT and FUCKED and every other cuss word out there all rolled into one – and even then it wouldn't be enough to describe how downright awful this morning was for Eddie Kaspbrak.

His internalised tantrum came and went, only really lasting for five seconds before he unclenched his jaw and took a breath. Really, it wasn't that bad. Not great, sure, but not the end of the world, and he knew that, it was just good to let all the frustration out preemptively. His alarm hadn't gone off, and for the first time in four years his mother had woken him up, immediately jumping to the conclusion that he had contracted a debilitating illness overnight and that was the only reason why he would still be in bed at – god forbid – quarter past seven in the morning. He had spent a good five minutes trying to convince her that no, he was fine, his alarm just hadn't gone off, and he could still make it to school if he hurried, and she had reluctantly let him get out of bed.

Hurrying, he soon discovered, was not something that came naturally to him, nor was it something he was particularly good at, especially when factoring in the compulsivity he had when it came to his bathroom routine, the lack of power – and therefore light –, and his mother asking him if he needed help with anything every three seconds, making him feel more like an invalid and less like a kid who woke up an hour late. But he did the best he could do under the circumstances, which involved brushing his teeth with one hand and pulling his socks on with the other, and ended up leaving the house – albeit looking just slightly disastrous – with just enough time to make it before the bell rang if he turned his walking speed up a to a power-walk and didn't stop by his locker first.

So he walked, fast, granola bar shoved into his pocket that he only grabbed in a last-ditch effort to calm his mother's nerves so she would release her death grip on his shoulder long enough for him to bolt, one hand desperately trying to flatten his hair out to a mildly presentable degree and the other swinging wildly at his side in time with his steps. It had stopped raining for the most part, only spitting lightly now, but he could deal with that. He just had to keep the pace up, and get to school. Easy enough, right? Today was going to be an okay day, he thought, if he could just get to school without any issues.

But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.

Okay, so maybe it was kind of a dick move on Richie's part. But he deserved it! For what he did the night before! So it was okay! Right?

They had picked up their shakes – and damn, they were good, as always – and were on the way back to school when they saw him; head down, walking quickly, undoubtedly going to be late. He looked a lot less put together than usual, even from behind.

Richie knew he probably should have just given the poor guy a break, maybe just flipped him off out the window and let it be. He knew he probably shouldn't have done what he did, that he probably ruined the kid's whole day. And at the very least, he knew he probably should have felt some sort of empathy after the deed was done.

But the opportunity was just too good to pass up, and Richie was nothing if he wasn't an opportunist.

So yeah, he told Mike to drive through the puddle.

Okay, he may have ordered, and then begged him, and then bribed him that he would do all his homework for a month, and then bribed him with fifty dollars. And then lurched forward and grabbed the steering wheel anyway. Not that he was desperate or anything.

It was almost majestic, in a way. The wave of water – so much water, it really didn't look that deep, honest – sprayed up from the tires and hit Eddie – the poor bastard had turned around when he heard the car approaching – face on, absolutely drenching him from head to toe. And Eddie stood there, shocked expression, hands held up in a feeble attempt to block his face from the onslaught. And they drove away, Richie absolutely beside himself, howling with laughter and full of sadistic pride, Beverly with her hand covering her mouth as she tried not to spit vanilla milkshake all over the dashboard, and Mike just- well. Mike watched Eddie get further away through the side mirror, feeling guilt bubble up in his stomach. Because that's who he was, way too sympathetic. Sometimes Richie was worried it was going to rub off on him. He wasn't sure if he could handle being a good person.

“Oh, COME ON.”

Eddie watched after the car, at that four-eyed twit in the back seat, looking like he was going to piss himself from laughing so hard. He hadn't been driving, but it was so clearly his fault, judging by the middle finger that came flashing up through the window just before the car turned a corner, and by the fact that he was an asshole, and only he would think this was funny.

He was soaked, and dirty, and definitely covered in germs, and his books would be all wet, and his shoes were going to be soggy and uncomfortable all day, and his hair was going to frizz up and be all over the place, and it was cold out so he was probably going to get sick, and he was still fucking late for school.

He should have just turned around and gone home, had a shower and gone to bed, but that would have meant admitting defeat – and facing his mother, and possibly a hospital trip to check for water-born diseases, but mostly admitting defeat –, so he took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and kept walking. His shoes squeaked with every step, and he found himself pouting – actually pouting. And he wasn't crying, it's just that there was dirt in the water and it got in his eyes, and he was only sniffling because it also got up his nose. And he wasn't going to cry, because he was an adult and adult's don't cry because they get splashed with puddle water. He was going to go to school and change into his track uniform – thank god his mother made him bring it in a plastic bag, something he never understood nor appreciated until now – and he was going to miss some, if not all of first period, and he was going to feel miserable and uncomfortable all day, and people were probably going to laugh at him, and it was all going to go to absolute shit, but he was going to deal with it. Like an adult.

He was also going to murder Richie Tozier, but that could wait.

By the time he got to school, class had already started, and the hallways were mostly deserted. He made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, head down, trying to look unsuspicious, though he wasn't sure how well he was doing.

The thing with walking with your head down, with wet hair hanging down over your face, is you can't actually see where you're going, and eventually you're going to run into something. Or someone, in Eddie's case.

He fell back, rather unceremoniously, onto his arse. The person who's back he had just barged into only stumbled forward. Eddie thought, briefly, that that was unfair.

“Watch it,” the person spat, spinning around once they regained their footing. “Oh.”

He looked up, squinting against the fluorescent lighting. Of course it was Stan. Because the awkwardness from the day before wasn't enough, obviously.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth. Stan swallowed visibly, then offered a hand out to help him up. He looked at it for a few seconds, before standing up by himself. Stan frowned, narrowed eyes scanning him as he brushed himself off.

“Did you,” he said, almost hesitantly, “take a shower with your clothes on or something?”

“Hilarious,” Eddie replied, deadpan. He straightened out the hemline of his shirt. “Obviously not.” He restrained himself from throwing an insult in.

“Okay. Really though, why are you all wet?”

“Why don't you ask your friends?”

Stan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Richie?” He winced slightly as he said it, almost compassionately.

Eddie gave him a look that he hoped said, 'No shit, sherlock. Who the fuck else?'

“Sorry,” Stan said, quietly, ducking his head and biting his lip. Eddie studied him for a drawn out moment.

“Why aren't you in class?” he said, his tone a lot less snarky and a lot more genuine. Stan's head shot up, frown dispersing, replaced with what could have been a smile if you looked close enough, side-on, possibly with the aid of a magnifying glass..

“Study period,” he answered simply.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They held awkward eye contact for what was probably the most uncomfortable five seconds either of them had ever experienced. Eddie sucked his teeth slowly, letting out an odd, slightly embarrassing squeaking sound.

“I should g-”

“I need t-”

They both spoke at the same time, cutting each other off. It was followed by incredibly nervous laughter from Eddie. Stan scuffed the toe of his shoe on the linoleum.

“I should be studying,” he said, a little loudly, then creased his brow, looking as though he had surprised himself a bit.

“Okay,” Eddie replied, almost breathlessly, for some reason.

“So,” Stan continued after a moment, “I should go. To the library. To study.”

“O- kay?” Eddie repeated, the end of the word raising up an octave.

Stan licked his lips, eyes darting around Eddie's face. Eddie suddenly regretted every choice he had ever made that lead to this exchange.

“Bye then,” Stan said, before turning and leaving faster than he had seen anyone turn and leave before.

“Bye,” he said, even though Stan was already out of earshot.

He regained himself, waiting for his soul to return to his body after it ejected itself out of humiliation, and started walking towards the bathroom, making a mental note to never look Stan Uris in the eye ever again. Not that he thought that would be possible now.

“I feel bad.”

It was lunch, and Richie and Mike were sitting at their table in the corner of the cafeteria, closer to the food line and away from the doors. It was situated directly across the large hall from where Eddie and his two nerd friends sat, and when Richie positioned himself just right in his seat he had a perfectly clear view of the sad-sack himself, who appeared to have switched out into his gym clothes – and gym shorts, damn them to hell –, hair still a bit wet and unkept – a very unfamiliar sight – and looked downright depressed, hunched over a seemingly untouched wholemeal sandwich. Not that Richie was looking, or anything.

“Well, ya shouldn't,” he said, pointing a plastic fork in Mike's direction, who hadn't been able to rid himself of his guilty, vaguely queasy expression since that morning. “He was one-up last night, and now the score is even. It was a fair shot.”

“Yeah, but look at him,” Mike glanced over, and Richie's eyes followed. His friend – Barry? No, Ben, yeah. The one with the stutter, or was that the other one? Anyway – whats-his-face had moved to put an arm around his shoulder. “We should apologise.”

“Don't you dare,” he said, ungraciously shoving a forkful of mac and cheese into his mouth, “no apologies. It's a rule.”

“What's a rule?” Beverly slotted herself in next to Richie, while Stan appeared beside Mike, dropping a chemistry textbook on the table. “Am I missing out on something?”

“Not a thing, sweetcheeks,” Richie said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek before she pushed him away with a look of disgust, “s'just Mikey here,” he swallowed his mouthful of pasta, “Mikey here wants to go say sorry to Kaspbrak. But we don't play like that, and he knows it. Ain't that right, Stan the Man?”

Stan glanced up from the book, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I was actually gonna bring that up. What did you do to him?.”

“Nothing, just drove through a puddle that he happened to be standing next to and he may have gotten a little rainwater on his cardigan. Not even a big deal.”

“He was drenched, Richie.”

“How would you know? You talk to him this morning?”

Stan looked back down at his textbook.

“Maybe.”

“You're not going soft on the fucker, are you Stanthony?”

“Don't call me that,” the tips of Stan's ears flushed pink, “I just think you should apologise for this one. You know how he is about-” he hesitated, just for a second, nose wrinkling, “hygiene and stuff. This might have been a step too far.”

“Stan, are you- fucking hell,” he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Guys, no one's saying sorry, got it? It's done. It's over. I got my kick in, he'll get me back with some pathetic bullshit tomorrow. That's how it works. We fuck with each other. No one's allowed to feel sorry for him.” “But-”

“No, Mike! So fucking what, he got his clothes a little wet. Boo-fucking-hoo. Maybe it'll teach him to dress better.”

“He dresses pretty much the same as Stan,” Bev pointed out, “if you think about it.”

“Nah,” Richie rebutted, “Stanley dresses like, like,” he gestured his hand towards Stan, lip pursed as he tried to think of an analogy, “Stan dresses like your cool english teacher, you know? Like that one that every one likes and he's kinda chummy with you and lets you call him by his first name, you feel? He pulls it off. Kaspbrak looks like your shitty math teacher who probably plays golf on the weekends and gets pissy if you use your phone in class. Scratch that, he confiscates your phone if he even sees it. You know the type. He's probably gonna buy a station wagon in the future.”

There was a moment of silence, all three of them looking at Richie with varying expressions of confusion.

“That was-” Beverly said, “oddly specific.”

“Thank you,” he smirked, smug, as if it were a compliment. “Now are we done? We all agree to not apologise?”

He looked between Mike and Stan. Stan rolled his eyes, returning full attention to his textbook. Mike opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but shut it after a moment and nodded, dropping his gaze to the tray of food in front of him with the same guilt-ridden expression.

“Great! Now that we're all on the same page,” Richie stood, picking up his tray of half-eaten food, “I'm gonna go chain smoke under the bleachers, like the good christian boy mama raised me to be. Miss Marsh?”

“M'eating,” Beverly replied, stuffing another tater tot into her mouth.

“Right,” he took a step out, not at all looking where he was going, “see you losers la- OOF.”

Eddie Kaspbrak was not an intimidating person. It was practically impossible for him to scare people. He was barely five foot five, standing much shorter than his friends and most of the other boys in the school, and quite a few of the girls, and despite being rather fit, he looked quite frail. When he was a kid, his mother use to say it would be easy for someone to pick him up and snap him like a toothpick, and he believed her, because back then anything his mother said was basically god's word. He wasn't hit with the same puberty truck that Bill and Ben were – instead it was more like a puberty tricycle. He never quite shot up, never quite lost the roundness in his face or had his voice drop an octave like his friend's had. He didn't necessarily still look like a child, but he definitely wasn't going to be fooling any liquor store employee or nightclub bouncer any time soon. And the clothes he wore only aided to accent his non-intimidating qualities, the light coloured sweaters, the faded jeans, he knew his wasn't exactly the manliest of wardrobes.

All in all, Eddie was the last person you would expect to be able to make someone feel small.

Richie Tozier had never felt smaller in his entire life than in the moment that followed.

As timing would have it, Eddie had gotten up and travelled across the cafeteria to the garbage bins to dispose of the sandwich he wasn't going to eat. He knew he would unavoidably have to walk right past Richie's table, so he made sure to do as he always did when needing to avoid confrontation; head down, walk quickly.

Richie had stood up, lunch tray in hand, unaware of his proximity to the other, still busy conversing with his friends. He had taken a step, then another, out into the walkway. Eddie hadn't looked up. Head down, walk quickly.

Richie took another step, and turned around.

Eddie looked up, only a split second too late, but too late nonetheless.

Richie sentenced had been cut off by the sound of his lunch tray first hitting Eddie square in the chest, and then clattering to the floor.

The collision drew attention from only the immediately surrounding tables, hushed whispers replacing whatever conversations were taking place previously.

He didn't react, at first, just froze, jaw tight, gaze stuck on the floor, midway between the yellow plastic tray, face down with bits of food splattered beneath it, and Richie's worn down combat boots. His breath was so slow and shallow, there was a point that he wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Richie, for a moment, was sure Eddie had died standing up. He was unnaturally still, just staring at the ground, completely stone-faced. I broke him, he thought, I actually fucking broke the kid.

Eddie looked up, finally, at Richie's face. He decided, seeing as his brain had apparently tried to reboot itself, to base his reaction on Richie's next move. He raised one eyebrow, oh so slightly. It said; this is a test. Answer it wrong, and I will kill you.

Richie was unbelievably put off by the look that Eddie gave him. It wasn't angry, upset, annoyed, anything he was expecting. It was a challenge. The fucker was challenging him. And he really wasn't going to like what would happen if he lost.

“So,” he started, thinking harder about his word choice than he ever had before, “I know you're not going to believe me, but,” he paused, slowly raising his hands up in front of him, as if a gun was being pointed at him, “that was totally an accident.”

The calm before the storm, as they say.

“What,” Eddie said, barely a whisper, “the,” his hands balled into fists at his side, so tight they started shaking, “fuck.”

“Oh Richie,” Beverly muttered from the sidelines, “you poor son of a bitch.”

“Are you actually kidding me, Tozier? Wasn't this morning enough? You have to get your fucking chucks in twice in one day?” Eddie decided then and there, that being an adult was overrated. He was a brat, and he was going to be a brat.

“Chill out a bit, man,” Richie took a brave step forward, snapping his head around to the growing number of spectators, “It's just a stain, it'll come out.” His voice was hushed, praying to every god he knew that this wouldn't escalate in front of everyone.

Eddie was fuming by now – and, ironically, kind of having the time of his life –, his face heating up, and chest heaving. He saw Richie flinch, for a fraction of a second, and felt proud.

God, he was a sadist.

“Just a fucking stain, are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious, Richie?”

Richie wanted nothing more than for an eighteen-wheeler to come crashing through the wall of the school, killing him instantly. “Calm your shit, Kaspbrak, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? You're fucking sorry?” Eddie had to remind himself that he wasn't supposed to look happy while this was happening, purposefully deepening the scowl on his face. “You are the most inconsiderate, infuriating, irritating,” fuck, running out of synonyms, “disrespectful, single-minded, asshole-piece-of-shit-stoner dickwad,” dickwad? “that I have ever fucking met and I hope you burn in hell, you absolute fucking-” “KASPBRAK.”

Both the boys jumped, as did quite a few of the onlookers who had gathered around their little love spat. Mr. Wagner, the school principal, had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, looking red-faced and mildly disarrayed, to say the least.

“Sir, uh, we were just-”

“Can it. Detention,” he pointed a spindly finger at Eddie, who scoffed a high pitched scoff, and then at Richie. “You too.”

“But I didn't-”

“No but's.”

“BUT SIR-”

“TOZIER.”

Richie let out a defeated sigh.

“Yes sir.”

The man took a deep breath, shooting a look between both of them.

“This,” he gestured to the tray and the food on the floor, “cleaned up.” He turned to look at the crowd of students. “Nothing to see, git.”

Everyone dispersed, going back to their own seats, leaving only Richie and Eddie standing there, pretty much robbed of all their dignity, staring each other down like they could set fire to the other with their eyes.

“I hate you,” Richie spat, top lip upturned to show his teeth.

“Go to hell,” Eddie returned, with the same amount of passion.

“I'm already there, princess.”

“Oh, fuck off, asshole.”

“You fuck off.”

“How 'bout both of you fuck off!” Beverly stood, grabbing Richie by the arm and pulling him away towards the doors of the dining hall, but not before shooting Eddie a look over her shoulder. “He'll see you in detention, hotshot.” She punctuated her sentence with a wink.

This is the worst fucking day of my life, he thought.

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